As JJ rode the elevator to Rachel Warner’s 7th floor apartment, she tried to imagine what her new house-sitting client looked like. Given Rachel’s 5th Avenue address, JJ guessed she was one of those perfectly coiffed, tummy-tucked women who wore more bling than a pimp. The kind who never had to replace the toilet paper or microwave a burrito, and who had an on-call shrink and personal trainer. The kind who made other women wish they were 10 pounds thinner and wore nicer underwear.

JJ stepped out of the elevator to find Rachel waiting. Her face was flushed from crying, eyes bloodshot. Still, she was a beauty, no — she was Beauty itself. Tall, blonde, model thin, skin no plastic surgeon would dare touch, eyes a blue found only in crayon boxes.

“Thanks for coming,” Rachel said, extending her hand. It seemed to fall, exhausted, into JJ’s palm. “Would you like coffee?”

JJ stepped into the marble-floored foyer. “Coffee sounds good,” she said.

“Oh,” Rachel said. “I ... well, I know this sounds dumb, but I don’t know how to make it. The coffeemaker has all these buttons. But I can make you orange juice. Not make it — pour you some. Do you like orange juice? Why don’t we sit in the living room?” She turned and walked away, leaving JJ to follow in her perfumed wake.

The living room was a veritable white-out: white walls, white coffee table, white lamps and two white couches facing each other. Not the kind of room you’d dare enter in if you had your period. The only splash of color came from a tabletop fish tank. Turquoise stones, shimmery striped fish, yellow, lush green plants swaying in the bubbles.

Rachel and JJ each took a couch.

“I’ve never met another JJ,” Rachel said crossing her long, sleek legs, the kind men gladly went to war over. “What’s it short for?”

JJ hadn’t a clue. Neither had her mother, who had been stoned when she chose it. “Just a nickname,” JJ said.

Rachel nodded. “Are we the same age?”

JJ narrowed her eyes. Was this a trick question? “Depends on how old you are. I’m 28.”

“I used to be 28. I’m 29 now. Do you want some orange juice?”

“Not particularly.”

Rachel nodded. “I have bottled water, some bubbly kind. Ivan won’t drink anything else. Isn’t that silly? Don’t you think men are silly?

Men are idiots, JJ thought. “Who’s Ivan?”

“My husband.”

“Is he going with you?”

“Going where?”

“To your grandmother’s funeral.”

Rachel stood and straightened her summer dress, which might as well have been spray-painted onto her body. Definitely a thong girl.

“No,” Rachel said as she sat back down. “He’s in India, on business. I can’t pronounce the name the city. I can never pronounce the names of the cities. They’re all so, you know, foreign.”

JJ supposed she was to agree but said nothing.

“Ivan’s an interior designer, a minimalist,” Rachel continued. “He’s always winning awards. He designed this co-op. As you can see, space and furnishings are stripped down to their most fundamental feature, as rooted in the reductive aspects of Modernism. Or some such thing. Amazing, isn’t it?”

JJ looked around. The apartment was as bare and cozy as a gynecologist’s office. “Yeah, amazing.”

“Ivan adores fish,” Rachel said as she pointed to the coffee table aquarium. “They’re his signature. Fish, as you know, improve visual aesthetics by tastefully introducing natural elements while balancing contrast and bright colors. Or some such thing. You’ll feed them, right? I don’t want Ivan to come home and find them belly up. They’re very expensive. Personally, I’d rather have a goat.”

Whatever.

Rachel uncrossed then re-crossed her legs. “Ivan doesn’t know about my grandmother’s death, so I’d rather you not tell him should he call. He’d want to fly back. But he’s just won a contract on some luxury hotel, and I don’t want to bother him. He’s coming home in another couple of weeks anyway.”

“Must be lonely.”

“Ivan doesn’t have time to be lonely.”

“I meant you.”

“Oh, I find things to do,” Rachel said. “Idle hands, idle minds. That’s what my grandmother always used to say. Are you married, JJ?” Rachel asked.

“No,” JJ said.

“Did you ever want to be?”

“No.”

“Are you dating anyone?”

“No.”

“Should I show you around?” Rachel stood before JJ could answer. “This is the living room, but you knew that already, right? I mean, here we are, sitting in the living room.”

JJ shrugged.

“The dining room is over that way,” Rachel said, waving a limp hand in a vague direction behind her. “There’s a guestroom down the hall, and Ivan’s office. We’ve got a washer and dryer back that way. Sometimes I just wash things by hand. It’s easier than dealing with all the settings, you know?”

JJ didn’t.

Rachel continued her verbal tour. “My bedroom’s that way, next to Poseidon’s Adventure.”

“Poseidon’s what?”

“Adventure. It’s the fish room.”

“The fish have their own room? How many fish are we talking about?”

“I tried to count once but lost track. They swam too fast, or maybe I counted too slow, and, well — don’t tell Ivan this — but they all kind’ve look alike. Except for Ghost.”

“Ghost?”

“He’s a champion, Ivan’s favorite. He’s in training for his next competition.”

“Ivan or the fish?”

“Both,“ she said.

“I’m not following.”

“Don’t worry, it’s all in the notes I’ve left on the kitchen counter, which is in the kitchen. You can’t miss it, the kitchen. It’s got the stove and coffee machine with all the buttons.”

Rachel sighed, looked around absently. “I think that’s everything. Is that everything? I’ve left $200 cash on the kitchen counter. I’ll get you the rest in a few days. I’ve also left my keys and instructions about a few other things.”

JJ followed Rachel to the foyer. “What other things?”

Rachel fluffed her shoulder-length hair in front of the foyer mirror. “I wish I had time for Andy to trim the ends off my hair,” Rachel said. “My hair used to be down to my waist, like yours. I didn’t cut it until I left home. Women don’t cut their hair where I’m from. It’s the style, I guess you could say. But I wanted a change. I’ve been growing it back out, though. Ivan likes long hair. Men seem to have a thing for long hair, don’t you think?”

Men have a thing for boobs, JJ thought. And asses and legs and any other moving part. “Need help with your suitcases?”

Rachel pulled a tote from the foyer closet. “No. I’m traveling light. I figure I’ll buy whatever I need.” She took a deep breath and looked around. “Well, I guess that’s it. I’m leaving now. Again, I can’t thank you enough. You don’t know how much this  — ”

JJ opened the door for her. “You’ll miss your flight.”

Rachel nodded and walked to the elevator. “One more thing,” she said as the doors opened and she stepped inside. “If a woman named Millicent calls, hang up on her. She’s a bit … well, you know.”

“No, I don’t know,” JJ said.

“Ivan wanted to get a restraining order against her, but — well, it’s a long story.”

“Give me the short version.”

“There is none,” Rachel said as the elevator doors closed.

“Great,” JJ muttered, “a crazy woman with a restraining order.” As if there were a way to restrain the deranged.

JJ stepped into the apartment and locked the door. “What did I expect?” she asked aloud. Everything came with a price. In this case, a $300 per day, cash. She just hoped Millicent didn’t pop in wielding an AK10. JJ didn’t want to be mowed down before she paid next semester’s tuition.