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“Hey, Solange. I’m taking the FedEx packages downstairs. Do you have anything that has to go out today?” she asked, her curious eyes following the clanking noise under my desk.
I had hired her because I thought she seemed like a younger version of me—a driven workaholic. Turned out, she only looked the part. She was all about “work–life balance,” something I hadn’t even heard of when I was her age.
“No thanks,” I said.
She eyed the silver wrapping paper on my desk. “Did someone send you a gift?” she asked.
Yes, in fact, it’s a gift of silver handcuffs, Denise, what every girl wants!
I blinked at her, giving her a tight smile. “I have a lot of work to do. Can you close my door on your way out?”
Denise got the message, backing out of my office and shutting the door quietly behind her.
Two thoughts came to me in the limousine on the way to the Mansion later that night. One, other divorced women with children never told me that there was a plus side to heartbreak and divorce—free time! It was almost like they didn’t want to admit that splitting custody was an opportunity to regain a little bit of long-lost autonomy. I almost didn’t want to admit it myself. Of course there was that pang tonight, when Gus trotted over to his dad’s idling Jeep, his backpack bigger than his torso. But once I waved and shut the door, there was also that sense of space and possibility. I can do anything I want tonight. For years, I rarely took advantage of that. I loved Gus’s company, I really did. Especially after he turned eight and his personality began to reveal itself. He was such a nice kid, and smart to boot; fun to hang out with. But when he wasn’t with me, I spent a lot of my free time worrying about him and what he was doing without me, afraid to turn off my phone, or to really relax and enjoy myself.
But these last few months with S.E.C.R.E.T., I had begun to allow myself the gift of autonomy, to savor and enjoy this strange and lovely experience. I leaned back into the warm leather of the limo’s seat, heading to the “Mansion after Dark” and thinking of all the alluring adventures that awaited me there. New Orleans at night sped past the tinted windows, giving the shops along Magazine Street a sexy glow. The limo rounded left on Third. My stomach rolled at every stop sign until we pulled into the gates of the Mansion, its windows aglow with a pale orange light.
A uniformed woman stood at the base of the stairs holding what looked like a white shawl over one arm. She greeted me when I stepped out of the car.
“You must be our Solange. I’m Claudette.” She shook my hand, then motioned to take my coat and purse. “Right this way, my dear.”
It occurred to me: my phone! It was in my purse and I’d just given it away. My phone connected me to my child, and to my job.
“Can I keep my purse? It’s just … my phone’s in it. Also the … handcuffs,” I added, lowering my voice.
“Leave your phone on. If there is any reason to interrupt you, we will not hesitate. You won’t need anything else in that purse. I’ll take good care of it.”
“The handcuffs?”
“Purely symbolic.”
I followed her into the spectacular foyer. The whole house was lit by dim scon
ces that trailed along a hallway to the left and up the wall of the ornate spiral staircase. The place was gorgeous, the black and white tiles forming a spiral on the foyer floor that swirled around a trio of Botticelli-like female forms standing under a willow tree—one was white, one brown, one black, and all were naked. The whole place seemed coated in a layer of French design that felt both historical and right up to date.
“Follow me,” Claudette said, turning to climb the impressive staircase.
I gripped the gold banister tighter than I’d held anything in my life. She brought me to the second door on the right and handed me what she’d been holding, which wasn’t a shawl at all but a pretty white cotton shift dress.
“Here you go. Please remove all your clothes and put this on. Wait on the bed and you’ll be summoned.”
Summoned? Ew. I did not like that word. I was not going to be very good at this, I decided, as I stepped into the small, plain bedroom painted the palest of blues and minimally decorated. It had the feel of a high-end hospital room. I took off my jeans, carefully unbuttoned and removed my blouse, and folded both on the bed. Socks, undies, bra were also folded and stowed. The cotton shift was simple, flimsy, with a small lace fringe along the hem. But I … obeyed (ew), letting it cascade over my body, until it ended just at the tops of my thighs.
Sitting on the edge of the oversize twin bed, my legs swinging over the side, I could hear a loud clock ticking but I couldn’t see one on the walls. The room was furnished with a tall, plain dresser between two white doors, blue damask curtains and a round, multicolored rope rug on a wooden floor painted white. Bored, I leapt to my feet and walked over to the dresser. Should I? I was an inveterate snoop. That makes me a good journalist, I justified, wrapping my fingers around the handle of the top drawer and gently tugging it open.
“Don’t open that drawer, Solange.”
I gasped. It was a calm male voice, deep and soothing, coming from some corner of the room.
“Who is that?”
There didn’t seem to be a place for a person to hide except maybe under the bed or behind one of the two white doors.
“Never mind that,” the voice said. “There’s only one question to be concerned with.”
He sounded like a late-night radio DJ who played only slow R and B, a voice that was commanding yet a bit bemused.
“The question is: Do you accept the Step, Solange?”
