At Your Service (2 page)

I consult my list. Okay, so all we need now is some face paint to stand in for colored clay, a wooden drum, and a bunch of noise-canceling headphones for the guests in the adjoining rooms. Easy peasy.

I make a million and twelve promises to the professor that I will guard the headdress with my very life, then scoot into the front seat next to Bill.

“Where to, Sunshine?” he asks.

As Bill slides the limousine into a swarm of yellow taxicabs, I unlock my smartphone and begin punching buttons, working off a list of numbers for instrument rental shops on the Upper West Side.

Yup, just another day in the life of a concierge at New York City's finest hotel (well, technically in the life of the concierge's daughter, but still . . .). And if things continue to go this awesomely, I'm one step closer to earning my own spot among the legends in the hotel biz.

S
o it's been four days since the world's most cosmopolitan tribal wedding ceremony, and the drumbeats are still thumping around in my head, but otherwise, things are mostly getting back to normal. Or as normal as it gets when you live at the Hotel St. Michèle. Which means, not that normal at all.

But seriously cool.

When Mom died five years ago, Dad wanted a change of scenery, so he finally let himself be stolen away from his old hotel by the competition. But not before he worked out a sweet deal that included our apartment “on premises.” That way he could keep an eye on me while he worked. Did I mention Dad's really good at negotiating?

Now he gets to offer “service with a smile” to all the posh guests, and
I
get to have a whole hotel for a backyard. Plus, I can help Dad at work any time I want. Since the hotel maids clean our living quarters, Dad lets me count helping him out with concierge stuff as my chores. Which totally works for me because:

A. I don't have to make my bed or empty my trash or even hang up my towels if I don't want to (except I usually do anyway, because I'm not a total slob; also, I don't want to make extra work for Housekeeping, since they always sneak me the tiny bubble-bath bottles from the maid's cart).

B. I can soak up everything Dad does, the way Chef's biscotti soak up the hot melted chocolate he sends me after school. Plus, the more I learn from Dad, the more often he'll call me his “Capable Chloe.”

C. Yup. Still no C.

My friends use a different nickname than Capable Chloe. They call me Eloise, after the children's book about that girl
who lives at the Plaza. Of course, just because I live in a hotel doesn't mean I can get away with any of the stuff Eloise
^I
does in the book. Mostly because she's the daughter of a guest (and guests are always, always, ALWAYS right) and I'm the daughter of an employee.
Big
difference.

The St. Michèle is no Plaza Hotel, though.

It's way better.

When you put your hand on the shiny brass handle and spin yourself through the sparkling glass revolving doors, all the honking and jackhammering and subway-brake screeching noises of the city whoosh away and you step inside a fairy tale. Everything in it is marbled and golden and mirrored and wrapped in two-thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton. If you're lucky enough to stay at the St. Michèle, you're pretty lucky in general. Because you're also probably pretty rich.

Or you're the daughter of the concierge.

Most days there's nowhere I'd rather be than hanging around the hotel. Today I'm not so sure, judging from the look on Dad's face as he lowers the phone from his ear.

It's like he's just seen a ghost, only our hotel isn't one of those haunted ones. Guests sometimes say they hear strange noises coming from the air vent in room 1421, but I happen to know for a fact that the vent in that room leads directly to a supply closet where Bobby, one of the busboys, likes to sneak off to nap. And that guy can SNORE!

“What's up, Dad?”

His hand shakes slightly as he places the phone on the cradle, and he has a faraway look in his eyes. Dad is
never
frazzled, so this can only mean one thing.

Uh-oh.

“La . . . La . . . LaFou,” he finally manages.

This is bad.

Really, really bad. Sound-the-alarm bad.

Not all rich people are pains in the butt; in fact, most of our guests are super friendly. But the LaFous could write a whole book about how to be the worst hotel guests since the beginning of time (or whenever hotels first started anyway). I can see it now:

Chapter 1: Never be satisfied with anything anyone tries to do for you,
ever
.

Chapter 2: Remember, all complaints sound much better when screamed at an insanely loud volume.

Chapters 3–23: Repeat.

