The CEO Gets Her Man

by Anne Ashby

  Debra’s fingers continued tapping her lips, her mind whirling. Another person who knew what was happening? Was this taking too big a risk?

  She watched George as he watched her. He had already picked his candidate and was intelligent enough to guess what result the resort might suffer should her identity become public.

  “You trust this woman?”

  “Completely.” George continued playing with the pen in his fingers. “She’s a hard nut.” His eyes slid away from hers. “She won’t pay Debra Laurie any more respect than anyone else she meets,” he warned. “But this hotel is her life. If she knew you were doing your utmost to keep the place running efficiently, keep it open...”

  A twinge of guilt trickled through Debra. Keeping the resort open wasn’t her plan at all. Turning out the lights and locking all the doors sounded much more attractive. Cut their losses before the white elephant dragged the whole company down.

  While she had just now insinuated the possible demise of the hotel, perhaps her actual plans had better stay cloistered for now.

  Debra got to her feet, her decision made. “Talk to this woman. Tell her as little as possible, but as much as you believe necessary.” She turned as she opened the door. “When will I expect to meet her?”

  “She’ll come and find you shortly.”

  “Thank you, George. I apologise for being so inept at my duties here.” Not waiting to hear any response, she quickly slipped through the door and marched toward the staff toilet, the only area she could guarantee herself a few moments of privacy.

  Seated on the commode lid Debra buried her face in her hands. Embarrassment surged through her again. Training! Someone was going to teach her to wait on tables. She swallowed the groan rising in her throat. Debra didn’t need George pointing out the uselessness of their masquerade if she was incapable of improvising as a waitress.

  But she didn’t appreciate being told what she could and couldn’t do. Nails dug into her palms as she glared at the back of the stall door, her breaths coming in short, angry pants.

  It had been a number of years since anyone had dared to suggest she had shortcomings. But George had done just that, albeit in a very cautionary way. He’d had to do something, she rationalised, after she’d bungled everything she’d been asked to do.

  She’d just bet Jason McEwan had something to do with George’s suggestion, too. The operations manager had made no secret of his distrust of her ability, probably haranguing George for employing her. After seeing her talking to her mother, he’d be watching her every move.

  Or maybe the scrutiny was because of this morning. After he’d got over the shock of her almost tripping him over, disapproval had featured strongly in his expression.

  Well she wasn’t here seeking anyone’s approval. She cared nothing for what Jase McEwan might think he knew about her. It was what she could find out about him that interested her.

  Her lips tightened and she straightened her slumped shoulders. No-one could say Debra Laurie did things by halves. Karin had talked her into this and she’d jolly well play her role to the best of her ability. While the skills the other waitresses effortlessly exhibited eluded her today, she could learn. They were physical skills she’d never dreamed of trying—until now.

  Unaware of the time slipping by, Debra was taken aback when a door banged open.

  “You in here, Debra?” grated a voice of indeterminable age.

  Caught at a disadvantage, Debra used the seconds it took to flush and unlock the stall door to impose some semblance of control into the situation.

  Faced with a waitress she had vaguely noticed at breakfast, she was subjected to a hard stare. The multiple age lines on the tiny woman’s face made it hard to distinguish what expression she wore.

  “I’m Meg.” She stuck out her hand, one which felt old and dry to Debra’s touch but gripped like the jaws of an alligator. “It’s good to know George hasn’t lost his mind.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Employing you.” Meg looked her up and down. “We guessed it wasn’t your looks, cos we knew he’d never seen you before.” A witch-like cackle escaped. “But everyone’s been wondering how you managed to swing it.” Another sound emerged which Debra guessed might be considered a laugh. “No-one’s figured you to be the head honcho, though.” Meg’s shaking head suggested she wasn’t convinced either. “Most of us reckon his wife has George exactly where she wants him—and you’re Linda’s friend.”

