The Villa

On Saturday, Sophia wakes up late and finds the house empty. A note on the refrigerator tells her Derek is at the office, supposedly working on that "big thing" he had told her about. It's half past twelve on the clock. She's starving, yet, uncharacteristically, Derek has not cooked anything for her. Usually, there'd be pancakes of some sort, or bacon, or some of his famous eggs. Derek had probably taken a look at her while she slept and decided she needed a few more hours of shut-eye, and any food he might cook would be stale by the time she wakens. Sophia doesn't eat cereal—she never liked how it becomes a soggy slop after a few minutes in milk. She needs something crunchy and hot and newly fried. She loves grease in her mouth in the morning; Derek has often teased her about how her lips look so sexy when glistening with bacon oil. She's a pig like that—an incredibly sexy pig, Derek might add. She knows she will pay for all this one day when her metabolism slows down and her body starts piling up the fat, but now, in her early twenties, she does not seem to have the ability to gain weight. All the carbs and calories seem to go directly in the right places—her breasts, which seem to be getting bigger, and her butt, which looks spectacularly round and bouncy whenever she wears a pair of those leggings Derek is just so crazy about.

Sophia looks around the kitchen, unsure of what to do. She could toss a few sausages in the pan, make risotto, or perhaps just fry an egg. The weekend silence pervades the house, and it deafens her. Maybe just an egg. She could hear her stomach grumbling. She's heating up the pan and choosing the roundest and biggest egg in the fridge, just like she did as a little girl, when she hears someone pulling up the driveway. Thank God, Derek's here! He could whip up something quickly. She really is starving! But when Sophia peers through the blinds she sees something else: a black limousine, with Dolph Lundgren in a limo driver's disguise stepping out gingerly, scanning the surroundings as if the neighbor's scattered bushes of perennials are a major security threat. The driver disappears round the corner and the next thing Sophia hears are the knocks on the door. Intrigued, Sophia rushes to open it without realizing what she's wearing: her silk kimono, an old gift from Derek—with nothing underneath! She becomes aware of it only when Dolph Lundgren's (a young, 1980s Dolph Lundgren) surprised, delighted face told her he could "see" her breasts jiggling underneath that flimsy fabric.

The man smiles. The rows of perfect teeth make Sophia wonder if he's not merely pretending to be a limo driver who looks like Dolph Lundgren but is, in fact, Dolph fucking Lundgren. "Good afternoon, madam. I've been sent by Mr. Brad Silverstone to fetch you."

It's Sophia's turn to be surprised—and irritated. "Do I look like a 'madam'," Sophia says, "and why is Brad 'sending you to fetch me?'" Her hunger pangs are obviously making her irritable. It's almost one in the afternoon, and having this buffed, tall blond guy "fetching" you as if you were a piece of bone isn't exactly helping.

"For the scheduled tutorial, madam, errm, Miss Masterson."

The limo driver's ostentatiously obsequious, and perhaps if she raises her voice, he might actually curtsy. And something about his demeanor tells her he knows more about "Sophia Masterson" than she does about herself—he's snappy, exuding professionalism that exceeds his station as a chauffeur, perhaps ex-military? In any case, Sophia just stands there trying to quickly think things over: she did say yes to the tutorial, but she had planned to "sleep on it," intending to come to a final resolution only the following week. She had wanted to spend the entire weekend lazing around the house, watching movies, waiting for Derek to come home tired and horny. On the other hand: this is something new and exciting. She's never tried riding in one of these fancy things before. And what has she got to lose? The house is empty without Derek, and she has to admit, watching movies all by yourself is kind of lonely.

"OK," Sophia says. "OK, I'm going." She gestures toward the vehicle. "Will you wait for me over there please?"

And Dolph Lundgren, immaculate in his white uniform, actually bows and heads back to his vehicle. He stands by the limo like a sentry. Sophia peers through the blinds and thinks, This is weird. Weird, but exciting.

She expected the limo's interior to be roomy, just as she had seen in movies, but the actual experience is even better. As soon as the chauffeur closes the door, Sophia finds herself in a sealed universe, sitting uneasily on plush, oversized seats. Her first instinct is to look around for the mini bar. But there's nothing. She has that feeling she's being watched, although the chauffeur has not shut the partition and she could see him minding his own business.

"Do you have, uhh, anything to eat here?" She's surprised at the loudness of her own voice, like she's actually desperately hungry. Which she is, in fact, but that would be embarrassing to admit. Dolph Lundgren acknowledges her question on the rear-view mirror with a nod.

"I'm sorry, Miss Masterson, but this particular limo is used for quick deliveries only." The perfect teeth smile again. And what did he just say—"quick deliveries"?

