Serving the Billionaire
Page 3
It looked rich. That was my first impression: it looked like the sort of place you went if you had serious, no-kidding-around money. No one thing screamed luxury, but the overall atmosphere was one of undeniable opulence. The walls were painted a dark gray color and lined in places with velvet drapes so dark a blue that they looked almost black, but gave off a subtle sheen of light. A bar of dark, gleaming wood lined one wall, and round tables filled the rest of the room, clustered around a central stage. Along the three walls not occupied by the bar, brass doors led into—I assumed—other, more private rooms.
The woman let me gawk in peace as she led me toward the bar. A number of other girls were assembled there, and from their attire, I immediately pegged them as the competition. Most of them were wearing what I would have worn if Sadie hadn’t interfered: short, tight skirts, and glittery tops revealing acres of bare skin. One was wearing a snug maxi dress, but none wore anything like my outfit.
I felt enormously self-conscious as I joined the waiting girls. What if I’d worn the wrong thing and made a fool out of myself? I trusted Sadie implicitly, though, which was the only thing that kept me from bolting right back out the door. I hated doing the wrong thing in new situations. I would just have to hope that Sadie hadn’t been wrong.
“Thank you for coming today,” the tall woman said. “I’m happy that you’ve all taken an interest in working for us here at the Silver Cross. I’m sure you all understand that discretion is at the heart of our business, so please be aware that if you do choose to accept employment with us, you’ll be asked to sign a non-disclosure agreement. If you’re uncomfortable with that for any reason, you may leave now, no harm done.”
There was some murmuring, but none of the girls moved to leave.
“Excellent,” the woman said. “My name is Germaine. I’m the manager. Please stop me at any point if you have questions.”
She gave us a tour of the club. I had been right about the brass doors; there was a private room behind each one, with plush furniture and fireplaces. She took us behind the bar and showed us the general layout. “You have, of course, all worked as cocktail waitresses before,” she said. “I expect you’ll be familiar with most drinks and capable of making the basics.”
I tried not to look scared. I hoped she wouldn’t ask us to demonstrate. If I got this job, I’d have to read about bar-tending techniques. I knew how to make a rum and Coke, and that was about it. Pour some rum, add Coke. Easy.
Thankfully, she didn’t pursue the subject of drink-making. Instead, she had us sit down at a few of the round tables, and said, “Now we’ll do some role-playing. I’ll ask some of you to be irate customers, and others to be the waitresses attending to their every need. Why don’t we start with the two of you?” She pointed at two girls sitting at another table. “You’ll be the customers. And you can be the waitress,” she said, pointing at a third girl, who got up unsteadily and plastered a wide grin on her face.
“Take their orders, please,” Germaine said.
“Hi, welcome to the Silver Cross Club!” the girl said. “I’m Mandy, and I’ll be serving you tonight! What can I get you to drink?”
My eyebrows flickered up before I could stop them. I didn’t know a thing about waitressing, but I was pretty sure that delivery screamed “mom’s country kitchen” rather than “sophisticated New York men’s club.”
Germaine must have agreed, because she cut the girl off before the “customers” could respond. “Thank you,” she said. “Let’s have someone else, now. How about you?”
She went through each girl in turn, and all of them, as far as I was concerned, did something wrong: too chummy, too distant, too snobby, too bored. Finally, I was the only one left. I didn’t know what stroke of luck had led to me getting to go last, but now that I’d seen everyone else doing it wrong, I had an idea of how to do it right.
When Germaine pointed at me, I stood up and went over to the two girls who were currently serving as the “customers.” I stood behind their chairs at a discreet distance and waited. I didn’t say anything; I didn’t do anything to interrupt the important conversation that I imagined two powerful, wealthy men would be having. I simply waited for them to acknowledge me.
“Thank you,” Germaine said, and my heart sank. I’d done it wrong after all.
That was the end of the audition. Germaine gave us forms to fill out with our contact information, and said they would be in touch. It didn’t sound promising. I wrote down my name and telephone number, and tried to psych myself up for further job hunting. I didn’t need this stupid waitressing job at this stupid, snooty club. I would find something better. I would find a kick-ass job and make a million dollars and never have to worry about anything ever again.
Alternately, get evicted and go back to San Bernardino in disgrace.
I spent so much time thinking about my impending financial ruin that I was the last one in the club. The other girls had already put on their coats and gone back out into the cold. When I realized I was straggling so badly, I hurriedly filled out the rest of the form, and stood up to leave.
Germaine, who had been doing something behind the bar, approached me and said, “A word with you, please.”
I frowned. “Is there something wrong?”
“Hardly,” Germaine said. “I’d like to offer you the job.”
My heart, which had been hanging somewhere around the bottom of my spine, leaped back into its proper position. “Really?” I asked. “You want to hire me?” I realized that I sounded like an over-excited teenager. I tried again. “I mean—I’m happy to hear that.”
Germaine smiled. “Yes. Come into my office, please. We can discuss things in more detail.”
She led me toward the back of the club, and through a dark-paneled door I hadn’t noticed earlier. The room on the other side was warmly lit and cozy, with a large desk and several comfortable-looking armchairs positioned around it. Germaine sat behind the desk and motioned for me to take one of the armchairs.
