Room Service for One

I noticed the second place setting before I noticed her. That was the sort of thing you learned working room service at the Beaumont Grand: count the glasses before you entered, check the silverware before you left, never stare at the people who could spend your monthly rent on one bottle of wine, and never, ever let them know that you were curious about the lives happening on the other side of those heavy walnut doors. Penthouse 1702 had ordered dinner for two. Two filet mignons, one medium rare and one medium, asparagus, truffle potatoes, a bottle of Bordeaux that cost more than my car was worth, and a chocolate soufflé that had been ordered with the special instruction to wait twenty minutes before bringing it because apparently rich people could schedule dessert. I was twenty-five years old, making barely enough to share an apartment with my cousin and her boyfriend in a neighborhood forty minutes away, and I had spent the afternoon calculating whether I could postpone my phone bill until Friday without losing service. So yes, I noticed things. I noticed expensive wine. I noticed diamond earrings. I noticed penthouses. And when the door opened, I noticed Nadine Foster. She was standing there in a black evening gown that looked as though somebody had designed it specifically for her body, tall and elegant, deep brown skin glowing beneath the warm light of the suite, her hair swept back beautifully, her makeup perfect except around her eyes, where something had happened recently enough that perfection hadn't managed to cover it. She was older than the women I usually noticed. Much older. I knew that immediately. But there wasn't anything remotely invisible about her. “Room service,” I said. She looked at the cart. Then at me. Then back at the cart. “Oh.” It was a strange reaction to a dinner she'd ordered herself. “Would you like me to set it up?” She hesitated. “Yes. Please.” I wheeled the cart inside. The suite was enormous, all cream carpet, dark wood, city lights and flowers, and beyond the dining area I could see a living room arranged around windows overlooking Los Angeles. There were roses on the table. A gift box. Two champagne glasses. And two chairs placed close enough together that whoever had arranged them had understood this wasn't supposed to be a business dinner. I began transferring the plates. “Anywhere particular?” “The table is fine.” Her phone lit up. She glanced at it. Her face changed. Not dramatically. That somehow made it worse. She picked it up and read whatever was there, then turned the screen facedown. I pretended not to notice. That's another thing you learn in hotels. People believe privacy means being alone. It doesn't. Privacy means being surrounded by employees who have been trained not to react. “Will there be anything else, Ms. Foster?” She looked toward the empty chair. “No.” I reached for the cart. “Actually.” I stopped. She looked embarrassed by whatever she was about to ask. “Could you take the second meal?” “Of course.” “And the second glass.” “Yes, ma'am.” “And the flowers.” That made me look at her. Only for a second. But she caught it. Her mouth tightened. “Is there a problem?” “No.” “You looked at me.” “I wasn't trying to.” “That's usually what people say after they're caught looking.” I should have apologized. Instead I said, “I was wondering why you wanted the flowers removed.” Her eyebrows rose. That was definitely not an approved Beaumont Grand response. I knew it the moment the words left my mouth. “I beg your pardon?” “Nothing. I'm sorry.” I picked up the flowers. She watched me. Then, unexpectedly, she said, “Because the person who sent them isn't coming.” I put them back down. That surprised her. “I thought you were taking those.” “You changed the subject.” “I did not change the subject.” “You answered the question.” For perhaps three seconds she simply stared at me. Then she laughed. Not a happy laugh. But a real one. I liked the sound of it immediately. “My girlfriend isn't coming,” she said. That stopped me for a completely different reason. I had assumed husband. Everybody assumed husband. She must have seen something on my face. “Yes,” she said. “Girlfriend.” “I didn't say anything.” “You didn't have to.” I looked down at the plates. “Is she late?” “She isn't coming at all.” “I'm sorry.” “So am I.” I shouldn't have asked another question. I knew that. But something about her made leaving feel wrong, and if I'm truthful, something else was happening too, something considerably less noble than sympathy, because