Première Partie (Part One)
On the exterior, Arthur Kirkland was the picture of the perfect gentleman. He prized order, sensibility, and chivalry – the qualities of any civilized member of society. These days, the only thing that could get under his skin was a particularly confounding piece of legislation, or Francis, or Alfred. (For what it mattered, Francis and Alfred had always managed to get under his skin, and that wasn't likely to change anytime soon.) He dressed impeccably, his Parliament office was immaculate, and yet, under it all, he harbored a dirty secret.
His apartment looked as if it were in a state of a post-apocalyptic meltdown. Itwas strewn with miscellaneous objects, from the miniature potted plant he had been forced to take home at the last Christmas party, to an antique bust of Mozart. A sewing kit lay half-buried underneath last week's Financial Times and a veritable mountain of organizational folders, which was decidedly ironic. Arthur had attempted to vanquish the mess himself, but made a hasty retreat after he plunged waist-deep into a pile of conference notes from the '90s. Even his cat seemed to disapprove the mess, fixing Arthur with critical green orbs that seemed to say, seek professional help.
So Arthur did. He skimmed ads in the London Daily until he found a cleaning company that seemed suitable, the ad of which read:
Complete and discrete service
in your apartment, office, or anywhere you want it!
Experienced and reliable professionals
guarantee your satisfaction.
Call: 714-1789
So now Arthur was waiting, sitting in the parlor room in his favorite chintz armchair with a copy of his favorite Dickens novel. The day seemed innocuous enough – no meetings, no conference calls, no quandaries of any sort – but Arthur had learned by now not to trust these deceptive lulls of peace.
11am came and went. By 11:03, began to grow antsy. By 11:15, he was more than a little peeved. He was just considering phoning the cleaning company when abruptly, at precisely 11:17, the doorbell rang.
He had a few choice words in mind as he strode to the doorway and pulled the door open, ready to scold the maid for her tardiness, when the words he had already been half- forming simply died in his mouth.
Arthur could have said anything. He could have said "You're a man?" He could have said "You're wearing a French maid's outfit?" But what actually came out of his mouth was: "Francis?"