Chapter 3. Who is He?

Becky's POV

I could not help the tears streaming from my eyes down to my cheeks, as I walked into Jennifer's home.

“Are you kidding me!” Jenny exclaimed when I told her that I had been relieved of my job.

“You mean you threw away a high-paying job just because you could not control your temper? What’s wrong with you, Rebecca?”

“He called my dad lazy.”

“So? If your dad was so great, you would not need this job,” Jenny said, squeezing her face.

I had been slumped in her chair, now I jumped up instantly, facing her, “what did you say?” I demanded.

“You heard me,” she shot back. “You need to face it; your dad should have done better.”

Her words hurt, but I knew they were true. I sat down on her bed and buried my face in my hands.

“I am sorry,” she said, coming to sit beside me. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, you are right, I am an idiot. I have lost a job I badly needed. Now I am in a jam. What do I do?”

“It is going to be okay. Maybe I can convince my parents to let you move in.”

I smiled a little. “You know it would be a waste of time trying.”

“I can still try.”

“Thanks,” I told her, “but I hope to figure this out, I’ve got to. This little run in with Phillip Dale is not going to break me.”

“Who?” She asked.

“Phillip Dale, the guy I argued with.”

“You insulted Phillip Dale?” She asked incredulously.

“Who is he? Everyone seemed to be afraid of him.”

“He is the richest, hottest guy in the state. Everyone knows him, he is every girl's dream.”

“Including you?” I asked surprised. “I wonder why I never heard of him?”

She shook her head. “You really are an idiot, Rebecca.”

“Do not remind me,” I said gloomily.

We talked a little and I headed home.

My Mom and Wendy were having pizza and watching TV when I walked in. 

“Hey Mommy, Wendy, I’m back.”

“How was it? Have you met any rich guys yet?” Wendy asked.

“No,” I smiled.

“Have you started looking for a place?” My Mom asked.

“Well, actually… I don’t have a job anymore.”

My mother raised her eyebrows in amazement.

“I got fired,” I told her.

“Fired? So you could not even hold down a job for a week?” she sneered.

“It is not like that, mom. I had an argument with a customer, he insulted dad.”

“Did you punch him?” Wendy asked hopefully.

“Enough, honey,” our mom told her, then turned to me. “All you had to do was work and earn like every adult, but you could not even do that.”

“But mom- “

“Why am I even wasting time talking to you? By the end of the month, you will be on your own. You had better start looking around for a good homeless shelter.”

She continued her dinner, and turned up the TV volume. Wendy looked at me sympathetically, and signaled for me to join them. I shook my head.

I was too depressed to eat. I turned around, and went to my room.

“I am going to end up on the streets for sure, no thanks to that handsome, emerald-eyed jerk, called Phillip Dale!” I thought bitterly.

I longed to hate him. I will not let myself down to loving such a disrespectful jerk, but I couldn’t hate him as much as I wanted. Why? Is it because everyone is talking about him? Or because he is too good-looking to be hated? But that's what he deserves.

As much as I would have liked to spend all day brooding, I forced myself to get out of bed. After a bath and a quick breakfast, I picked up my phone and went online, checking for job vacancies. After hours of fruitless searching, I was ready to give up when I stumbled upon an advert. 

EXPERIENCED LIVE-IN CAREGIVER NEEDED. APPLY TO NO. 14 GARDEN ESTATE

I have heard of Garden Estate. It was an estate on the outskirts of town. Inhabited by the very wealthy. The job was just what I needed, a live-in job. I immediately applied and instantly received an email:

INTERVIEW ON SATURDAY 10 AM, MISS RICHARDS, DO COME WITH MEANS OF IDENTIFICATION.

I almost danced with joy, but held myself. They wanted someone experienced. The only experience I had was nursing my late dad. Would it count?

On Saturday morning, I stood looking at my clothes, thinking about what I could wear. Many of my clothes were casual. I couldn’t go for an interview at Garden Estate dressed casually. In the end, I decided on a blue blouse and black mini skirt that I rarely wore. The outfit enhanced my wide hips and firm breast. I looked good enough.

I picked up my purse and file, then headed out. My mother was at the dining table helping Wendy with her homework.

“I am going to an interview,” I told them.

My mom looked at me briefly then ignored me.

“Good luck,” Wendy told me.

“Thanks,” I smiled and left. I hailed a cab.

“Garden Estate,” I told the driver. 

“Garden Estate?” He repeated, looking at me.

I nodded. 

He shrugged. “That’s twenty dollars.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Pay fifteen.”

I sighed, then got in. He drove off.

“Going for a job interview?” He asked, glancing at me through the rearview mirror.

“Yes. How did you guess?”

 “Well, you don’t look like a resident, and you are holding a file. Besides, most of the residents have cars.”

“You know the place very well?”

“Sure, I've worked there. I know most of them. Who are you going to be working for?”

“I am not sure yet.”

“Well, they are all the same. Naughty fellows, letting their wealth get into their heads, every single one of them. Better brace yourself.”

We rode in silence, my heart beating in anxiety.

Finally, he pulled up in front of the pole barrier.

“Can’t go further than this,” he said.

I went down and paid my fare.

“Good luck,” he told me.

I thanked him, then approached the barrier. A uniformed security guard came to meet me.

“I am here to see the residents of No. 14,” I said.

“Are they expecting you?” He asked.

“Yes, I’m here for an interview.”

“Name?”

“Rebecca Richards.”

“Hold on.” He spoke into an intercom. “Can I see some ID?” He asked me.

I handed him my ID. He looked at it, then lifted the pole, and gave me directions to No. 14.

Entering Garden Estate, I felt like Alice in Wonderland. It was some world miles away from where I lived, with beautiful mansions and well-kept lawns. I stared at every house in awe till I got to no. 14. It was a stately mansion painted blue, the garden was decorated with trees and flowers. 

I pushed open the white picket fence and made my way up the sidewalk. Everywhere was so quiet that I could hear my heels hitting the ground. I rang the bell. A uniformed lady opened the door.

“Good morning. I am here for an interview,” I said nervously.

“Come in.” She led me into a long hall and entered a door on the right leading to a well-furnished living room.

“Please sit down, the boss will see you shortly,” she told me, and left.

I sat anxiously looking around the tastefully furnished room. A tall, broad, gray-haired, middle-aged woman came in.

“Good morning, are you here for the interview?” She asked.

I stood up. “Yes. I’m Rebecca Richards.

She motioned me to sit down and sat beside me.

“Have you done this job before? 

“Yes, I have.”

“Okay, hold on.”

She left and was back minutes later.

“The boss will see you now.”

We walked to a door down the hall.

“It will be best to put your phone on silent mode,” she advised.

I immediately did just that. She left me at the door. I took a couple of deep breaths then knocked.

“Come in,” a deep voice said.

I entered a big, comfortably furnished office. A man sat behind a desk, head bent, writing something on a pad. The desk was filled with papers.

“Give me a minute,” he said.

I sat down nervously staring at his blond hair. His cologne smelt very familiar.

Then he raised his head and both our jaws dropped.

It was Philip Dale