Tea, Coffee, and Me Ch. 02

Ch. 2: David Manners must mind his manners.

I felt that Miss Tonya Tomkins, who yesterday had been my school-leaver's Job Centre interviewer and as such was empowered to decree the direction my career path should take, had callously thrown me in at the deep end; given me a sink or swim introduction into the world of work.

But that was not the last that I would see, was in fact only the beginning of my involvement, with the ardent Authoritarian Female Party apparatchik and fanatical 'female-friendly' idealist.

Miss Tomkins, who to all intents and purposes had supplied me as an emergency replacement to my now employer Mrs Hilary Harper of Harper's Conference Catering, was now my Case Worker, whose desk I must report to on a fortnightly basis for my Male-Worker's Conduct Revue.

And, as in due course I would come to find out, Miss Tonya Tomkins would have other ways, by which she would make me tread water to keep my head above the surface.

***

While we'd tableclothed and prepared the serving tables in the set-aside Pavilion Lounge of the Brighton City-Break Hotel and Spa, Mrs Hilary Harper had told me that if I could hang in there and endure in my 'specialised' role until the end of next Saturday, I will indeed have survived a baptism of fire.

Upon her mentioning that next week's catering contract duration was Monday - Saturday and would be at another Brighton promenade hotel venue, I'd asked her for a bit more info regarding our upcoming clients; asked who they were and what they were about?

But as to that, she had been decidedly unforthcoming.

Cagey, reluctant to enlarge, seemingly guarding against imparting to me any further information and risking let slip something that for the moment she'd rather keep from me, my employer said she'd tell me after work today who was next up in her diary on Monday.

But that was a long way off.

Today was only Friday; the first day of my full-time employment with Harper's Conference Catering, which served small- to medium-size all-female staffed businesses - and I was yet to face my opening skirmish.

For now, gathered for their final 10:00 - 10:30 coffee break of the week, twenty-nine SPOILT! Boutique manageresses looked on with interest and anticipation as their replacement refreshments break 'little something extra' obediently and compliantly and with eyes respectfully downcast followed at the heels of the thirtieth - their Head of Conference representative, Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish.

At least, I thought, as resignedly I followed Miss Connaught-Cavendish to where her coffee drinking colleagues were circling to create an arena, it was of some consolation to know that with the windowless privacy of the Pavilion Lounge that had been set aside by hotel management for the Monday - Friday duration of the SPOILT! Annual Conference, I wouldn't need to worry about being gawked at by hotel guests and other perambulating patrons.

Not that I didn't have other, niggling worries; discomposing concerns, other than those in the 10:00 - 10:30 coffee break immediacy.

Sarah, one of the hotel's commis chefs, had instructed me to report to the chefs' changing room later to give her a post-shift foot massage.

When they had finished work, I was then to afford the same post-shift pleasurable and relief-giving attentions to the Lunch Shift waitresses.

Also, sometime in the afternoon, I was to report to the office of the hotel manageress, Miss Honeywell.

Thus, as free time permitted between refreshments break intervals, through my foot services to female hotel staff I would satisfy my employer Mrs Hilary Harper's side of her quid pro quo understanding; her reciprocal favour agreement with the hotel manageress Miss Honeywell, for her exclusive SPOILT! Boutique Annual Conference five-day durational use of the capacious Pavilion Lounge.

Of course, then there was the other, little matter, of which above all else was getting me in a tizzy as relentlessly it played on my mind.

The first, of my upcoming "frequent" foot massages for Mrs Harper's two nineteen-year-old junior partner five-percent-of-company-net-profits-sharing assistants, Amanda and Zoe: the frequent foot massages, which were one of my job-condition duties and their at-work fringe benefit.

All of these thoughts, though, of the imminent line-up of nerve-wracking bargain-fulfilling assignations and dutiful co-worker attentiveness, were all but displaced from my mind by the even more unsettling matters in the immediacy; by what was about to ensue in the here and now.

As, I supposed that in their line of business it would be a definite plus, all of the thirty Annual Conference attending SPOILT! Boutique manageresses were above-average attractive; many of them, most appreciably so.

But, at least from these initial impressions, I thought that, with her blonde hair and blue eyes, flawless olive complexion, terrific figure and, from my leg man's perspective, her fabulous legs, Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish was perhaps the most glamorous as well as the most standout, charismatic personage.

