Page 13 of Taste

Housekeeping already hated me for repeatedly hounding them with requests, and the one engineer on duty was currently unblocking a toilet on the fifth floor as well as trying to repair a bed frame destroyed by what had turned out to have been an impromptu orgy last night, resulting in our duty housekeeper demanding danger pay after dealing with some of the more unusual items left behind for their disposal. So yes. I was fucked. In more ways than one.

As Seth kept mumbling next to me, I realised I’d have to go and see Quinton. Just my bloody luck to be manning the front-of-house team when he was acting as the manager on duty. Him and me and this clusterfuck of an evening. Fuck, fuck, fuck. But it was the professional and correct procedure to follow, so I really didn’t have a choice in the matter. We would have more than the weather to deal with by the end of the evening shift, and I didn’t dare think of where I would accommodate the staff I needed tomorrow morning, let alone our paying guests expecting a bed for the night.

Seth slammed another key card into its fancy little holder as I walked back out into the lobby. I could see him, a flash of colour in the dim light, his blinding smile on full display as he waved off another happy diner. My stride was more confident than the lump in my chest as I proceeded towards the restaurant with caution, crossing the lobby floor with my paperwork raised like a white flag of defeat. He didn’t greet me, just watched smugly as I approached.

“Can I ask what fairy tales you put in Mrs Sorrel’s head this time?” I boomed out. I hadn’t meant to confront him about that, but he looked a little too pleased with himself for my liking. “I suggest you don’t make promises to our guests that you have no authority to deliver.”

“And I suggestyoudon’t make accusations you can’t back up. The Sorrels just paid their bill in fullandtipped my staff. Apart from that, I think we have way bigger problems this evening than getting Mrs Sorrel drunk enough that she won’t care which room she’s in. She’s lost her handbag twice already, and we’ve had to remind her not to stand on the chairs in the dining room. Let me do my job, like I’m letting you do yours.”

“Oh!” I said and deflated. What else could I say? I’d meant to warn him about crossing a line—a line I’d apparently just crossed myself.

“This weather situation is getting worse,” he said. “How many staff have you got?” He seemed calm, far calmer than I was. “And how many need to stay the night?”

“Twelve left on my side. Two are adamant they can manage to get home.” I wasn’t going to force people to stay and already had a solid plan forming in my mind. I was also strangely relieved not to have started another war of words with him. Instead, we were having a good, solid conversation using inside voices and constructive, professional words.

“I’m keeping two chefs, stewarding and six waiting staff. I need those ten to stay the night.” He scratched his head, and another stray curl escaped from his unusually messy top knot. “And Claire upstairs.”

“Housekeeping have made up beds in all our conference rooms, and the ballroom is being cleared out and set up as we speak. I’ll pass on those numbers, thank you. My four front of house will be in the King Charles Room—I held back three guest rooms total, and by the look of it, I’ll need them all. I’m hoping to keep a housekeeper on overnight if I can find the space. I’ve got someone called Pete from security staying on the door until late, and Stewart says he’ll be back to take on the morning. The duty engineer is already set to kip in his office. Room service will be a no-go after eleven—you cool with that?” He nodded. I continued, “Overnight, your lot will have the Duchess Megan Lounge and eventually the Princess Charlotte Ballroom. Make sure you brief anyone staying on safety regulations and ensure they’re all fed before you send them up. I’ll sign off the tabs if you push them through.” I was rambling, and it was probably far too much information for him to take in, but he was nodding and listening to me instead of staring at me with his usual stony silence.

“Thank you,” he said. I felt myself relax that he was already on the ball and surprisingly thinking along the same lines as me. I still couldn’t look him in the eye, though, as I handed him a piece of paper and a stack of keys for the conference halls, where I’d already arranged for fold-up beds and towels to accommodate our impromptu staff sleepover.

“Quinton?” I called as he turned to leave.

He didn’t reply but turned back, and our eyes met for the first time in weeks.

“What about you?” I asked, and for a minute my voice went soft. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have said it was out of concern or kindness.

“I’ll kip on the loungers in the dining room. Don’t worry about me.” There was no way he would be leaving. I’d already known that. Not with the uncertainty of the escalating weather and not knowing if he’d have a full set of staff for breakfast in the morning. We were both products of our environment, and he was always surprisingly sharp in situations like this. He’d sent out a well-worded, all-staff text message already, urging those who were due to come in for the early shifts not to endanger themselves in any way. There would be no repercussions for not turning up on time in a situation like this. Not with the way the wind was howling outside the glass-fronted lobby. I couldn’t even see the other side of the street because of the relentless vertical rain and strong gusts whirling past outside. But Mark Quinton spending the night on a chair in his restaurant was completely out of the question.

“No way, Quinton, I can’t let you do that. Health and safety issues for a start.” I was still looking straight at him and saw him roll his eyes at what I knew was my annoying habit of sticking to the bloody rules come hell or high water. Yet those eye-rolls were starting to lose their impact.

“We have no more rooms, you said it yourself. I’ll be fine. Claire’s staying in the bar. Housekeeping have already made up the large sofa up there.”

“She’s fine staying in the bar. She can lock the door and has bathroom facilities. You, on the other hand, won’t be safe down here. I won’t let you sleep in the restaurant. The cleaners need access.”

“Christensen,” he pleaded. “You’re being a dick.”

“For fuck’s sake,andfor once, can you just bloody play by the rules?” I gritted out in despair. I was so fucking tired of the constant drama, of him being difficult in every bloody situation. Most of all, I needed this freaking evening to just end.

Even so, I probably shouldn’t have phrased it like that. I should’ve explained my professional concerns with regards to his well-being and safety because I knew it wasn’t the first time he’d kipped on those chairs, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. It wouldn’t be the last time I put my beauty sleep on the line for this fine establishment either.

“When do I ever play by the rules?” He laughed, walking back towards me, then leant forward, resting his elbows on the bookings lectern. “You know I don’t play well with others. Especially not with you.”

I saw him recoil at his words the minute they left his mouth.

“If I’m being a dick, you’re being a complete tit,” I shot back before he could say anything else.

He took a deep breath and tapped his fingers against the lectern’s surface as I squirmed with unease.

“Don’t,” I warned. We werenotdoingthisagain.

“Won’t,” he replied quietly.

“Here.” I stuck my hand in my pocket, wondering what the hell I was doing. This was probably the worst idea I’d ever had, especially since we seemed to have found a precarious balancing point where the two of us could function while sharing the same oxygen in enclosed spaces. I gripped the plastic card as my heart took a double beat. This was truly stupid. Borderline pathetically so. But it was the right thing to do. Afucking temptingthing to do. It would never end well. It had to, though, because there was no other way of making this work.

I took my hand out of my pocket and handed him the key. “You’ll share with me, room 217. It’s the room that’s been out of service since last week—the one with no carpet and the toilet that won’t stop flushing.”

He stared at me like I was speaking in tongues. Why on earth would he have any idea about rooms that were out of service or missing bloody carpet? It wasn’t like he paid any attention to my thorough Friday morning briefings. He probably had only half a clue how much butter was stacked in his chillers or what was on the special’s menu for tomorrow, but he took the key from my hand and stared at it in disgust.

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