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I knew exactly what he was aiming at. The dude had tipped me and not Reuben. So yeah, he was pissed off. We’d both get an equal share of Ahmed’s commission, though. I noted down the time and the passenger name in the Google Doc on my phone as Reuben whipped out his own little notebook. He was old school. Me? I was all about password-protected documents in secure locations. I didn’t pay tax on all my extra little earnings. Nobody did. Officially, we happily survived on our measly wages, and I smiled sweetly every month when my entire paycheck disappeared into the extortionate London rent I put up with so I could get to work in the mornings.
I walked back to my desk with my head held high, greeting the next guests loitering there with a sugary smile and resting my hand on the leather binder that dominated the surface. It used to house the Hotel Directory; now it cleverly hid the screen to the hotel system built into the dark wood.
“Sightseeing today, sir, madam?” I asked the elderly couple in front of me. “Would you prefer a private car or would you care to join one of our manytour companies that will take you on a journey through the city with a live guide on board?”
I could do these things in my sleep, yapping off the different companies and timings like a well-trained puppy while the delighted guests looked a little confused. Good. Because then I’d go in for the kill with the suggestion of the company that I earned good commission from, promising an experience like no other, and can I recommend taking the additional afternoon tea at the end of the tour? That little overpriced experience would earn me an additional twenty pounds commission on top of my already generous tip for suggesting this particular company to our guests.
Of course, that was when he appeared, like clockwork, because it was now almost eight o’clock and the breakfast service was finally in full swing, which was when the twat who was our head chef always took a well-deserved smoke break.
He wasn’t supposed to walk through the lobby; none of us employees were. Even the general manager walked the back corridors and only came out on the lobby floor to greet guests or visitors. But Benjamin Desjardins didn’t seem like the kind of man who’d follow the rules. He was a hothead who constantly bent them and argued with everyone and refused to follow the suggested brief for his menus. He had a reputation for being a grumpy bastard at the best of times and was constantly at war with Mark, the restaurant manager, if you believed the staff gossip in the canteen. If you asked the waiters, though, they were like a wall of silence protecting the dude. Apparently, he and Mark were best mates behind the scenes, and sometimes I just didn’t get the whole vibe of the place. But that’s what it was like when you were the new guy, even if I’d been here for over a year now.
Benjamin Desjardins still walked the lobby in his dirty chef whites every shift, with his pack of cigarettes tightly clutched in his hand, like some entitled wanker. Not that anyone would dare to tell him off with that scowl on his face. He was an intimidating bloke at the best of times, big and bulky, his mop of messy dark hair tied up in his signature bandana. And right now, as always, he was staring right at me.
Ben
God only knew what was going on with the waiting staff, but they’d been driving me mad all day. There was always some kind of drama going on, and now apparently, two of the new waiters were fighting over our concierge. This always happened when we had new staff. If it was a pretty young woman, the straight blokes went nuts. The queer girls went nuts. If it was a pretty young man? God help him because the gay guys treated this place like an open meat market. Then we had the bi guys. Sometimes it all made my head spin. Get in there, getlaid, and bitch about it until the next new employee caught their eye. It was exhausting sometimes. As management, we tried to rein it in, but it was one thing trying to keep your staff in line at work—we strongly discouraged relationships in-house, which was a hard rule to keep rigid when most of the management were shagging each other—but it was a whole different ball game trying to keep your staff in line after work. Nights out. Hook-ups. Endless drama.
Still, it gave me something to chuckle about as I lit up my cigarette. I knew I shouldn’t smoke, and I low-key hated myself for not giving up. I should. My doctor kept telling me. I was about to turn forty-one and needed to adhere to a healthy lifestyle and look after my body. I always smiled when he said that and threw back some feeble comment along the lines of surely he meant whatever was left of my body. I’d once been an athlete. I’d once had muscles in places I didn’t even know the name of.
Was I bitter? Yes. Very. I’d gained a scholarship to the sports college of my dreams and had been on a straight road to athletic stardom. My first match had been an adrenaline rush I’d never forget. My second match…
Yeah. I wasn’t going to pull myself back down into that hole. Brain damage, muscle damage. A few years of depression had completed my CV before my mum pretty much plonked my sorry arse into catering college. I’d met Mark. Learned to cook. Found some kind of peace.
Or that’s what I called it, working in this place. At least I had Mark. He had Finn. And the Clouds Hotel was all the better for it. We ran the food side of things, Mark and me. Finn ran the front of house. Then we had all these idiots who were supposed to be staff but caused more trouble than they were sometimes worth.
Squinting into the morning sun, I took another deep drag of my cigarette. The huge cloud of smoke I blew out into the smoggy air made Reuben thedoorman glare at me from his position by the door. He hated my guts, and I didn’t blame him. I wasn’t any kind of social butterfly; I had the social skills of a gnat. Blame it on the brain damage or whatever, but I really didn’t like people that much. I tolerated humans in small doses, and those I called my friends were easily counted on one hand.