"Excuse me?" Clutching her bag to her chest, she feels dizzy from a rising panic. Is she being abducted? Quick deliveries! Like she's a piece of meat being delivered to the lord of the manor. But before she could start yelling, the limo makes a smooth turn and upward a low hilly driveway, lined with exquisitely manicured hedges on both sides. The scream dies in her throat. Sophia cannot help but admire the hedges, which are painstakingly sculptured to resemble Greek gods and goddesses—she's not really sure, but any naked statue is a Greek god to her—and the care and talent put into each of them, she could hardly believe it. Her paranoia dissipates when she sees the huge steel gates of what presumably is the Silverstone villa.

The limo cruises around gravelly paths, obscenely naked statues (made of marble this time), and a succession of elderly gardeners who stopped at what they are doing to bow at them. When they finally arrive at the villa's main entrance, they are met by a young, attractive woman by the door—one of those beautiful slaves the rich hire to surround themselves. Sophia mentally notes that the porte cochere is made with red stone, with the columns embedded with what look like precious stones (Oh, my God! Is this jade? Emerald?), tempting Sophia to run a hand against the surface and test if she could pry one off. But the young woman is greeting her with her perfect Hollywood smile and bowing and Sophia is doing the same and thinking, What the...Am I in Japan?

Without a word, the secretary leads her inside. She follows like a puppy, wide-eyed at the self-evident opulence. At some point, the young woman politely asks her to make herself comfortable, gesturing at a divan in a tastefully appointed lounge. For a while, Sophia sits there, thinking, "What am I doing here?" Her stomach grumbles and reminds her she hasn't had a bite the whole day, and while certain diet schools prescribe such self-torture, definitely not Sophia Masterson's School of Self-indulgence. She stands up, peering into the narrow hallway the secretary had disappeared into. As if on cue, a heady, wonderful scent—roasted poultry or something—wafts into her nostrils. She follows it without thinking. Her feet lead her to a smallish room—an anteroom to the dining hall, it appears—where a cook is busy garnishing a plate of some exotic-looking meat dish. And there it is, in the middle of a small table, a newly roasted turkey, still awaiting garnish. The cook doesn't realize Sophia's standing there until a female voice booms from the bigger room and she turns on impulse and bumps into Sophia.

"I'm sorry. I was looking for the ladies' room," Sophia says quickly.

The cook, a gaunt, wrinkled woman in her forties, stares at her from head to toe and, perhaps remembering an old instruction, makes a hesitant bow. Sophia is compelled to do the same out of politeness, stifling a grin. The cook quickly disappears into the adjoining room, leaving Sophia in the scrumptious company of partially garnished plates of somebody's expensive, meticulously prepared lunch. Sophia glances at the table. Here is food porn, and she could not look away. It takes her an act of will larger than the roasted turkey to saunter off to the presumed location of the ladies room. But a dead end and a couple of wrong turns later, she finds herself back in the same room, with that big, gorgeous plate of honey-glazed bird looking as tempting as ever.

At last, Sophia concedes to herself she doesn't know where in hell she should go—the house is a gilded rat maze, and there's a growing sense within her that the more she attempts to find the way out, her hunger and desperation might lead her to a dungeon, where she could stay trapped for a hundred years and nobody discovers her until Brad Silverstone's great-great-great-great-grandson turns 18 and stumbles into her dust-caked bones and wonders who might this fool be? She sits by the small table, the food porn right beside her, and her stomach grumbles: she hasn't eaten all day! Why in hell is she in this situation? Muffled voices argue in a distant room, and Sophia feels alone and hungry. Maybe if she could just pinch a little morsel off the leg, Sophia wonders, and her stomach savagely growls in agreement.

This is surreal, she thinks: why is she in this embarrassing situation? Why didn't she just tell Dolph Lundgren to wait while she had her late lunch at home because, after all, aren't she supposedly the boss of that chauffeur?

The roasted turkey talks to her in that slithery snake voice: just a morsel off the leg, ma'am. Nobody will notice!

I'll wait for the cook and ask for some food, she says to the turkey.

She'll give you me, anyway, the turkey says, so why wait? Take one leg and be done with it.

And while half of Sophia's mind whispers, This is fucking surreal, her fingers dig into the turkey. A missing part under a leg will not be missed. She could cover it with garnish, lick her fingers, and pretend this didn't happen. But the turkey is orgasm in the mouth—oh my, that old woman can cook!—and even while she's chewing the morsel she's already trying to pull off one entire leg, bone and all. It's not going to be an easy task: the bone is attached to the rest of the roasted bird by cartilage, and she's trying to do this while avoiding touching any other part of the turkey. She's cursing under her breath when somebody coughs behind her.

In slo-mo, Sophia turns her head and sees the cook, whose wrinkled face turns redder by the millisecond. The cook glowers at her and at the savagely molested roasted turkey. A leg bone, the flesh flayed from Sophia's grasp, protrudes obscenely.

And standing right beside the cook, eyes glowing in absolute surprise, is assistant principal Carol Smith.