Dorothy, here to please (or else)

Four entitled brats at a party. Barely out of school. Kids who believe the world owes them a living. They think they can buy and sell a girl like she’s a toy. Their daddies were important people, one even a foreign diplomat, so they thought they could get away with anything. Damn wankers.
Now, he’s the one left to deal with this shit. It made his head ache, but hey, that’s what he was paid for.

He turned away from the window, the city lights painting cold streaks across the night. No sounds reached his office on the twenty-seventh floor; even the neon hue of the metropolis seemed a little quieter at that hour.
He knew who he had to call, but he’d never dialled that number. Never needed to. Until now. What was it? Forty-one, twenty-two… his fingers drummed impatiently on the desk. No, he couldn’t remember the rest, he should have bloody checked.
He sighed, loosening his Yohji Yamamoto tie as he retrieved his diary from the drawer. It promised to be a long night.

*

I was bored to death. Over lunch, just before heading back to university, Mum offhandedly mentioned that we would be hosting some of her colleagues for an aperitif that evening. Jeremy, her current plus-one, had successfully secured significant funding for his research team, making it an occasion to celebrate.
Of course, she vanished, leaving me to handle all the thankless tasks. Four trips to the shop, my rucksack and bike groaning under the weight of various snacks and beverages—Mum treacherously had commandeered our only car, naturally. Battling with the grocery lists and scrubbing the house (it’s unbelievable how much mess two people can generate in a few days) were bad enough, but then came the endless parade of tiny sandwiches.
Upon inspecting the results of my culinary endeavours—cucumber and cream cheese, smoked salmon with dill, and ham and speck being the most sought-after, though I'd ventured into some even more extravagant combinations—I realised the entire afternoon had slipped quietly away.
“What a waste of time,” I muttered to myself as I savoured a big bite of Parmigiano Reggiano, my favourite cheese, that I had bought to reward myself for my efforts. Of course, the rest of the piece was jealously hidden at the bottom of the refrigerator, since I had no intention of sharing it with Mum’s colleagues.

At that point, my intentions were to luxuriate in a lengthy, steaming bath, then savour a delectable tuna pizza—extra shrimps and olives, naturally—before whiling away the evening nestled in bed, alternating between my tablet and swapping messages with my friends in Northampton. If only.
Mum, however, who firmly believes that a young lady should be well-versed in the art of hosting, had seized upon this opportunity as the perfect training ground. ‘Socialising is a valuable skill, darling,’ she’d reminded me, as she did all too often when guests were expected.

Here I was, then, almost midnight, wearing a pair of jeans that were too tight, but apparently the only ones deemed acceptable by Mum, and a fancy blouse, plastering a fake smile on my face as I listened to people whose names I didn’t even know.
The pizza at our little buffet was a perfect metaphor for the evening: lukewarm, with scant and predictable toppings, utterly lacking in originality. My only consolation was the two large bowls of dried fruit at either end of the table, from which I periodically retrieved the occasional pistachio. A girl’ got to find her simple pleasures where she can, after all.
For hours, I feigned interest in the conversations swirling around me, nodding occasionally and offering the appropriate polite comments. Meanwhile, my mind was busy calculating. Should I charge Mum a set fee for each sandwich and forced smile, or simply bill her by the hour? Naturally, a generous bonus for ‘night work’ would be in order. A few dozen quid added to my pocket money might not seem like much to some, but for a first-year university student expressly forbidden from working—even during the holidays—it was a significant sum. Katharine and Marcia, the girls I’d befriended at uni this year, were planning a trip to the Continent next summer, and I needed to start saving if I wanted to join them.

I still hadn’t reached a definitive conclusion on the matter when the insistent ringing of the doorbell interrupted my daydreaming, forcing me to set the question aside. A quick glance revealed that Mum was engrossed in an animated debate with a pair of her assistants, so, like the dutiful daughter I am, I went to answer the door.
‘How lovely. The clock has struck twelve, and someone has the audacity to turn up now?’ I thought. ‘Don’t these people have homes to go to?’
Despite my inner grumbling, I plastered on my best welcoming smile. Years of Mum’s admonishments had instilled in me the importance of maintaining a polite facade, no matter how much I wanted to slam the door in their faces. She calls it kindness and propriety, I call it hypocrisy. But hey, just a matter of semantics.
I opened the door to find two men in dark coats, looking a bit nervous and out of place.

‘Of course, I’ll get her right away. Please wait for a moment.’
But as I moved to close the door, the man had already stepped into the hallway. He stood beside the entry, upright and exuding politeness. ‘I’ll wait here, miss,’ he assured me, his smile betraying a touch of embarrassment.
‘Sure thing. No problem,’ I replied, stepping back to let him in. After all, locking him out would have made no difference. At least the average age in the house was about to drop. And let’s be honest—he wasn’t bad to look at. A small bonus.

It took her closer to ten minutes. Meanwhile, I lingered in the hallway, unsure of the proper etiquette in this situation.
I offered the Inspector a drink or a snack, but he politely declined. He was about thirty, maybe a bit younger, and quite good-looking. Considering the other options currently on display, he was definitely the eye-candy winner of the evening, so I wasn’t exactly rushing to rejoin the party.
Mum reappeared with her usual bag and said her goodbyes. ‘Would you excuse me to our guests, darling?’ she said, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘See you in the morning.’
As I nodded, I thought I caught a flicker of surprise on the officer’s face. But perhaps that was just my imagination.

Almost before I knew it, Mum got into the car, Inspector Morton holding her bag.
The other man got in without a word, and they drove away silently into the night.
A gust of cold February air swept in as I watched the taillights disappear into the night. One of the guests approached and asked if everything was okay.
I turned, managed a smile, and said, ‘Yes, it’s nothing. Mum had to leave. Police business.’
‘That’s a shame. It’s a great party. We’ll miss her,’ he replied.

He didn’t say anything else, nor did he look particularly concerned. But that was to be expected. Everyone in the psychology department was aware of what Mum did and why the police often sought her assistance, although no one ever discussed it.
A matter of discretion, mostly—though, let’s be honest, cases of sexual assault aren’t exactly a good topic for cocktail chatter.