Tea, Coffee, and Me Ch. 02

With my head thus craned to my right, I was slightly unsettled to observe that at just after ten o'clock in the morning, the crimson T-shirted manageress's ultra-thin white stocking was already showing the first signs of perspiration. The places of discolouration: the heel, the ball of the foot, and the under-the-toes area; shades of grey, varying from off-white at the arch, to a sweat moistened dove-grey under the toes.

I was occasioned further unease, at the thought that, come the SPOILT! Boutique manageresses' 3:00 - 3:30 tea break in another five hours' time, I might be pressed into her refreshments-break footrest service again - and she might not use one of my shoulders ...

From her end of their coffee-break conversation, as, seemingly oblivious to me by now as in her pleasantly lilting Welsh tones she chatted with Miss Connaught-Cavendish and the electric blue T-shirted manageress, it emerged that the name of the wearer of the crimson T-shirt and the gossamer thin, almost see-through white stockings, was Julie. Apparently, she ran Cardiff's SPOILT! Boutique.

And, similarly gleaned from eavesdropping on the threesome's fashion-world insiders' surprisingly interesting discussion, I also learned that Julie's co shoulder availing colleague, wearing the electric blue T-shirt and the expensive-looking seam-reinforced navy blue stockings, was Maxine, and she ran the Bristol store.

I was then distracted by a movement below.

Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish, having reinserted her right foot into her shoe, was apparently having the same difficulty again in easing free now the heel of her left foot from its rather tight-fitting red leather pump.

Bearing in mind the stability and therefore the safety of the two shoulder-footrest utilising manageresses Maxine and Julie, carefully, I leaned forward ... and then leaned forward a little bit more.

And, upon finding that the two shoulder-footrest availing manageresses' resting legs and feet were of a minimal impediment to my forward-leaning movement and, more importantly, said movement was not perilous to themselves, again I took it upon myself to take hold of and hold down for Miss Connaught-Cavendish her shoe's four-inch spike-heel. Repeating, said off-my-own-bat employer-pleasing, dutiful initiative-taking, solicitous assistance-extending, disaster-preventing single-footed stance facilitation.

My thoughtful, considerate, proactive attentiveness, again eliciting from her no sign of acknowledgement and still less indication of thanks, the manageress of London's Oxford Street's premier SPOILT! Boutique now reached her bare pale-olive complexioned left foot behind her and upwards, to once again avail herself of her refreshments-break facial footrest.

By now I was starting to get the hang of this aspect of my new job and, this time, I didn't constrain Miss Connaught-Cavendish to do all of the work herself, post-switchover.

Watching the uncertain, haphazard approach this time of Miss Connaught-Cavendish's unsighted and unguided left bare sole, it occurred to me that there was still much room for receptive improvement.

From a glance at their faces, I was given to believe also that my anxiously watching employer Mrs Hilary Harper and her two critically observing assistants Amanda and Zoe, having witnessed me use my initiative once, were expecting me not just to sit there but to respond proactively again and implement improvements unsupervised.

And so, in another act of employer pleasing self-initiative, I took it upon myself to lean forward and, manoeuvring my forehead to receive early and to accommodate with pinpoint exactitude the arrival of the bottom of the Head of Conference's erratically oncoming bare heel, I thus facilitated her blind 'docking'.

Just as she'd done first with her right foot, with exaggerated care Miss Connaught-Cavendish now centred the ball of her left foot on the bridge of my nose; her clutching, nostril encapturing toes, testing and retesting for optimum stability, ensuring maximum security of single-footed balance, pre-commitment.

And upon seeing, after repeated trial-testing, the minor and fussy but crucial pre-commitment adjustment performed to their Head of Conference's complete contentment (and to their own, peace of mind), considerately the two shoulder-footrest availing manageresses Maxine and Julie safely ceded their positions to two impatiently waiting colleagues.

Following the synced, risk-avoidant example of their colleagues Maxine and Julie, promptly these two acceding manageresses eagerly assumed their shoulder-footrest availing positions.

