At Your Service (6 page)

To Whom It May Concern: We stayed at your hotel from January 4th–5th and while the overall service was outstanding, we wanted to single out your young concierge, Chloe, for all of her efforts. When Chloe found out our daughter was having a hard time enjoying herself because she was nervous about her upcoming Mandarin language exam, Chloe arranged for Katie to accompany the hotel sous chef on his grocery shopping trip to Chinatown. Spending a morning fully immersed in the language was exactly what Katie needed to boost her confidence and she was able to relax and enjoy the remainder of our vacation. Of course, she did need
three showers after returning from the fish market, in particular, but she claims it was well worth it! We hope Chloe is on your staff for a long time to come, and we'll be booking our next trip at the St. Michèle.

Sincerely,

The Ventresca Family

Phone message from front desk:

Chloe—Lyra Barnes's agent called @ 2:07 p.m. Front-row tickets for the concert will be at will-call & Lyra will be expecting you & your guest backstage after show. Ask for Frank, the stage manager. Call if any issues: 212-555-7557. Autographed headshots will be messengered over later today. (PS: Can I have one?)—Thomas

E-mail:

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Chloe,

Although we rarely receive requests for Christmas
trees this many months after the actual holiday, we would be happy to help you create Christmas in February for the grandchildren of your guests. It's too bad the kids weren't able to spend Christmas Day itself with their grandparents, but it sounds like you plan to make this a celebration to remember for them. We can arrange to have someone here to meet you to cut down a suitable tree at 10:00 a.m. on Saturday. And thank you again for the offer to purchase the trees for the hotel lobby from us this year.

Best,

John

Interoffice memo:

Attention: Bartholomew Whilpers, Hotel Manager

From: Xavier Hemsley Buttercup, Hotel Owner

Bartholomew,

I really do wish you would find something other than young Miss Turner's actions to send me memos about. I'm sure guests encountering a choir singing Christmas carols during check-in was unusual, given
that we are months past the holiday; however, my understanding is that the choir was only present for the fifteen-minute window just before and during the check-in of the guests benefiting from this Christmas-in-February treat. I have a hard time believing there were any actual complaints.

Sincerely,

Xavier

PS: It sounds as if you are not a fan of roasted chestnuts, but I personally think arranging for the cart outside the hotel entrance was a brilliant touch on Chloe's part (and I must say I quite enjoyed the ones that were sent up to my offices).

Comment card left in room 1040:

We had a lovely stay and were most impressed with your concierges, particularly the young one. When we mentioned our son loves circuses, we expected her to arrange tickets to Ringling Brothers. We never imagined she would make a whole day of it for him. Taylor can't stop talking about his visit to Frank Bee's Clown Studio and wants to wear his red nose
everywhere. Trapeze School New York was another unforgettable memory—flying high over the Hudson River . . . he even spotted the Statue of Liberty while swinging upside down! I can't imagine what could top this trip! We'll be back for sure!

Gift tag from the design studios of Felicity Olson:

Chloe: A little birdie told us you have a big birthday coming up. Welcome to your teenage years! We were told Circle Line was donating a Harbor Lights cruise for your party and thought you might like something special to wear. Please accept this outfit with our compliments, and we look forward to seeing you and your guests in our showroom again soon.

Interoffice memo:

Attention: Bartholomew Whilpers, Hotel Manager

From: Xavier Hemsley Buttercup, Hotel Owner

Mr. Whilpers,

I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist these notes about
Chloe Turner stop. If Chloe claims she had a good reason to escort a baby giraffe through the lobby and out the back to the loading dock, I'm quite certain she did. Kindly direct your attention to other hotel matters and leave Miss Turner be, so that she may continue with the fine job she's doing.

With regards,

Mr. Buttercup

K
now what's sucky about spending a sunshiny March morning baking cupcakes at Magnolia Bakery at the request of a guest? Absolutely nothing.

“You girls were awesome today. I hope you had fun. Chloe, any time you want to do this again, just give me a call. Hey, enjoy the weather out there. Finally starting to feel like spring around here, huh? Now, how about a few to take home?”

