The Fundamentals of the Wealthy

Age Is, In Fact, Not Just A Number

When Mr. Raleigh and I arrived at the housewives' party, there were dozens of women clustered around the kitchen and living room, dangling wine glasses between their fingers and wearing brands expensive enough to buy out my rent. I set Penny on the ground, and she sped into the living room, where she was instantly engulfed by a huddle of cooing housewives.

"Mr. Raleigh!" A woman twice Mr. Raleigh's age rushed towards us and put her hand on his arm possessively, as if to tell the other women, 'I invited him here first.'

I felt my employer go stiff besides me right before he was dragged into the crowd of middle aged women, all vying for a chance to introduce their daughters as a heir to the company.

I scanned the room for Mrs. Raleigh.

She left practically two hours before the party started? Did she freak out last minute and go to buy a Boston cream pie?

No way. She would be chased out of the neighborhood if she bought anything that was store bought and wasn't GMO-free, cage free, vegetarian, vegan, wild caught, and/or sugar-free.

Some of these lovely ladies had their butlers milk their own cows and drink directly from the bucket, just to avoid the germs and vaccines (Ms. Reeves read it in an orthodox family magazine) in store bought milk. They claimed it was 'healthier'.

Some scientists referred to it as 'natural selection'.

A woman dressed like a flight attendant sidled up to me and flashed a blinding smile, whitened by toothpaste strips. I knew that only because Mrs. Raleigh made me search twenty different stores for them.

"You must be Ms. Lockhart." She looked pointedly at my hand.

"I am. And you must be the beautiful hostess," I smiled just as brightly and extended my hand, which she shook happily.

"You may address me as Mrs. Bradford," The brunette stated, moving even closer. My innards roiled. Mrs. Raleigh would have an aneurysm from the excitement if she were in my position. If this neighborhood of rich women were a cliche high school movie, Mrs. Bradford would be the head cheerleader dating the team captain of the football team.

Yes.

I couldn't have made this up.

"You are the assistant of Mr. Raleigh, are you not?" She asked in a hushed tone.

"Unfortunately so," I joked. Mrs. Bradford didn't find much humor in that.

"My daughter is such a huge fan of Mr. Raleigh. The first time she saw him on the cover of NYC Daily, she wouldn't stop Googling him for a week, over and over again. Can I ask a favor?"

"Sure," I sipped from a wine glass and my throat convulsed. I held back the hacking coughs, thudding myself in the chest lightly. Who would drink wine voluntarily?

"I want to set up a date with him, but I can't seem to ever reach him," She pouted lightly and stared at me. On the other hand, I almost choked on my organic, farm raised, GMO-free, cage-free, cruelty-free, hundred dollar-a-bottle, Italy imported wine.

The bonus check was already in sight. This was easier than I thought it would be.

"A date?" I raised my eyebrows, "With Victoria?"

"Oh no, with my other daughter, Faith."

Somewhere, the fishing pole that dangled my bonus check reeled even further from my grasp.

Maybe if he just met Faith, he could get to Victoria.

"I might be able to squeeze something in. How old is she?" I reluctantly took another sip of wine.