Planning a trip to France distracts Valencia from her woes

In last week’s episode, Valencia received some inside information on her husband’s fickle ways.

Valencia was in the kitchen getting a drink when Mr. John, the family’s personal chef, walked in.

 “Oh, Mrs. Williams, you must not serve yourself,” he said, taking away her glass. “That’s what we get paid for. If you start doing your own cooking, I’m out of a job.”

Valencia stormed off in frustration. Mr. John ran after her, saying, “Please wait, I did not mean to offend you.” His French accent got heavy as he pleaded, “It’s just that Mr. Williams has strict rules that we must abide by, and he doesn’t—”

“He doesn’t care about his wife!” Valencia cried out, tears streaming down her face. “So why would he care whether or not I pour my own damned orange juice?”

Valencia leaned against Mr. John’s chest and embraced him for support. The poor man didn’t dare touch the boss’ new wife, but he was equally afraid not to show her some kind of support, so he slowly lowered the glass down to the table and timidly patted her on the back. “There, there,” he whispered. “Whatever it is, it’ll be alright.”

“I’m sorry,” Valencia said, composing herself. “I don’t mean to put you in an awkward situation. It’s just that I’m in this huge house and I don’t have anybody to talk to. Everybody is hired help. There’s nobody around me to support me. I’m used to having someone nearby who I can lean on.”

“Don’t you have family here in Houston?”

“My family is in Georgia,” Valencia explained, wiping the tears away, “and I have friends in Minneapolis because that’s where I’ve lived for the past 10 years. But no, I have no family in Houston.”

“You mind if I speak to you frankly?” Mr. John asked.

“No, not at all,” Valencia responded, motioning for him to take a seat on the couch nearby.

“Well, madam,” Mr. John said matter-of-factly, “if you ask me, which you did, I’d say you’re bored and you need to get busy. “

“I beg your pardon?” Valencia raised her eyebrow.

“Now listen. I have watched you sit around this house all day, doing nothing except eating and drinking and spending time with your son. You hardly go out. You never entertain guests. You need to become a socialite, like Ms. Jacqui.”

“Oh, don’t even mention that woman’s name to me.”

“Well, I don’t like Ms. Jacqui either,” Mr. John confided. “But the one thing she did not do is sit around here feeling sorry for herself. Mr. Williams has a lot of money — take some of that money and do a little charity work. Or, go on a trip with your friends. “

“Well,” Valencia said, sticking her nose in the air, “I just felt like I needed to get acclimated to my new surroundings before I go off spending my new-found fortune.”

“Don’t be so snooty booty!” Mr. John chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s time for you to strut your stuff, like those ladies on that new Bravo reality television show Housewives of Atlanta.  You have 10 times the money they do, but you’re living like you’re on welfare.”

“I guess. I just—”

Mr. John interrupted her: “You just forgot you were a millionaire? Honey, if I had your money, I’d be in the south of France right now with my cousin Pierre sipping white wine from the finest French vineyards.”

Valencia perked up. “That sounds delightful.”

“Then it’s done. I’ll call Pierre and have him meet you at the airport. He’ll be your personal tour guide. He is very personable and friendly,” Mr. John assured her.

“I don’t even know what to do, how to get a passport…”