What It's Like to House-Sit for a Famous Person
The summer after my sophomore year of college, my best friend, Ann (not her real name), and I moved to New York City. We'd scored great internships and what sounded like a sweet living arrangement: A mutual acquaintance had told us that a famous writer - we'd even read one of her books in a class - spent summers at the beach with her daughter. A single mom in her early 50s, she needed someone to sublet her swanky place on the Upper West Side.
The rent she was asking for was way beyond our budget. Still, we couldn't pass up what we thought would be a glamorous experience. So on June 1, we arrived at our new digs, which were big but extremely cluttered. "You don't mind if my three cats stay," said the writer, whose unkempt frumpiness matched her surroundings. It was the first sign of trouble. "And you can do some cleaning," she added as we noted a thin layer of dust on every surface.
Before she walked out the door, she handed us a credit card for "expenses" and told us to "buy an air-conditioner when you get a chance." Great - we were paying a crazy cat lady for the chance to run errands for her.
From then on, we received almost daily calls from the writer giving us menial tasks, like picking up packages from the post office and taking the cats to the vet. Since she was treating us like assistants, we began doing what assistants do: going through her mail and RSVPing to slightly stuffy literary parties - with open bars! - by explaining that we worked for the writer and would be coming in her place. Of course, we didn't have anything nice to wear. Our solution? Raiding her daughter's closet. We read the writer's emails too, learning that she hit up psychiatrist friends for free antidepressants and wanted her boyfriend to go with her to a sex-toy shop (no surprise - we'd found a big purple vibrator in a drawer).
Given how much rent we were paying, Ann and I felt it was fair to clear out the extra bedroom and invite a friend to live with us, even though overnight guests were forbidden. On weekends, we had parties and helped ourselves to the contents of the writer's huge liquor cabinet while performing dramatic readings from her daughter's diary.
We never considered the consequences ... until the writer dropped by near the end of the summer.
"Hey," Ann said casually, forgetting that she was wearing the daughter's pants. There was a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter. Clothes were scattered everywhere. Our friend's suitcase was in the guest room, and she was due back any second. I held my breath as the writer looked around.
"The cats have gotten really fat," she said as her eyes narrowed. "Have you been overfeeding them?"
"I guess so. Sorry," I said, astonished. That was all she noticed.
Three weeks later, we moved out. When I got a voicemail from the writer the following spring, my stomach flipped. Would she finally demand an explanation for all our bad behavior?
Not exactly. She was calling to see if we wanted to sublet her place again.
This article was originally published as "The Naughtiest Thing I've Ever Done" in the August 2010 issue of Cosmopolitan. Click here to subscribe to the digital edition!
