She wanted important clients-law firms, big insurance companies that investigated disability fraud. Until that happened, the fastest money she could make was based on suspicion. She typed away:
HOW DO YOU KNOW IF HE’S CHEATING?
IS SHE REALLY OUT WITH HER GIRLFRIENDS?
She began laying out the signs of a cheating partner-too many late nights at work, unexplained phone hang-ups, new interest in personal grooming. She’d hand-deliver the flyer to hair salons, sports bars, coffeehouses-whatever businesses would let her display it. And every flyer would be printed with her logo and phone number.
The phone rang. It was Jen again. “Guess who’s coming to town?” her friend chirped. “Princess Somebody from one of the big oil countries. Along with her retinue. Over fifty people! They need some female drivers.”
“How do you know this?”
“From Dumb Ass. I just heard him talking about it with one of the reporters. Apparently the princess decided to drop a few zillion on the Mag Mile instead of Rodeo Drive. Piper, these Middle Eastern royals tip big!”
“I am so on this!” Piper exclaimed.
She reached one of her father’s old pals, who gave her the number of the owner of a limo company that worked with visiting VIPs, and landed the job. She wasn’t exactly sure how she’d juggle the royals and Cooper Graham, but she’d figure it out.
Tuesday morning, she was at O’Hare sitting behind the wheel of a black SUV. She’d never seen herself as a chauffeur, but the job sounded interesting, the pay was decent, and the lure of a big tip at the end made this a no-brainer. She was supposed to meet with Graham that afternoon to talk about the club’s Web site, but she had more than enough time before then to get whomever she was driving from the airport to the downtown Peninsula Hotel.
The royal family, she’d learned, had something like fifteen thousand members, either highnesses or royal highnesses depending on whether or not they were in line for the throne. They always traveled with a huge retinue: other family members, military guards, servants, and-it was said-briefcases stuffed with cash. She sincerely hoped some of that would be coming her way in the form of a huge tip when the job was over.
Their private jet turned out to be a 747, and their VIP status let them avoid the lines at passport control. An armada of SUVs and half a dozen cargo vans for luggage waited for them. When the retinue emerged, only the servants were in traditional Islamic dress. The female royals-at least a dozen of them, ranging from teens to late middle age-wore the latest designer fashions. Diamonds glittered, spindly Louboutins clicked on the asphalt, Hermès bags swung at their sides.
The Middle East’s most pampered princesses had come to town.
7
Piper opened the back door of the SUV for a beautiful woman in her forties with big designer sunglasses propped on top of a mane of luxurious dark hair. She wore a vibrant purple Chanel jacket, a short black leather skirt, and stilettos that looked like surface-to-air missiles.
They’d barely pulled away before the woman took out her cell and began an intense conversation in Arabic. Piper had a hundred questions she wanted to ask, but she’d been instructed not to address any of the royals, which was a major bummer. The woman didn’t once look at her-not that she projected hostility. Piper was simply invisible.
By the time the motorcade arrived at the Peninsula, Piper’s jaw ached from the effort of keeping her mouth closed. She’d been given the sixth position in the line of limos, an indication that her passenger wasn’t the ranking princess. The woman exited without acknowledging her, but as she disappeared into the hotel, one of the Realm’s grim-faced officials ordered Piper to wait.
She waited. Half an hour passed. An hour. The guard barked at her like a dog when she finally got out to run inside and use the hotel restroom. “I ordered you to wait!”
“Be right back.” As she bolted through the lobby, she remembered that slavery hadn’t been abolished in the Realm until 1962.
When she came out, a servant girl was sitting in the backseat. She was young, with a round face and soulful dark eyes. Unlike the royals, she was traditionally dressed in a plain gray abaya and navy hijab. Piper apologized for keeping her waiting, something that seemed to startle the girl. “Is not a problem.”
Piper was happy to hear her speak English, and since she hadn’t been given orders not to address the servants, she introduced herself. “I’m Piper.”
“I am Faiza,” the girl said shyly. “Her Highness, Princess Kefaya, has sent me to get these shoes.” She held up a page torn from a glossy French fashion magazine that pictured a pair of T-strap leather stiletto sandals. “You will take me to get them, please.”
“Sure. Where do we go?”
“Where they have these shoes.”
“Do you know the name of the store?”
“Her Highness did not tell me.”
“Can you call her and ask?”
Faiza could not have looked more horrified. “Oh, no. That is not what we do. You will take me to find the shoes, please.”
Piper held out her hand for the magazine page. It bore a prominent YSL logo. She pulled out her phone and discovered a Saint Laurent boutique in the Waldorf a couple of blocks away.
“Do you like your work?” she asked the girl as she turned onto Rush.
The question seemed to confuse her. “Work is to work.” And then, as if she’d said the wrong thing, she went on nervously, “Her Highness, Princess Kefaya, never strikes me, and I only have to share my bed with one other servant, so it is very good.”
But she didn’t sound as if it were all that good, and Piper got the message. Speaking about her employment could get Faiza into trouble. Still, Piper couldn’t miss the yearning in those dark, soulful eyes as they gazed out at the young girls striding along the city sidewalks with their trendy backpacks and confident gaits.
She’d planned to circle the Waldorf while Faiza made her purchase, but Faiza begged her to come inside. The struggle between the girl’s natural timidity and her determination to do her job made it impossible to refuse. Piper reluctantly turned the SUV over to one of the Waldorf’s valets and went with her.
The designer boutique with its white marble floors, soaring ceilings, and array of luxury goods bore no resemblance to the DSW where Piper shopped. This place smelled of perfume and privilege. Faiza handed the magazine page back to Piper. “Her Highness needs in every color, please.”
“Every color?” While Piper was processing that, a young, beautifully groomed clerk approached. She was clearly drawn more by Faiza’s traditional garb than by Piper’s chauffeur’s uniform-white blouse, dark slacks, and a black blazer she’d found at Goodwill yesterday. The clerk’s eagerness suggested word had gotten out that the richest of the world’s royals were in Chicago.
But as anxious as the clerk was to help, she could only produce the shoe in two of its five colors, which sent Faiza into so much distress that her hands shook as she opened a zippered pouch and pulled out a thick wad of U.S. currency-a meaty stack of hundred-dollar bills that would be mere pocket change to a family worth more than a trillion dollars.
When the transaction was complete, Faiza returned the leftover cash to her bag, meticulously folding the receipt. She clutched the bag to her chest as they left the boutique, her forehead puckered with worry lines that had no place on such a young face.
Piper got back on her phone and forty-five minutes later helped Faiza purchase a red pair from Barneys. But even that wasn’t good enough. “You do not understand.” Faiza twisted her fingers around the clasp of her bag. “I cannot fail Her Highness. She must have all the shoes.”