  Debra lifted her chin. It was easy to look down at the smaller woman—she was barely one hundred and sixty centimetres tall. It gave Debra a much needed advantage to assert her position right from the start of their peculiar relationship. “Perhaps we should encourage this theory?”

  “Yep, that might stop the talk. I guess it’s important no-one figures what you’re doing here?”

  Debra inclined her head.

  “We’ll let on you’re having man trouble in Wellington and needed a quick exit.” Meg decided. “All the young ones are so busy chasing boyfriends and having their own man troubles, they’ll believe that soon enough.”

  When Meg turned toward the door, signalling the end of that particular conversation piece, to her amazement Debra realised her mentor hadn’t been asking permission.

  Left to trot behind the beckoning Meg, with her lips clenched shut, Debra accepted she had but two choices. Accept whatever this woman threw or give up the whole crazy scheme and go home. She groaned. Disappointing her mother wasn’t an option she could stomach right now.

  Chapter Three

  Instead of working the usual split-shift of the dining staff, and using those hours off for some in-depth snooping, today’s down time was spent with Meg. The woman showed no respect for Debra’s position, but rigorously set about training her in the basic arts of waiting.

  “Seeing you’re only gonna be here a few days, George says you’ll stay in the dining room, so you don’t need to know nothing about the bar, or wine lists. Any of the guests ask, you summon the wine waiter, okay?”

  Debra nodded. Meg didn’t appear to expect conversation and that was fine with her. Opening her mouth might allow her growing annoyance to escape.

  “All we need you to do is serve and clear tables without making a hash of it.”

  In a small, private dining room, thankfully unreserved for the day, Meg set about teaching Debra the fundamentals of serving and clearing tables.

  By lunchtime Debra’s left hand ached. The unnatural positioning of her fingers to support plates stretched muscles Debra hadn’t even been aware of having.

  Starting lightly, Meg soon had her balancing numerous plates, albeit empty plates, while circling tables pretending to serve and clear. Never so relieved to have someone suggest a break, Debra dragged herself into the staff dining room behind Meg, thinking only of the respite from carrying crockery.

  Their arrival was heralded with scoffed queries as to their whereabouts and suggestions they were skiving off. Debra bit her lip. If she wasn’t pulling her weight—

  “Yeah right,” Meg shouted back over the din. “If we’d be so lucky.”

  Often the centre of attention, Debra was used to the cool, or more often downright chilly regard paid to her. This noisy familiarity was uncharted territory. Apprehension slithered up and down her spine as she clung to Meg’s presence beside her. As they dished their lunch and sat down, the noise and teasing continued, with newbie Debra at its centre.

  Fuelled by Meg sneaking in ribald comments at every opportunity, Debra’s persona was soon depicted as a sad, lovelorn creature from Wellington. It was scary how quickly everyone accepted the outlandish story.

  Uncertain how to react to the good-natured advice about men in general and her supposed man in particular, Debra mumbled out monosyllabic responses.

  Returning to the private dining room for more instruction, Debra was astounded when Meg rounded on her the moment the door closed, her eyes flashing. “You’d better climb off that high horse of yours, prince
ss, if you want to be accepted here.”

  Her eyes boggling, Debra stared at Meg. Before she could reply, Meg had grabbed a large tray of glassware and thrust it at Debra. Ignoring Meg’s direction to hoist the tray to shoulder level, Debra slammed the tray right back onto the sideboard.

  “What do you mean by that?” she demanded.

  With hands planted on hips, Meg let rip. “All your hoity-toity airs don’t mean squat down here, lady. You might own this hotel, but you don’t own us. You ain’t no better than us plebs. You’d do well to remember that.”

  The shock of the unexpected attack caused Debra’s lunch to compress into a sickening ball and threaten to exit her stomach.

  “I-I—”

  “Where did you learn to be such a toffee-nosed, stuck-up little snot? Some fancy overseas finishing school?” Meg turned aside with a noisy “harrumph” and might have left if Debra’s hand hadn’t snaked out to touch her arm.

