Chapter 2 :

The Very Fairy Godmother

Ding-dong! The doorbell chimed annoyingly. Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Where was everyone in the whole fucking mansion, anyway? Like say, the butler, second butler, or whoever answered the fucking doorbell?

Rubber gloves plastered against her wrists, beads of sweat clinging desperately to her limp locks, Cinderella sprinting all the way down the marble staircase and nearly tripping over Vivienne's beloved mini dachshund. Cursing under her breath, she shooed the dog away—the thing was wearing a ludicrous rhinestone-beaded outfit that spelt 'Diva' across its sausage-like body. Cinderella jogged across the marble-tiled floor, fumbled with the enormous set of keys dangling from the lock and finally yanked open the massive double-doors. She came face to face with a man, but certainly not the man of her dreams. This was a man standing—no, posing with a well-manicured hand placed on his bony hip. This was the man of her nightmares.

"All right chiquitas, let's make some magic!" The man adorned in an electric-blue feather boa and polka-dotted black shirt yelled out at no one in particular. Upon seeing the disheveled maid, he lowered his Gucci sunglasses, raising one eyebrow expectantly. "And who might you be?"

"I'm Cinderella. The maid. Who are you?"

"I'm your fairy godmother, what does it look like?" He snapped, shifting his bulging Louis Vuitton satchel across his narrow shoulders. "Is that any way to be treating a guest now, Missy? For all you know, I could be the next Ben-freakin'-Affleck."

"But you're not."

"Fine, Ben's too chunky anyway. I'm more Sean Hayes, with a hint of Leo in Titanic." Ri-ighht. "Well? Are you going to let me in, or are you going to stand there with your unibrow, staring at my fabulosity all day?"

Cinderella grudgingly stepped aside, letting the odd she-man in. "You still haven't answered my question. Who the hell are you?"

With a well-performed pirouette, he spun around and smoothed the back pocket of his leather pants. "Sebastian L. Lovett—celebrity stylist extraordinaire. I did Eva's style before she got to Wisteria Lane, Scarlett before the boob job (trust me, she had one), Angie before the whole Brangelina thing, ugh, then, let's see, who else have I done? Denise before Richie, but après le messy divorce, (quel horreur that one was!), Gisele before she lost Leo to that other Angel (shocking!), Cameron before she got dumped on her ass by J-T, oh and I once did Keira for the Oscars. '05."

After listing his past clients without even a pause for breath, Cinderella thought it only polite to strike up the briefest of conversations with Sebastian L. Lovett.

"Did you do anything…after?"

"Well…" He busied himself with shining his sunglasses. "The thing is, whenever an actress or starlet or whoever gets kicked to the curb by their latest boy-toy, or when they get engaged or married or whatev, they have this crazy idea that they need a new image…kinda like Angie's whole mommy look, and Eva's new leopard-print phase, so who do they blame for their fat thighs and cellulite but moi, their stylist?"

Cinderella wanted to argue that none of the aforementioned starlets were even remotely out of shape, but thought it better to humor him and nod in agreement.

Sebastian sighed, perched his glasses back on his near-shiny bald head, and shrugged. "Hey, that's Hollywood, right?"

"So…basically, you're a has-been stylist." Cinderella said matter-of-factly.

Sebastian L. Lovett gasped feverishly. "Do-not-say-that-filthy-word, you, you Latina biatch!"

"What, 'has-been' ?"

"I have a mind to speed-dial Madame Cummings and tell her that I found you trying to shoehorn yourself into Vanessa's new Armani Privé!" He whipped out a lipstick-red cell Sidekick.

"All right," Cinderella conceded, rolling her eyes at his theatrics. "Well, the twins aren't home and Madame Cummings is out at some luncheon or tea party or something."

"Hmm," Sebastian nodded, ignoring her entire statement. He seemed to have the attention span of a ferret, for he was now surveying her appearance as though he were a chef and she a Norwegian salmon filet—or, by the looks of his wrinkled nose, a rotten slab of tuna. "Okay, well, what's going on here?" His finger pointed up and down at her disheveled uniform. "I get that maids have to wear uniforms and all that in Bev Hills, but um, isn't there some kind of union where you guys all discuss things like, I dunno, which brand of detergent works best? Because your main priority should be having cute outfits to wear if you have to scrub someone's poo off their toilet bowls."