Even though having my arms elbow-deep in batter for hours on end should have me swearing off sweets, no way am I turning down an offer of cupcakes-to-go from the head baker, Hazel.

“Wait, what's in the hummingbird one again?” Emily, my sweet-toothed guest, asks.

“Banana, pineapple, pecan cake with sweet cream-cheese icing,” I recite from memory, earning me a thumbs-up from Hazel.

I smile as she places a signature pale green tin with the bakery's storefront logo in my hands and resist the urge to peek at which yummy flavors she's chosen for us. Emily and I give her quick hugs, then slip the aprons over our heads and drop them on the baking table. We scoot around the counter and cut through a long line of customers waiting for their daily fix of buttercream frosting.

“Do you want me to text Bill to pull around, or do you want to scope out a bench and dive into these?” I ask.

“Would you think I was a total pig if I said I couldn't wait to have another one? I know we sampled all morning, but they are sooo addicting.”

I smile. If only all guests could be as easy to please as Emily. She's sweeter than the coconut flake cupcake I pass her. “Let's walk up to 30 Rock and grab a bench there. The
Today
show should still be taping, so we can peek inside the windows. And hey, I know you're leaving tonight and we didn't make plans past this morning, but I'm meeting up with some friends from school later at the park and you should definitely tag along. I think you'd love them.”

We link arms and walk up Forty-Ninth Street. Second to Christmastime in this part of the city, with the enormous tree in Rockefeller Plaza and the ice skaters and the store windows all decorated, spring is my favorite season in Manhattan. It's like we all hibernated as much as possible through the slushy, gross part of winter, and now the city is coming back to life.

I inhale the smells from the Sabrett's hot dog cart and duck past a tourist holding up a giant
IT'S MY BIRTHDAY, PUT ME ON CAMERA
sign outside the windows of the studio. Emily and I snag a bench right across the plaza and dig into the cupcake tin one more time.

“Seriously, you're going to have to roll me onto the plane home. I'll be in a major sugar coma.” Emily laughs. “Ooh, this is banana and chocolate. Yum! Want the carrot cake one?”

But I don't answer. I'm too busy watching the electronic news ticker that flashes all the top headlines across the top of the NBC studios.

“Chloe? Earth to Chloe?”

But I just point.

Breaking news: King Robert of Somerstein and his family, including Queen Caroline and their three royal children, Prince Alex, 14, Princess Sophie, 12, and Princess Ingrid, 9, to visit NYC next weekend.

Emily squeals. “Ooh. Prince Alex. I've seen his pictures online. He's sooooo cute! I wish my visit was longer. I could hire you to help me stalk him.”

“I guess,” I answer, preoccupied. I'm not too up-to-date on European royalty and whether they're cute or not, but I do have one burning question.

“I wonder where they're staying?”

•   •   •

I think I've figured that one out.

Clue #1: About six black, unmarked SUVs parked in front of the St. Michèle that are
not
being whisked off by a valet.

Clue #2: An abundance of men in all-black suits roaming the lobby and doing things like picking up the potted ficus tree and peering intently under it.

Clue #3: Mr. Whilpers blotting his sweaty forehead with a napkin-looking thingy he claims his mom made for him. Oh wait, that's not a clue. That happens every day. The man sweats more than a bike messenger headed from the Village to 103rd Street.

Actual Clue #3: My dad blotting
his
forehead with a crisp linen handkerchief. Now
that
is a first for any day the LaFous aren't in town.

The royals are staying HERE.

Oh. Holy. Yikes.

And they're bringing the kids. Where there are kids, there is Chloe.

Double. Holy. Yikes.

Does that mean
I'm
in charge of them?

“Hey, did you hear the news?” Filipe asks. He's a bellhop, which means he helps people take their luggage to their room. I glance around the lobby for Mr. Whilpers, because it would NOT be good for him to catch me hanging out with Filipe.

