THE LOOKER

CHAPTER ONE

“I can’t explain myself, I’m afraid, sir,’ said Alice, ‘Because I’m not myself you see.”
― Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking-Glass

“Get comfortable, Jane. The trip isn’t long.” Driver gestures to the backseat of the company car, a shiny, boat-like sedan. His voice is friendly and softer than normal. On instinct, I hold out my hands and wait for the cuffs. He waves me off.

“I trust you,” he says. “Am I going to be sorry?”

I smile broadly and hope he can see behind the dark veil. Earlier, I told myself this was how it would go. Show him just enough so you’ll be trusted and maybe he won’t make you put them on.

I shake my head (maybe too vigorously?), a promise that he won’t regret the special favor.

“I’ll be good, Driver. I swear it.”

I am absolutely forbidden to look at him or engage him with eye contact. This means my every move, though contained, must show him how I really feel.

“Alright, Jane, put on your seatbelt.” Back to business.

I want to squeal. No cuffs! It’s a dream. I settle into the back seat.

“So, how many today?” He will appreciate the question.

“Seven, maybe eight.” I can picture his smile even if I can’t see it. I don’t dare look at the rearview mirror — also forbidden. An absolute no-no. So, I nod. After all, he’s doing me a favor, giving me a general time frame to wrap my mind around. We’ll be there soon, in as much time as it takes for him to play seven or eight songs on the stereo.

The best kind of trip is a short one. It means I won’t have to take the medicine. I won’t sleep the day away. I won’t wake up groggy with a headache. Most importantly, I won’t have the dreams.

I take in a deep breath and try to relax. I’m good at my job. I know the drill. Don’t make a fuss. Get in the car. Speak only when spoken to. Don’t look up. Don’t ask questions. Be a good girl. Whatever you do, do not take off the veil until you have been told to do so. If you’re wearing the restraints (cuffs or sometimes ankle shackles), remember: It’s for your own safety.

I’ve worked so hard to be obedient and follow all the rules passed down by Zee, my boss, at the mansion. If I keep up this behavior, Driver might even tell me his real name. He chauffeurs me a lot and I like that. He’s kind in a way the others aren’t and gentler too. For one, he doesn’t recoil when I move. He doesn’t treat me like an animal. He uses my name more than the others do. Sometimes, he even lets me open the window.

He plays the radio because I like hearing music. It fills the empty minutes and hours until I meet with a new client. Even though he’s not really supposed to talk to me, he tells me things. He says he likes older music. He calls them “golden oldies.” There’s music he refers to as “Mo Town,” jazz and something called R and B. He loves someone named Elvis. I like him too, but my favorite music is the Mo Town. There’s one song Driver plays over and over, sung so beautifully by what I imagine is a gorgeous, carefree woman. “Baby love, baby love.” At night, after I’m done with work, I let the music play on in my mind and quietly mouth the words so the guards outside my bedroom can’t hear.

Baby love, my baby love, oh how I need your love.

Somehow, like the restraints, Driver knows I don’t like wearing the dark veil. So, every once in a while, he lets me take it off. But we have a very explicit understanding. First, he puts up the heavy, tinted glass between us.

Was Driver ever told to do something instead of being asked if he wanted to? Does he know what it feels like when your whole world isn’t a request, but a command? Or, when your view is made up entirely of shadows because you’re demanded to look down instead of up?

The engine revs and, as soon as we’ve rolled past the gatehouse, Driver cracks my window. I smile and then instantly wonder what I look like making this girlish expression. I’m never allowed to look at my own face. So, I lean in and enjoy the fresh air. I press my cheek to the cold glass. It’s chilly out, autumn maybe. I can’t be sure of the exact time of year. The world beyond my room at the mansion is also forbidden. There are calendars and days of the week. This I know. There are months with 30 and 31 days, but only one with 28. Cold weather means that my birthday is coming up.

This year, I turned sixteen. Zee brought together the company staff for a party. It was the same as always except this time — along with celebration — came a nagging, gnawing feeling. It’s not so much that I think I’m being lied to, but like my face, my history and everything outside the wall around the mansion, has started to feel like it’s being concealed for my benefit. I grow more excited and confused each day. But, I’ve been taught that nothing good will come from either of these sensations.