  “Meg, p-please, wait.” She stammered and swallowed, not quite dislodging the ominous lump which she feared was her lunch. Floundering under the glare of the diminutive woman confronting her, Debra searched for words to defuse the tension, while still not quite comprehending how she had offended. With a deep breath she forced some steel into her backbone and voiced a stilted apology.

  Meg’s head tilted to one side. “You haven’t a clue, have you?”

  Debra’s chin jutted out. “What do you mean?”

  Instead of replying, the other woman returned to the sideboard and, absently rearranging some glassware, stood shaking her head. The condescending action spurred outrage to surge through Debra.

  “I asked you a question, Meg. What do you mean by that statement?”

  The freezing tone had little effect on Meg. In fact Debra’s ire rose still further when she witnessed a twinge of mirth around Meg’s lips.

  “You want to know?” Meg’s eyebrows rose. “You really want me to tell you?”

  Debra nodded, her lips tightly clasped together.

  “You’re so far up yourself you don’t even know how to talk to common folks like us, do you?” Meg’s tone clearly conveyed her disgust—disgust that tightened Debra’s stomach like a giant clenching fist, sending a painful stab somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.

  “Meg. I’m sorry, that’s not true.” Debra laid a tentative hand on Meg’s arm before jerking it away, not wanting to invade the other woman’s space. “It’s just I d-don’t socialise much.”

  To her dismay her whispering voice broke but she forced herself to continue, to explain. To change the negative impression she’d made. “I’m not good at interacting with...anyone.” Her lips twitched but she guessed they wouldn’t form a smile. “So don’t assume you’re being treated any differently from anyone else.”

  Debra couldn’t be sure if Meg’s expression softened or not. Her wrinkles made it hard to tell, but her eyes lost their chill as they stared at Debra. After what seemed like an eon Meg turned aside and without a further word on the subject picked up the tray of glassware again.

  “Once you get the tray balanced...”

  One hour before their evening shift was due to begin Meg called a halt to her instruction. Debra flopped onto a nearby chair, more exhausted than she could believe. She flexed her aching hands.

  Manoeuvring the fork and spoon to serve rolled-up napkins substituting for vegetables had turned her fingers into big, uncoordinated thumbs which got tied in knots. Her arms ached, too.

  The silver trays alone were heavy enough balanced on one hand, but then Meg loaded them with glassware and expected Debra to prance around as if they were feather-light. Debra groaned aloud at the memory.

  “Your attitude toward the guests is very important, Debra.” Meg sat down beside her.

  Debra’s tired back stiffened, but Meg soon diffused any suggestion her comment had been an implied criticism.

  “We call it table radar. Always be aware of the guests. Always check to see they’re happy. Do they need anything else? Is their meal satisfactory?” She eyeballed Debra. “And do it with the biggest smile you can manage, always making eye contact when you speak to them. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “The more you butter up the guests, the happier they are. The happier they are, they’ll remember the service and want to come back.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “This is a classy place, Debra. If you don’t give that little bit extra, you’d be letting the hotel down.”

  Debra nodded. George was right about Meg. It appeared her devotion to the resort went deep.

  “All chefs are pigs.” Meg warned as they walked over to the staff quarters for a break. “I reckon they’re specially trained to give waiting staff a hard time. Damn superiority complex—which we all ignore, of course. Best to take no notice of them most of the time.”

  Meg touched her arm. “Don’t let their bell ringing get to you. They’ll single you out for extra attention for sure, knowing you’re new. You’ve already discovered that.” Meg winked. “Don’t take it personally, it’s just their nasty way of saying ‘welcome.’ If they see it getting to you, they’ll only get worse. Remember that, and don’t let them bully you.”

  Unexpected warmth spread through Debra at Meg’s concern. She wasn’t used to people caring about her welfare. “Don’t worry. Bullying I can handle.” Her determined smile slipped a little. “It’s friendliness I have less experience with.”

