Nice Work

Nice Work

Alison stood in front her stove, waiting for the pastry cases for the vol-au vents to reach golden perfection before she took them out. While she waited, she beat  some double- thick cream into the cheesecake mixture and put it in the fridge for later.
Then she turned her attention to her feet: which shoes to wear with the blue silk outfit she’d bought for The Interview. Horribly expensive, but the trim little box pleats and belted waist said “serious and career minded.” She decided her old navy heels would do, once she’d polished them.
Ever since she’d seen the advert for a receptionist at the Harcourt Hotel, home- from- home for the rich and famous, she was sure this job was meant for her. She’d made it through the first round of applications and was on a short list of three.
Alison could see her glamorous future rolling out in technicolour:  registering important guests, directing them to their suites and confidently  advising them on the best restaurants in town. ‘Client liaison’ it was called and she knew she’d be good at that..
“I suppose I couldn’t persuade you to join me for dinner?” purred Tom Cruise, leaning enticingly over her reservation book, “Even the perfect receptionist has to eat sometime.”
As she gazed coolly into Tom’s green- flecked eyes he added, ”At a  table for two in a private room?”
It could happen.
The oven pinged obligingly and she removed the fragrant pastry shells,  carefully transferring them to the wire tray to cool. The chopped chicken breasts with ginger and lime sauce stood ready to be spooned in, and as soon as she was back from the interview she planned to take the pastries and cheesecake round to Moira for her dinner party that evening. The mushroom and smoked mussel soup was already in the container and she’d made the lamb curry the evening before, to give the flavours time to meld together deliciously.
She was always surprised that so many of her friends found cooking difficult and were so pathetically grateful for her help.
“Why not go into catering, Alison?” Moira had said, “You’re a natural born cook.”
But she preferred the security of a salary cheque at the end of the month. If she got it right this morning, her days would be spent behind the wide marble front desk of the Harcourt Hotel.
Alison badly needed this job. Five weeks without work was more than she’d bargained for when she’d impulsively resigned from the dry-cleaning shop to follow the sun. Two weeks in Greece had left her with a beautiful tan but a savings account that was running dangerously low.
It was pouring with rain as she set off, and with the pavement under water just outside her gate, she was forced to detour onto the street.  Trying not to wet her shoes, she stepped gingerly across the gutter that was streaming with water.
As she did so, a little red car sped around the corner, straight through a deep puddle and sent up a great whoosh of dirty water. In one icy second, Alison was drenched to the skin. And as she jumped back, her heel caught on something and she sat down hard in the gutter.
This can’t be happening, she thought, scrambling slowly and painfully to her feet. Not today.
“I say, I’m terribly sorry. Are you alright?”
It was the driver of the car, concern written all over his face.
“No, I’m NOT alright,” she snapped furiously, “Thanks to you. How could you go through that puddle as such a speed? Look at me! I’m a disaster!”
The suspicion of a grin increased her fury.
“I’m on my way to an interview. Now I’ve probably lost the best job I was ever going to get.”
“I feel terrible about this,” he said sincerely, helping her up.  “The least I can do is take you home to get a change of clothes.”
She scowled.
“I haven’t got a change of clothes. This is my interview outfit you – you idiot. I can’t apply for a job at the Harcourt Hotel in a pair of jeans!”
“The Harcourt? That’s a coincidence; I work in the kitchen there.  What’s the interview for?”
“It was for receptionist” she said pointedly. “But now you’ve totally ruined my chances, you- you dish-washer.”
His mouth twitched.
“Oh, that’s right, I heard they were looking for someone. Look, I know the hotel housekeeper, and she could dry everything and have you looking good as new.”
“How? My dress is filthy and wet, and my hair…”
“Jump in,” he said firmly, opening the passenger door. “Mrs Nichols can work miracles.”
She glared at him.
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Sorry.” He held out his hand, which was surprisingly firm and warm.
”Rick Williams.”
“Alison Andrews.”
She sank squishily into the front seat.
“Look on the bright side,” said Rick, “You’re very lucky I didn’t run you over.”
Alison cheered up and looked critically at her driver. He had  a thin, humorous face and a gold earring gleamed under his dark hair which curled over his collar and  added to his slightly raffish look.. Maybe I was lucky after all, she thought, I’ll definitely get to know him better when I’m working there. On the other hand – front office personnel and the kitchen staff? They might not allow it.
Rick ignored the splendid curving drive up to the pillared entrance of the Harcourt Hotel and parked around the back.
“Staff entrance,” he smiled. “Not quite as grand, is it?”
It certainly wasn’t. The lobby smelled of wet boots and badly need a coat of paint. From a room off to the left came a crashing of pots and impatient, raised voices.
“The kitchen,” he explained, ”Things get a bit hectic here at this time of day, they’re just preparing lunch.”
Lured by the smell of rosemary and something else she couldn’t quite identify, Alison peered around the door.  About ten men with white coats and funny hats, intent on stirring and chopping, didn’t look up from their work.
“Venison for lunch?” she enquired, sniffing appreciatively.
“Right.” Rick stared. “You’ve got a good nose.”
