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"Working as part of house staff is in my blood," I explain, guiding her out of her bedroom and down the hall towards the kitchen. "My father did it, and his father before him."
"Didn't you want to do anything else?" I shoot a look at her, knowing what she must think-- why would anyone choose to do this work? It's impossible for her to understand, but I try to explain.
"I loved my father," I begin. "He worked closely with the Queen Herself at Buckingham Palace. I met many men and women representing other countries, who I would never have had the honor of serving otherwise." Robyn still looks dubious. She has a right to be, especially since, as she is about to learn for herself, the Scotts are not the easiest employers in the world. "Plus, I'm very good at managing the house staff, and I get paid pretty well."
Her eyebrow raises quizzically, her sensuous pink lips parting as though she wants to ask me something, but doesn't. I don't expect her to understand. This is the way I've been raised. As a boy, I always wanted to follow in my father's footsteps, which inevitably meant I was to become part of the house staff as well. I was immediately praised for my good work, though surprised by how satisfying it could be to serve the men and women, politicians and elite mostly, who graced the Palace. I came to the States after my father passed away a decade ago. Charlene Scott recruited me at the Voight's 50th anniversary party, after I'd worked with the boring old farts for five years.
"You just don't look like you belong in that uniform," she says with complete honesty, looking me up and down in my typical black and white ensemble. I inconspicuously give her a once-over too, taking in her mouth-wateringly voluptuous body, the kind that seems to be going out of style these days, in favor of more anorexic physiques. Robyn may not realize she is one of the rare women with both delectable curves and a sensuous, confident presence.
I've never had any trouble with women-- whenever I take vacation leave, I sow my oats with a variety of lovely dames before I return to the Scotts. And on several discreet occasions, I have also entertained some of Charlene Scott's girlfriends, who'd stayed with us from out of town and snuck down to my room for a romp while their husbands slept peacefully in their guest rooms.
Do I worry about getting fired? Never. Working so closely with a family and being in their constant personal space means that their dirty laundry flies as freely as the insults between Charlene and Peter, when the latter is on one of his rarer trips home. I have more than enough blackmailing material to put Peter and Charlene's company out of business. They so fear a slip of my tongue that they will do everything to avoid conflict with me, even though a dignified man like myself would never say a word about it.
"Are you ready to meet the kids?" I ask Robyn, breaking my gaze with her before I so quickly succumb to temptation.
"Sure, that's why I'm here," Robyn says with a grin. "I love kids," she adds, as though reminding herself why she's accepted the nanny position here. I love kids too, I think to myself, but these ones are not quite like the others...
I guide Robyn to the entertainment wing on the other side of the house, where the children are watching Lion King in their rec room, fully equipped with a state-of-the-art TV sound system and movie theater seats on one side. Audrey (age six) and Peter Jr. (age eight) and Sammy (age five, and "rumored" to have been fathered by someone other than Peter) don't look away from the screen when we enter the room. I clear my throat, and they turn to us with a collective glare.
"This is Robyn, your new nanny," I announce, and the trio look bored, don't answer, and turn back to the projector screen.
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