For a moment, I regarded with awed admiration bordering on adoration the woman standing with her back to me and who, in her heels, stood way taller.

Rarely, if ever, had I set eyes upon a pair of legs so perfect as these; Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish's high-fashion high heels, setting her golden-toned calves off to breathtaking advantage.

Seeing her dressed in her final-day-of-conference skin tone complimenting golden-yellow T-shirt, and her SPOILT! Boutique fashion items of which as a store manageress she enjoyed a generous personal allowance: above-the-knee red skirt; and, of the same bright-red colour as her stylishly-cut short skirt, a pair of expensive-looking high-heeled pumps - I almost felt honoured to be her 'attendant'.

Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish did not deign to give me my cue by word of mouth but merely expected me to interpret it by dint of her now stationary stance, which, indeed, did seem to suggest a particular expectancy.

Like the proverbial light bulb flash of sudden understanding, belatedly the explanation dawned on me now in all of its glaring obviousness as to why my Job Centre interviewer Miss Tonya Tomkins had looked me over with that air of speculative appraisal, before finally permitting me to sit. The reason for her calculating look, that, other than piquing my curiosity, I had thought it nothing of portent; of ill omen.

Which just goes to show how wrong; just how naively unsuspecting a person can be, of a Job Centre interviewer's agenda.

For I understood, all too well, now, the whys and the wherefores of Miss Tomkins's apparent but, to me, inexplicable pre-interview thoughtful considerations and mental box-ticking assessments.

Looking back at it now from Miss Tomkins's viewpoint, I could see it all.

Standing at 5' 4", the short but stocky stature of the intimidated and therefore easily manipulable eighteen-year-old school leaver and Career Classification Assessment interviewee standing before her, satisfied to a rare nicety the optimum physical requirements of the just-in urgent job vacancy that she was especially keen on filling as expeditiously as possible.

It all made sense now.

So, this was it, then.

I looked back, at my employer Mrs Hilary Harper, and at her two junior partner assistants, Amanda and Zoe.

The three of them, each stationed behind one of the four white-tableclothed and pushed-together tables of our makeshift but presentable serving counter to pour cups of coffee or tea for our lady clients, smiled back at me.

Mrs Harper's smile of encouragement seemed a little strained, and I understood why. She had a lot riding on what was going to happen in the coming thirty minutes - or rather: how I reacted, to what was about to ensue.

Amanda's smile was more confident, reflecting her previously professed intuitive certainty as to my suitability for their company's key, male-worker role: provider of their niche selling-point attraction 'little something extra'.

Zoe's smile, as usual, made me thrill to it. There was something in her smile that I couldn't read; couldn't define, couldn't decipher, but seemed full of suggestion, of innuendo.

I remembered sitting next to Zoe on the bench seat of Mrs Harper's catering van on our short journey across town to the hotel.

Zoe, telling me all about her eighteenth-birthday present she'd received last year from her prison officer cousin, Geraldine ("Gezza"): her authentic AFP-funded no-expense-spared leading-technology designed and manufactured Greystone Prison issue flip-flops, as worn by the notorious institution's infamous all-female prison officer staff, the 'Jailhouse Blues'.

Zoe, her left leg crossed over her right knee, the toe of her left flip-flop resting against the side of my left knee. And my eyes, captured by her darkish-pink ('Cerise Sensation') painted toes, sending pulses of tingly sensation right through me as with an almost hypnotic resonance they caused her birthday-present thin flexible foam-rubber soled flip-flop to slap against the bottom of her bare heel - slap, slap, slap, slap, slap ...

Zoe was growing on me, and fast.

By now, more than anything I wanted to win Zoe's approval and earn her regard: not just do what was expected of me anyway, do my bit to help boost her junior partnership's entitlement five percent share of Harper's Conference Catering's net profits, but to please her for pleasings' sake.

Stirred by these motivating imperatives, thus I was galvanised; fortified with the resolve to compliantly assume my 'key-role' position - not just with the good graces of a sense-of-duty stoicism but with a readiness born of a fast-growing emotional goal aspiration that barely an hour ago pre-Zoe I would have laughed off as pie-in-the-sky preposterous.