standing this close I could smell her perfume and see the little lines beside her eyes and the slight tremor in the hand holding the phone, and I thought she was one of the most beautiful women I had ever served. “Emergency?” I asked. Nadine looked at me for a long moment. “Her husband became suspicious.” There it was. Not husband. Her husband. “Oh.” “Exactly.” I suddenly understood the flowers. The dress. The two dinners. The sadness beneath the expensive makeup. “How long?” I asked. She laughed softly. “You certainly aren't shy.” “I'm usually very shy.” “I find that difficult to believe.” “Seven minutes ago I was.” That got another laugh. “Seven years,” she said. Seven years. I stared at the empty chair. “That's a long time to eat dinner alone.” Nadine's expression changed. It wasn't anger. It was something closer to being startled. “Take the meal,” she said quietly. I nodded. I lifted the second plate. My stomach betrayed me with an audible growl. There are moments when dignity simply abandons you. Nadine looked at me. I wanted to disappear. “When did you last eat?” “I ate.” “When?” “This morning.” “What did you have?” “Coffee.” “That isn't food.” “There was sugar in it.” She stared. I smiled despite myself. Then I made what may have been either the stupidest or smartest decision of my life. “Can I eat it?” Nadine blinked. “What?” “The steak.” “You want my girlfriend's dinner?” “She isn't using it.” “You cannot possibly be serious.” “My break starts in”—I checked my phone—“three minutes.” For the first time since I'd entered the room, Nadine looked genuinely interested in something. Me. “You're asking to sit here?” “If you're throwing it away.” “At my table.” “I can eat downstairs if you'd rather.” “No.” I felt my stomach sink. Then she pulled out the empty chair. “Sit.” My heart jumped. “I still have to clock—” “Go clock out.” “For thirty minutes.” “I understand how breaks work, Lucía.” I froze. She smiled slightly. “Your name tag.” I looked down at it. “Right.” “Go.” I hurried downstairs. I should explain something about myself. I wasn't stupid. I knew exactly how absurd the situation was. I was a room-service server sharing an apartment because I couldn't afford one alone, driving a nine-year-old Honda with a warning light that had been glowing for six months, and wondering whether the dental pain I'd had since June was something I could continue ignoring. Nadine Foster was a famous entertainment attorney whose photograph I had seen in magazines in the lobby. I had googled her once after delivering breakfast to her months earlier. She represented actors, musicians, producers. She owned a house in the hills. Probably several. And somewhere between the service elevator and the employee time clock, a thought entered my mind that I wasn't proud of. This woman could change my life. I almost hated myself for thinking it. Then another thought followed. I wanted to go back upstairs even if she couldn't. That made it complicated. I clocked out. Twenty-seven minutes remaining. When I returned, Nadine had poured the wine. “You came back.” “You told me to.” “I've told hundreds of people to do things they didn't do.” I sat next to her. The steak was incredible. For the first minute I tried to eat slowly. Then I gave up pretending. Nadine watched me. “Good?” “If I ever become rich, I'm eating this every day.” “You'd become tired of it.” “No.” “You would.” “I've eaten instant noodles four nights this week. I have extraordinary resistance to culinary boredom.” She smiled. “So why are you working here?” “Because people give me money for it.” “I meant what are you trying to do?” “Survive mostly.” “That isn't an ambition.” “It is when rent is due.” She looked embarrassed. “I didn't mean—” “I know.” I drank some wine. It was probably the first wine I'd ever tasted that didn't come from a supermarket sale. “What about you?” I asked. “What about me?” “What are you trying to do?” Her eyes went toward the flowers. “Apparently, humiliate myself.” “That's not what I see.” “What do you see?” I hesitated. This was where I should have been careful. Instead I told her. “A woman who got dressed for somebody who didn't deserve the trouble.” Nadine stopped moving. I could hear traffic seventeen floors below us. “Lucía.” “Yes?” “You are flirting with me.” There wasn't much point lying. “Yes.” Her gaze dropped briefly toward my mouth. Then returned to my eyes. I felt it everywhere. “And why are you doing that?” Because you're beautiful. Because you're lonely. Because you could change everything. Because I've never met anyone