Three years ago we got busted big-time for using two luggage carts as scooters in timed races around the fourth floor. We probably wouldn't have gotten in
that
much trouble if I hadn't also tied a bedsheet to the back of mine so I could pull Paisley along behind me. In my defense, I was ten. I'm not so sure what Filipe's defense was.

I lean against the grand piano. “Not officially, but I can guess. Royalty at the Saint Michèle? How cool is that?”

“Very cool. Though Whilpers is having a conniption. He's already ordered new uniforms for all us bellhops and booked the entire staff haircuts in the beauty salon. The salon reserved for
guests
. He's on a tear.”

Oooh. I love when Marisa at the salon on our lower level
does my hair. She uses this cucumber-mint styling gel that smells amazing.

Just then I spot Dr. Evil himself rounding a corner and quick as lightning scoot far away from Filipe. If I'm gonna survive the next week of preparation, I'd better keep out of the Whilps's way. I'd say “lie low,” but no way am I going to miss being around while we get everything here set. The hotel is normally set for regular VIPs' luxury, so I can't WAIT to see how we ramp it all up for royalty.

Besides, keeping busy with a week of school and hotel prep can only help to keep my mind off what might be in store for a junior concierge expecting a junior prince and princesses.

T
he next Friday afternoon our entire hotel staff lines up to welcome the King and Queen of Somerstein and their royal offspring. Every single inch of the hotel has been polished and spruced and buffed. Pillows have been plumped, pianos have been tuned, carpets have been replaced, a new chandelier was ordered for the penthouse suite, and our weekly fresh-flower order was quadrupled. We are ready.

I'm back and forth between crazy excited and crazy nervous for my “make it or break it” moment. Crazy excited because attending to world-famous visitors can make the career of a concierge faster than our high-speed Wi-Fi signal connects our guests to the Web. Crazy nervous because
messing up in any way in front of said world-famous visitors can end the career of a concierge quicker than our head doorman Johnny can hail a cab.

Mr. Whilpers has positioned himself right at the inside edge of the revolving doors, so when the king enters the lobby, he'll land directly in Whimpy's potbelly. Yeah, some welcome. If that happened to me, I'd probably run screaming back to Somerstein.

When the Whilps sees me looking at him, he puts two fingers up to his eyes and then turns them around toward me to mime,
I'm watching you
.

Ooh, scary.

As long as Mr. Buttercup stands by his decision that I can be trusted to take the royal kids around (well, trusted in the sense that their two bodyguards will be a foot away to make sure everyone is safe and secure at all times), I don't see where Mr. Whimps will be watching anything other than me getting in good with the royals.

But I lose my smirk every time I think of the epic task ahead of me. Seriously. Dad says I took to my new job like a duck to water (whatever
that
means), but this is like getting called up to the major leagues. Last night I got a whole “Now that you're thirteen and a teenager, I really think you're ready
for this new level of responsibility, and I'm putting my trust in you and counting on you not to let me or the Saint Michèle down” talking-to. Gee, Dad. No pressure or anything. Even though I actually
want
the responsibility, so I can prove myself.

After that, Pay and I stayed up way too late (on a school night, no less, which made today in classes not so much fun) putting the final touches on a dossier of information on each of the royal kids. We figured they were probably too slick to use my patented slam book method of gathering intel, but, luckily, they're celebrities, so getting the dirt on them wasn't all that difficult.

Here's what we found:

Princess Sophie, age twelve:

Sophie is like a paper-doll cutout. In every picture we downloaded, it looks like she has one standard “I've been groomed for life as a princess” pose, and someone has just slapped on different hairstyles and outfits. Tea with the Queen of England? Hair clipped on either side and a sweet rose-colored sundress. Skiing with her father? Jaunty ponytail, stylish goggles propped on her forehead, and perfectly fitted parka and snow pants. Greeting a crowd of well-wishers in the castle courtyard? A green wool suit with a coordinated coat, leather gloves, and a feathered hat that perched at exactly the right angle. She's like Princess Barbie
come to life. In one or two of the pictures her smile looks real and not plastic, so I'm crossing fingers
and
toes that she isn't as perfectly perfect as she looks, because how can someone so perfect be normal and fun and nice too?