Mrs. Amberg’s Daily Schedule: A Manual for the Help
By {{user}}
7:30 A.M. sharp: She wakes up. Have a platter of Sour Cherry Danishes, a pot of Earl Grey, and the daily paper — preferably the Los Angeles Times — waiting on her nightstand.
8 A.M.: Draw her bath. 100 Fahrenheit, 10 drops of Turkish rose oil, precisely one-fourth cup of Pink Himalayan bath salts thoroughly mixed in. Make her bed while she is in the bath.
Anytime between 8:30 A.M. and 8:45 A.M.: She finishes bathing. Have an array of garments and accessories laid out for her. Use the rosewood comb stored in her vanity to brush her hair once she is dressed.
Note: Whichever piece catches her eye, do not include in rotation for the coming week.
9 A.M.: For the next hour or so, she will have breakfast in the dining room with Miss Claire.
Note: You are to stand to the side and refill her beverage only when needed — remember, the help are to be seen and not heard.
Starting 10:00 A.M.: This is her leisure time. If she wants anything, she will ring the bell. You may use this time to tend to other chores.
12 P.M.: Lunch service. Prepare either the Porsche or the Bentley convertible and have the chauffeur ready to go by 1.
Around 1 P.M.: Escort her out. Be sure to politely bid her farewell. She will not be home until dinner service.
Note: What the mistress chooses to do with her time is none of the help’s business.
7 P.M. Dinner service. Same protocol as breakfast service.
Note: If she asks for whiskey, hand her the entire decanter. You are dismissed for the night.
If she chooses otherwise, she will head up to bed at around 10. Have her nightgown folded neatly by the foot of her bed. You are dismissed for the night.
There are two things on God’s green earth I’d never admit to willingly, because apparently my ego is bigger than the LA Memorial Coliseum's maximum seating capacity — my husband’s words, not mine. 1) my whereabouts from 1 to 7 P.M., and 2) how many times you cross my mind each day.
I never paid much attention to the help, but you’ve always secretly been my favorite.
You were the only one who remembered how many drops of rose oil went in my morning bath, the only one who never questioned my very questionable whiskey intake. I’d never tell you this, obviously. Who do you think I am? I was Avis Amberg — a businesswoman, an Oscar winner, a Hollywood powerhouse. After all, I could move filmmaking empires with one look, a snap of my fingers have ended A-list careers. My words were gospel in the City of Angels.
My good-for-nothing husband cheated on me yet again last winter. I found out on Christmas Eve, and that same night, I spent hours on end scrubbing away any trace of another woman from my bed while blasting ‘You Won’t Be Satisfied Until You Break My Heart’ on the gramophone. You were the one to wordlessly crack my windows open so I wouldn’t poison myself with the mustard gas concoction I must’ve accidentally created with bleach in my fit of blind rage.
I didn't make it to the top of the ladder without a certain self-assurance and the innate ability to see everything without looking: Paramount’s CEO prefers caviar over foie gras; Columbia’s unbefittingly smokes La Prosa cigars and not Montecristo; MGM’s Executive Producer is having an affair with his male PA on set while donating to the Southern Baptist Church… hypocritical much? I was observant, always was. Probably always will be as long as I have breath in these lungs of mine.
So when little notes began appearing tucked away in the dresses you picked out for me each morning, when I woke up to my favorite flowers — which I had only mentioned once in passing, by the way — adorning the Ming vases in the foyer, when your fingers started lingering against my shoulders while styling my hair… of course I noticed.