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Michael couldn't cook. As for myself, I like
doing that, on occasion; I
used to be a guinea pig for my mom, and I guess it rubbed off on me.
But Michael, according to himself, even screwed up a boiled egg, so
dinners would mostly take place downstairs in one of the two
restaurants; lunch usually consisted of fruit for him. His mother would
probably be present during both meals.
He gave me some details about his mother, bits and pieces. Her name was
Olivia; she was sixty-six years old. She lived in Kensington, London.
She drank tea without sugar, a bit of milk. She also drank martinis,
and sherry, preferring the former. She had a dog, a poodle named
Chester, but he wouldn't be coming with her, since she despised putting
the dog through the hell of quarantine every time she visited her son.
During the day I could do pretty much whatever I wanted, since she would
be staying in a suite in the hotel; but if she asked me to take her
somewhere, he said he'd greatly appreciate it. Michael preferred to
have someone with her whenever she was here. Usually that meant sending
a member of his staff along, but now that I was here, he asked if I
would mind doing it. I had no problem with that at all.
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