Chapter 16
Sixteen
Talia
"Get that!"
The manager of my second job, a high-end restaurant called Tusk, points out a table where the couple has just left. His brow furrows at me as he whips his hand in a circle.
"Can you move it? I need to have you working, not gawking."
"Of course," I say. I tug on the hem of my short skirt as I hurry to clear the table. I pull off the glasses first, then stack a pile of plates. I grab the glasses and plates and turn to carry them into the dishwashing area called the dish pit. Brian stops me, hustling up to me with a large tray.
"Get everything at once. Clear the entire table. I can’t believe I’m having to tell you this," he hisses. "Usually, when I train a new hostess, she is inexperienced. But I don’t have to tell them things that are common sense. I’m going to need you to do better if you want to keep working here."
He says it matter-of-factly, and the table to my right notices, turning their heads and arching their eyebrows. I feel my face heat as I bite my lip, feeling a wave of shame and sadness. I don’t want to cry in front of this entire room of people, but my manager is making it very hard.
Brian shoves the wide black tray at me, knocking it into my stomach so hard that I stumble backward. My breath is knocked out of me, but Brian just smirks at me, turning on his heel and threading his way through the busy, crowded dining room.
It’s seven thirty at night, and Tusk is absolutely jammed with people, every single employee thrumming with energy as they move about their business.
Gulping, I clamp my lips shut, determined not to show weakness.
As I stack plates and glassware on the tray, a vague memory swims to the surface of my mind. It’s the fleeting image of Dare leaning down to me and whispering that my face is too easy to read.
I thought that Dare was crazy and that he was making up rules for interacting with the Morgan family that would never apply outside of their fancy estate. But here I am, using some of the same emotional control that I have only recently discovered.
Who would have thought that Dare would be useful to me?
As I lift the tray onto my shoulder, I struggle under its weight. The thought that pregnant women aren’t supposed to lift anything flits through my mind.
Is that true? I don’t actually know. It’s just another thing for me to worry about.
After I rush the tray to the dish pit, I head back out front and make a beeline for the hostess stand.
There is another hostess working, as is the usual schedule for hosts on the weekends, or so I’m told.
I’m working with Anna, a gorgeous young blonde with a short black dress and the highest heels I’ve ever seen anybody successfully walk in.
She spots me and gives me a disapproving look.
"Where have you been? I needed you to take over at the hostess stand so that I could go around the restaurant and ask everyone how their meal was. I can’t leave the hostess stand unattended."
Bowing my head, I find myself flushing once more. "Sorry. Brian asked me to…"
"Brian doesn’t know anything," she cuts in. "He thinks he does because he is the front-of-house manager, but he can’t even book a reservation. He is clueless." She rolls her eyes. "Okay, can you stay here while I do a round of the room?"
“Of course,” I say.
She looks at me out of the corner of her eye.
"When you have a little downtime, you should put in an order with the kitchen for a meal. We don’t have time to eat while we’re here, but getting a boxed up meal is one of the only perks for us.
We get fed, and we sometimes get a percentage of the tips. It depends."
Nodding my head, I make a note. "Okay. What are the rules for food again? We get seventy-five percent off or something."
"Actually, the hostesses get their food for free, up to one hundred dollars’ worth. It’s actually a really nice perk."
My eyebrows fly up. "Oh. That’s really nice."
"Yeah. On some nights, when the restaurant is slammed and everyone is in the weeds, it doesn’t seem like that great of an upside. It is not always enough to balance out the downsides. But you know." She flips her hair back and gives me a pasted-on smile.
"I’m only doing this as temporary work anyway. I think this is the second job of almost everybody who works as a hostess."
I nod. "I know it is for me."
Anna is already turning away, starting toward the first white linen-covered table, and asking them if there is anything they need.
One hundred dollars goes pretty far, even at Tusk.
It’s a huge benefit for me, although I suppose that no one else needs to realize how much it will help me out.
If I don’t have to feed myself, I could save whatever I normally spend on myself for groceries every week.
Probably seventy-five dollars, give or take.
A couple walks by the hostess stand on their way out.
"Have a good night!" I call out for them. The woman glances back at me and gives me a cool smile. They are outside the doors before I can say anything else.