Partners? I may have been management, but I wasn’t shagging anyone. It was bad enough trying to keep track of my staff’s antics and dealing with Mark and Finn. I blew out another cloud of smoke, receiving another look of disgust from Reuben, who would no doubt tell Stewart, who’d report me, again, which made me grin in Reuben’s direction while he glared back. I didn’t care. If head office wanted to sack me for not following the rules, well, they wouldn’t because our numbers told a different story. We made more profit in our restaurant than they’d dare risk on calling me in for another ‘chat’ with HR over tea. No biscuits.
Where was I. Oh, yeah. Partners. No thanks. I’d had a few flings, none of which ended well. They never would. I was fine on my own with things as they were.
Anyway, these smoke breaks were good for me. Getting a bit of fresh air. I laughed at my own joke. It was a distraction from the deafening background noise in the kitchens—in exchange for the London smog. At least out here, humans were kept at a firm distance.
The new concierge, though…I sighed and wanted to roll my eyes. So. Joshua and Imran both had the hots for him. And they were both ninety-nine per cent sure he was gay because Amy at the front desk had told them, and apparently, Amy knew these things. Oliver had agreed, and my head was slightly spinning. For a bloke like me, their logic made little sense, but they were outraged that the new concierge wasn’t even on Grindr, which was obviously some kind of abomination towards other gay men.
Not that I had any problem with queer people. Mark was bisexual, and that little fact was just something that made me love him even more. If Icouldlove him more. He was my best friend, a messy, messy excuse of a man and more troubled than I’d ever be, but we’d had each other’s backs since the first day we’d met, and we both always said that had we not met each other…well, we’d probably both be dead. No joke. He’d saved me in more ways than one. He’d also taught me so much about humanity. Humility. About being myself and dealing with the shit life had thrown at me. So yes, I loved him. I loved him to bits, and he loved me back. Not the way Finn loved him, but whatever.
I’d said I was bitter. I had been. These days, I was a little bit more mellow. I had a few less fucks to give, but that was just me. A big lump of a bloke. A hard worker. I hoped people saw me as a good boss and a decent human being even if I did have a bit of a reputation. It was good for business because head chefs should be strong, firm. Total arseholes. Put the fear of God into the new kitchen staff and earn a bit of respect from the servers.
So, the new concierge, his name was Hugo, and he was tall and skinny—far too skinny if you asked me—with a head full of bouncy blond curls, thick, dark eyebrows over deep-set eyes, sharp cheekbones and plump, puffy lips. He seemed like a nice bloke, stood up for himself. Finn moaned about him, saying something about the guy being great at his job but an untidy bugger. The floor around his desk was always a disaster zone of scrunched-up pieces of paper and torn-up leaflets. Finn wasn’t wrong. I could see stuff on the floor from where I was, while Hugo gave directions to some guests, arms flailing, his phone miraculously still pinched between his cheek and his shoulder. He smiled at something. I smiled too. He had that kind of smile.
Dropping my cigarette on the ground, I squashed out the embers with my shoe. So sue me. I was French. Had grown up there, then moved to England with my mum in my teens and had to adapt to being Ben insteadof Benjamin after my arsehole dad kicked us out. I didn’t take shit from anyone.
It hadn’t been bad. Just…my life hadn’t become quite what I’d expected.
I strode back through the lobby with confidence, smiling politely at our maître d’hôtel, who pursed their lips at me. Yeah, I was a dick. I had tomato juice down my front, and my apron was covered in cooking fat. I looked a state and shouldn’t be anywhere near paying guests. I knew it. Mabel knew it. I actually liked them. A lot. Today, our super-efficient restaurant leader rocked a shocking-pink dress and sky-high heels with a face full of make-up. Some days, they presented as a stunning bloke, other days, like today, they wouldn’t look out of place on the cover of a women’s fashion magazine, and they knew it too.
“Looking good, Mabs.”
“Oh shut it, Ben.” They grinned and blushed while giving me a full head-to-toe inspection. “You really need to go change, babes. Honestly, you’ll give Mark a heart attack.”
“You mean I look that good?” I laughed, enjoying another of Mabel’s many smirks.
“You look like shit, babes. How are you ever going to get laid when you walk around looking like someone has dragged you face down through the walk-in fridge?”
“Bah,” I huffed and left them to it. I washed my hands and ripped off my apron, dropping it in the laundry chute and grabbing a fresh one from the shelf before glancing over the line. All under control. Nobody panicking.
“Watch the liquid,” I commented to one of the trainees as they flipped a tray of mushrooms into a serving dish and splattered juice all over the hotplate. Yeah. Newbies. They had to learn, usually the hard way, and there wasn’t much I could do other than show them how to do it the right way, remind them to watch the bloody timings, let them make mistakes and hope they didn’t kill themselves in the process.