I sat down, purse on my lap. “I have my resume,” I said, “and three letters of reference—”
“I won’t be needing any of that,” Germaine said. “We hire based on personality, and yours, I think, is an excellent fit. You haven’t done any cocktail waitressing before, I take it?”
The woman let me gawk in peace as she led me toward the bar. A number of other girls were assembled there, and from their attire, I immediately pegged them as the competition. Most of them were wearing what I would have worn if Sadie hadn’t interfered: short, tight skirts, and glittery tops revealing acres of bare skin. One was wearing a snug maxi dress, but none wore anything like my outfit.
I felt enormously self-conscious as I joined the waiting girls. What if I’d worn the wrong thing and made a fool out of myself? I trusted Sadie implicitly, though, which was the only thing that kept me from bolting right back out the door. I hated doing the wrong thing in new situations. I would just have to hope that Sadie hadn’t been wrong.
“Thank you for coming today,” the tall woman said. “I’m happy that you’ve all taken an interest in working for us here at the Silver Cross. I’m sure you all understand that discretion is at the heart of our business, so please be aware that if you do choose to accept employment with us, you’ll be asked to sign a non-disclosure agreement. If you’re uncomfortable with that for any reason, you may leave now, no harm done.”
There was some murmuring, but none of the girls moved to leave.
“Excellent,” the woman said. “My name is Germaine. I’m the manager. Please stop me at any point if you have questions.”
She gave us a tour of the club. I had been right about the brass doors; there was a private room behind each one, with plush furniture and fireplaces. She took us behind the bar and showed us the general layout. “You have, of course, all worked as cocktail waitresses before,” she said. “I expect you’ll be familiar with most drinks and capable of making the basics.”
I tried not to look scared. I hoped she wouldn’t ask us to demonstrate. If I got this job, I’d have to read about bar-tending techniques. I knew how to make a rum and Coke, and that was about it. Pour some rum, add Coke. Easy.
Thankfully, she didn’t pursue the subject of drink-making. Instead, she had us sit down at a few of the round tables, and said, “Now we’ll do some role-playing. I’ll ask some of you to be irate customers, and others to be the waitresses attending to their every need. Why don’t we start with the two of you?” She pointed at two girls sitting at another table. “You’ll be the customers. And you can be the waitress,” she said, pointing at a third girl, who got up unsteadily and plastered a wide grin on her face.
“Take their orders, please,” Germaine said.
“Hi, welcome to the Silver Cross Club!” the girl said. “I’m Mandy, and I’ll be serving you tonight! What can I get you to drink?”
My eyebrows flickered up before I could stop them. I didn’t know a thing about waitressing, but I was pretty sure that delivery screamed “mom’s country kitchen” rather than “sophisticated New York men’s club.”
Germaine must have agreed, because she cut the girl off before the “customers” could respond. “Thank you,” she said. “Let’s have someone else, now. How about you?”
She went through each girl in turn, and all of them, as far as I was concerned, did something wrong: too chummy, too distant, too snobby, too bored. Finally, I was the only one left. I didn’t know what stroke of luck had led to me getting to go last, but now that I’d seen everyone else doing it wrong, I had an idea of how to do it right.
When Germaine pointed at me, I stood up and went over to the two girls who were currently serving as the “customers.” I stood behind their chairs at a discreet distance and waited. I didn’t say anything; I didn’t do anything to interrupt the important conversation that I imagined two powerful, wealthy men would be having. I simply waited for them to acknowledge me.
“Thank you,” Germaine said, and my heart sank. I’d done it wrong after all.
That was the end of the audition. Germaine gave us forms to fill out with our contact information, and said they would be in touch. It didn’t sound promising. I wrote down my name and telephone number, and tried to psych myself up for further job hunting. I didn’t need this stupid waitressing job at this stupid, snooty club. I would find something better. I would find a kick-ass job and make a million dollars and never have to worry about anything ever again.
Alternately, get evicted and go back to San Bernardino in disgrace.
I spent so much time thinking about my impending financial ruin that I was the last one in the club. The other girls had already put on their coats and gone back out into the cold. When I realized I was straggling so badly, I hurriedly filled out the rest of the form, and stood up to leave.
Germaine, who had been doing something behind the bar, approached me and said, “A word with you, please.”
I frowned. “Is there something wrong?”
“Hardly,” Germaine said. “I’d like to offer you the job.”
My heart, which had been hanging somewhere around the bottom of my spine, leaped back into its proper position. “Really?” I asked. “You want to hire me?” I realized that I sounded like an over-excited teenager. I tried again. “I mean—I’m happy to hear that.”
Germaine smiled. “Yes. Come into my office, please. We can discuss things in more detail.”
She led me toward the back of the club, and through a dark-paneled door I hadn’t noticed earlier. The room on the other side was warmly lit and cozy, with a large desk and several comfortable-looking armchairs positioned around it. Germaine sat behind the desk and motioned for me to take one of the armchairs.
I sat down, purse on my lap. “I have my resume,” I said, “and three letters of reference—”
“I won’t be needing any of that,” Germaine said. “We hire based on personality, and yours, I think, is an excellent fit. You haven’t done any cocktail waitressing before, I take it?”
