CHAPTER ONE
KAYLA MARTIN
If dating is a game let’s play it.
My dad discovered the secret sauce in the bar business: employ great bar managers, let them do their jobs, sit back and enjoy success.
At the Ugly Duckling, the key ingredient wasn’t the trendy bar vibe and stylish but quirky decor. It wasn’t the prime location in the moneyed part of Arlington. None of that.
The secret to success was Gillian, AKA Gill, AKA the idea’s generator with the will to succeed and the personality to draw the customers.
Dad worked at another of his bars, a spit and sawdust joint called the Hungry Mallard. And me? I only worked at the Ugly Duckling behind the scenes. It was just a paycheck to me, but I didn’t want Dad losing money through his businesses.
And I didn’t usually worry about it.
Gill came up with multiple ideas about the brand, promotions, reaching new clients, and keeping them.
Her novelty speed-dating event boosted midweek trade in the quieter months. And that’s why she got the go-ahead for her next off-the-wall gimmick. I was skeptical, but who was I to judge?
A cheesy sixties aesthetic decorated a far corner, setting the scene for the show. The faux walls covered in some sort of awful floral wallpaper, topped off with big, red plastic flower decor, surrounded a temporary stage on which there sat a yellow-red-green armchair at one end and then a row of four bar stools. A screen separated the chair from the seats to keep the contestants from seeing the woman in the hot chair.
The ugly-as-sin backdrop was evocative of old television game shows, especially the 1960s Dating Game. And it clashed badly with the typically sophisticated chill ambiance of the Duck.
The venue typically appealed to ladies who lunch and a young, trendy, hip crowd in the evenings.
Gill tried to explain the thinking behind the novel event: most twenty-somethings wanted to have fun after work, to unwind, and get laid. Hence, The Dating Game revival tapped into those basic wishes.
I had severe doubts about the wisdom of this event, but hey, everyone’s allowed an occasional failure, and this sounded like it would be Gill’s.
It had Dad’s backing, and that was all that mattered.
Dad had a hands-off approach to the bars he owned, fortunately.
And when it came to it, I inherited my father’s old-fashioned attitude. We wanted to sell booze to punters who wanted to sit in a warm building. Providing chairs and electricity and hoping they’d come didn’t cut it anymore. People expected more these days: they judged the washrooms, the Wi-Fi, and the quality of the sound system. You needed to be a savvy marketing guru to stay in the game.
“Kayla, how’s the day treating you so far? No food orders yet?” Gill had a few inches on me and a more forceful personality, which made her seem even taller.
“A few orders have trickled in, but I’m not rushed off my feet back there.”
Not yet. And frankly, that wasn’t a surprise. Usually, we offered a pricy lunchtime menu of quality fare and closed the kitchen at night. The offering of high-calorie, fatty, greasy foods was a regular at one of Dad’s spit and sawdust bars, but at the Duck, we only cooked up that kind of stuff for special events.
“Good, good. If you’re not busy, can I convince you to fill in as our contestant tonight?” She beamed my way as if she was handing out bonuses.
“No, Gill. Hell no.” I immediately shot her down with no regard for her feelings. “I’m not going on stage and having everyone look at me as I listen to stupid answers in reply to my stupid questions.”
“But you’d be wonderful, Kayla. Really.” Easy for her to say.
Gill oozed confidence, and she was more conventionally attractive than me with her long legs, good hair, and appealing dress sense. Even though she was super friendly as a boss, she still intimidated me and left me feeling inadequate next to her.
My self-confidence wasn’t helped by the fact that I had dressed for the kitchen: my hair atop my head in a messy bun ready to tuck under a hairnet, literally the very icon of sexlessness, plus old jeans and a t-shirt that I’d slipped an apron over. Oh yeah, a clean but stained apron.
Gill had tried to get me to participate in these types of events before. I took part in one of the speed dating things early on, and the results were atrocious, so I swore off doing something like that again.
Bad for me didn’t mean bad for everyone else or bad for business, so I made sure to support the boss in any way possible.
“I want the night to be a success. And we have a better chance for that to happen if I’m not in the public eye but in the kitchen. Who else can make perfect, fresh batches of onion rings?” I smiled to assure her of my well-intended meaning.