It’s up to me and me alone to find a way out of this mess, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
If I could only think of how…
3
Monday Morning Career Hijackings
Nora
Okay,Monday morning, here I come. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. You go, girl. You got this.
These are all the things I tell myself as I feather a bit of bronzer across my face. Lately I have to talk myself up before my shift every day. Ever since the Pinder-Burrows Wedding that didn’t happen, largely due to my own actions. I shudder at the memory of that fateful afternoon when the entire thing went sour, and I had to tell my bosses that the event of the season wasn’t going to be an event at all after I asked the bride if she was happy. What I meant to ask was if she was happy with how we’d set everything up. What she heard was “Are you sure you want to marry this idiot?” Things quickly collapsed from there, and the father of the bride demanded his massive deposit back. Harrison and Libby had to get involved. It was a whole big, ugly thing. That was nearly four months ago, but Oakley still walks around with a smug smile over my massive misstep.
No, Nora, do not dwell on the past. Focus on today and what you can do to make it the best day possible. Be the best version of yourself you can.
Nodding firmly at my reflection, I shut off the light and scurry down the hall to the front door of my flat. When I round the corner, my arm brushes against a crunchy potted palm, and yellow leafy bits rain all over the terracotta tile floor.
“Nuts,” I mutter. I really should water that. Or maybe it’s beyond water at this point. I should google it when I get home, but either way, I need to do something. All the other plants are going to start believing I’m some sort of serial killer, leaving them to slowly die one by one. I mean to take good care of them, I really do. They don’t all die from neglect. Some die fromoverwatering.
Picking up my handbag, my vintage Scooby-Doo lunch kit that my grandma gave me, and my sunglasses off the tiny desk that serves as a credenza, I lock up, then rush down the stairs to the parking lot.
Being late today isnotan option, but I spent so long giving myself a pep talk, I’m down to the wire to arrive on time. That alone is enough to make me sweat but add in that it’s only eight-thirty a.m. and it’s already as hot as a Carolina Reaper outside. I’m going to be a mess by the time I get to work.
I put on my sunglasses, toss my things on the passenger seat, then climb into my old Civic. During the drive from my building on the north side of San Felipe to the resort just south of town, I daydream about the competition. Me, in a total state of flow for the next month, managing all the moving parts with ease, impressing the socks off everyone involved, proving to Harrison, Libby, and Rosy (the general manager) that I should be the obvious choice for the senior events manager position. As I move swiftly along the freeway, with the sparkling ocean on my left, I picture Oakley’s face pinched in anger as I carry my box of personal effects into my new office and swing the door shut behind me with my foot.
It’ll mean a raise. A really big one, too. I’ll finally be able to squirrel away some serious money to buy myself a little seaside house in a decent neighbourhood. Something small and adorable and just right for one professional independent woman who wants to listen to music (possibly even classical) while sitting on her covered veranda, staring out at the ocean, sipping wine. I’ll have a greenhouse and a garden and will spend my time off tending to soil and enjoying the literal fruits (and veggies) of my labour. I’ll read more. Do yoga every morning. I’ll stop rushing around and take life slowly,mindfully.
I’ll have an extra week of vacation every year—not to be used in high season, of course. I’ll spend that time doing things like painting the kitchen cupboards a lovely sage green or creating an outdoor living room and hosting fabulous dinner parties for my friends.
But more than all of that, I’ll never be seen as a mere service provider again. Or perhaps I should say I’ll nevernotbe seen as a service provider, since the wealthy people I’m helping rarely notice me at all. They want what they want when they want it, which would be the instant they think of it, and we minions are merely a conduit for their latest desire. We’re not human beings with dreams and goals and people who love us.
Deep breath, Nora. Deep breath.
Anyway, the point is, as a manager of the team, I won’t have direct contact with the guests unless the shit hits the fan. When it does, instead of being a subordinate, I’ll be the final word, the big cheese, the head honcho. They still won’t care about me, but they’ll see me as a person of authority and may even treat me with the tiniest bit of respect.
Okay, so maybe they won’t, but the point is, I won’t have to deal with them all day, every day, for the rest of my career. There will be a lovely buffer between me and the rich, spoiled narcissists of the world. I’ll oversee my team, inspiring them to do their best work, then go home to my incredible life by the sea. It’s going to be glorious.
All I have to do is make sure I don’t fuck anything up over the next several weeks, then a whole new life will be waiting for me. Nora Cooper: Senior Events Manager, with a small team of three people to start with. Well, likely three. Maybe more though.
That is going to be my future, I tell myself as I pull into a stall. I’ve visualized it, now I’m going to make it happen no matter what. This morning I’m going to hide in an empty conference room (as opposed to sitting at my desk in the bullpen), develop my SMART goals, and determine the best way possible to manage the living shit out of this competition. By the time I get back in my car this afternoon, I’ll have everything sorted out, and I’ll be well on my way to making all my career—and life—goals come true.
Or not.
Because when I step into the lobby, I see the last people I expected to be here on a Monday morning: my mum and Kat. They’re standing in the center of the open-air lobby, chatting away with Rosy Brown, the manager.
Crap.My mum must not have believed me about trying to get Kat a job here. I wasn’t actually going to do it, but still. Rude to ambush me like this.
Mum’s eyes light up when she sees me. “There you are! I was just telling Rosy we thought you started at the crack of dawn, the way you go on about your long hours.”
My cheeks heat up. “Were you?” I hurry over, hoping if I’m closer to them, she’ll lower her voice. I absolutely don’t need the front desk staff, the concierge, Kevin, the surly IT guy, who is currently fixing a computer behind the desk, and the security guys to hear any of this.
Kat, who is dressed in a baby blue onesie shorts/T-shirt combo only a teenager could get away with, looks like the very last person you’d trust with anything ever. Clearly very bored, she’s staring up at the pair of doves that have built their nest on one of the cross-braces under the thatched roof. Glancing at me, she wrinkles her nose. “Don’t they crap on the floor?”
“Sometimes, but the guests love them anyway. You know what? Never mind that.” I smile at Rosy. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” Rosy answers, giving me a look I can’t quite read. But I won’t have to wonder long how she feels, because Rosy always lets you in on her true feelings about any topic. Especially if she’s annoyed, and she must be, given the fact that my mother has shown up out of the blue on a very busy Monday morning to beg for a job for my adult sister. Actually, Rosy’s straightforwardness is going to work in my favour. She’s obviously going to see Kat is not suited to work here, and she’ll say so, makingherthe bad guy and allowing me to be all “darn it, I wassohoping this would work out.”
… Only she’s smiling at Mum. “Your mother was just telling me your little sister is looking for work.”