My loins thus girded, I walked forward, closing the gap between myself and the charismatic Head of Conference; close enough, to discern and to appreciate Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish's subtle yet heady fragrance - no doubt, one of her selections from the SPOILT! Boutique perfumery range.

And now, directly behind the fragrance-exuding expectantly standing conference-heading SPOILT! Boutique manageress, I sat down on the carpet of the set-aside Pavilion Lounge of the Brighton City-Break Hotel and Spa and, spreading my legs wide apart in an accommodating 'V', thus made myself conveniently available and my face easily reachable - as her refreshments-break facial footrest.

Upon seeing my white-shorted bare legs and trainered feet dutifully opened accommodatingly on either side of her, London's Oxford Street's premier everything-under-one-roof SPOILT! Boutique manageress adjusted her standing position in preparing to avail herself of the niche selling-point attraction 'little something extra' creature comfort of which it was now incumbent upon me to provide for my employer Mrs Hilary Harper's female clientele.

It appeared, though, from her tottery unsteadiness of balance that Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish's ensuing extrication of her right foot from the confines of her rather tight-fitting spike-heeled shoe was not just less than easeful but positively perilous.

It struck me that merely making myself conveniently available and my face easily reachable might still leave something to be desired; that in fact there was much room for improvement. And, occurring to me also that my critically observing employer Mrs Hilary Harper and her two closely watching junior partner profits-sharing assistants Amanda and Zoe would expect me to use my initiative and not just sit there and extend every courtesy out of reverent politeness but offer every assistance to prevent disaster, I did precisely that.

I took it upon myself, to take hold of and hold down for Miss Connaught-Cavendish, not just for easefulness' sake, but for the in-the-balance safety of her off balance person too, the four-inch spike-heel of her red leather pump until safely she'd eased free her heel.

If Miss Connaught-Cavendish approved of my unprompted assistance or appreciated my thoughtful and considerate attentiveness in her interests, this was unevidenced in that she neither verbally expressed or in any way gave the slightest gestured indication.

Having extended, said thoughtful off-my-own-bat stance-stabilising facilitation, I sat still.

Sat stock-still, and watched as the freshly unshod pale-olive complexioned sole of the SPOILT! Boutique Head of Conference manageress's right foot reached behind her and upward, towards my resigned if not reconciled and compliant if not wholly amenable face, which would, nonetheless for all of my heretofore reluctance and reserve, now almost willingly, for Zoe, serve as her refreshments-break 'little something extra' facial footrest.

Unsighted and unguided, the navigational guesswork of Miss Connaught-Cavendish's approach was unconfident and clumsy but, albeit, on a decidedly wayward course, she got there in the end.

And, after minutely adjusting the sole of her resting right foot on my conveniently positioned face for surer purchase and maximum comfort upon said eventual successful completion of her blind 'docking', sighing with pleasure, Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish leant back into me in blissful relaxation.

From the other twenty-nine closely encircling and avidly observing SPOILT! Boutique manageresses, I heard their unmistakable murmurings, amused chuckling and even excited exclamations of vicarious enjoyment in anticipating their own, imminent participation.

Because unquestionably they, too, were immensely looking forward to taking their turn with their refreshments-break facial footrest. And if not now, during the 10:00 - 10:30 coffee break, then I was given to believe, from the manageresses' candidly expressed sentiments and frankly disclosed intentions towards myself, those who missed out now would be sure not to during their 3:00 - 3:30 tea break.

In my head, I quickly did the math.

With two thirty-minute refreshments breaks totalling sixty minutes, this meant that the personal facial-footrest allowance of each of the thirty SPOILT! Boutique manageresses averaged out at two minutes.

On the face of it, as it were, perhaps, not a lot of time; indeed, the clock would be ticking a lot faster for the users of said service than for its provider.

Presiding over my initiation at the suggestion of my employer Mrs Hilary Harper, Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish, the first of the Annual Conference attending SPOILT! Boutique manageresses to avail herself of their emergency replacement refreshments-break 'little something extra', settled in-situ.

Obliging me to discern, if not appreciate - and albeit not, actually deliberately and intentionally and hence meanly and maliciously, but merely incidentally and consequentially and therefore blithely and indifferently - the decidedly less subtly fragranced and even headier aroma of her under- and in-between-the-toes foot scent.