I touch my face under the veil hoping Driver won’t notice. There’s fuzz above my eyes and a funny line where my hair ends and my forehead begins. Full lips. Eyelashes. I like to touch them all, but this is a curiosity my boss back home considers vain and conceited. Still, I would love to know how all of my parts are assembled. Am I pretty? Plain? The worst thought comes late at night. If I can’t see my face, does it and do I actually exist?

As Driver promised, the seventh song — a ballad — begins to swell as we’re pulling up to a gated driveway.

Clients are typically from homes like these. To afford my services, Zee says you need lots of money.

Driver rolls down his window and shifts the car into park. He leans out. There’s an intercom an arm’s length away.

“Password?” An unknown voice on the other end says.

“Melvin.” Driver says.

There’s a pause, some static and then, like a monster’s jaws gently coaxing its next meal inside, the gates retract.

The road ahead winds its way up and then down and around again, and then over another hill, until I can see a palatial home. The property is framed in rose bushes and tall, manicured topiary trees. Plants rise effortlessly from intricately carved marble pots. Statuesque lions stand regally out front. The house looks like the ones in the French castle books I read during history lessons. Imposing stone walls with turrets rise from a gravely road. The only thing missing is a moat.

“You’ll like it here.” Driver sounds upbeat. “Very famous guy. Has so much money he even built himself his own castle. Can you imagine?”

But, no, I can’t.

“A tower and everything. Crazy. Anyway, I’m sure he’ll treat you well. Real well.”

We reach the front of the driveway and Driver parks behind another shiny, silver car. When he gets out, he’s facing away from me. I peek at him as he stretches his arms out wide like he’s trying to take in the whole place in one deep breath.

“Sheesh. Upkeep alone must be like fifty grand a month on this place.” He turns and I dodge my gaze quickly. He comes around to open my door. He will be keeping his eyes focused somewhere else, either off in the distance or on his shoes. But never directly at me. None of them are allowed to look me in the eyes.

“Ok, well then, here we are.” He clears his throat dramatically, again without making eye contact, and waves broadly toward my seat. “I think you, uh, forgot something.” He says it lightly so I know he’s forgiving the lapse. The veil. I can’t believe it, but I forgot to put it back on.

I pick it up quickly, feeling the frail wisp of fabric between my fingers. It’s such a small, feint thing, yet it makes all the difference between being a good girl who follows the rules and a disobedient one who will most certainly get punished.

Driver offers his hand and with my eyes safely covered again, I take it. This will be one of the only times he’s allowed to touch me. His hand is clammy. Is he nervous too?

No matter how many times I’ve done this before, I’m still nervous in the beginning. I never really know how it will go. Will the client honor my small requests (sometimes a girl just wants a glass of water) or will he simply ignore me? In a phrase: I don’t know if I’ll be human or object.

I’ve seen clients angry when they don’t get what they want from me. Thankfully, I’ve seen the other side too. It’s glorious when a man feels enamored by an innovation of his own making. Glowing in a creation only he controls. Or so he thinks. I smirk. I know better. I ignite the spark. Under Zee’s tutelage, of course, I hold the real power. I inspire greatness.

Driver replaces my cuffs gently and is ready to escort me up the front steps. Here, a woman dressed in a traditional maid’s outfit, crisp blue and white apron and sensible white tennis shoes, opens a giant door before he can even knock or ring the bell.

She nods. Yes, all is according to schedule so far. People are always expecting us. She gives a little clap, turns on a heel and points us toward another nearby door.

Driver leans closer, “You remember, right? No talking. You sit and you don’t move. Understood?” I grimace inside, but make sure he sees me nod obediently. He takes my arm more forcefully. Sigh. The songs from the car ride seem very far away.

Even in my veil, I can see things. A door is open at the end of the hall, revealing an elaborate floor-through parlor with an overhead chandelier spilling forth jewels. Impressionist paintings hang from every wall and beneath them are Oriental rugs with intricate patterns of birds perched on golden branches. The fireplace mantle is covered with expensive looking vases and porcelain objects. On every surface, there are fresh cut flowers. Wood paneled walls are carved with spiraling, floral designs. A mirror that takes up the whole of one wall is very obviously hidden behind a dark, thick tarp. That’s for my benefit. No reflections allowed.

