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I crossed the road, went into the café, and paid the guy for an hour.
Within thirty minutes, I had a list of names and numbers to call. The most promising was a catering agency looking for extra staff for local events. They needed servers and kitchen staff, that kind of thing. I had some kitchen experience, but the ad sounded desperate.
And desperate was something I knew all about.
* * *
“Penny Wilson.” I gave the security man my name. “I’m here for the banquet. I’m one of Mary’s girls.”
I cringed. It sound like I was here to give out lap dances, not serve canapés to rich folk who liked the finer things in life.
The security man checked his list and then thumbed me inside. “You need to follow this corridor to the end, the kitchen is back there.”
I nodded and scurried past him, smoothing down my knee-length black pencil skirt.
‘All I need from you is a pair of hands, a smart dress, and black pumps on your feet. You think you can handle that?’ Mary Class, owner/manager of Touch of Class, had asked me during my five-minuteinterview.
I was beginning to wonder what I’d gotten myself into when she texted me the address of my first job at the Hyatt Regency in Upper Arlington. But she was offering more money an hour than I’d earned at any of my previous jobs.
It was too much to turn down, even if the thought of serving drinks and canapés to a bunch of wealthy businessmen and their wives made my stomach churn.
The kitchen was manic. Chefs in white jackets yelled out orders to a sea of black and white lingering around the service area.
The hotel was hosting a charity event. It was a drinks reception followed by a five-course, sit-down meal. I was down to serve drinks.
Drinks, I thought, I could handle. Food service, not so much—or not yet at least.
“You.” A tall girl, probably not much older than me, jabbed a finger toward me and frowned. “Dump the bag and jacket and grab one of those trays of salmon mousse and follow me.”
I glanced around, hoping she was talking to someone else, but everyone around me was busy.
“Move it,” she barked. “We have hungry rich folk to feed.”
Ignoring her jibe, I slipped out of my jacket and wrapped my purse inside. It only had my cell phone and some change for the bus ride home.
“Lockers are back there,” she said, the annoyance in her voice growing.
I hurried to a locker to shut away my belongings and returned to the kitchen. The girl thrust a tray of mousse-topped crackers at me and motioned for me to follow her.
Stunned, I didn’t even think to inform her I was supposed to be doing drinks. But the tray was small enough, so I figured how hard could it be?
We exited a swinging door and entered a huge room with floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking a beautifully tended courtyard. The gold and deep red accents gave the whole place a regal feel, but the interior design didn’t ooze money; the people did.
Ladies wore an array of beautiful dresses and skirt suits with perfectly coiffed updos, and the men they clung to looked as flawless in their tailored suits. It wasn’t quite black tie, but for lunchtime on a Friday afternoon, it didn’t get much more formal.
Suddenly feeling inferior in my plain black skirt, crisp white shirt, and last-minute sleek ponytail, I lowered my eyes to avoid making eye contact.
“You take the left side, and I’ll do this side. Once you’re empty, go and grab a fresh tray. Got it?” the girl said in a hushed voice, and I nodded. “Oh, and a little warning, watch out for the piranhas. They bite.” She glided away from me and moved to the other side of the room.
Piranhas?
Stealing a quick deep breath, I readjusted my hand supporting the tray and approached a smaller group of people. They all laughed at something one of the older men said. I waited for him to finish before stepping closer.
Clearing my throat, I said meekly, “Canapés?”
Crap, was that the right thing to say?
I didn’t even know the formal name of what I was serving. I doubted ‘would you like a salmon mousse on some kind of cracker’ would cut it with these people.
