Page 12 of Cinderella-ish
Chapter 5
Daniella
Seven.
My luckynumber.
It’s also the age I was when I began sketching, designing, and sewing outfits for my doll babies. Six months later, I ingeniously set up shop in the basement of my foster mom’s house and began making, then selling doll clothes to all the little girls on the block. I was making a killing. At least until my two trollish foster sisters squealed. My foster mom went full-on RoboCop, shutting down my operation, as if I were the neighborhood dopedealer.
Memories.
That’s what’s been sweeping through my mind since I decided to bask in the delight of having the house all to myself for the entireweek.
Stacy’s will be heading to New York for a drab lawyer’s convention (boring) and Emma’s already left to spend a week with her dad. Even if Emma were here, it’s not like she trulyneedsme. Not like she did five years ago anyway. Being a full-time nanny to a sixteen—almost seventeen-year-old—is nearly non-existent compared to that of an eleven-year-old. Which is why I was so looking forward to getting that Personal Assistant gig atCraveMe.
In all actuality, finding work anywhere but here is a must. I can’t expect to stay, working as a nanny to aseventeen-year-old. Don’t get me wrong; my living arrangements are pretty spectacular. I’ve got an eight-hundred-square foot en-suite-style bedroom and full privileges in this exquisite home, not to mention a generous monthly stipend that I’ve been able to stow away in a savings account for the last five years. Sure, as a nanny, I’m expected to clean, cook, do laundry, run errands, etc. But I’m no damn Cinderella, and the older Emma gets, the more awkward it is to be called hernanny.
My plan was to take on the job as the PA, move into my own place, and eventually work up the nerve to present my portfolio to whomever is in charge of designsubmissions.
Yet, since that opportunity got all screwed up, I submitted seven online applications this evening to all sorts of jobs, hoping and dreaming for abreak.
Anybreak.
I pour myself a second glass of Merlot, prance my half-tipsy ass into my bathroom to draw a luxurious bubble-filled bath, and push the play button on my MP3, blasting the hell out of Pat Benitar’sLove is aBattlefield.
Don’t you dare judge me. I mean who doesn’t fancy songs from the ’80s?
The bubble-filled bath summons me with its tranquilizing lavender scent, sudsy clouds of bliss, and the flickering of lights from neon-colored flameless candles I’ve placed along the edge of thetub.
I peel off my clothes, twist my hair into an unkempt bun, and descend into my toasty bubble cocoon, with wine glass in hand, finding solitude as I escape from today’s lousyevents.
Tomorrow will be a betterday.
No breakup text message (I never replied to Jake), no Metro train crowds, no jelly donuts, no TV reports featuring Yours Truly, and absolutely no AntonioMichaels.
* * *
It’s beenover an hour now. The water has cooled, bubbles dissipated, wine digested, and my MP3 has completed the bubble bath playlist. I’m beyond relaxed, feeling the way I do after a massage, a first kiss, or a toe-curling orgasm—the kind I haven’t had in ages, by theway.
The house is quiet, the sound of the bathtub faucet’s perpetual drip echoing in theplacidity.
I squeeze my eyes shut, hypnotized by thesound.
Drip. Drip.Drip—
DingDong.
What thefuck?
My eyes spring open at the intrusive, bell-tower-liketoll.
The doorbell?Perhaps I heard wrong—drifted off and dreamt of the doorbellringing?
DingDong.
I stiffen, slightly startled by thetone.
It’s definitely thedoorbell.