“Venison with rosemary sauce- Nigella Lawson!” she exclaimed.
“Clement Freud, actually.”
“Ah, but she took it from his book on Irish cuisine and changed it a lot.  Put in the juniper berries and used a lot more wine. It’s the sauce that makes that dish, don’t you think?”
She grinned at his puzzled face.
“I like to cook.” she said simply, “Now, where’s that miracle worker of yours?”
He led Alison through a maze of dark, narrow passages to the small housekeeper’s room on the first floor, where a motherly person was counting towels..
“Mrs Nichols, my friend Alison needs some help,” said Rick. “She’s a bit wet.”
“Caught in a shower, were you dear? Might take more than a miracle, but let’s see what we can do,” said Mrs Nichols, heaving herself off the stool. “Off you go, Mr Williams.”
Alison wrapped herself in a bath towel, watching as Mrs Nichols sponged and ironed her skirt and top. She rubbed her hair dry in front of a heater and started to relax. She still had five minutes before her interview.
“Got a special date, have you dear?”
“I’m applying for the job as receptionist here,” said Alison.
“That’s nice. If you can handle those demanding guests.”
“I’ll manage,” she said, thinking of Hugh Grant walking up to her desk, looking lost, needing her help. Hugh Grant, demanding? Never. “Is my skirt dry yet, do you think?”
“It’ll do,” said Mrs Nichols, “I’ve got most of the mud off. And this little tear at the back won’t show at all.”
“You’re a darling, thank you so much. Now, how do I get to the manager’s office?”
“Turn left at the end of the passage, and through the glass door,” said Mrs Nichols. “Good luck.”
Alison fingered her lucky rabbits foot nestling inside her bag.  “I’ll be okay,” she said confidently.
There was no mirror in the housekeeper’s room, but she dressed hurriedly, twisted her hair into a knot on top and hoped for the best.
The Harcourt Hotel she recognised started on the other side of the glass door. A thick blue carpet paved the way across the foyer to the marble-topped reception desk, where a smartly dressed woman was seated.
As Alison approached, she looked up and her bland expression changed to one of distaste.
“Yes? Can I help you?” her icy voice had undercurrents of  however,  I doubt it.
“I have an appointment with Mr Adams, the manager. Um..about the job.”
Get a grip, girl, where’s your confidence, she thought crossly. . Then she caught sight of her reflection in a big gold-framed mirror and clutched the edge of the desk in horror.
Her blue skirt, which had seemed so right that morning, no longer said ‘serious and career minded’. It had shrunk so badly it now screamed ‘cheap and nasty’ and the polka- dot top cheekily bared her beautifully tanned midriff for all to see. The cute little navel ring that had seemed such fun on the beach at Rhodos  twinkled maliciously. Not the Harcourt Hotel style at all.
“I – it’s all right, I’ll phone him later,” mumbled Alison, and she turned and dashed blindly back through the glass doors to the staff quarters
She took her treacherous rabbit’s foot out of her bag and hurled it angrily into the corner, then took a deep breath and re-traced her steps down the passage. She was about to walk past the kitchen when Rick appeared.
“That was quick,” he said,”How’d it go?”
“It didn’t. I’m out of here.” She yanked angrily at her skirt. “How could I possibly see the manager looking like this?”
“That’s a very fetching frill,” he grinned. “Old man Adams would have loved it. But I take your point. Look, at the very least, I owe you a coffee and I’d like a word with you.”
He took her arm and led her into a small sitting room furnished with comfy old arms chairs.
“Staff lounge, “ he said “And quite good coffee.”
She sat down while Rick poured them each a cup.
“Shouldn’t you be toiling in the kitchen?” she snapped.
“Oh, I’m allowed a minute or two off,” he smiled. “Tell me, wouldn’t you rather be cooking than listening to complaints all day long?”
“Yes, of course, but there’s the small matter of the rent.”
“Okay, now don’t think I’m crazy, but what sauce would you use if you were preparing whiting?”
“I’d try a Maltaise,” she answered promptly. “But I’d use fresh Seville orange juice instead of lemon. It’s subtler and works wonderfully with whiting.”
“And what would you do to cheer up roast lamb?”
“A sauce? Not boring old mint. Okay, so let’s say you’ve roasted it with lashings of fresh rosemary and slivers of garlic…hmm, maybe a caper sauce? With that flat-leafed parsley and loads of black pepper. And stir in some thick cream just before you serve it.”
She swallowed hungrily. Breakfast seemed a long time ago. “Why do you ask?”
“You want a job, right? And you obviously know your way around a kitchen. How would you like to start as assistant to the saucier here?”
“The what?”
“He’s the chef who makes the sauces. Monsieur  Reynard. He’s nearly seventy  and desperately needs an assistant. I think you’d be very good. You’re creative.”
Alison stared at Rick. Tom Cruise wasn’t ever going to find his way down that gloomy passage. On the other hand, working with this totally gorgeous man every day could have its attractions. And she did love to cook.
“Great perks, too,” he added. “Good staff lunches. On-the-job training from one of the best sauciers in the country. You can wear jeans to work every day if you want, although with legs like yours, that’d be a crime.”
“Cheeky. So what are you, then? You don’t wash dishes.”
“I never said I did. I’m the Executive Chef. So I do the hiring and I think you’d be just what I’m looking for.”
Exactly what I was thinking about you, she thought, then blushed crimson in case he could read her mind.
“You’d be my boss?”
“Not exactly, you’d be answerable to Monsieur Reynard. I don’t interfere in his department.”
Yessss! She thought, looking into his deep brown eyes with a little shiver of anticipation. Dating the boss is never a good idea.

