The CEO Gets Her Man

by Anne Ashby

  “Who? What?” Debra shook her head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Meg took an exaggerated breath and planted hands on her hips. “Watch my lips,” she instructed. “We—you and I—are getting out of here for a couple of hours. Cathy and some of the others are waiting for us in a car so we don’t have to walk in the rain.” She grasped Debra’s arm and tugged her toward the door. “You won’t need that.” She plucked the phone from Debra’s fingers and threw it onto the bed.

  Not given any chance to protest, Debra was soon squashed into a car of unidentifiable make and model with half a dozen other staff members. Her search for a seatbelt drew hoots from the others.

  “We’re only going a few hundred metres,” one girl informed her.

  “Anyway, there’s only four belts, so unless you want to try and fit one around all three of us...” said the girl who’d followed them and jumped in onto Debra’s lap.

  Debra held herself inflexible amongst the giggling passengers as the car bunny-hopped along.

  “Why don’t you learn to drive, Cathy?” someone yelled as the car stalled in the middle of the road.

  “I can drive,” came a muffled reply. “It’s Toby’s car. I’m just not used to driving a manual.”

  Raucous laughter drowned out any further comment.

  Apprehension clawed at Debra, forcing moisture from every pore of her body. Breaths came in little pants as she repositioned herself but with Meg squashed against her side and an unknown girl, much bigger than herself, sitting on her lap, Debra was confined.

  Fears of kidnapping sent an unpalatable lump high in her throat and set her pulse galloping, but common sense reasserted itself. This invasion into her personal space had no ominous overtones. In fact the noise and giggling inside the car was almost contagious—almost.

  Soon they were piling out of the car and scurrying through the rain into a modest wooden home.

  “Time you learnt how to relax,” Meg whispered in her ear as she shoved Debra into a chair and perched on its armrest. In a louder voice she continued, “Cathy’s mum works at the museum twice a week. She doesn’t mind us using their house as somewhere we can relax and let our hair down a bit. It’s good to get away from the resort sometimes.”

  She leaned closer, dropping her voice. “Relax and you might even enjoy yourself. A novel experience, so to speak.” A wink may have lightened her implied criticism, but Debra still froze at her effrontery.

  Perhaps realising she had encroached beyond the acceptable, Meg sprang up and headed to what Debra assumed was the kitchen. At least her taking note of all the yelled responses to the call for refreshments suggested she was about to provide snacks.

  Awkward and uncomfortable, Debra squirmed as she looked around the cluttered room. Not only crowded with her companions but with a mismatched selection of dated furniture, this lounge was unlike any Debra had ever seen. The floral carpet, threadbare in places, looked as old as the house itself.

  Her face burned as Debra blocked her arrogant thoughts. Transferring her gaze, the polished woodwork, the spotless Manchester, the gleaming windows all impacted. This home might be older, but a very house-proud woman had filled it with cosiness Debra had initially missed.

  Every available surface was jammed with framed photographs. An image of Debra’s stark apartment sprang into her mind. She frowned. There was a photo of her and Paul taken at some business conference. And one of her parents on the sideboard in her dining room. Her frown deepened.

  Here, photos of children, groups, families, even animals, she assumed family pets, all warmed the room. She had no difficulty picking Cathy from the selection of toddler photos on the wall, her infectious grin was apparent even at that age.

  Debra’s gaze turned to her companions, blocking any more comparisons between this house and her own bare, empty home. With some steadying breaths she sought to follow Meg’s advice and relax. While her fingers wanted to clench at the other woman’s inference she didn’t know how, she forced them open to lie tensely in her lap.

  It wasn’t that she couldn’t relax. No. It was this girls’ time. She didn’t do girls’ time. Hadn’t done anything like this since boarding school, and even there, she’d never really fitted in.

  There were seven including her, most still talking at once. The noise level suggested double the number. They didn’t appear to feel the need for formal introductions although she didn’t recognise two. She was thrown friendly nods and smiles which she had no idea how to respond to.

