Lydia Lane. Judith Bowen
was coming up on New Year’s Eve, next Monday. That, at least, was something to look forward to.
“Oh, there you are!” Candace Downing slipped into the cloakroom, closing the door behind her. “I was hoping you hadn’t gone yet—did you catch the rest of the show?” Her eyes were sparkling and her hands fluttered.
Lydia nodded. She’d been curious to see the puppet guy. How weird was that—doing a puppet act for pets? Plus, she was always looking for interesting party acts so she could recommend them to clients who asked, an old habit from her days with Call-a-Girl, the little do-everything business she and Charlotte and Zoey had run when they were in college. She’d met Zoey Phillips and Charlotte Moore ten years ago when they all worked at Jasper Park Lodge in the Alberta Rockies the summer after high-school graduation. That fall, they’d started Call-a-Girl. Cutting grass, shoveling snow, catering birthdays, house-sitting, walking dogs—they did anything to pay the bills.
Now Charlotte was getting married at City Hall on New Year’s Eve, Zoey was marrying some cowboy from out West just before Valentine’s Day—and Lydia was cooking no-fat meals for a ladies-who’d-rather-lunch breakfast club and organizing closets for an industrial tycoon who’d bullied her on her fee to the point where she’d nearly turned down the job even though she needed the work. You could see why these people got rich; they never let go of anything.
“You wanted to see me?” Lydia smoothed on her gloves. Bright, bright red, to match her cashmere beret from Holt’s, a pre-Christmas sale present to herself.
“Nice gloves,” Candace said.
“Thank you.” Lydia smiled.
“Listen, have you got time for a coffee?” Candace glanced at her watch. She was a small woman, much more petite than she appeared on television. Thick dark hair, blue eyes, very pretty.
“Sure. Why?” Lydia was mystified. She’d done a good interview with Candace Downing, she thought. The invitation to be a guest on her show was welcome, particularly during the slow holiday season. She’d expected a bit of a put-down for the work she did with Domestica—she often got one—so had been prepared with her answers. Lydia believed passionately that her work had a positive effect on people’s lives. Had she made a convert? Maybe. Candace probably wanted to hire her. Some people were so furtive about it. As if aspiring to a well-run household should be some kind of…of secret!
“Let’s go down to the caf,” Candace said, opening the door again. “I’ve been thinking about what you said on the show. I may have a client for you.”
They both ordered lattes in the cafeteria that served the building and the neighborhood and took a seat by the window. Although it was late morning, they were the only people there. It was Boxing Day, December 26, and Lydia assumed most office staff in the area had the entire week off between Christmas and New Years.
“You ever do longer jobs—you know, a couple of weeks, maybe months if necessary?” Candace stirred her coffee vigorously. Lydia had the impression that Candace did everything full-tilt.
“No, but I’d like to find something like that,” Lydia said. “A longer job would allow me to prove that the things I do can make a real difference to a real family. You can’t adequately judge results doing a weekend closet job.” She eyed her companion over the rim of her coffee cup. “Depends what it is, of course.”
“I’m thinking of my ex.”
“Your ex?”
Candace’s blue gaze met hers steadily. “Yes. His life is one big mess. I wouldn’t mind so much, but he’s raising our daughter and I worry about her. His mother helps out a lot and she’s very Old World— Portuguese—not that I have anything against the Portuguese, of course. But she’s very—” Candace gave her a girl-to-girl look “—you know, quite persuasive, and I’m worried that Amber isn’t getting the type of influence she should have….”
“How old is Amber?”
“Eight,” Candace replied. “Her nana is totally traditional. No offence, of course, considering what you do, but you know the type I mean? Cooks and cleans all the time? Believes a woman’s place is in the home looking after her man, garbage like that? She’s giving Amber the wrong idea about modern women.” Candace took a sip of her coffee, put it down and stirred in more Sweet’n’Low. She shook her head. “Very wrong.”
“What would you want me to do?” Lydia shrugged. “And surely your ex-husband would be the one to talk to?”
“Of course! Your Domestica thing sounds perfect, though. I’ll mention it to him. He takes my advice on most things to do with Amber.” Her expression was rather smug and Lydia wondered what kind of wuss she’d been married to. “He’s one of those guys who’s never done anything for himself domestically. Mama did everything. Ironed his shirts, picked up his socks, cooked his breakfast, tied his ties. Don’t get me wrong. I was never a great housekeeper—”
Candace laughed, looking thoroughly pleased to acknowledge her shortcomings in that department, which irritated Lydia. But she’d seen the attitude a million times before, especially with career moms like Candace.
“—but it didn’t matter. I hired people to do the nitty-gritties—and I have tremendous respect for someone like you who’s made a business out of it. Sam went straight downhill after we split up. And now, since he’s had a home office—whew! Seriously, you don’t want to know. Everything’s totally disorganized.”
“Where exactly do you see me fitting in?”
“Everywhere!” Candace leaned forward. “You could start with the cleaning thing, get that house of his sanitized. That’s number one. Then you could organize him. He’s totally helpless. He sends out all their clothes to a laundry, even Amber’s pajamas. They can’t keep a maid—they’ve had about half a dozen this year alone. Seriously! No one will stay. I don’t blame the housekeepers. These days they interview the clients, you know, not the other way around. They can get all the work they want at easier places.”
Lydia bit her lip. Sounded bad. “It would be a…challenge.”
“You could do it, I know you could. You’re smart, you’re organized, it’s your business, for heaven’s sake! Charge him as much as you want, he’s got money. Teach him how to shop and cook. You do that, don’t you? Yourself?”
“Yes. And I’ve got part-timers who work with me.”
“What clients do you have now—for food preparation, I mean?”
“A ladies’ breakfast club. That Raptors guy, Griff—”
“Not Griff Daniels! The basketball player? Is he as sexy as they say?”
“I guess so. If you like your guys seven feet tall.” Lydia made a face. “I don’t.”
“Hey, to each her own.” Candace giggled. “I’m going to try and get him on my show. Never mind that, you’ve got credentials, that’s the main thing. Sam can’t cook. They live on cornflakes, pizzas, Chinese takeout, Swiss Chalet. Or his mother brings food over. Isn’t that terrible? And I haven’t even got to the worst part yet!”
Candace studied her for a reaction. Lydia decided not to ask what the worst part was. “Listen, if things are so bad,” she began gently, “why don’t you have your daughter live with you?”
“Oh, no! That’s out of the question.” Candace breezily waved a well-manicured hand. “Sam and I made a deal when we split up so I could pursue my TV career. Anyway, he’s the better parent. I travel a lot and I have long hours, so I’m never home. Plus, well, you know—” she lowered her voice confidentially “—I like it this way. He’s a terrific father. Reliable, responsible. A natural. And Amber adores him. It’s just the chaos factor in his house, that’s all.”
Why, Lydia wondered, had Candace had split with such a prize? Obviously she wasn’t telling all. “Okay, I know there’s more—what’s the worst part?”