Page 9 of Lair

The woman presses her lips together, as if suppressing the urge to say I am, and sniffs in through her narrow nose. “I am Mrs. Colding, the Chief Stewardess. I’ll show you the boat, and then we’ll get you to work.” Her eyes slide to Jason. “Mr. Young. I believe we are no longer in need of your services.”

Jason flicks an amused look at me, and I smile. “Thank you.” He hangs his head in a bow—mocking or genuine, I can’t tell which. “Miss Strand.” Then he bounds up the stairs onto the main deck—a brief glance passes between him and Mrs. Colding—and he’s gone.

Mrs. Colding returns her imperious gaze to me. “Ready?”

I swallow and nod. Let’s hope so.

FOUR

“The Lair is seven decks tall. This is the lower deck.”

Mrs. Colding sweeps a hand toward the interior, and I gape. A beach club complete with cocktail bar stretches before me, its key element a pool stretching for nearly the length of the deck, Jacuzzis at the back and lounging areas on either side—all sprinkled about with rose petals. “An internal seawater pool,” Mrs. Colding explains. “Mr. Voper spends a lot of his time here.” She points to retractable glass panels inset into the main deck above, a darkly tinted window to the sky. “He likes to open these up at night.” She picks up an iPad and taps it, and I jump as a portion of the yacht’s hull folds out with a hydraulic whir to turn into an extended patio for the lounge area. Sunlight sweeps in. “These and the roof are never to be opened unless personally requested by myself or Mr. Voper. Understood?”

I nod, wondering if my farm girl awe is showing yet—Where am I right now?—and straighten my spine. She doesn’t need to know I’m from Bumfudge, Nowhere.

Mrs. Colding taps the iPad again and sets it down. “This way.”

We pass beyond the lower deck’s beach club and down a side passageway. A series of glass doors here. “Spa. Sauna room.” She opens the last door. “And snow room.”

Snow room? Are you kidding me? I peek my head in and there, yes, beyond a second, huge wooden door Mrs. Colding has hauled wide, is snow: a small grotto of winter, drifts of fluffy white snowflakes clinging to the artfully jagged slabs of stone composing the floor and walls. Even icicles hang from the ceiling, like some glittering cave in Lapland. My breath fogs in the air and I hug myself and back away. “Wow.”

“Another of Mr. Voper’s favorites. This will have to be ready at all times. Understood?”

I sharply nod. “Got it.”

Mrs. Colding shuts the door. “Next deck.”

On the main deck, lounging areas surround the glass panels that were the lower deck’s pool roof. A sickly sweetness hits me, and I see it: an overwhelming display of Grand Prix red roses guiding me to a pair of glass double doors. It’s a fantasia, a floral fairy tale. Smartly dressed stewardesses pass to and fro bearing vases, and Mrs. Colding looks over her shoulder at me as she opens the double doors. “A Voper standard. They’re flown in fresh every week.” I’m unable to form a reply, for we’ve entered a spacious dining room that all but stops my heart. It’s filled with banquet tables with rose centerpieces, an immense chandelier hanging through the deck above via a circular hole ringed by a flaring of ornately carved metal suffused with mood lighting. Sweeping staircases flank the far wall and all is surrounded by floor-to-ceiling glass. I try to gather my breath. “The windows,” I say, and Mrs. Colding turns to me. “They’re all tinted.”

Mrs. Colding holds herself with witchy stillness, eyes like dark stones. “Mr. Voper prefers it that way,” she says with chilling finality, and sweeps away.

Okayyy... so questions not welcomed. Got it.

“Notice the hidden staircases behind the main ones,” Mrs. Colding points out. “That is for the stewardesses when serving, as we must do our best to never get underfoot. Yes?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.”

She passes both for a passageway leading beyond the dining room, opens a door onto a lavish cabin with a huge fuckdoll bed and stone shower. Seriously? And—surprise, surprise—more roses. “There are twelve staterooms on the deck above,” Mrs. Colding says, “but these are the two VIP suites and the ones you will be maintaining on this trip.” She picks up an iPad and gestures at an outline in the wall. “Again, you must have permission to open the foldable platforms.”

She strides on, and we come to a sort of antechamber before a pair of imposing double doors stained a deep red. “This,” she announces, “is Mr. Voper’s suite. I am the only one who cleans it. No one else can enter. This is the most important rule aboard this boat.” Mrs. Colding’s eyes bore into me. “Is that clear?”

I feel a prickling chill go down my spine. “Yes, ma’am.”

The eyes stare on, unblinking. Then she sweeps away. “Next deck.”

It all begins to blur at this point. An entertainment lounge, its glittering chandelier the one hanging through into the dining room below. Another bar, its top a thick slab of black marble veined with color. Stateroom after stateroom. On the top deck another Jacuzzi surrounded by lounging pads for sunbathing. A fully stocked wet bar. On the sun deck a supersized bathtub and more sun lounges. I’ve never seen such extravagance in my life. I don’t even know what planet I’m on anymore.

And everywhere, on every deck, those pervasive roses, their heavy scent sweetening the air.

At some point we come across a library and my heart leaps. It’s packed with books with ancient spines, globes and portraits and a baby grand piano. Now this is how I’d spend my money...

“Another Voper favorite. You must always knock before entering.” Mrs. Colding faces me. “That’s the basic tour. You will discover more rooms the longer you’re aboard.” As I grapple with that thought, she looks me up and down with merciless coldness. “Do you know what a stewardess’ job entails?”

I open my mouth. “I—”

“Never mind, I am not interested in your conception of a stewardess’ responsibilities. This is what’s to be expected aboard this boat. You are fourth stew, which means you are the least qualified and the most in need to prove yourself. You will rotate schedules with the other stews to share service, housekeeping and laundry, but you will not serve meals until I am satisfied with your silver service. You will wake up at six a.m. every morning without exception, and you will not retire without my say-so. Every moment of every day, the only thought in your head will be service. If you see a guest touch a light switch, you will wipe the fingerprint from that light switch. If you see them use the bathroom sink, you will wipe that sink spotless the moment they leave. You will obey their every whim—nothing is forbidden to them. And this goes most especially for Mr. Voper. You should know that his standards are not the same as ours. He requires perfection, and so I have been trained to give him that. Do not interfere with his routine. Do not burden him with mistakes, because he will not stand for them. Do not drop drinks or stumble in front of guests. Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not bother, pester, annoy, or flirt. You are merely there to anticipate his every need. You are both essential and absolutely nothing. You will look as he likes, curtsy as he likes, breathe as he likes. And if you compromise the service aboard this boat in any way, I will strand you on the first beach I see. Now.” And for the first time, horrifyingly, Mrs. Colding’s mouth widens in a smile. “Is that all clear to you, Miss Strand?”

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