  Meg’s chuckle warmed Debra even more. “We’ll team up with one of the younger girls tonight. Cathy and I will see you’re okay. I’ll give you this—you’re a quick learner, Debra.” She glanced around to ensure they were alone. “If you ever need a job, I reckon waitressing might just be your calling.” With another of her weird cackles, she disappeared down the hallway to her own room.

  ****

  Some of Meg’s instruction must have sunk in. Debra grinned as her table settings were carefully inspected by the chatty young local not long out of school. Cathy’s cheerful personality made it easier to accept her slight corrections without embarrassment.

  Too caught up earlier coping with Meg’s instruction to delve into matters pertaining to the running of Riversleigh, Debra grasped at the chance to begin digging for information now.

  Cathy grinned across at Debra while they transformed table napkins into attractive swans. “Riversleigh has changed so much since the resort was built. Unless there was an opening on one of the fishing boats, or the supermarket, or at the paua shell factory, there just wasn’t any work.”

  She reached into a box and pulled out more neatly ironed napkins, folding at least three to every one of Debra’s as she chatted. “My brothers and sister all left home when they finished school. It broke my Mum’s heart—at least that’s what she tells me. Leaving here would have broken mine, too. I’m a real homebody,” she winked. “I love working here.”

  Cathy stopped folding and gazed out the window with a far-away smile. “Toby and I are saving for a house. It would take years longer if we had to live in the city.”

  Debra bit her cheeks, hard, to smother the urge to laugh. Cathy meant Invercargill when she said “city,”—hardly comparable to London or New York for exorbitant real estate costs.

  Debra dropped her gaze. Her fingers fumbled as she deplored her moment of arrogance. Forget it, a voice whispered inside her head. You’re here to get information, not make friends. “Does your boyfriend work at the hotel, too?”

  “He’s a porter for now, but not forever. Jase signed both of us up for extra-mural classes at the polytech.”

  Debra couldn’t control her eyebrows. She was aiming the conversation around to Jase McEwan but hadn’t expected it to take this type of turn.

  “We grabbed at the chance. It’ll mean pay rises for us, but Jase says it’s about more than money. He says it’s important to get recognised qualifications. His father made him keep studying, even after he became an All Black. He used the off-season to do his practical hotel t
raining. He’s told us without his dad pushing him he wouldn’t have anything now—no degree or no other job to fall back on.”

  Debra digested this unexpected fact with a frown. Perhaps checking Jase McEwan’s portfolio would have been more pertinent than assuming his sporting reputation had scored him the job.

  “Jase is going to cross-train us. I’m starting in reception next month.”

  Cathy blushed a little at Debra’s murmured congratulations. “When Toby is eighteen, he’s going to train as a barman. Jase says the wider our experience, the better wages we can demand.”

  Cathy continued to talk. Her hero-worship became more obvious with every sentence. By the time they were summoned for the pre-dinner briefing, Debra decided if she heard one more “Jase says” she might strangle her mentor.

  She’d have to talk to someone else if she expected to get any dirt on Jase. Cathy clearly thought the sun shone out of him.

  ****

  Debra felt steely eyes upon her as she crossed the dining room and knew instinctively who they belonged to. Her skin warmed. She felt her whole body respond to Jase’s prolonged stare. Her heart raced any time she allowed herself to remember their contacts.

  Thank God he’d been nowhere in evidence during the dining service. The bulk of their guests, a bus load of European tourists, had already left the dining room. There were only a dozen or so guests left, including her mother, who had invited Joyce and husband Ian to join her.

  She allowed a small smile to play around her lips, having caught Karin’s look of surprise—amazement, more like it. Karin would never have expected me to be capable of doing this.

  Meg and Cathy had covered a couple of times because of her lack of speed, but she hadn’t caused any havoc during dinner. Her chin jutted out. In fact I’ve done a great job, she considered. Great enough so I don’t need to worry about anyone watching.

  With a deep breath and keeping her back firmly turned on his prying gaze, she still prayed she wouldn’t do anything to attract Jase’s closer attention.