27. Martha
Martha
I pull up toward the gate, where I press my thumb against a little keypad and wait.
An eerie quiet surrounds the house, as if no one should be home.
I peer inside the gate to the windows on the top floor, curtained and closed.
A voice on the loudspeaker comes through, scratchy and with a foreign accent.
“Yes?”
“Hi, I’m here for the interview?”
“Qué dijiste? Interview?”
“Yes, I have an interview with Mrs. Redfern.”
“Oh, sí!” I hear a rustle of something like a paper bag, light cursing in Spanish, then a loud beep in my ear.
The gate opens and reveals the lower floor of the house, which is much larger than I initially thought.
The perspective from the road is deceiving—the house is enormous, extending up the hill and back, at least double the size of the others I passed.
I crane my neck up to where the front door reaches the second floor, at least twenty feet of polished steel—large and grand—the entrance to a fortress.
I note a subtle pattern etched into it—circles, incomplete, nestled into each other and intersecting like a maze.
A small chime issues from out of nowhere, and I dart back as the lower half of the door—regular-sized—opens.
A small, stout Mexican woman in her fifties stands in front of me.
She sizes me up, a look of reserved skepticism, like she half expects me to be selling something.
I muster up a smile. “Hello, I’m Martha.
” I extend a hand and force myself to smile wider. “I’m here to meet Mrs. Redfern.”
“Yes,” she says and opens the door a little wider, avoiding my hand. “You can come in.”
“Thank you.”
Nicola pecks at the back of my neck, and I fight her off with a flick of my hand that looks like I’m adjusting my hair.
Inside, the cool air smells of fresh linen, lavender, and something vaguely sterile. I take note of the high ceilings and pale walls made of stone that looks like alabaster.
“You are Martha? The 11:00 interview?” She sizes me up again.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“This way.” She leads me into a sitting room decorated in pale blues, navies, grays, and creams, like a Williams Sonoma catalog on steroids.
“Wait here,” she says and leaves me standing in the middle of the room.
The sitting room faces the garden, an expansive space of green lawn, an oblong-shaped pool, and a waterfall.
I had an inkling the Redferns would have it good, but you don’t quite understand how the other half lives until you are literally surrounded by it on all sides.
High heels click down the empty hallway, and I turn, catching the faintest scent of Nicola’s fear in my nostrils.
With a quick pinch, I urge her away and focus on Bambi Redfern walking toward me, her blonde hair swishing just below her shoulders, perfectly straight and slick.
She’s tanned and slender in that way that is uncomfortably beautiful, her face so well-proportioned and flawless, you could marvel at it from every angle.
She gazes at me but doesn’t smile, then takes a seat in one of two boney-cream sofas and gestures for me to sit. “So, you were the one?”
Things don’t unsettle me easily, but for a second, I remember my face and the fact that I look like Nicola. Does she recognize me from the accident? Was she in the car that day? Or do I just look familiar?
“Sorry?”
Bambi raises an eyebrow. “You were the one who answered my ad so quickly?”
“Yes, yes. That was me.”
“Tell me about yourself.”
I feel Nicola kicking again, like an unborn child inside of me.
“I’ve been a PA since college. My clients are all high-net-worth CEOs and business owners, but I’m afraid I signed non-disclosure agreements, so I can’t reveal their identities because, obviously, I dealt with all their confidential personal matters.
References can be provided assuming the job is mine.
” I straighten myself on the sofa and take a breath.
“I was with one individual for the past five years. She was very prolific in the tech industry.”
“You’re from Silicon Valley?”
“I move around, wherever my clients need me to be.”
“But where are you from originally?”
Don’t tell her Los Angeles.
“I’m not from anywhere, really. My family moved around a lot.”
“Well, where were you born?”
“The Midwest.”
She wrinkles her nose. Her head literally moves from my feet to the top of my head as if individually taking in the parts of me.
“Well, you called me Mrs. Redfern when you came in. And I only gave you my first name. So, you know who we are then?”
“Mrs. Redfern, no offense, but it wasn’t exactly difficult to piece things together.”
Her head tilts a little. “How so?”
“Well, there are only so many people named Bambi, and coupled with your address? It made sense.”
She gives me a thoughtful, satisfied stare. “And my husband?”
“I’m aware of who your husband is, yes.”
She smiles a large fake grin that doesn’t make sense here in this moment. “Everyone is aware of who my husband is,” she says coolly.
It’s the way she says husband that makes my skin prickle, my muscles stiffen.
