Chapter 1: The Contract and the Fitting
The salt air still clung to my skin when the imposing stone facade of the estate first loomed into view. My duffel bag felt heavier with every step up the winding path from the dock, the weight of my desperation packed right alongside my threadbare t-shirts. The job listing had been vague—‘summer live-in position, remote island estate, excellent pay’—but the number they’d quoted was enough to make my student debt blurry for a moment. I’d signed the emailed forms without my usual overthinking. Big mistake.
The grand foyer swallowed the sound of the heavy oak door closing behind me. My sneakers squeaked on polished marble the color of bone. The space was a silent cathedral, all towering ceilings and cold, dusty light filtering through high windows. The smell was old—aged wood, lemon polish, and something floral that had died in a vase weeks ago. A staircase swept upwards in a languid curve, and the eyes of portrait ancestors followed my nervous shuffle.
“You’re late.”
The voice was a dry crackle, like parchment being smoothed. She emerged from a shadowed archway, a woman carved from firm, unyielding material. Her iron-grey hair was pinned in a severe bun, and her black dress fell to a sensible length above polished shoes. Her eyes, the color of dull slate, swept over me from my scruffy hair to my worn-out jeans.
“The boat was on time,” I stammered, hating the way my voice echoed. “I’m Chris. For the summer position?”
“I am Mrs. Bloom. You are seventeen minutes behind schedule. Your fitting was set for three o’clock.” She looked at a watch pinned to her breast. “It is now three-seventeen.”
“Fitting?” I adjusted the strap of my duffel on my shoulder. “For a uniform? I figured it’d be, like, polo shirts or something.”
Her gaze lingered, analytical and cold, on my slender frame, my five-foot-four height. “The advertisement was for a maid. A female maid. The contract is explicit.”
A cold drip started in my stomach. “There must be a mistake. I’m not a… my name is Christopher.”
She didn’t blink. She produced a leather-bound folder from seemingly nowhere and thrust it toward me. “Your application. Christopher Ellis. The attached photograph is, admittedly, poor quality. Long hair, delicate features. Your listed prior experience is in ‘domestic hospitality.’ The master has a particular… aesthetic for the household staff. We assumed ‘Chris’ was short for ‘Christine.’ A reasonable assumption, given the qualifications.”
I fumbled the folder open. My own poorly-lit selfie stared back at me, my hair past my ears. I saw what she saw. My cheeks burned. “This is crazy. I’m a guy. Look, just… call the boat back. I’ll leave.”
“The next supply boat returns in ten weeks. You have a binding contract.” She tapped a sharp nail on the bottom line of the second page. My eyes raced over the legalese. …agree to adhere to the dress code and standards of the estate for the duration of employment… failure to comply results in forfeiture of all wages and remuneration…
The number, that beautiful, soul-saving number, glowed in my mind. Forfeit all wages. I was broke. I was beyond broke.
“I can’t be a maid,” I said, the protest sounding weak even to me.
“You can, and you will. The alternative is living in the woods until September with no pay. The island is isolated. The wildlife is… disagreeable.” She plucked the folder from my shaking hands. “Now. You are already late. The other girls are occupied. You will come with me.”
Resignation was a lead blanket. I followed her stiff back across the foyer, through a narrower door, and down a servants’ corridor with worn floorboards. The air grew closer, warmer. She stopped at a plain door and unlocked it.
The room was small, windowless, lined with shelves of linens and cleaning supplies. In the center stood a tailoring dummy, and draped over it was a maid’s uniform. Not the frumpy, black-and-white cartoon kind. This was something else. A short, navy-blue dress with a fitted bodice and a flared skirt that would hit mid-thigh. A tiny, lace-trimmed white apron. A pair of sheer black stockings. A single, foolish feather duster lay across the dummy’s shoulders like a boa.
“We had to estimate your size,” Mrs. Bloom said, her tone devoid of apology. “Remove your clothes.”
I stood frozen. “What, right here?”
“There is no time for modesty. You are staff. I am the head housekeeper. This is a fitting. Now.”
Her stare was absolute. My hands felt numb. I set my duffel down. The sound of my zipper was obscenely loud. I kicked off my sneakers, peeled off my socks, then my jeans and hoodie. I stood in my boxers and a t-shirt, feeling the chill of the room on my skin, feeling smaller than I ever had.
“Everything.”
I swallowed, took off the shirt, then the boxers. I stared at a spot on the wall, my face on fire, my arms crossed over my chest. I heard her move, the rustle of fabric.
“Arms down. Stand straight.”
She approached with the dress. The fabric hissed as she guided it over my head. It slithered down my body, cool and alien. She moved behind me, her fingers brisk and impersonal as she fastened a long line of tiny buttons up the back. They pulled the fabric snug across my shoulders, tight around my ribcage. The skirt flared out, light and unrestrictive.
She stepped back. “Adequate. The stockings.”
She handed me the sheer black fabric. I sat on a wooden stool, my movements clumsy, and rolled them up my legs. They were smooth, clingy, transforming the shape of my calves. She produced a pair of towering black heels.
“I can’t walk in those.”
“You will learn. Put them on.”
They pinched my feet. When I stood, the world tilted. I felt taller, unstable. My posture shifted instinctively, a slight adjustment of the hips for balance. Mrs. Bloom gave a short, approving nod. She picked up the apron, tied it around my waist, its crisp white a stark contrast against the dark blue. Finally, she took a white hair clip from her pocket—a simple, feminine thing with a small fabric flower.
"Now, one last thing," she said as she pulled a lace collar from her pocket. As she fastened it around my neck I was overcome by a debilitating wave of dizziness. My body felt pulled in a hundred different directions, settling into new shapes and forms.
When the dizziness finally passed, I looked up again, and the mirror now showed a woman in a maid's outfit. She had the body of a bimbo, long blonde hair cascading across her shoulders down to her waist, long red fingernails, and exotic makeup, punctuated by glossy red lipstick. Her long shapely legs were encased in black seamed stockings that ended with impossibly high heeled shoes. As the reality before my eyes began to sink into my consciousness, my mind felt suddenly empty. From behind me, a male voice spoke, "So Christina, do you still object to wearing the maid's outfit?" With a giggle, I replied, "Oh no Master, not at all."