Pulling a menu out from beneath the phone and computer that sit on top of the hostess stand, I purse my lips and peruse. Steak, chicken, lobster, fish, all kinds of different salads... I’m going to eat well while I work here.
I am too busy trying to decide on what I’ll order first to notice that a tall, extremely thin, dark headed woman struts through the doors, trailing a string of four children behind her.
She walks straight up to the hostess stand and slaps both of her palms down onto the stand.
It startles me, and I jump, looking up at her like a deer in headlights.
"Excuse me," she says. She has a thick European accent, perhaps Spanish or French. I can’t exactly pinpoint it. "I need service!" she cries.
"Oh, of course. I’m sorry." Moving to the computer, I pull up the reservations screen. "Do you have a reservation?"
Her face turns angry, as if I have just challenged her somehow. "No. My family wants to eat. We are very hungry."
I swallow and look back at the packed restaurant.
There isn’t a single empty seat in the whole restaurant.
There are actually already people sitting in chairs that were brought in by the waitstaff from a back hallway.
We are over capacity, even at the long marble countertop that serves as our bar.
Every single seat was reserved months ago, and it is bordering on insanity that this woman doesn't understand that.
"Ma’am," I say. "Unfortunately, we don’t have…"
"No! That is not acceptable. We will eat now." The woman puts her arms out, and her children filter into her embrace. She looks at me as if she has somehow presented an argument that is undeniable.
"As you can see," I say. I turn and wave a hand to indicate the dining room. Our entire restaurant is full at the moment. "We are not taking walk-ins. There are guests with reservations all the way up until nine thirty.”
She arches her brow and crosses her arms. "That is unacceptable. I know chef André. He would be extremely dissatisfied if he knew that you were turning me away right now."
Casting a sneaky glance around, I try to get Anna’s attention. But she is off on the other end of the restaurant, beaming at a cluster of customers as they interact with her.
Chef André is both the chef and the owner of this establishment. But I don’t know him, and I don’t feel like heading back into the kitchen and asking him at this exact moment is really wise.
I steel myself and force a smile onto my lips. Looking at the woman, I bow my head. "I’m sorry. We are booked. Perhaps you would like to make a reservation for the future?"
She turns around, swinging a hand wide to indicate the empty benches in the foyer. "We can just sit there. No problem."
My brow furrows. "I don’t think…"
The woman once again slams both of her hands down on the host stand, making me jump. "You are an idiot! You are terrible at your job. They should not let you work here. I am not just going to leave here with my family. My family is hungry, and we want to eat Chef André’s food!"
"I’m sorry…"
"No!" She turns and points to the bench. "Go sit down, kids. We are going to eat here. Your mom said you would eat at Tusk, so you will eat at Tusk. Don’t make me do something rash."
The last part was obviously meant for me. I realize that at some point, her accent fell away and now she is talking with a normal American accent, possibly one that says she was raised in Boston.
"Ma’am, I don’t know what you want me to do. I can’t seat you. There is literally nowhere to sit in the restaurant. Those benches are not tables, they are a waiting area. What you are asking for is against the restaurant’s policies."
"You know what you are? You’re a bitch and a liar. We have seats right here." She waves her hand at the benches again. "Now get us some menus and some waters. Better yet, get us another person to deal with. Someone who doesn’t shake and tremble at every little thing that is said to them."
That’s the moment that Brian appears, straightening his navy suit and looking between myself and the customer skeptically. "What’s going on?"
I draw in a gulp of air and try to answer, but the customer cuts me off.
"Your hostess is a moron," she says through clenched teeth. "I tried to explain to her that I am a friend of chef André's. A close friend. But she says that she can’t seat us, even though there are plenty of chairs right behind me."
Brian tilts his head to the side. His lips purse, and he squints at me. I am so flustered. I can feel tears pressing at the corners of my eyes, threatening to descend. My face burns.
Brian smacks his lips and arches a brow at me. "Maybe you need to go on your break. Go take ten minutes in the back." His gaze narrows on me. "Now."
The customer looks at me with a little smirk as I walk away. I turn and duck my head, weaving through the tables, trying not to knock into anyone as my tears fall.