Make me an offer

“They really knew how to make things in those days, didn’t they? Look at the workmanship.”

The tall slim man in a well- cut suit gave Marianne a warm smile as he ran his hand appreciatively over the satiny finish of the Victorian jewellery box on her market stall.

Brown eyes, blond hair and loads of sex appeal. Devastating, thought Marian.

She’d spotted him immediately he’d paused to look, but she knew how annoying it was to be badgered with offers of help so she’d busied herself polishing a silver cake server until he spoke, or moved on.

“Victorian, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s rosewood. Did you spot the secret compartment at the bottom?” She leant over to show him how to press the little ivory button and laughed at his surprise when the small drawer slid out.

“Just the place for secret love letters,” she said..

“That’s amazing. How can you bear to part with it?” His look was teasing. “No, don’t answer that. I’ll take it.”

He’s right! How can I bear to sell this? Marianne thought with a sudden pang, although her flat was already filled with things she’d bought and couldn’t bring herself to re-sell. After finding the jewellery box at a car boot sale, she’d spent hours polishing the wood to a deep gleaming perfection and cleaning the brass fittings with lemon juice. But a small sensible voice said: Be strong, girl, you’ve got to pay the rent as well as eat. So she just shrugged and smiled at him.

“Everything you see is for sale. Make me an offer”

“My lucky day, then.”

She decided to fish a little as she wrapped the box.

“This is really more a woman’s thing isn’t it? A jewellery box?”

He grinned.

“It’s a surprise gift for my fiancée. She’s going to love it.”

Marianne felt ridiculously disappointed. Of course he was spoken for, no one this fabulous would be walking around unattached.

“ We’re getting married one of these days,” he continued, “So I’m having a great time at auction rooms and car boot sales.”

“Lucky you! Have you found anything good?”

“Sure. So far I’ve bought a beautiful silk Chinese rug, very old, and an Edwardian screen …that was a lucky find. And some wonderful antique silver fish knives and forks.”

Marianne grinned at him. These didn’t sound very practical, but probably his fiancée also loved old and beautiful things. It was too bad that the first man she’d met who shared her passion for antiques belonged to somebody else.

“And your fiancée? Does she like shopping at markets too?”

“Julie? Oh she’s happy with anything I buy. She’s not fussy.”

“I hope she’ll like this box,” she said wistfully.