like you. All four answers were true. I chose honesty. “Do you want the nice answer or the whole answer?” “The whole answer.” “I think you're gorgeous.” Her expression softened. “And?” “And I feel sorry for you.” That wiped the softness away. “I don't need pity.” “I didn't say you needed it.” “You said you pity me.” “A little.” “Wonderful.” “And I also know what that watch costs.” Nadine looked down at her wrist. Then slowly back at me. I wanted to crawl beneath the table. But I continued. “I know this room probably costs more for one night than I make in a month, and I'd be lying if I said none of that crossed my mind.” Nadine leaned back. “How refreshingly mercenary.” “That isn't what I meant.” “Then what did you mean?” “That two things can be true.” She waited. “I can want you,” I said, “and also know that knowing you might be good for me.” Silence. I had definitely gone too far. I stood. “I should go.” “Sit down.” “My break—” “Sit.” I did. Nadine studied me in a way that made me feel completely exposed. “My girlfriend,” she finally said, “has spent seven years telling me she loves me, as long as nobody sees us, as long as her husband doesn't know, as long as her children aren't uncomfortable, as long as her friends don't ask questions.” I said nothing. “She canceled tonight because he asked why she was dressing up.” “That's all?” “That's all.” “And she chose him.” “She chose safety.” I looked around the suite. “And what do you choose?” Nadine's eyes came back to mine. “I haven't decided.” My break had seventeen minutes left. I don't remember who moved first. For years afterward, Nadine insisted it was me. I still think she's lying. But suddenly we were both standing beside the table, close enough that I could see the tiny flecks of gold in her brown eyes, and she touched my face with an uncertainty that seemed impossible in a woman who commanded courtrooms for a living. “You're twenty-five,” she whispered. “Yes.” “I'm forty-six.” “I can subtract.” She almost smiled. “This is ridiculous.” “Probably.” “You work here.” “For another seventeen minutes.” That did it. She kissed me. It wasn't gentle at first. It wasn't elegant either. It felt like seven years of restraint breaking all at once, and for perhaps ten seconds I forgot about rent, jobs, age differences, girlfriends, hotel policy, and every sensible decision I had ever made. Then Nadine pulled away. “Tell me to stop.” I looked at her. “No.” The bedroom door closed. What happened behind it belongs to us. What matters is that twenty-two minutes later I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror trying to repair my hair while Nadine, now wearing a hotel robe, leaned against the doorway watching me with an expression I couldn't read. I checked my phone. “Oh, no.” “What?” “I'm eleven minutes late.” “Call them.” “And say what?” “That something delayed you.” “You delayed me.” “Yes.” “I don't think that's going to help.” She laughed. I grabbed my jacket. Then stopped. Because suddenly this wasn't exciting anymore. It was terrifying. I looked at this extraordinary woman in this extraordinary room and understood exactly what I had done. I had crossed a line I had never imagined crossing. “You regret it,” Nadine said. “No.” “You look like you do.” “I look like someone who might get fired.” “I won't let you get fired.” “You can't control everything.” Nadine gave me a look. “You genuinely don't know what I do for a living, do you?” “I know exactly what you do.” That was when I became afraid she would offer me money. If she had, I think something inside me would have broken. I wanted a better life. Desperately. But I didn't want to become something purchased. Nadine seemed to understand without my saying it. She walked toward me. “I need someone.” I swallowed. “For what?” She smiled. “Not that.” I laughed despite myself. “I have a house that requires managing, travel that requires organizing, reservations, appointments, deliveries, dry cleaning, ridiculous people who believe calling me at midnight constitutes an emergency, and an assistant at my office who has threatened to resign if I continue asking her to handle my personal schedule.” “Nadine, I deliver food.” “You pay attention.” “That's a very generous description of my qualifications.” “You're brave.” “I ate your girlfriend's steak.” “You told a woman you had known for twenty minutes that you were attracted to both her and her bank account.” When she put it that way, it sounded terrible. I covered my face. “Oh God.” Nadine laughed. Then she took my hands away. “Lucía.” “What?” “I