  Debra’s eyes darted around. Meg and Cathy, the only girls she’d interacted with since arriving in Riversleigh, were both out of the room. Another jiggle thrust her further back in her seat, but she was still within the loose circle. Like a spare cog in a wheel, she sat within the circle but had nothing to contribute.

  Only half listening to a discussion about the latest applications some had down-loaded to their cell phones, she scowled as a good-natured argument erupted about exercise programmes and calorie counters.

  Her phone was a business tool, not a toy. She’d never heard of Bubble Shoot or Angry Birds, games the others were now talking about. Never tempted to waste precious time playing silly games, Debra wasn’t even aware such applications existed. But listening as they extolled the virtues of these pastimes, Debra made a mental note to check them out. They sounded like fun.

  The breath caught in Debra’s throat. Fun! She didn’t do fun either. She bit her lip as she swam through a haze of uncertainty with as much control as driftwood down a swollen river.

  Hoping her pride concealed any signs of her inner turmoil, Debra’s gaze darted around her assembled workmates. They were having fun. A simple discussion about phone applications jelled them together in friendly banter.

  Strange and disquieting thoughts raced inside Debra’s head. Why can’t I be a part of this? Their friendliness and laughter was infectious. If only she’d allow herself she could become part of the group. They’d invited her here for that purpose. Her heart thumped.

  Uncomfortable sweat glued her shirt to her back. Her hands twisted together. But the girls were drawing her into a circle where she didn’t belong, and didn’t know how to respond. Her mouth opened, ready with some inane comment which might join her to that circle just as a warning voice whispered inside. Don’t be a fool. You’ll regret it.

  Experience had taught Debra everything. She’d learnt at an early age how fickle friendships could be. This wouldn’t be any different. It was less painful to hold yourself aloof. Then you never got hurt.

  It soon became apparent aloof was something Meg didn’t intend to allow. Seated again on the arm of Debra’s chair, little by little she drew a reluctant Debra out of her safety cocoon.

  Uproarious discussion about a hotel regular eventually lured Debra from her decision to remain detached. “You mean he comes every Wednesday and does everything the same? Every visit?”

  “Every visit,” one of the girls confirmed. “Same clothes, same time, same meal, same room.”

  “Except for his companion.” Everyone cracked up laughing. “They’re never the same.”

  “Although he must run out soon.”

  “Run out?” Fascinated despite herself, an animated Debra leaned forward in her seat. “Run out of what?”

  Meg dug an elbow against Debra’s shoulder and gave her a wink. “Professional companions.”

  “Oh.” Taken aback, words deserted Debra.

  “They can’t be doing such a great job.”

  “Yeah, they only last one night.”

  “He’s probably got a roster going.”

  Debra joined in the laughter as the girls’ comments became even more ribald. “I wonder what’s special about Wednesday.”

  “Payday?” someone suggested.

  Amidst the laughter Debra relaxed back in her seat. A smile lurked around Meg’s lips, or maybe it was just the lines became more apparent. Debra sighed. So much for staying detached from this crowd. Without any p
erceptible effort, they’d drawn her in and warmed a part of her she rarely visited.

  Later someone chirped up, “Enough of bitching about our boyfriends. C’mon, Deb, tell us all about this guy in Wellington. What’d he do to you?”

  “Yeah, dish the dirt, Deb.”

  “It’ll be good to have something new to talk about. Was he really hot?”

  Debra’s mouth opened and shut. Her gaze swivelled around the faces, all eagerly awaiting her answer. Her tongue doubled in size. Meg, bless her heart, tried to intercede but was told to put a sock in it.

  Debra swallowed. Lying further to these people seemed insulting after they’d welcomed her so warmly. With a shaky breath she realised she did have one liaison she could share.

  “I used to think he was wonderful,” she answered the last question first. “But he turned into a real sleaze bag.”

  “So, what’d he do?”

  Caution caught at revealing words before they escaped. “He stole something very precious from me,” she substituted.