“She’s going to love it, I know,” he smiled.

He’s so nice, she thought. Julie’s a lucky girl. Well, at least my box is going to a good home.

“By the way,” he went on, “My name’s Mike McLeod.”

“I’m Marianne Allan.”

“Well, Marianne, I’ll come by again next week and see what other treasures you have for me,” he promised.

******

“So, how’s it going?” Her sister Sue appeared at the stall, carrying two steaming cups of coffee. “You look as if you could use one of these.”

“Oh, thanks, just what I need.” Marianne sat down gratefully on an upturned box. “I’m doing well, so far. It’s only half way through the month and I’ve already covered my rent.”

“That’s great. Leaving that job at the hamburger joint and opening your own stall was the best idea you’ve had in a long time. I love your new hat, by the way. Reminds me of a drunken tea cosy with peacock feathers on it.”

Marianne patted her head in satisfaction. “I found this at that school fete last week. It’s genuine 1920- don’t you think it suits me?”

“Yes. Very cute. They would have had a fit if you’d come to work in that three months ago.”

“I can’t believe I wasted so much time doing a job I loathed,” sighed Marianne, “Do you realise my profit on that box I just sold is more than I earned for six days hard slog at that awful place? Mind you, I overcharged him shamelessly.”

“Did you sell that Victorian jewellery box? Oh, Marianne, I am sorry!” Sue knew how hard it had been for her to part with it. “Who bought it?”

“A really dishy fellow, actually, the nicest guy I’ve met for ages. And great taste too – he collects old stuff and he said he’s be back next week.”

“Oho.” Sue raised her eyebrows, “Sounds promising!”

“He is, but he’s promised to another, so don’t get excited. But he could become a good customer.”

Marianne couldn’t get Mike McLeod out of her mind all week, and when she bought an intricately carved fire screen on the White Elephant stall at a church fete she knew he’d like it as much as she did. She was right.

“Hey, this is great. Perfect.” Mike appeared just after lunch the following Friday. “You’ve got a good eye, you know. This is eighteenth century and the carving is beautiful. I’ll take it.”

“You don’t mind about the crack?”

“Of course not. Adds to the character.” He didn’t bat an eye when she told him the price.

“I hope your fiancée will approve,” she said as he counted out the money, “Do you have a nice cosy fireplace?” Marianne could picture him with his long legs stretched towards the warmth, a friendly dog at his feet. And herself on the sofa beside him. Stop it, stupid!

“Not yet, but I hope to have one day.” Mike looked a bit uncomfortable. “Actually, Julie’s been dropping hints about a stainless steel coffee maker. But I’m sure she’d rather have this.”

Marianne didn’t think that someone who wanted a stainless steel coffee maker would prefer a cracked fire screen, no matter how beautifully it was carved.

From then on, every time she bought something she thought Mike would like, she put it aside for him. He came to the market every Friday after the lunchtime rush, bringing sandwiches and coffee which they shared sitting on milk crates behind her stall. Once he’d inspected her latest find, and paid for it, he’d linger on to talk until she started to pack up for the day.

Marianne found herself looking forward to his visits far too much. Remember he’s engaged, she told herself, while they chatted easily about everything under the sun, he’s just filling in time instead of going back to his office.

“Don’t you have any work to go to?” she teased one afternoon. “Are you one of these executives that takes a three hour lunch?”

“I’m sure they get along just fine without me. You know, I envy you, working with something that interests you.”

“Yes, starting this stall was the best thing I’ve ever done. I love it.”

He paused, looking into the distance. “Doing something you love is pretty important, isn’t it.”

“It’s the most important, I think. Why put up with someone else telling you what to do? I’d never go back to working in a shop.”

“You’re right.” He sighed. “Okay, can you give me a bag for this silver toast-rack? I must be off. See you next week.”

But Mike didn’t come to the market the following week, not the week after, and Marianne, who’d put aside an art deco table lamp complete with the original coloured glass shade, regretfully sold it to another collector. Mike was probably saving for Julie’s stainless steel coffee maker.

***

“Miscellaneous old bric- a- brac for sale. Reasonable prices for quick sale. Call 17 Tooronga Crescent.”

Marianne held the advertisement in her hand as she knocked on the door of Number 17, wondering what ‘reasonable prices’ meant. She hoped she’d find something here as she was getting low on stock., but the house looked frighteningly smart and the stuff would probably be too expensive.