Though she occasioned me to strain my neck muscles to do so, I supported her steadily testing weight and increasingly relaxing posture as sturdily and as accommodatingly as any item of non-olfactory sensory footrest furniture.

And I might well have been just an unusual piece of footrest furniture, for all the notice that the coffee-breaking high-end fashion store manageresses and fashionistas themselves, took of me from that moment on as they resumed their chitchatting, drank their coffee and ate their fancy sandwiches.

As I sat there, listening to them talk, catching snippets and snatches of multiple conversations on a variety of girl-talk topics but mostly to do with their fashion-world work, almost all of my sight was taken up by the pale-olive complexioned sole of Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish's rather broad right foot:

The bottom of her bare heel, planted in the centre of my forehead; her arch, right in front of my eyes; the ball of her foot, pressing down on the bridge of my nose; and the undersides of her nose-clutching and nostril-encapturing toes, ensuring her a steadier if not rock-steady single-footed stance.

But I was not so entirely blinkered and my vision so completely limited by the bronzed breadth of Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish's facial-footrest availing right foot, that I could not see two of her colleagues when they took up very similar positions close to either side of her and with their backs to me. The one to her left, wearing a final-day-of-conference electric blue T-shirt, the one to her right, a crimson T-shirt. Due to my considerably compromised vision, though, further, more elaborate details of description at that time as to the SPOILT! Boutique skirt and shoe numbers the two of them wore, were somewhat obscured.

Carefully, not to risk upsetting the potentially precarious nature of their Head of Conference's single-footed stiletto-heeled stance, syncing their movements, the two high-end fashion store manageresses reached their now unshod foot behind them and upwards. The one on Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish's left, to rest the top of her right foot on my left shoulder; the one on her right, to similarly rest her left foot, sole-up, upon my right shoulder.

Because the three of them were in such close, side by side proximity, it was quite apparent that, if it came to the two shoulder-footrest availing manageresses wishing to rest their other foot, they would need to swap positions.

The lower leg of the two shoulder-availing manageresses was approximately level with the floor: the lower leg and foot of the electric blue T-shirted manageress, sloping slightly downward; the lower leg and foot of the crimson T-shirted manageress, sloping slightly upward.

Ultimately, I realised, these upward- or downward-sloping angles would be resultant of interdependent twin factors: the shoulder-footrest availing female client's height; and the amount of elevation afforded by the heels of her shoes.

One thing I noticed straight away, and with no small measure of relief, was that at least to some degree I was now able to relax my straining and already by now tiring neck muscles. For such was the anchoring/stabilising effect of the combined settled weight on my shoulders of the two manageresses' resting legs and feet, which were surprisingly heavy.

Nonetheless, moments later my head lunged forward precipitously as I was instantly relieved of all said neck muscle stress and strain entirely when with unexpected suddenness Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish removed her right foot from her facial footrest and returned it to its shoe.

But I knew my reprieve would be very shortlived: this, merely preparatory to Miss Connaught-Cavendish's switchover; standing on her right foot, and repeating the restful and relaxing refreshments-break 'little something extra' ritual, continuing with her left foot.

Taking the opportunity this brief change-over interval afforded, I looked first to my left shoulder, and then to my right shoulder. Took a moment, to look at the shoulder-perched, sole-upwards foot of each of the two foot-resting manageresses who were, albeit inadvertently, helpfully anchoring me in position and, albeit incidentally, mercifully mitigating the wearisome workload of my primary function.

The manageress to Miss Connaught-Cavendish's left, who was wearing the electric blue T-shirt, and resting her right foot sole-upwards on my left shoulder, was wearing seam-reinforced stockings of a thick, elaborately patterned navy blue material, of which the plain dark unpatterned sole almost invisibly veiled the bottom of her slightly downwards-sloping foot.

Her similarly single-footed postured colleague, wearing the crimson T-shirt, and who was resting her left foot sole-upwards on my right shoulder, wore stockings of a type I would describe as starkly contrasting. Unadorned, white, almost transparent material, so gossamer thin as to lay bare and reveal as though naked every last little detail of her scantily enshrouded slightly upwards sloping sole.