Cinderella stared at him as though he were mad. "There isn't a union for domestic housekeepers. We work for agencies. And the uniform is mandatory if the house-owner considers it necessary."

"So you're saying the Madame makes you wear that ratty old thing? Ugh, call the Fashion Police, already."

Thinking that this conversation was a waste of her cleaning time (the toilet debacle had already robbed her of a precious half hour), she inched her way back to the staircase.

"Well, I'm sure you're welcome to stay here and wait till they come back," Cinderella pointed to the sitting lounge awkwardly, "I kind of have lots of work to do, so…" her voice trailed off.

Sebastian L. Lovett did not answer. He was already half-skipping to the expansive kitchen, no doubt to harass Cook for some yummy tidbits—foie gras on toast, perhaps? Cinderella shook her head, but was glad to return to her work without much hassle. After all, she still had the rest of the mansion (minus the spare bedrooms and bathrooms, thank god) to clean.

A good solid hour later, Cinderella managed to finish vacuuming and tidying the master bedroom and continued on to Vivienne's across the hall. This was a disaster zone—piles of dirty clothes tangled with unworn ones the heiress had apparently deemed unfit to wear for the day. Now an expert at sorting through them, she weaved her way through the room, tossing the odd Michael Kors espadrille back in the shoe closet. Halfway through making Vivienne's lavender-hued bed, she heard a familiar nasaly voice from behind her.

"Oh my god, you actually do the cleaning."

Cinderella turned around to find Sebastian L. Lovett leaning against the doorway, a Godiva chocolate cigar lolling out of his mouth. Rolling her eyes at him, she turned back to fluffing the pillows.

"I'm bored." Sebastian announced, sashaying into the room and examining various framed photos. "Cook practically threatened to castrate me if I ate any more of Madame's Pierre Marcolini truffles." He plopped on the just-made bed, wrinkling the satin duvet. "Apparently she's making some soufflé au frou frou. Personally, I think she just wants to get back to watching The Young and the Restless and eating the truffles herself."

"Why are you still here?"

Sebastian tutted. "You really do have quite the bedside manner, don't you? One would think you'd be happy for a little company to keep you entertained from this so-boring-I-could-practically-die 'job' of yours."

Cinderella ignored him and began putting clothes back on their velvet-padded hangers.

"Do you ever try their clothes on?" Sebastian leaned forward conspirationally. "Don't worry, I won't tell. That would be my worst fear, to have my maid trying on all my clothes. That's so 'Maid in Manhattan' though, isn't it? Ooh, you wouldn't fit though, would you? Okay, I know, what about say, her La Mer stuff? I mean, you know, don't you ever have the impulse to just take one…just a little moisturizer or something."

"No." She answered flatly. Maybe if she turned on the vacuum cleaner she could drown out his never-ending chatter.

"Are you kidding? When would you ever have the chance to use the stuff if you didn't steal a tad bit here and there? Wait, don't tell me. You have a sugar daddy somewhere, don't you?" He excitedly hopped off the bed to follow her to the bathroom. "No wait, that doesn't make sense, you wouldn't be a maid. Oh, I know! Is he a C.I.A. agent? Are you? Is this like Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality?"

Oh god. His pointless drivel was beginning to give her a migraine.

"Cook tells me you live in some hobo apartment, and you live off, like, lima beans or something. Are you sure you don't nick the occasional Kiehl's?" He opened a bottle of shampoo and sniffed it. "Hmm, this is nice."

"Look, I don't need to steal their million-dollar clothes, or their shoes, or their face wash or ass cream or whatever the hell it is that you think I steal! I'm just trying to do my job here, and you're pissing the hell out of me."

Her voice sounded a little more aggressive and shrill than she'd intended. Her face felt a little hot, come to think of it.

"Woah, okay Rage-ina, just askin' a question. Don't go all Jack Nicholson on me. What's your problem, anyway?"