A sleek haired blond woman opened the door and looked at her coolly.

“I’ve come about the bric-a-brac,” said Marianne.

“It’s in here.” Her heels clicked across the highly polished floor as she led the way through the smart modern rooms to a small, crowded study.

It was an Aladdin’s cave of collectable treasures and Marianne wanted everything she saw. Antique pistols, flowered china jugs, a beautiful silk rug with a delicate pattern of lotus blossom and dragons, a canteen of silver cutlery lined with worn gold velvet, a gleaming rosewood box, a carved fire screen with a small crack across the top…Marianne gasped in recognition. .

This must be Julie. The fiancée who wasn’t fussy and liked everything Mike bought.

“A lot of junk, isn’t it,’ said Julie. “I can’t stand old tat like this, so make me an offer for the lot.”

Marianne found her voice with difficulty.

“Where does it come from? Is it yours?”

“Don’t make me laugh. No, it was my ex-fiancé’s. He was a compulsive junk collector. Then when I tried to improve his taste he just packed his bags and took off. Walked out on a good job too, without giving notice. Well, I’m certainly better off without him.”

Marianne made a small non- committal noise of sympathy. ‘Ex-fiance’ had a nice ring to it.

“He didn’t fit into Daddy’s company at all. Mummy always said we were like chalk and cheese and she was right. Anyway, I warned him that if he didn’t take the rest of his stuff within a week, I’d get rid of it.”

Julie asked a laughably low amount for everything and Marianne decided instantly. There goes my rent, she thought ruefully.

“I’ll take it all,” she said, “Can I give you a deposit now and collect it tomorrow? I’ll have to borrow a van.”

“Sure.”

The following Friday as Marianne was setting things out on her table, Mike came round the corner, almost running. She hardly recognized him in jeans and an old sweater. Much better, she thought approvingly.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” he asked, “Julie said a girl with a crazy hat took everything. Please say it was you!”

“Of course it was me,” she said calmly. “I couldn’t let someone else buy your lovely things. They’re all at my flat.”

He gave her a hug which lifted her off her feet and spun her round, laughing with relief.

“You’re terrific, you know that? I could kiss you.”

Which he proceeded to do, most satisfyingly.

When she stepped back, Marianne said, “I gather Julie was a bit more fussy than you thought?”

He grimaced.

“I knew she didn’t really appreciate antiques, and like an idiot I kept hoping I could change her mind. But that wasn’t all that was wrong between us- we couldn’t agree on anything. Then she suddenly told me to choose between what she called my old junk, and her.”

“So you chose your old junk?”

“No, I chose a beautiful old silk rug, an Edwardian screen and a Victorian jewellery box, among other things!”

“Very sensible,” she said.

He grinned down at her tenderly. “I love your cheerful hat. A new one, isn’t it?”

She touched her enormous beret with a big pom- pom.

“I got it at the thrift shop. Isn’t it terrific? Couldn’t resist the purple and orange together. I like your jeans and sweater, too. A great improvement.”

“I’m never going to wear a suit to work again. I’ve been taking your advice and arranging things so that I can do what I really want to.”

“And that is?”

“I’ve taken a lease on an empty shop round the corner,” he said. “I want to make it the most interesting place in town, with big comfy chairs where people can sit and read the books I’m going to sell. And I’ll have a little coffee corner and grind my own beans so people won’t be able to resist buying a great big mug of the stuff. “

“That sound fabulous, Mike.” Marianne’s mind leapt ahead. “And you could have authors coming and signing their books, and you could sell paintings as well, and..”

“And I was picturing an antique section in one corner,” he said. “There’s plenty of room for a few trestle tables with some small well chosen things. It would need a person with experience to run that. What do you think?”

Her heart leapt but she looked at him thoughtfully.

“It might be a lot warmer in winter, I suppose. But I’ve always said I’d never work for anyone again. I don’t know, Mike.”

“I was thinking more of a partnership.”

A partnership with Mike. That sounded pretty good.

“Okay,” she said. “That could work. ‘Proprietors McLeod and Evans? Or ‘ Evans and McLeod?’”

“Or McLeod and McLeod. What do you say?”

He was hugging her to him so hard she could hardly breathe but being in his arms felt absolutely right. Her voice was muffled.

“I’ll think about it.”

But Marianne knew she wouldn’t have to think too hard.