“How much time do we have to prepare?” I ask Dad. But before the word “prepare” is finished leaving my mouth, I glance out the window and spy a head full of fat curls bouncing along on top of a small round body. Then the whole package comes whirling through the revolving door. Her nose is so far in the air, I'm not sure how she's managing to walk a straight line. I'm guessing part of the reason it's up there is to avoid the cloud of perfume that's practically visible around her, like the dirt bomb that surrounds Pigpen. What little kid wears perfume, anyway?

Marie “The Terror” LaFou is four foot zero of sheer spoiled brat.

A minute later her super-skinny mother pushes into the lobby, snagging her long pearl necklace on the door handle and tripping over the hem of her floor-length dress. A businessman by the coffee cart slaps a hand over his eye, having just been temporarily blinded by the beams of light shooting off Madame LaFou's bazillion-carat ruby ring.

Marie's father ambles in behind them like he owns the place. Bellhops and doormen, fingers crossed for a ginormous tip, follow behind in formation, drooling like little kids lining up at an ice cream truck.

The procession makes its way to the front desk, but just before they reach it, Monsieur LaFou veers off to Dad's concierge podium.

Here we goooooooo. . . .

“Meetch-ell, my good man. 'Ow have you bean?” His French accent always cracks me up. He doesn't wait for Dad to answer before blustering on. “Sorry for zee short no-teece.” (Yeah, right.) “It eez Mademoiselle Marie's ninezzz bearzday zees monzzz—can you beleeve eet?—and we 'ave already 'ad parties een Pariz and a zleepover for 'er zeventy-two cloze-eest friendz on zee yacht in zee South of Franz. But, when I ask
ma petite princesse
what she wantz her next prezent to be, do you know what she ask for? Do you?”

Hmm . . . a pink chimpanzee with a diamond collar to fetch her bonbons and café au laits?

Once again he continues talking before my father's lips have even had time to part. “Well, Meetch-ell, I shall tell you. She zaid, ‘
Papa
, I want zee bezt bearzday week ever . . . in New York Zity.' Of course, we hopped right on our plane and 'ere we are.”

Did he just say WEEK??!!!

Dad swallows visibly. He fixes his smile into place and says, “Of course, sir. I'm at your service.”

Oh,
this
is gonna be interesting.

I
. Speaking of Eloise, she might have thought the Plaza was the only hotel in New York City that let you have a turtle, but she was so, so wrong. We've totally had turtles here. And dogs, cats, ferrets, hamsters, teapot pigs, goats (once), and chinchillas. Pretty much the only New York City animal you will not
ever
find in the St. Michèle is a rat.

I
t's Day Three of the French Invasion and things are not looking up.

Way late last night I overheard Dad on the phone in his bedroom, trying to assure Monsieur LaFou that he would do everything in his power to please young Marie, but could they at least agree that a unicorn would be quite impossible to track down, given the fact that unicorns DO NOT ACTUALLY EXIST.

Like I said before, if it
exists
, Dad can get it.

Poor Dad. He so doesn't deserve this. He should get a special award at the next Les Clefs d'Or conference. They're this super-elite organization for concierges, and you have to be the best of the best to wear their golden-key membership pin. Some day . . .

Anyway, I've been trying to help by staying out of Dad's way as much as possible, which really isn't so much a problem for me. It's not hard to stay entertained at the St. Michèle.

After school I toss my backpack on my bed and swap out my school uniform for a black (hello, I'm a New Yorker, and black is practically a residency requirement) peasant blouse and black (
native
New Yorker here) trouser pants. I straighten my glasses, then add a black fine-tip pen to my purse, which I sling across my chest so it rests flat against my hip. Professional, yet ready for any task, exactly like a hotel staffer should look.

The door clicks shut behind me, and I head immediately down to the loading docks, where there's bound to be some action. Right away I spot Mercy from Housekeeping. She's busy stacking case upon case of Coke cans onto a rolling luggage cart.

“What's all this?” I ask.

“We've got a whole slew of Coca-Cola people staying here tomorrow for their annual sales meeting. I'm going to swap out all the Pepsi cans in the minibars of their rooms with these Coke cans. Wanna help?”