She attempted to dodge his question, but his constant prodding pushed her over the edge. "My problem is that it's my birthday and I have to spend it scrubbing these people's ten-thousand toilets, and these toilets can't even clean themselves, so I don't know why the hell they're paying ten grand for them, and maybe because my flat is smaller than this girl's closet, and one of her shoes could pay for my rent, and I'm twenty-one and when I go home tonight, no one's gonna be there to throw me a surprise party except for the rats and the cockroaches, while these bitches get a 500-person guest list for their million-dollar party, and it makes no difference to them, cause they were born to million-dollar cradles! I have no one to see, no one to go to, and no foreseeable future!"

"Why didn't you just say so instead of screaming it into my ear? Sheesh." Sebastian L. Lovett filed his nails as though she'd just listed a McDonald's menu instead of her life's story. "Why don't you just move in here? Cook lives here. Butler 1 and Butler 2 live here."

The thought had occurred to her, but a larger problem stood behind it. Madame never proposed such an arrangement, and the idea of living in the mansion 24/7 meant that she'd never again experience the relief of walking out the front door every evening to return to her dingy, depressing flat, that was, at the very least, all hers. This escape from the world of luxury she visited but could not indulge in, comforted her.

"It's complicated."

"That's what the sad girls say when they can't get their men to commit. Are you a sad girl, Cindy?" He shook his head emphatically. "I bet I could get her to do it in a snap." He gloated.

Before Cinderella could argue any further, the distant revving of a Rolls Royce interrupted their conversation. Madame was home. Sebastian sprinted out the door like a sick puppy scrambling to greet its owner. He'd probably beat the dachshund.

Sighing, Cinderella went back to rinsing her washcloth and scrubbing the flecks of Colgate toothpaste and La Mer face toner off the mirror. The day would soon be over.

"Maid! Maa-aiiid!!" A screechy voice yelled from downstairs.

Straightening her uniform and hastily swiping at a large stain on the front of her faux-apron, Cinderella cautiously trod out the hallway and down the stairs. What could Madame possibly want? She barely spoke to her except at weekly payments; her disapproval or rare compliments were usually passed along via Butler or Second Butler.

As she peeked from the top of the staircase, Madame's platinum-blonde poof stood several inches taller than usual. Her platinum-blonde mane bobbed slightly while she spoke in hushed tones with her twin daughters, whose margarine-yellow and straw-hued tresses screamed 'Extensions!' Even their outfits matched: fuschia pink, Barbie-pink and baby-pink, respectively.

"Maid." Madame spoke to her before she'd even reached the bottom of the stairs. Her back faced Cinderella. "Seh-basti-enne tells me that you leeve in a flea-invested home, and that large een-sects crawl all over you vhen you sleep." Madame addressed her before Cinderella reached the bottom stair. "Thees ees seemplee unacceptable. I do not vish leetle insects to come to my home. You veel pack up your tings and return hee-yah after you 'ave feenished your doo-tees."

Out of the corner of her eyes, Cinderella could see Sebastian looking smug. She, however, refused to give him the benefit of a sing-song 'I told you so!' and refused to meet his triumphant gaze.

"Thank you, Madame."

"I expect that you veel find these comfortable arrangements to signivy a higher level of commitment. And as you know, eet ees the tweens' birthday thees Sunday. Vah-ne-ssah and Vee-vee-enne's Costume Ball party ees een that evening, so you veel have to help Cook, maybe. Your resumé says that you are Cordon Bleu trained, yes?"

Seeing as this was not a question, Cinderella merely nodded. When Madame did not speak for a while, she turned to climb the staircase.

"Deed I say I vas feenished talking? Vhy the help ees so dumb, I vill never understand. Butler vill show you your room at 6 pm. I expect you veel be feenished vith the cleaning then."

Cinderella nodded again. Sebastian and the twins were already half-way up the stairs, embroiled in a heated discussion about their gowns—"Magenta?", "No, that'll look dreadful, what about cranberry?", "Should I go A-line or fishtail?"

"And Maid?" Madame finally turned, like some kind of nefarious villain behind her ink-black Jackie-O shades. "I should hope that I pay you for clea-ning, not cha-tting vith my daughters' stylist." She pursed her pouffy, ruby-red lips, stalking out of the entrance hall to interrogate Cook.

The conversation was officially over.

 Thank you reviewers, I promise to update as frequently as possible as I'm on summer vacation and have nothing but time.

Coming Up: Prince Charming and a few surprises you may not have expected.