they would pay me back for the car. What was a few hundred dollars up front?
• • •
I t was seven o’clock by the time I reached the Fontainebleau and I was starving. I’d considered pulling into a convenience store alongthe way, but I thought better of arriving at the Presidential Suite with Cheetos breath and neon orange fingertips. Besides, I figured the Dixsons had to eat dinner at some point.
While I thought it might be a challenge to even get to the Presidential Suite (we’ve all seen those movies where a starstruck teenage girl tries desperately to break into her idol’s hotel room), the Fontainebleau knew I was coming and whisked me upstairs before I could so much as utter the name Daisy Dixson and start a panic in the lobby. And I assure you, there would have been a panic. I was barely able to pull into the valet stand without accidentally running over some paparazzi. And the tween girls just “hanging out” in the lobby, pretending to read, weren’t working too hard to hide the real purpose of their visit. So I was appreciative when my name alone was enough to get things moving.
I was promptly assigned a personal attendant named Minka, who looked to be about my age but acted like a German efficiency specialist and didn’t appear to particularly like me. As she barked orders at a frightened bellman, she kept throwing me less than cordial looks. A few times, I think her nostrils actually flared. I had no idea what I’d done to incur her wrath, but I couldn’t wait to get away from her. As my duffel bag was spirited away, Minka prodded me toward the elevators with a firm hand pressed to the small of my back. I wasn’t sure if I was being handled or about to be taken hostage.
“We’ve placed you in an oceanfront balcony suite in the Versailles building, per the request of your . . .” She threw me a look, faltering in her businesslike façade for the first time. “Your . . . fellow guest. ” The woman cleared her throat and continued resolutely. “I hope you know that privacy is very important to us here at the Fontainebleau. Your party absolutely will not be disturbed by either photographers or fans.”
“Oh . . . thank you,” I replied, figuring that’s what I was supposed to say. I was expected to worry about these things, right? I was starting to wish there was a manual to consult for these kindsof questions, just so that I wouldn’t get caught looking stupid. After this experience, perhaps I’d write one: Diving into the Celebrity Pool, a How-to Guide .
“Should you need anything at all, please do not hesitate to contact me,” she charged on. Despite her words, I got the feeling she had no interest in ever hearing from me again. We approached the elevators, but Minka shook her head and steered me to the left, down a small hallway. I was almost blinded by the Florida sunshine streaming through the windows and glinting off the hotel’s endless marble surfaces. I found I had to shade my eyes just to keep them open. “We will have an attendant or concierge on duty twenty-four hours a day to service your needs.”
Her last sentence was enunciated so strangely, I couldn’t help but throw her a look. Service our needs? I had a feeling there was more implied in her words than I wanted to know. Maybe that was her issue, I thought. If celebrities stayed at this hotel all the time, maybe their bad behavior caused all sorts of problems for the staff. But Daisy was an eighteen-year-old born-again Christian; aside from failing to curb her dog, I couldn’t imagine her trashing a hotel suite.
We reached a smaller elevator and Minka nodded for me to enter. She placed a key into a slot at the top of the row of buttons, then turned it. The elevator doors had barely begun to slide closed when she snapped her head to the left, Exorcist -like, to stare me down.
“Are you related to Miss Dixson?” she asked, being far more forward than I would have thought proper for such a
• • •
I t was seven o’clock by the time I reached the Fontainebleau and I was starving. I’d considered pulling into a convenience store alongthe way, but I thought better of arriving at the Presidential Suite with Cheetos breath and neon orange fingertips. Besides, I figured the Dixsons had to eat dinner at some point.
While I thought it might be a challenge to even get to the Presidential Suite (we’ve all seen those movies where a starstruck teenage girl tries desperately to break into her idol’s hotel room), the Fontainebleau knew I was coming and whisked me upstairs before I could so much as utter the name Daisy Dixson and start a panic in the lobby. And I assure you, there would have been a panic. I was barely able to pull into the valet stand without accidentally running over some paparazzi. And the tween girls just “hanging out” in the lobby, pretending to read, weren’t working too hard to hide the real purpose of their visit. So I was appreciative when my name alone was enough to get things moving.
I was promptly assigned a personal attendant named Minka, who looked to be about my age but acted like a German efficiency specialist and didn’t appear to particularly like me. As she barked orders at a frightened bellman, she kept throwing me less than cordial looks. A few times, I think her nostrils actually flared. I had no idea what I’d done to incur her wrath, but I couldn’t wait to get away from her. As my duffel bag was spirited away, Minka prodded me toward the elevators with a firm hand pressed to the small of my back. I wasn’t sure if I was being handled or about to be taken hostage.
“We’ve placed you in an oceanfront balcony suite in the Versailles building, per the request of your . . .” She threw me a look, faltering in her businesslike façade for the first time. “Your . . . fellow guest. ” The woman cleared her throat and continued resolutely. “I hope you know that privacy is very important to us here at the Fontainebleau. Your party absolutely will not be disturbed by either photographers or fans.”
“Oh . . . thank you,” I replied, figuring that’s what I was supposed to say. I was expected to worry about these things, right? I was starting to wish there was a manual to consult for these kindsof questions, just so that I wouldn’t get caught looking stupid. After this experience, perhaps I’d write one: Diving into the Celebrity Pool, a How-to Guide .
“Should you need anything at all, please do not hesitate to contact me,” she charged on. Despite her words, I got the feeling she had no interest in ever hearing from me again. We approached the elevators, but Minka shook her head and steered me to the left, down a small hallway. I was almost blinded by the Florida sunshine streaming through the windows and glinting off the hotel’s endless marble surfaces. I found I had to shade my eyes just to keep them open. “We will have an attendant or concierge on duty twenty-four hours a day to service your needs.”
Her last sentence was enunciated so strangely, I couldn’t help but throw her a look. Service our needs? I had a feeling there was more implied in her words than I wanted to know. Maybe that was her issue, I thought. If celebrities stayed at this hotel all the time, maybe their bad behavior caused all sorts of problems for the staff. But Daisy was an eighteen-year-old born-again Christian; aside from failing to curb her dog, I couldn’t imagine her trashing a hotel suite.
We reached a smaller elevator and Minka nodded for me to enter. She placed a key into a slot at the top of the row of buttons, then turned it. The elevator doors had barely begun to slide closed when she snapped her head to the left, Exorcist -like, to stare me down.
“Are you related to Miss Dixson?” she asked, being far more forward than I would have thought proper for such a
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