He barely looked at the young man. “A Macallan.”
“A … I’m sorry sir, I don’t know if we …”
Sabato compressed his lips and flicked his dark eyes to the waiter. “It’s in my private selection.”
“Of course, sir.” His whole face glowed as red as a cherry under the Italian’s obvious impatience. “I’ll s-s-see to it.”
“Excellent.”
Sabato moved through the crowd, pausing as necessary to talk to those he recognised. The blonde was in his peripheral vision, but he wasn’t prepared to make a selection so early. The night was young, and there were many beautiful women in the room.
“But… I’m not a waitress,” Emily pointed out logically. She stared down at the roster as though a name was going to magically leap out at her. A solution to her manager and friend’s problem.
Ewan shook his head. “I know, Emme. I don’t need you to do much more than keep your eyes peeled. If someone has an empty glass, take it away. Ask if they want anything else; that kind of thing.”
Her cheeks flushed with betraying colour. “But Ewan,” she breathed out, her eyes round in her pretty face as she tilted her head to stare at him beseechingly. “I’m not good with people.”
“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” He unhooked one of the fashionable black and white aprons from a row of hooks behind them and slipped it over her head. It had the name Agnes embroidered on the front, putting Emily in mind of one of the girls she barely knew. Polish with long blonde hair and years of waitressing experience. “Why would you not be good with people?”
“You know. Because I’m … ”
“Well-spoken? Kind? Hospitable?”
She pulled a face. Panic was swelling in her breast. “I can’t do this.” Despite her assertion, her fingers were fumbling with the apron, looping it around her slender waist. “People make me nervous.”
“It’ll be good for you,” he promised. “Besides, I’m utterly desperate or I wouldn’t ask.”
“I don’t understand. How can so many people have called in sick?”
Ewan shrugged. “Six of them live together. They’ve all got the same gastro bug. No way can I have them here. Especially not when Lord Fancy Pants himself is hosting an event upstairs.”
“Who’s that?” Emily was momentarily pulled out of her nervousness to smile at her old friend’s nickname.
“Sabato Montepulciano.”
Her frown showed her lack of comprehension.
“The moneybags who owns the joint.”
“The joint?” She frowned. “You mean the hotel?” Her eyes widened as comprehension dawned. “Oh, God, Ewan. You seriously owe me! What if I spill something on him?”
“Don’t go near him,” Ewan advised with a grin. “There are hundreds of people upstairs. You probably won’t even see him.”
She sucked in a deep breath. “I hate you.”
“And I love you.”
She took a sip of water from her bottle then tucked it back in her staff room locker. “Okay. Who do I report to?”
It took Ewan a little over ten minutes to run Emily through the protocol she’d need to know, and by the time he’d finished explaining how the evening would run, she felt a marginal lift in her spirits. It was, after all, just one night of her life. With hundreds of high profile guests milling about, who would even notice her?
She consoled herself with that assurance the whole way up to the top floor of the hotel. The doors of the staff elevator pinged open straight into the kitchen on the top floor. It was a hive of activity. She took a moment to observe the hasty comings and goings of both chefs and wait staff before shaking her head.
She had a job to do.
“Agnes?” Someone called, beetling towards her.
“She’s sick. I’m Emily.”