“Let me know how it goes,” Emily instructs before heading for the stairs. “See you later!”
We say our goodbyes before I admit to Betsy, “I’m going to put myself forward. This might be my chance.”
Knowing the hoops I’m jumping through Betsy is enthusiastic about my suggestion. “Yes! Winter, that’s great. I was hoping you were going to say that. And I know the cabins aren’t your favorite place to work, but this is how you finally wear Elias down. Plus, I’d rather you than Leo.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“Of course not. You’ve got this. I can vouch foryou,” she stresses.
When Betsy and I arrive at Maria’s office, it’s clear we’re not the only ones with the same idea. Leo is already exiting her room, three others forming a disorganized line by the door. I expect a triumphant grin, an indication that he got the VIPs, but he barely looks our way. Instead, he flounces off in that stroppy way he’s prone to do.
Maria comes to the door, an oblong plaque reading HR Manager stuck to the front of it. When she sees Betsy and me her eyes flare in surprise.
“Oh, good. Winter, come in. The rest of you,” Maria says, acknowledging the others, “if it’s about the VIPs come back later.”
“Have you decided who’s working cabin one?” Betsy presses, refusing to leave.
“Nearly. I’m sorry, but it won’t be you. You need to convalesce.”
“Who is?” she demands.
Maria sucks in a breath, her ample bosom pushing against her thin sweater. “You’ll find out soon enough. Winter, come in.”
My eyes find Betsy’s, both of us intrigued. “So, not Leo, but Winter?” Her face lifts at that news. Anyone would be better than him, even someone not properly suitable for looking after the VIPs. Meanwhile, despite wanting this I’m quietly freaking out. I would love this opportunity, but I also feel the weight of expectation. There’s huge pressure not to mess up, and, now that I’m customer-facing, I’m not generally the person you rely on when the stakes are high. But I remind myself that nothing’s been confirmed either way yet, though it’s strange that Maria is dismissing the star employee and looking at me as if I understand all the mysteries of the world.
“Have a seat,” Maria tells me, closing the door behind us as I enter her familiar, small office. There’s a simple table with four chairs in the corner, and several filing cabinets. Stacked on her desk are small piles of paper, her open laptop in the middle.
“What’s this about?” I ask, ready to cut to the chase.
Maria keeps me in suspense, reaching for my employee file by the looks of things. I’ve seen it out on that table a few times now, and it always fills me with dread. Unease sings in my blood as I take a deep breath, my brain gathering examples of my recent work output, specifically my impressive work attitude in case I need ammunition.
I’m sure HR managers purposefully stay quiet as they flip through your file. It’s got to be a tactic they learn at HR school. You’d have thought they would try and allay your fears, creating an easy atmosphere and reducing your anxiety. And normally Maria only has encouraging (albeit slightly condescending) things to say to me, so her continued silence is concerning.
Suddenly she looks up, her brown eyes latching onto my pale green ones. “Naturally, Elias and I have been discussing who should be managing cabin one this weekend in light of Betsy’s accident and recovery. Your name didn’t come up.”
Oh. What a letdown.
While I’m a fan of Maria’s straightforward style, our conversations frank and direct, I’m offended by her comment.
“As you probably know, mystery shoppers are—mostly—a complete mystery to us, but occasionally they give themselves away by requesting certain things prior to arrival, or during their stay.”
Like ridiculously hard-to-find food, or a book that’s out of print. They might want a drink you can only buy in a questionable bar in a St. Petersburg back alley. I’ve seen and heard quite a lot in my time, and don’t get me started on the illegal, ultra-dodgy requests.
My stomach dives, Maria tucking a black curl behind her ear. “The guests asked to see the portfolio of managers. Because you had worked the cabins on previous occasions, your photograph was also included in that email,” she admits uncomfortably, “which we didn’t mean—oh, never mind,” she rambles. "They’ve chosen you.”
For several reasons my heart hiccups, but I must be feeling vain today because I blurt out, “Really? The staff ID photo? I look awful in that.”
“I think the photo is a good likeness.”
My hair color looks dull in that picture. Too red. I’m not a strawberry blonde but I have shades of red in my blonde hair. In the summer, I get these lovely white-blonde highlights at the front. And you can’t really see my eye color properly in the staff photo either. But I do recall posing for the shot as if I wanted to bone every guest, just to piss Elias off. His snide comments about agreeing to hire me if I couldcontrol my urgeswere gross and sexist and downright illegal, but I was stuck between a rock and a hard place.
There are prettier cabin managers, I think to myself, wondering why exactly I’ve been picked. Emily, for one, is stunning. Why not pick her? “Did they ask for qualifying information alongside our photos? Is that legal by the way? Sending out our pictures?”
“The contract you signed did state that your image, and/or name, might be added to hotel marketing material to promote the services we offer. The chefs, the hotel manager, the transfer drivers are just some of those also included.”
Feeling deflated, I sigh heavily. I should be ecstatic, and I kind of am, but I’d like to know how my crap picture won over the guests, and why Elias and Maria agreed to this without asking for my opinion first. “What sex are the guests?”
Consulting her laptop, which I’m sure she doesn’t need to do, her fingers fly over the keys. “Three male guests for the four-bed luxury cabin, though one arrives on Saturday, and the other guests on Monday.” Carefully, Maria studies me. “I’m sure I don’t need to mention to be—”