liked that you told me.” I looked at her. “I don't want to be bought.” “I don't want to buy you.” “Good.” “I want to hire you.” “For what exactly?” “Household assistant. Personal scheduling. Travel arrangements. Errands. Shopping. Whatever else we decide you're good at.” “We?” “We.” My heart began beating differently. Not with desire this time. Hope. Dangerous, enormous hope. “How much?” She named a number. I thought I'd misunderstood. “Per month?” “Per year.” It was still nearly three times what I made. “Health insurance?” “Yes.” “Dental?” Nadine stared at me. “Dental?” “My tooth hurts.” Her whole face changed. “Yes, Lucía. Dental.” I nearly cried. That embarrassed me more than anything else that had happened. Nadine saw it. She didn't mention it. Instead she said, “There's a guesthouse.” I looked up. “At your house?” “Above the garage. Bedroom, bathroom, small kitchen.” “You're offering me somewhere to live?” “As part of the job.” I laughed nervously. “What happens when your girlfriend comes over?” Nadine became still. Then she picked up her phone, looked at the unread message on the screen, and switched it off. “She doesn't.” There was something final in the way she said it. “And what happens when people ask why your twenty-five-year-old household assistant is always with you?” “They'll think you're my employee.” “I would be.” “Yes.” “And when we're alone?” Nadine stepped closer. “That would be something else.” I could hear my own breathing. This was insane. I knew it was insane. An hour earlier I had been wondering whether there would be leftover banquet sandwiches in the employee kitchen. Now a beautiful, wealthy woman was offering me a salary, health insurance, a place to live, travel, and a relationship nobody else needed to understand. There should have been a moral alarm ringing somewhere inside me. There was. It was simply quieter than hope. “What happens if this”—I gestured between us—“doesn't work?” “You keep your job if you're good at it.” “And the guesthouse?” “For as long as you work for me.” “You'd really separate the two?” “I'd have to.” “Could you?” Nadine thought about that. “I don't know.” That answer made me trust her more than yes would have. I checked my phone again. Fourteen minutes late. “I really have to go.” Nadine nodded. I walked toward the door. Then she said, “Lucía.” I turned. “When does your shift end?” “Eleven.” “I'll be here.” I smiled. “That sounds dangerously like another invitation.” “It is.” “What happened to not buying me?” “You're off the clock at eleven.” I laughed. Then I opened the door. “Come back,” she said. I looked over my shoulder. There was no uncertainty in her anymore. I felt something open inside me. Not love. Not yet. Maybe not even anything respectable. It was desire and possibility and the intoxicating realization that sometimes life didn't change gradually; sometimes it cracked open in a hotel room between two untouched dinner plates. “I will,” I said. I made it downstairs eighteen minutes late. The moment I stepped out of the service elevator, I hurried to the time clock and punched back in. My supervisor was already waiting. He looked at the screen, then at me. “Eighteen minutes.” “I know.” “Your break is thirty.” “I know that too.” “Then apparently we're having trouble with arithmetic today.” I tried not to smile. “Sorry.” He shoved another room-service ticket into my hand. “Carlos has been covering your floor. Don’t make me explain to him why.” “I won't.” “And Lucía?” I looked up. “If you're going to disappear on your break, at least come back looking less pleased with yourself.” That wiped the smile from my face. Almost. I took the ticket and headed for the kitchen. But while I pushed another cart toward another elevator, I caught my reflection in the brass doors. I looked exactly the same. Same cheap shoes. Same uniform. Same name tag. Lucía Morales. Room Service. Except now there was a woman seventeen floors above me waiting for eleven o'clock. A woman who had kissed me as though I was something she had almost forgotten existed. A woman who had offered me a job I wasn't qualified for, a home I hadn't earned yet, and perhaps an entire life I hadn't known was available. Was part of me thinking about the money? Of course. I had never had enough money to pretend it didn't matter. But when the elevator doors opened, I touched my fingers to my lips and smiled. Because the part frightening me most wasn't that I might accept Nadine's offer for the easier life. It was that even if she took the offer back— I would still go upstairs at eleven.