Voilà! Afternoon solved. Mercy wears a little radio clipped to her waistband, and whenever she's not in earshot of any
guests, she cranks it up and we sing along. Really, really badly. I double adore hanging with Mercy.

Everything is perfect until, in the middle of us taking advantage of a deserted hallway to add in some choreographed dance moves, Mr. Whilpers rounds the corner. Mr. Whilpers is my evil nemesis, a.k.a. the hotel manager, a.k.a. the boss of everyone in the hotel (except for the owner). He has a handlebar mustache (yes, for real) that he spends all day smoothing and combing. Although he should be paying more attention to his eyebrows, because they're fuzzier than the roller on the shoe-shine machine in our lobby. His face is usually all puffy with importance and blotchy red, but when he spots me, he turns an even deeper shade, like a turnip.

This is because he hates me. Not just me, but all kids. Well, but most especially me, because my dad's super-duper negotiating skills scored us the apartment that
should
have gone to Mr. Whilpers, and now he has to take the subway home to Queens every night.

“Chloe Turner! What have I told you about disturbing the staff during work hours?”

“Um, not to do it?” I offer.

“Precisely. And yet, you somehow manage to get underfoot everywhere I look. Care to explain?”

“Well, Mr. Whimpers—er, Whilpers—um, sir . . . I was assisting Mercy with her workload, and because of my help she managed to finish so far ahead of schedule we determined she had a few spare minutes to work in a bit of exercise. Knowing how important the physical health of your employees is to you, of course, sir, I never imagined this would be something you could possibly object to.”

Mr. Whilpers closes his eyes while he takes a very, very deep breath (which gives Mercy the opportunity to fist-bump me). Then he exhales so forcefully his mustache blows up from the breeze.

“I would encourage my staff to address their workout sessions in private spaces and, preferably, on their own time. As for you, Chloe, I think you could find somewhere else to be, yes?”

I salute him (mostly because I know he HATES when I do that) and wave a cheery good-bye to Mercy.

It's fine. I'm starting to lose my voice from the singing, and, after staring at all that candy in the minibars, my stomach is rumbling. I head to the employee cafeteria and wolf down an early dinner of lasagna, join a quick game of gin rummy with two doormen on a break, and then swing by the lobby. I don't want to bother Dad, but I do want to check in, in case maybe he needs my help after all.

Dad is frowning at the phone and saying a whole lot of “Yes, sir.” And “I understand perfectly, sir.” And “I do apologize, sir.”

Three guesses who Dad is talking to.

“Monsieur LaFooey?” I ask when Dad hangs up.

“Don't ever let Monsieur LaFou hear you call him that! But . . . yes.” Dad's shoulders slump underneath his fancy suit.

“Lemme guess. Pool too cold? Too hot? Shower pressure too high? Too low? Bed too hard? Too soft? Room too loud? Too drafty? Too blue? Not blue enough?”

“Yes, to all of those things. But this time it was about Marie. She's still not happy with her birthday week activities. And the thing is, I've exhausted most of my contacts getting her the best tables for lunch and dinner at the finest restaurants, the swankiest tickets to the opera, and even a tour of MoMA led by the in-house restoration artist. Nothing pleases that girl.”

“No offense, Dad, but kids aren't just miniature adults. She'd probably rather admire Kit or MacKenzie or one of the other American Girls instead of a Warhol at MoMA.”

“I always see kids at the Museum of Modern Art!”

“Well, yeah, but do they look happy . . . or tortured? I mean, I'm sure some kids love the art museum. I actually didn't mind it
that
much on our last school field trip. But
Marie seems like she'd be a little more wrapped up in shopping. What about Nintendo World in Rockefeller Center? There's a LEGO store there too.”

“I didn't start this gig yesterday, Chlo. I've sent her to those spots already. I know she's a LaFou, but I'm not so sure she likes to shop. Her parents own the biggest department store in Paris, so maybe she gets to do enough of that at home? I never thought I'd say this, but this girl just may have bested me. I'm at the end of my rope here.”

Huh. Dad at the end of his rope? I didn't think his particular rope had an end.
Then again . . .
My brain begins to whir. Maybe this could be exactly the opening I've been looking for to take my own concierge dreams to the next level.