“And he never tips.”
“Ugh, that sounds like one of my clients in The Beachside Grill last night.”
“Oh, they’re usually alright down there. We tend to get the entitled fucks up here.”
“That’s good to know. Remind me never to cover a shift here again then,” I mutter, making her laugh.
“Come on, we best get out there. Just shout if you need help.”
“Will do,” I say as I follow Emily out of the staff room and back to the main restaurant.
The hotel itself is set high on the cliff side, a gorgeous white art deco masterpiece that reflects the 1930s era it was created in. The interior is stunning and a far cry from the laid back surfer vibe of where I worked before. It’s beautiful, but I don’t exactly feel comfortable here.
Then again, probably the only people whodofeel that way are the paying customers on the other side of the table.
The duty manager for the shift, Maggie, comes over to Emily and I, and thanks me for stepping in at the last moment. I roll my lip between my teeth while I wait to hear which tables she’s assigning me to.
“Emily, you’ve got table eight because you’re more experienced. That will be your only table for this shift. Lani, I need you to take on tables one through seven, nine and ten. My boys have the rest of the restaurant covered.”
“Thanks,” I say, relieved not to have the dreaded table eight. I shoot Emily a sympathetic look. I’d gladly take on nine tables over her one.
“Okay, let’s get to it.”
The shift passes in a blur of taking orders, fetching drinks, serving food and pouring refills. The silver service is absolutely fine. More or less. It’s not that much different from serving people at a carvery, except you have to hold the dishes with one hand and serve with the other. There was one slightly awkward moment where a rogue potato got the better of me and fell into a woman’s handbag, but she just laughed and, with a wink, told me she’d take it home to enjoy later.
Thank god.
No complaints, some pretty excellent tips, and all is fine…I’m on my final table, seven, who are on to their coffees. Maybe a half hour more and I’ll be done. Ready for some more pain killers and a nap before my shift at the grill this evening.
While I’m waiting for the machine to do its thing, I take a moment to breathe. The shift’s been busy, but that just means that time has flown by. Poor Emily is barely half way through her service, despite lunch almost being over, because her customers have complained so much, and loudly. I really feel for her.We’ve been shooting each other encouraging smiles whenever our paths have crossed on the way to the pass.
The fancy machine beeps to say the coffees are done, so I collect them and carefully carry them across the almost empty dining hall. I’m less than ten paces away from serving them to the customer when there’s a screech of chair legs against the beautiful dark wood parquet flooring, then suddenly I’m jostled and scalding hot coffee is blooming across my chest.
“Fuck!” I yell.
“Watch it you stupid klutz!”
“I’m sorry, Sir,” I grind out from between my gritted teeth. My chest feels like it’s on fire, the wet material of my shirt sticking to me, but I can’t peel it away because I still have the coffees – or what’s left of the coffees – in my hands. The urge to just drop them is great, but I don’t.
He begins yelling and Maggie rushes over.
“What’s happened here?” She asks, her face lined with concern.
Before I can even open my mouth, the man who barged into me begins to tell his version of events, gesticulating wildly, his voice rising and ringing with anger. I can’t get a word in edgeways.
“Are you alright?” The lovely couple at table seven ask as tears gather in the corner of my eyes. I bite my tongue and nod.
“I’ll get you more coffee right away. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be silly, look after yourself first. Get some ice on that or something.” Their kindness makes me want to cry.
Someone races over to me and grabs the coffees from my hand. “Go and sort yourself out.”
“Thanks,” I say without looking up.
I grab the front of my shirt and peel it away from my skin. Peering down the front of my shirt, I see that my chest is red. Shit. It looks bad. It really fucking hurts.
“Is it bad?”