  “Ahh.” Understanding nods circled the group. “Your virginity.”

  Laughter clawed its way up from her very core and erupted. Stronger and more uncontrolled than she could ever remember, it forced tears down her cheeks at the hilarity of their assumption. “That, too,” she gasped when she could find enough breath.

  “Ohh. There’s more to this story.” They were waiting for Debra to expand when a shrill bell rang from somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen.

  “Damn!” Cathy ran to kill the noise.

  “We always set an alarm,” Meg explained. “Otherwise we’d be late for work more often than not.”

  “Especially when we have something juicy to listen to,” another chipped in.

  “Next week, girl.” Someone tapped Debra on the shoulder as they gathered up their coats. “Next week you get to tell us all about this city dude.” A burst of laughter greeted Debra’s shaken head. “We’ll put you right. Drive him out of your mind forever.”

  Debra couldn’t burst their bubble of enthusiasm by telling them Roger barely warranted a thought from one year to the next nowadays. As they all squashed back into Toby’s car, she couldn’t help wondering if she’d known people like this back when he’d betrayed her, would Roger have wreaked such havoc in her life?

  ****

  Prior to the commencement of the evening meal Debra followed Cathy into the staff dining room. The girl looked about in surprise and Debra realised what was different. There was absolute silence coming from the adjoining kitchen.

  Subdued staff worked with heads down making a huge effort to avoid any clanging of pots or clinking of dishes. The activity was so unlike the bustle and almost constant noise she’d seen there during the last two days.

  Cathy sat beside a young chef jamming food into his mouth. “What’s up?” she whispered.

  The young man glanced at her but continued stuffing instead of replying. A sharp dig in his ribs from Cathy earned an indignant if very quiet “oow” before his Adam’s apple began bobbing up and down. He made a nervous, sideways glance at the door before answering. “Mercury.”

  Cathy’s voice assumed a conspirator’s whisper as her eyes rounded. “What happened?”

  “Dunno. Sailed in here about an hour ago and let rip. Chef is spitting. I thought he might burst he’s so mad.” More food jammed into his mouth even as he scraped back his chair. “I gotta get back. I’m not giving Chef any excuse to take out his anger on me.”

  “What was that all about?” Debra was forced to ask when it became obvious Cathy’s lips were glued shut on the matter.

  Cathy’s normal cheerful chatter had disappeared. She shrugged and murmured, “It’s nothing to do with us. We’re dining room staff.”

  “Who, or what, is Mercury?”

  “Shh, keep your voice down.”

  Debra leaned over the table and whispered in Cathy’s face, “Well?”

  “Our general manager.”

  “Mercury?” Debra had read Madeline Murphy’s resume before leaving Wellington. She couldn’t recall seeing such a word.

  Cathy gave an embarrassed laugh. “One of the porters christened her months ago.”

  Disconcerted, Debra queried with a frown. “Why Mercury? I don’t get it. What’s the catch?”

  Cathy leaned in, her voice very low. “I never told you this.” She wouldn’t continue until Debra nodded acceptance. “Because Madeline Murphy’s pure poison and you never know which way she’s going to flow.”

  Cathy’s words slammed Debra back in her seat. Pumping Cathy further gained nothing. The girl became impervious to Debra’s questions.

  Debra’s frown deepened. Her suspicions had centred on Jase McEwan as being the cause of the hotel’s non-profitability. Had she been mistaken?

  Loath to admit it, she’d made a hasty judgement before even meeting the man. Debra now accepted her need to focus elsewhere. Jase’s name was bandied about with respect and affection among the staff. George and Linda held him in high regard, too.

  In contrast, the impact Madeline Murphy had on the kitchen this afternoon—and Cathy’s insightful comment about her nickname—now gave Debra cause to look a little closer at the general manager.

  ****

  Jase stormed into his office, only just resisting the urge to slam the door. This was becoming impossible. Glaring out the window he tried to make sense of his boss’s actions.

