Page 4 of Taste

I accepted that some of the things I did were downright unprofessional and perhaps even mean. I was aware of my shortcomings as a human being and that it was time I dug deep and figured out how to become the fully fledged grown-up I pretended to be. But every time I walked into the weekly management meeting, my notes jotted neatly on a piece of paper where I’d remind myself to stick to the angelically pleasant brief I’d prepared, I’d meet Finn Christensen’s smirk across the room, devil’s horns would sprout from my forehead and all my sensibility would fly straight out the window. Our colleagues had started to expect it, the look of anticipation clear on their faces as we took our seats around the boardroom table. I could almost hear their thoughts churning out loud:Don’t leave Quinton and Christensen alone in the same room. It will turn into a bloodbath. They’ll kill each other.

I’d been the last to leave the boardroom, having taken a stern bollocking from both Amelia and Mr Klutz, our permanently stone-faced general manager, during which I had not even attempted to defend myself. Camille the flight attendant was not only a regular guest but also a friend who gave exceptionally good blow jobs. I had simply been a gentleman and walked her to her room after some after-hours drinks at a nearby bar. I’d humbly apologised for my error of judgement and promised to set a better example in the future. I was calm on the outside yet fuming and flustered on the inside, perhaps even a tad embarrassed, because I could see that, once again, I had been both careless and stupid.

I stayed behind in the bright room overlooking the London skyline, chewing on the aerial of my radio as I prepared to go down and face today’s post-service huddle and lunchtime brief. My company mobile rang, and I took a moment to compose myself before I answered. Shouting orders at the wholesaler on the other end of the line helped a bit. Shrugging the tension from my shoulders, I refastened my now too-long hair into a neater manbun and took a good look at myself in the window.

My reflection stared forlornly back, today’s vibrant shirt failing to brighten my mood as I smoothed down my black jeans and fastened my fitted jacket over my once-slim waist. I was gaining a bit of softness around my stomach again, and the sight of my jacket straining should have had me banging my fist against the glass, yet the extra weight was soothing. I was doing well, looking after myself. I was getting both sleep and nutrition, and things were under control, health-wise. Career-wise, I needed to act professionally, stop pulling these flamboyant stunts. Grow up.

Who the hell I had become? Had success gone to my head? Had my confidence once again made me bite off more than I could chew?

Whatever it was, I needed to get myself together. I grabbed the last biscuit off the discarded tray by the empty coffee pots, slamming the boardroom door shut behind me. And there he was, stopped dead in his tracks by the sight of me. With a clumsy stumble, I broke my stride and biscuit crumbs sprayed from my mouth.

“Quinton.” He nodded, turning as if he was going to squeeze past, his steel-blue eyes burning into me. And, being the devilish twat I was, I wouldn’t let him. You see, it was just too tempting, fucking with him a little when I had the chance, with no witnesses to rein me in.

It had been a stupid idea. An imbecilic spur-of-the-moment thing. I shouldn’t even have gone there.

But I had, because that was exactly who I was. I caused drama, and itwasstupid. I was far too old to behave like this. I was a successful restaurateur who oversaw a brilliant team of people who mostly respected me.

What I should’ve done next was address the perhaps a little demeaning manner in which I had torn his budget apart, maybe thanked him for his helpful feedback. Asked for his suggestions for improvement. What I did instead was put my arm up against the wall, blocking his route.

“What had I ever done to you, Christensen?” I snarled with irrational venom as I asked myself the exact same question. Whathadhe ever done to me?

His breath caught in his throat, and for a second or two, he looked like he didn’t know what to do or where to look. Whether to play along or to lash out and punch me in the face. I could see the emotions on his face and imagine the thoughts going through his head as he struggled to control the anger brewing inside of him. I could also picture the black eye I would sport if I didn’t get out of his way.

And for that fraction of a second, I saw fear. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the idea that he was scared of me, because the truth was we were more alike than either of us would ever admit.

We both worked hard and long hours. I doubted he had much of a home life; I know I didn’t. There was no time for that in the hospitality industry. I lived, breathed and survived through an enduring love of a life that existed inside these four walls. A life that made me happy. A life that paid my wages. I loved what I did. I loved my team. I loved what I was building here, and I think he probably did too.

I’d never met a man as brilliant and ambitious as Finn Christensen, and jealousy was a terrible beast, especially when that beast was mutually shared, or that was my gut feeling. He envied my popularity and the way people laughed at my stupid banter. I envied his brilliant mind. I hated that people liked him when I didn’t. He didn’t make me a better person, he made me bad. Evil. Rude. Jealous.

He filled me with fear too, and I didn’t like that feeling at all.

So, I did the most idiotic thing—something I would probably regret for the rest of my life. I smashed my mouth on his and kissed the fucker. Then I turned my back on him and walked away.

FINN

The Clouds Hotel Westminster provided a choice of 494 luxurious rooms for the discerning traveller wanting to rest, work and entertain. We offered high-class luxury for cost-conscious business needs, with all the necessary facilities and the best location in town, right opposite Waterloo station with stunning views of the River Thames and Big Ben. The classic London scenery dominated our online presence and added to our clientele by attracting both tourists from abroad and the homegrown English holidaymaker wanting to explore the most famous city in Europe.

