“There’s no reason for this door to be locked,” she exclaimed. “What is that guy’s problem?”
“His problem? He’s an asshole.”
You got that right. Vera left the kitchen, recrossed the dining room, and entered the atrium, which stood vacant. It was dead quiet, and the reception desk remained untended. She went in through the back way, down the cramped corridor, passing several maids pushing carts. None of them spoke to her. The first thing she saw when she entered the room-service kitchen was the same pasty, stooped woman she’d seen her first day on the job, who was wheeling a full twenty-shelf Metro transport cabinet into the room-service elevator. The door slid shut in Vera’s face. Beyond, the RS kitchen extended as a warren of hustling figures which weaved this way and that, loading dirty plates into the dish-racks, or covering the orders to go up. They were all more staff Vera had never seen before; none acknowledged her.
“Hi, Vera,” a voice called out.
Kyle stood before a long Wolf Range grill, tunicked, with spatula in hand, tending to a half-dozen ribeyes. The steaks sizzled.
“How come you locked the door between the kitchens?” she immediately asked, glaring at him.
Kyle shrugged. “No reason for it to be unlocked.”
“No reason?” Vera rolled her eyes. “What if the restaurant needs something over here?’’
Kyle gave a hearty laugh. “Looks to me like the only thing the restaurant needs that we got is business. What did you pull tonight, about five dinners?”
“No, Kyle, we did fifteen—”
“Hey, fifteen, that’s really socking them in.”
You DICK! She wanted to kick him. “And that’s not the point, Kyle. You might need something from us, too—”
“Not likely, and what the point really is, Vera,” he said, “is I’m in charge over here, you’re in charge over there. There shouldn’t be any cross-mingling of staff.”
Vera stood hand on hips, tapping her foot. “Why?”
“Ever heard of pilfering? Ever heard of theft?”
“What, you think my people are going to sneak over here to steal your ribeyes?” she close to yelled. “Which, by the way, you’re overcooking.”
Kyle flipped a few steaks with his spatula. “As managers, it’s our responsibility to keep our own areas secure. Room service is separate from the restaurant. It’s supposed to be. How do you know one of my people won’t go over to your end and pinch something? You don’t even lock your walk-ins during the day. ”
“Nobody ever gave me any locks, but I couldn’t help but notice that you have all you need.”
“If you need locks, go get some. You’re on the account. You need somebody to tell you everything?”
Vera was getting pissed in increments. You got balls, was all she could think, saying something like that to me. The kitchen clamor shredded her nerves, along with Kyle’s subdued-egomanic, self-centered grin. “But you can send the fat kid over here if you want,” he next had the gall to suggest. “Seeing how we’re so slammed over here, my dishwasher could use a hand…”
“Sorry, Kyle. No cross-mingling of staff, remember?”
Kyle chuckled as he flipped the top row of steaks.
“Jealousy isn’t what I’d call the sign of a good restaurant manager.’’
“What do I have to be jealous of?” she objected.
“I mean, look at you, you’re pissed. It’s not my fault your restaurant only does fifteen dinners all night while I do fifteen per half-hour.”
Vera stormed out. Kyle even had the further audacity to laugh after her. She wanted to shriek.
“What’s the matter?” Dan B. asked when she came back to her own kitchen.
“Nothing,” she snapped. Her heels clicked hotly straight to the service bar, where she poured herself a shot of Crown Royal. She could barely hold the little glass steady enough to pour the liquor. Donna stared at her, setting down a bus bin. One thing Vera never did was drink during hours.
“Listen, Vera,” Dan B. offered. “It’s only our first night. We can’t expect to do business like The Emerald Room right off. Gotta give people time to find out about us.”
Vera knew this, she even anticipated it. So why was she shaking?
“Business’ll pick up,” Donna added.
Vera leaned back and sighed. “Sorry, gang,” she apologized. She’d felt close to bugging out; it didn’t make sense. A slow night was nothing to get bent about, nor was the scrap with Kyle. Competition between managers was a reality in this business, and one she’d dealt with often. Her sudden fervor had nothing to do with any of that. So what was it? For a moment, she felt like she was going to fall to pieces. And how would that look in front of her staff? Vera was their boss, their leader. She was the one who’d convinced them to come here in the first place.
Look at me now, she reflected.
Donna put her arm around her, steered her away.
“Why don’t you just go upstairs and get to bed? You need some rest, that’s all.”
“Yeah, Vera,” Dan B. said. “Hit the sack. We’ll finish up down here. Don’t worry about a thing.”
“Okay,” Vera said. She was tired, as a matter of fact. Maybe it was all just too much commotion, fretting over every little detail before the opening. “I’ll see you all in the morning.”
Vera could imagine the looks they exchanged as she left. One thing she couldn’t afford was to lose the confidence of her employees. They’d been such a great team together at The Emerald Room; if they thought she was flipping out, they’d fall apart. Get your shit together, girl, she thought, and crossed the atrium for the stairs. She frowned yet again at the untenanted reception desk. She doubted that she’d seen a single guest sign in today, yet all the suites were booked. Select clientele, she remembered both Feldspar and Kyle saying. Then it dawned on her. The VIP entrance behind the east wing—that’s where the guests were coming in from. It seemed almost as though Feldspar was ashamed of the atrium, that he was deliberately keeping this “select clientele” of his from seeing it. But the atrium was beautiful, as was the rest of The Inn. Why hide it?
She could hear the room-service elevators running full tilt behind the walls. She trudged up the stairs, toward her bedroom, taking each step as if in dread. And it was dread. Though she could admit that to no one else, she easily admitted it to herself.
It was sleep that she dreaded.
She closed her door, poured herself a Grand Marnier, and ran a bubble bath—her nightly ritual. A glance in the mirror affirmed Donna’s observation. Vera was run down, tired out. She assessed her reflection as she took off her clothes. The dark circles under her eyes told all.
Not enough sleep. And it was more than just worrying over the opening, she knew.
It was the dreams.
The lewd dreams seated in her inexplicable sexual fantasy. The hands, she thought, and hung up her tulip wrap-dress. The hands slowly caressing her into a frenzy. The fantasy lover was Kyle, or at least she guessed it was, and that made even less sense. Why fantasize about someone you can’t stand? she wondered. Perhaps it was all Freudian. Nevertheless, each night the fantasy seduced her to the point of touching herself. Then she’d fall asleep, and the dreams would begin…
She slipped out of her panties, unclasped her bra. Her amethyst necklace sparkled against her bosom. She lay it on the marble counter and eased into the warm tub.
She dreaded the dreams because they made her feel ashamed, and she felt ashamed because…she enjoyed them. They reduced her to a slut. Maybe I’m a slut and don’t know it, she attempted to make a joke of it. She could not believe the things that happened in the nightly dream. She couldn’t even believe how her subconscious could conjure such things…