I spend the rest of the morning doing what I do best: becoming invisible. Retreating behind my screen like a crab into its shell, quietly getting things done where no one can yell at me.
They’ve given me a tiny office tucked at the back of the hotel. I throw myself into implementing the system on-site. The system’s designed to run in the background, waiting to be switched on feature by feature whenever the staff decides they can stomach dealing with me again.
If ever.
Roy calls from London with a couple of basic tech questions. I keep my voice upbeat, like nothing’s wrong.
Craig messages every half hour demanding updates like he’s monitoring a space launch.
I give him one-line, purely factual updates. I don’t mention the kitchen disaster. I’m hoping I’ll have thought of a way to fix it.
It was only yesterday that I was standing in front of Patrick, promising I wouldn’t let him down.
Trying to believe in myself.
Maybe he was right to doubt me.
Maybe they all are.
Patrick
I’m buried in contracts when someone hammers my door hard enough to rattle the whisky decanter. Only one person storms through this hotel like he owns the place. Only one I let get away with it.
“Come in.”
Chef MacLeod barrels in, face beetroot, six-four of Scottish fury in chef’s whites. “Patrick, what the fuck’s going on?”
I lean back in my chair and set down my pen. “Morning to you too, Chef. What’s got you wound up?”
“What’s got me wound up?” He looms over my desk, the veins in his neck pulsing. “Ye send some wee lassie into my kitchen, telling my staff they cannae do their jobs properly!”
I sigh. “Explain.”
“This morning! Some English girl wi’ a computer, saying we need her fancy app to tell us when tomatoes go bad.” He paces. “My sous chef Davie—been with me eight years—she tells him he’s inaccurate. Poor Davie, thinking he knew how to count vegetables all this time.”
I grimace.
“Davie told her to get tae fuck, and I don’t blame him one bit. My whole team thinks they’re about to be replaced by bloody robots.”
“Calum—,” I start, but he’s too far gone. The chef’s always been dramatic, but when someone messes with his kitchen, he turns into a one-man theatrical production.
“Fifteen years I’ve been stumbling about in the dark, two Michelin stars on my wall, unaware I needed some wee computer program tae tell me how tae run a kitchen. Maybe next the computer can wipe my arse for me, since I’m clearly too thick tae manage that myself!”
“Watch your tone,” I say. “You’ve made your point. Now calm the fuck down.”
“I’ve been keeping my cool all morning just so the staff would calm down.” His chest heaves beneath his whites. “You’ve been a great boss to me, but now you want to run my kitchen by computers? Good fucking luck wi’ that.”
“Nobody’s replacing anyone. The system’s meant to help, not take over. I’ll talk to them myself.”
“Right now, I’ve got fifteen staff convinced they’re oot on their arse by Christmas.” He storms for the door.
The door slams behind him.
Georgie. What the hell did you do?
This is exactly what I don’t fucking need right now. Every detail at Clachmòr House must be perfect—flawless service, seamless operations, not a hair out of place. Forbes inspectors could walk through those doors the second I submit our application. They’ll smell weakness a mile off.
And instead of a well-oiled kitchen, I’ve got an irate head chef threatening to walk.