  Complaining about the staff’s lack of respect was one thing, but losing her temper and issuing a written warning to the head chef? Jase himself had lured Philippe away from a top hotel in Queenstown with, among other things, the promise of complete control in his kitchen. Jase cringed. Madeline had refused to listen to reason or accept any wrongdoing.

  Smoothing George’s ruffled feathers when he’d stormed into Jase’s office earlier had been hard enough. He’d been justifiably angry at Madeline’s actions of criticising his staff without him being present. The written warning to his head chef had infuriated him. Jase’s promise to sort out the problem had been premature. He was fast losing the ability to smooth over his boss’s nonsensical dictums.

  ****

  As soon as she was able to, Debra slipped into George’s office after a quick tap on the door. Extreme anger emanated from George’s face.

  “Jase said he’ll sort this out.” He rubbed a clenched fist across his forehead, “But I can’t see what he’s going to do. She’s gone too far this time.”

  What appeared to be confirmation of Madeline Murphy’s involvement in a staff breakdown did not necessarily prove any wrongdoing in the overall running of the resort. “What exactly happened?”

  George showed no reluctance. “The general manager accused our head chef of wastage and demanded he cut his budget by thirty-five percent.”

  He thrust back his chair and stood to confront her. “That probably sounds an acceptable request to you considering what I can only assume is our overall lack of profit?”

  Debra schooled her face not to divulge her agreement with his statement. She wasn’t about to enter into discussions about the viability of the resort with anyone but top management. And she wasn’t ready to approach them yet. Not until she had more arrows in her quiver.

  After a short pause George continued. “The problem is she’s already cut his budget to the bone. How he manages to still produce acceptable fare is a credit to his ability.” George took to pacing across his tiny office. “When he explained this, she exploded quicker than a firecracker and stormed away. First I knew about the whole incident was when Philippe presented me with the formal written warning delivered by her PA.”

  Debra hadn’t been here long enough to gain a strong impression of the chef everyone treated like a god. But his kitchen appeared to run smoothly and the meals produced—yes, she agreed with George—were of a very high quality.

  “So she’s already made previous cutbacks in the kitchen?”

  George stopped pacing long enough to nod.
r />   “When was this?”

  “At the beginning of this last quarter.”

  Around the time I sent Peter Robinson down.

  “At our management meeting she demanded we tighten everything. She wanted to decrease staff but Jase fought her on dismissing anyone—although he agreed to not replace anyone who left.” His lips twisted into what could almost be a smile. “He objected to me hiring you.” The pacing continued. “But he wasn’t going to let her start firing people without a fight.”

  Debra’s fingers worried her lips. There had been no instruction issued from Head Office to lower the hotel’s running costs. Despite this being an obvious response to lack of profits, and one Peter Robinson should have highlighted, he hadn’t.

  Debra’s lips tightened. Madeline Murphy must have been very pleased with his report. So why order any tightening of their budget? Alarm bells began clanging in her ears.

  “Show me your accounts for the last six months.”

  She frowned as George turned to a filing cabinet in the corner of his office. “Why aren’t these on computer?” she demanded as folders were placed in front of her.

  “The manager insists each department keep hard copies of our accounts.”

  “Does she, indeed?” Debra repositioned her chair closer to George’s desk, her stomach churning as concerns of mismanagement were replaced with the possibility of a far darker enterprise being carried out.

  “So the reports to Head Office come from...?”

  “I couldn’t be certain. Her PA, I guess. Claire picks up our account books every Friday morning—”

  “And collates all the figures for the weekly report,” Debra mused, her brain belting along at the speed of a bullet train.

  “Thank you, George. Go and do whatever,” she dismissed him, not even considering she was in his office, or that she should be waiting tables in the dining room. “I want to check a few things. Come back in an hour and I’ll have something for you to do.”

  Thirty minutes was more than enough time for Debra to accept their chef was indeed doing a sterling job maintaining the kitchen with an already very tight budget. His skills lay far beyond meal preparation and presentation. He was a genius at adaptation.