I know very well that my name is ridiculous. It wasn’t ridiculous before I took this job four years ago. I am a maid at the Regency Grand Hotel and my name is Molly. Maid Molly.* Funny. Before I took this job, Molly was just the name given to me by my estranged mother, who left me so long ago that I have no memory of her, only a few photos and the stories my grandmother has told me. Grandma used to say that my mother thought Molly was a cute name for a girl, that it brought to mind rosy cheeks and pigtails, although I have neither. I have dark hair always cut in a strict bob. I part it in the middle—exactly in the middle. I comb it straight and down. I like things to be simple and orderly.
I have prominent cheekbones and pale skin which sometimes impresses people, but I don’t know why. I am as white as the sheets I gather and make, gather and make all day in the twenty-plus rooms I tidy for the distinguished guests of the Regency Grand, a small five-star hotel that prides itself on having “sophisticated elegance and timeless courtesy adapted to the modern era.” Never in my life did I imagine I would have such an important position in a grand hotel. I know that some people don’t see it that way, that they think a maid is humble and insignificant. I know that supposedly we should all strive to become doctors and lawyers or wealthy real estate tycoons. But not me. I am so grateful for my job that every day I pinch myself. Literally.
