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“You’re fine, Mal,” I tell myself as I step out of my car. I am my own cheering section. Running a hand through my curly hair, I briefly wonder if I should have done a sleek ponytail. One of the guys looks up and sees me, saying something to the others. Like a herd of gazelles noticing a large lion nearby, all the heads pop up in unison.
I give a small wave, my fingers like wind chimes.
They look away.
“It’s just a four-hour gig,” I mutter, my pep fading fast as I sling my black bag over my shoulder and start toward the front door. The wide walkway is laid in a simple pattern of beige stone. Beige is such a boring word for the subtle kaleidoscope of color that gives the stone texture and nuance. My mother thinks that beige is as exciting as clipping your toenails, but there are thousands of shades in this world designed to evoke emotion.
And each is important.
Whoever owns this house takes fabulous care of it, little details emerging into a gorgeous, discerning whole. Money makes it easy to maintain a showplace, but cash alone isn’t the key.
You have to care.
“Hi, there,” I say to the bearded trio as they grind out their cigarette butts, carefully rubbing them in the perfectly manicured grass then cupping them in their palms. Their care impresses me. I’m not a fan of smoking, but what really bothers me are smokers who leave their butts everywhere.
One of the guys, blond with a full face and a ZZ Top look, holds the door open for me. “Ladies first,” he says in a barrel-chested voice.
The other guys laugh. Being mocked by men isn’t new to me–I got plenty of it in high school, for being the band/drama/honors/newspaper geek–but I’ve learned to ignore it and move on.
“Thank you,” I say with grace they don’t deserve, walking up the granite steps.
“No, thank you,” one of them mumbles, giving me a wink and a short, appreciative whistle as I walk up. “Nice ass.”
I blush. Wasn’t expecting that.
The house is extraordinarily designed, open concept with high ceilings, and I should appreciate it more, but my ears are ringing from being sexually objectified by a guy who looks like he’s an extra on Hardcore Pawn.
I was just turned into a piece of eye candy.
Me.
I’m not sure whether to be flattered or horrified.
After a few seconds, I decide. It’s not hard. I am a mature, capable, competent professional with a high degree of emotional self-regulation and a sharp business mind. I know how to handle myself in any given situation. Perceptiveness and the ability to pivot to gain leverage are key in my profession. The answer is clear.
Let’s go with flattered.
Down a wide hall and to the right, a giant kitchen beckons. From what I can see, the central island is bigger than most boardroom tables. Aha. This must be where the cooking show takes place. I stand in the foyer, hesitant. A few people are walking around, glancing at me, but no one approaches to introduce themselves.
Asking for “Spatula” seems rather gauche. This is the point where I realize I have no idea what his real name is. I’ve been hired by a kitchen utensil used to scrape up wet, goopy stuff.
Huh.
Well, I might be a bit intimidated, and I may be out of my element, but there is one thing any good stager can do: arrange a room.
So I begin.
To my left is a sitting room. It’s mostly empty, but there is a big ottoman, a red circle made of leather, and a cream-colored sofa. Oddly enough, the sofa–an overstuffed, three-cushion monstrosity with huge arms that looks like something out of a bad QVC television set–is horribly positioned, at an odd angle, as if someone brought it in and just put it down anywhere. Starting to work before I’ve even met my boss, I try to shove the sofa into better alignment, but it’s surprisingly heavy. Instead, I grasp the red ottoman and move it, positioning it in front.
This furniture definitely doesn’t match the house it’s in.
I scan the room. Metal stands with huge lights are set here and there, with big power packs and heavy cords on the floor nearby. They must be doing the interview with the chef in here. In a corner, I see an aquarium filled with small orange fish. A long, narrow table behind the sofa holds a giant gold bowl, cracked like a mirror mosaic.
It is overflowing with small packets of ibuprofen.
And bottles of coconut oil.
I pause, bent over the red circle, mind roaming. I know coconut oil is all the rage these days, so maybe it’s just trendy, but what a weird decoration in the living room. Or maybe it’s a cooking ingredient?