Perhaps that was overselling it a little, but we attracted a fair amount of tourism as well as businesspeople coming to seal deals in our multicultural capital. Our guests worked hard and played even harder, something we took more than seriously in our quest to provide everything they required. We may not have been the classic choice for the rich and famous, but we held our own in the competitive London hotel market, and of course we flaunted our woke status: conscious of our carbon footprint, the hotel recycled 78 per cent of its waste. See? I knew my handbook off by heart and had swallowed the Clouds Customer Service commitment mantra like the bitter pill it was. I’d also been more than happy working here for the last ten or so years, until Mark Quinton had burst onto the scene with his entourage of hangers-on and turned what we’d always been into something else.

I was senior management, as well as the union representative for our branch and part of the core leadership team. I was experienced and professional, usually balancing locking horns with the management over employment issues with ensuring I was up to date on every small insignificant detail of the hotel industry. Yet I let him drive me mad for what should have been no reason at all. When we passed in the corridors, Mark Quinton always acknowledged me that annoying polite respect, called me ‘Christensen’ with that tiny snarl in his voice, like he was spitting my name out through gritted teeth. He’d never mentioned the kiss. I wouldn’t have even called it that. It had been more of a headbutt to the lower face and should have been reported to Amelia in HR as assault, in more ways than one.

I hadn’t reported it. Nor had I given him that well-deserved verbal warning, despite what I wanted to say to him playing on a loop in my head. I had added and subtracted well-thought-out comebacks laced with subtle threats. I had planned out a million different ways to take my revenge, but I hadn’t executed any of them, and I didn’t really know why.

Every move he made, every ridiculous outfit he wore, every word that passed his lips made me shudder. I knew his kind, the ones born with a silver spoon in their mouth. I doubted Quinton had ever had to struggle with anything since people like him just floated through life on some kind of invisible red carpet. He would have grown up in a loving home, pushed along by his cheerful, supportive parents, slipped from job to job like he’d tripped on a banana peel, and skipped from hook-up to hook-up leaving strings of broken hearts behind like discarded rubbish.

People like him got promoted through their charm and good looks while the rest of us worked our arses off to climb the ranks. I’d worked too hard for twats like him to just waltz into the management jobs with a pat on the back like they deserved it. And Quinton was most definitely all about good looks and charm. God knew what went on in his head, but he didn’t, under any circumstances, deserve anything.

He was tall and handsome, sharp features and pale skin, piercing dark eyes and a razor-sharp jawline framed by a mop of too-long golden-brown hair. When he broke out that all-consuming dimpled smile of his, people ate out of his hand. Just like that, even though the man couldn’t dress himself to save his life. Loud colourful flamboyant frilly shirts teamed with sharp jeans as well as a wild selection of floral suits had made their appearance across the lobby in the hotel’s flagship restaurant. He wore high-heeled boots, even sometimes fancy trainers. The man didn’t seem to own a normal suit, yet somehow made the rest of us look like fools while he got away with dressing like a clown. Like there wasn’t a bunch of hard-working people who deserved his job more than him.

The Cloud Westminster had a popular franchised coffee lounge with riverside seating, a charming independent gift shop and our celebrated dining room, which provided convenient access to breakfast, lunch and à la carte dinners, alongside an extensive room service offering and an overpriced rooftop bar. Our previous restaurateur and food and beverage lead had taken early retirement after an unfortunate fall. The fact that Mr Goran had been a raving alcoholic and should have been put out of his misery years ago had been a minor issue compared to the drama that had unfolded when it came to sourcing his replacement. Clouds had needed a shake-up, a big personality to bring in the cash and turn our tired dining experience into a profitable culinary delight.

There had been three in-house applications for the position, alongside a sizeable number of external applicants. Those three extremely capable, well-trained, knowledgeable in-house people had been more than ready to shoulder the responsibility, yet Mr Klutz had handed Mark Quinton the job, star-struck and flustered by the man’s reputation and obviously hoping it would rub off on our hotel with the notoriety his name would bring. I had vetoed it. Mr Klutz had firmly overruled me, said the man had clout and knew what he was doing, and damn him. Damn, damn him had already proved himself by turning that ridiculous former restaurant of his on its head with his frankly ridiculous ideas. Blatantly over-the-top locally produced gourmet pub food for the masses may have worked in the independent sector, but we were a freaking business hotel chain. People wanted quick burgers, an omelette and fries. Yet Quinton had somehow succeeded, and his former venue had become a surprising force under his guidance.

Now he was doing the same thing here, naming our perfectly good dining room‘Taste Me’and turning the place into a lust-filled circus. A slick, clean-looking sex-hazed circus, but anyway. His nauseatingly friendly happiness-inducing fucking flair made me sick. Mark Quinton oozed sex in everything he did. His voice dripped with sensuality, and the way he treated people around him made them go weak at the knees. Personally, I cringed with every word that slid from his perfectly plump lips.

The man, sex god or not, was truly an idiot. He’d have his hand-picked chefs cook up his stupid fancy culinary ideas. Then he’d bring them for my reception team to try, standing there with a tray of samples and all his charming talk of recreating the taste of Scandinavian chanterelles using English mushrooms and cheeses from some farm in Kent or some such, while I hid in the back wishing he would fuck off and leave me—us—alone. Instead, my traitorous staff would orgasm out words of encouragement as they licked their fingers and lavished him with praise.

The guy just couldn’t leave me alone. Whenever I returned to my desk after a late shift, there was a plate on it—scoops of homemade clotted-cream ice cream drenched in his trademark caramel reduction—and he would try to feed me when I was on night duty, calling me before the kitchen closed to offer a meal. I always refused, then sat in my office with a sandwich and a bag of crisps, kicking myself for being such an arrogant twat.

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