Chapter One
I’ve never been one to fall for the richy rich type; usually it’s the bad boys who ride perfectly maintained motorcycles but whose idea of “date night” consists of a value meal at McDonalds. What can I say? I’m like every other girl out there; the bad boys just ‘do it for me.’
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Melissa Gainsborough. I’m 21 years old and despite the fact that I graduated college early with a 3.98 grade point average (we can’t all be perfect) I am woefully underemployed and extremely underpaid. Sure, I could have pursued the prestigious careers that my sisters opted for, but me? I prefer a little bit of a challenge. No, no medical school or law school for me, I opted to become a human rights activist or, as my father would say “one of those hippy chicks.” I can’t say that I look much like a hippy, just a regular all American girl with long dark and frequently washed hair and dark brown eyes to match. I don’t wear hemp jewelry and I bathe often and use deodorant, perfume, body spray and lotion in abundance. Now if you classify giving a damn about the world as being a hippy, then perhaps I am.
My mother always said that if I really wanted to make a difference then I’d become a doctor or a lawyer like my sisters. She firmly believes that they make a difference as they sit in their professional offices raping insurance companies and people who need their help for their ridiculous hourly fees. Hourly fees that pay for the luxurious leather furniture in their homes and the three vacations a year that take them out of the country. Me? I’d rather help people without taking them for everything they own. My sisters aren’t bad people, they’re just corporate people, they want their money and they want to go home to their five bedroom three and a half bathroom ranch homes at the end of the day.
Growing up, my grandfather always told me that if there were an easy way to do something and a hard way to do something that I would pick the hard way every time without fail. He was right, of course. The man was right about everything.
Since I graduated college I’ve spent the last six months hopping from one charity event server job to another, trying to get my foot in the door or at least make contacts. So far though, I’m still working as a barista in Starbucks, barely making bills and eating leftover muffins for dinner. I can’t complain though, the carrot cake muffins are particularly delicious and God help me when the season for pumpkin scones rolls around.
Still, my passion lies in “humanitarian crap” as my sisters say and that, more often than not, lands me on the wait staff of charity events. Underpaying and thankless as the jobs are, they will hopefully one day open up a door to something bigger.
Chapter Two
The Lambert Estate is one of those houses you see on stately postcards with fall foliage surrounding it and generic greetings stamped across the front. It has to house at least twenty five bedrooms and God knows how many bathrooms, but I know I’d hate to be a housekeeper on their staff. I can think of a number of locations other than the Lambert Estate that would have been a little better suited for a charity fundraiser –perhaps one that requires less overhead to set up, but Gideon Lambert isn’t known for being thrifty. I’ve never understood spending so much money for a charity event to raise money, why not just donate the money you’d spend on the event in the first place?
“Here, hold this.” One of the other undertrained wait staff shoves a silver plate with half filled champagne flutes in to my hands.
“Are they ready to go out?” I ask, balancing the tray on one hand.
“Umm, sure, yeah.” The guy waves me off with his hand and goes back to filling more champagne flutes. I’ve worked with a few of the wait staff before but for the most part they’re all young college kids looking for a few extra bucks and who also have no idea what they’re doing.
I push my way through the kitchen doors and start the trek back in to the “parlor” where the societal elites would be starting to dry out from a night of champagne refills.
My feet are screaming from these stupid heels and so far no one has done much more than swipe glasses off my tray and replace them with empties. Not that I expect them to offer me jobs or ask for my perspective on current world issues, but at least in the past I’ve made some connections with charities that would at least earn me a future introduction – “Hi, I’m Melissa, I met you at the…” This whole event has been more of a pissing contest than anything else though and to be honest I’ll be glad to get it over with.