“Sit here.” Driver’s words are stronger as he points to a chair in the corner of the room. I nod and quietly take my seat in a chair that looks like it was placed off to the side just for me. It still stings when Driver shifts into company mode like this. He changes physically too. He will puff out his chest, make his voice louder.

His feet pound emphatically into the hardwood floor as he goes to seat himself at a plush velveteen loveseat in the center of the room. A door on the other side of the room opens within seconds and a stocky man, probably in his 50s, saunters in. He’s bearded with attractive eyes that seem to light up. His appearance is impeccable. Closely cropped hair frames his face in silver waves. A glint of a gold flits from his wrist.

Driver stands up to shake his hand and exchange greetings. Then the silver-haired man gestures for Driver to sit back down.

“Well then, I see you understand the terms.” Driver never likes to waste time at this point in the process.

The man nods. “Your boss explained it to my people. Two days. Five hundred grand.” This is when I notice his accent. French maybe?

“And if you go over, or anything happens to her, the price is double. Or more.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Okay, but just so we’re clear, my boss is not lenient on this one. She’s to be returned with every hair on her head in place.”

“Yes, yes, I see,” the man sounds impatient. “Do I have to sign anything or are we good here?”

“Nope,” Driver is casual. “We don’t really do contracts. Boss man prefers oral agreements. You mess up. You know what happens.” For added effect, Driver then chuckles as he makes his next quip, “Let’s just say, we know where you live. You know what I’m saying?”

The man nods.

“Oh, but before I forget, you have the items we discussed?”

“Yes, my maid will take her from here. I’ve assembled everything in my private chambers. But,” the man gestures to me, “What about those?”

“Ah, yes, the cuffs and such. You probably won’t need to restrain her when she’s walking around the house. This one’s a good girl. Does what she’s told. Cream of the crop. Very, very good.”

The bearded man seems satisfied with this.

“So, that’s it?”

“Yep, that’s it. She’s all yours.” Driver stands up and I see him wink as he nears me, pats me on the head like I’m a sweet little pet, and leaves.

I’m alone in the room with the client, but he doesn’t speak. He gives me a quick once over and, within seconds, he exits the room.

Everything around me goes quiet. I remind myself to breath. In and out. In and out. Even though I’ve been here before, it always feels like the very first time.

“Come with me,” the maid returns with a crisp tone, “Don’t cause any trouble, okay?”

She points to my head, “But keep that thing on!”

I nod and follow her back to the main hall where a wide staircase leads to the second floor. Once upstairs, she leads me down a corridor lined with more oil paintings — all in gilded frames — and wall sconces with whimsical, crystal designs.

From here, I’m escorted into one of the biggest bathroom suites I’ve ever seen. It’s covered in marble and in the middle there’s a gleaming, claw-footed tub filled to overflowing with bubbles. The tub’s porcelain shines under soft lighting. The room smells sweet and familiar. Comforting, the way it feels to pull the blankets back up over my head on some mornings, knowing I can sleep for as long as I want because I haven’t yet been booked for a new job.

“Undress please.” The maid points to a nearby stool. “You can use that. Put your things there.”

The routine always calms me. I strip down quickly. The long gray gown I’m put in for transport comes off just by loosening a tie at the neck and waist. It falls to the floor where I kick it out of the way. The maid approaches and unties my tight ponytail. Grown long at the request of Zee, I feel the locks fall onto my back in waves, soft and comforting like a cozy shawl.

“Well, by all means, get in.” The maid grabs my gown from the floor and tosses it into a basket.

I dip a toe in first. It’s deliciously warm, not too hot. Beautiful too. The bubbles igloo around the rim of the tub setting forth fractals of light and miniature rainbows.

As I wade into the water, I hear a song from earlier play in my head.

Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.

Ain’t No River Wide Enough…

My muscles relax. I inhale deeply. The room smells incredible. For a slip of time, I can forget where I am and what I have to do.

[END OF EXCERPT]