“Yes,” is all I can think to say. She releases the smile.
I sense her discomfort and add, “But I’m not really interested in film, per se.”
She looks defensive. “Oh, really? Well, what are you interested in?”
“Helping people.”
There’s a long pause as she takes me in.
Her hands fidget slightly in her lap. “Well, I can see you’re smart, and you speak English just fine.
You’re obviously American. I’ll need your documentation, though, if I decide to hire you.
The thing I need to understand about you, Martha, is really …
” Bambi fidgets again. She turns in the chair and straightens herself.
Something changes in her face. I spot a flaw on her left thigh, a tiny dot of color I hadn’t noticed before.
She’s angling away from me so that I can’t see it, but it’s there.
“I need someone I can count on. For everything. Not just ordinary things, like errands, et cetera. I need a solid individual who will come to understand certain things about my life, my situation, and just take care of whatever I ask you for. Confidentially. Privately. No questions asked. Do you understand?”
“I think so, Mrs. Redfern.”
“And one other thing. My husband isn’t aware I’m hiring a personal assistant. He’s not to see you, and you’re not to see him. Ever. Understand?”
I nod, the full picture forming. “Of course. It’s understandable that you don’t want your husband’s fame to disrupt my work for you.”
Her eyes enlarge for a moment. “Correct. You work for me, not for Jason. He doesn’t come into the picture. Do you get that?”
“Absolutely.” My neck itches again, and I resist the urge to claw my skin that’s rubbing against the cheap, clingy fabric.
“Have you seen any of his films?”
“I don’t get out much.”
She gives me a quizzical look.
“What I mean is … I work a lot.”
“But you know who he is?”
“Yes,” I answer honestly. “But I don’t see many movies. My work is my life. I have a sister who is … unwell, and a niece. I’m like her only parent.”
Bambi’s eyes change, a mist of sadness. “How old is she?”
“She’s fourteen, going on twenty.”
“Where is her father?”
Nicola jets forth, a rash of heat against my throat. Don’t!
“He’s dead,” I say, a little too loudly. Bambi stiffens, like a rod. I lower my voice. “He was very tragically killed, I mean.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
I look down, as if hiding my eyes from her. I wipe a fake tear. “He was the breadwinner and took care of my sister. When he died, I had to step in and help. I’ve always been good at taking care of people, so now that’s my job.” I meet her eyes. “It’s my only job.”
Bambi nods and twists her wedding ring back and forth, the diamond as large as a hard candy on her finger.
For a split second, the woman behind the ring and the designer shoes and clothing emerges.
She stares out the window, pressing her lips together and separating them.
The splotch of color on her leg grows a little, deepening in color. It’s red like a little teardrop.
“Mrs. Redfern, I think you’re bleeding.”
She glances down at her leg, a circle of red forming under her skirt. She gets up and returns with a tissue, placing it over her leg.
“So do you understand what I’m saying, Martha?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Good. I need someone I can turn to. Who can simply assist, get the things I need done with discretion.”
“Of course.” I lean forward. The spot of red soaks through the tissue and oozes to the surface. She’ll need another one soon. I reach into my bag, searching for a tissue. I don’t have any. Bambi—Mrs. Redfern—eyes me. I stop.
“Mrs. Redfern—” I turn my eyes from her, inclining to the apparent wound. “Is your leg all right?”
Her eyes widen ever so slightly.
“I’m fine.” Her cheek flinches, a nervous twitch.
And there it is. A flicker of the emotion that I could smell the first moment the front door opened, lingering in the air among the lavender and clean linen, clinging to things the way the scent of a stale, unused bottle of cologne clings to clothing long after it is sprayed.
The one sitting underneath the sterile scent, as if someone had been trying to wash it out over and over with bleach.
You cannot erase such a strong thing, the nights and hours of it emanating from a feral place inside.
Fear is funny that way. It lingers long after happiness and even sadness have left. Fear leaves something behind.
I smile confidently in a way a mother would smile. “You don’t need to worry, Mrs. Redfern. I will take care of you.”
Her jaw clenches like she might cry, but she doesn’t. Her face is motionless and stoic. There’s the slightest exhale from her, as if she might protest, but she doesn’t.
Bambi nods once, as if to herself. “You can start tomorrow.”
Inside, Nicola claws at me, trying her best to scratch her way through. I push her away, my teeth gritted. The place under my hair at the back of my neck is becoming quite raw. But the days are mine now, and she’ll have to learn to live in the dark.