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In his defense, it’s worked. In the last year or so he’s managed to finagle everything from a successful YouTube channel to spots on major panels for the hot networks. Whatever, go him.
Just two days after Red Hall reopens, I see him stumble into the lounge and start doing what he does — making a scene. Cameras come out, and it’s like throwing gasoline on a burning building. Things get rough, and ultimately I have to sic security on him and personally escort him to the door. I’m polite about it, professional. I tell him he’s welcome to come back sober, but this is not the environment that appreciates an outburst. Buh-bye.
According to all present, I handled the situation just fine.
“So why,” I ask Gloria, that little spider, when I see Red Hall mentioned in the paper, “is there a headline in the fucking local news suggesting that I may be on my fucking period?”
“I… I don’t know,” Gloria says, blinking her bright blue eyes at me in confusion.
“It may be,” I tell her, taking a step forward as I point to the quote she’s credited for — first and last name, mind you — with barely contained fury, “because you told them I was having a really rough pre-menstrual cycle and that I sometimes get a little over-emotional when I’m PMSing, Gloria!”
“Like right now?”
The gall of this woman. If I strangle her, it’s entirely possible no one will miss her. Except George’s work mate, Gloria’s dad, and his wife who is my mother’s closest thing to a best friend, which is the only reason I keep her around. And why? To hang onto some broken semblance of peace in a family that doesn’t know the meaning of the word.
“No, Gloria,” I say, calmly, “I am not currently on my cycle, which would be none of your business anyway. Right now, my anger is a one hundred percent all-organic direct reaction to you shooting your mouth off with a third-rate, scandal-chasing asshole when you know — you know, Gloria — exactly what the fuck I’m dealing with right now. Why? Why would you do this to me?”
“I didn’t do anything to you,” Gloria insists. “I just thought it would help people understand why you went off on Martin like that. He was just having fun — ”
“No, Gloria, he wasn’t just having fun,” I groan. She’s so fucking dumb, how does she even function? “You think it’s a coincidence he showed up after the most recent debacle? That he just strolled in for the first time? People like him don’t discover places like mine two months after the fact, Gloria!”
I should fire her. I know that. It would be best for everyone. But my image is fragile enough as it is right now, and if I throw her out after she gave that quote it’s just going to make what she said seem more true. Especially when she’s been with me since I opened the doors. I have not had to fire a single person so far — my entire original staff is still working. I was careful in hiring every single one of them. Gloria was the only exception and I have regretted it from day one.
No. It’ll have to be something else and it will need to be relatively public. Worst of all, it will have to wait.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Gloria says. She isn’t repentant, though; just defensive. It is absolutely the wrong tone to take with me at this very moment and I try to warn her of that with my face, which is still flushed red with anger. Like I said, though — she’s dumb as a box of hair, this one. “It’s just that right now, Red Hall kind of needs to be careful about its image, and throwing Martin Twill out was a mistake.”
She flinches when I go completely still. I measure my tone carefully. “You are not to say another word to a blogger, reporter, or a stranger on the street, in either support of or defense of Red Hall’s PR image or situation, or me, or anyone who works here. If I see another quote in any media outlet of any size, I will fire you. It is not your job. I handle the PR, or I hire the people who do. You are a hostess, Gloria. Are we perfectly, plainly, crystal clear?”
Gloria swallows loudly, and nods. But there’s defiance in her eyes. Burning just a few inches behind those pretty blues, I can see her calculating.
When I turn and leave her there in the storeroom to simmer in it, I can practically feel the point of the knife that I know she is going to stick in my back when she gets the chance.
But that fact is, she can do that whether she works here or not at this point. All I can do is keep her close enough, for now, to keep an eye on her.
And maybe find out if her parents really would miss her.
It’s one o’clock in the morning, and I’m finally back home after spending an extra hour after close scheduling out the next week’s worth of social media posts and preparing the special menus for printing. Tim is going to hold the reception at Red Hall, and at last, things are looking up.
All I want right now is to crawl into bed. I don’t even bother to undress; just slink down into the warm embrace of my plush mattress and let myself take the slide down into sleep.
And then my phone rings. Should have put it on silent.
But it could be related to work. Lacey is restless, and planned to stay up late experimenting with some ideas we’ve had for the reception. She does that from time to time. I trust her entirely.
I’d better answer it, though. Except… it’s not my chef. It’s George, who never calls me for anything. Do I dare answer?
“Hello?”
“Janie,” George says, “you better come. It’s Gina. She’s been admitted to the hospital, and they say it’s bad.”
“Why?” I sit up, and I’m already putting my feet back into my heels. No, better wear flats. Shit, I’m still in my dress from work. “What happened?”
“What do you think happened?”
He doesn’t want my answer to that. “Did they admit her for a panic attack?”
“For observation, yes… and they want to keep an eye on her heart.”