Simultaneously the lime green T-shirted manageress, on Miss Connaught-Cavendish's left, rested her right foot on my Maxine-vacated left shoulder; and the lemon T-shirted manageress, on Miss Connaught-Cavendish's right, similarly rested her left foot, sole-up, on my Julie-rescinded right shoulder.

I then felt two grasping, tugging hands, yanking the tail of my shirt right out of my community servant-style elasticated-waisted white work shorts. (These, the distinctive, demeaning workwear issued to me at the Community Service Liaison Centre, where I'd reported to upon leaving the Job Centre after my Career Classification Assessment interview and consequent career-path decree by Miss Tonya Tomkins).

I then felt two presences: the owners of those shirt-snatching hands, who were backing into me; settling into their positions right up close to me in a manner that in any other circumstances would strike one as an intimacy of unseemly nature. And, in my peripheral vision, albeit imperfectly I could see two more SPOILT! Boutique manageresses, positioning themselves just as close, on either side of me.

It occurred to me that, surely by now, if fourteen of her colleagues were to partake equally and fairly of their morning coffee-break 'little something extra', Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish was overrunning now and by a considerable margin her allotted two-minute allowance in this, their favourite and most coveted of refreshments-break footrest positions.

Either the Annual Conference attending SPOILT! Boutique manageresses hadn't done the math, or they weren't rigid timekeepers: I'd seen no stopwatch in evidence and, from what I could see, none of the other twenty-nine manageresses seemed eager to raise the equal-opportunity time allowance issue with their Head of Conference and pull her up about her selfish overrun.

Insinuating their way under the tail of my untucked shirt, I felt the invasive soles of two feet, both of them bare and both of them startlingly cold, as, gratefully warming them on their side of my spine, the two shirt-pulling manageresses took up their bare-back availing footrest/foot-warming positions.

The other two manageresses to either side of me were not barefoot but wore what felt to me like nylons or tights. As, contenting themselves with resting their foot in the natural recesses of my sides: the bottoms of their heels, taking advantage of the yielding but supportive flesh beneath my ribcage; the ball of their foot and their toes, aided by the slight foothold bumps of my hips, they partook of their coffee-time indulgence.

To my surprise - no: to my absolute, flabergastation - I now wondered if I would, after all, prove Amanda's intuitive assertion correct and realise my employer Mrs Hilary Harper's fervently stated hopes that, at last, they had found their missing team player.

Wondered, if I could, find it within myself, if unable to radically change my entrenched AFP-antipathetic attitude, then to at least put on hold my female-friendly ideological disagreements and disgruntlements.

Pondered, if, rather than follow in the ill-fated footsteps of my long string of short-serving sullen and begrudging runaway forerunners, I could put aside my resentments and reservations and learn to - to use my employer Mrs Hilary Harper's word: "adapt".

Considered, if in fact I actually could, occupy with the composure of mind on my part and an agreeable consistency of submissive attitude and satisfactory quality of performance on theirs, the position of their key, male worker. Be the compatible male employee, who unlike all of my inherently unsuited and ultimately unadaptable predecessors would not flee and let them down but remain and serve them well.

Reflected, if through both the good offices and the as yet unrevealed but naked self-interests of their sympathetic contact and my ulterior-motived now Case Worker and figure of authority liaison at the Job Centre, Miss Tonya Tomkins, it was problem solved, for my employer and her two five-percent-of-net-profits sharing junior assistants, Amanda and Zoe.

Wondered - if aided by the motivating factors of my employer's promised protective patronage which would shield me from the worst downsides for a male of AFP governance, and my fast-growing desire to please Zoe, I could, acquire the non-rebellious reconciled commitment and the willingness of temperament prerequisite to my male-worker role:

Assume the heretofore unsatisfactorily tenanted mantle of my employer Mrs Hilary Harper's catering company's niche selling-point attraction 'little something extra': Be her reverently polite, unfailingly compliant, assistance-extending facial-footrest 'docking' facilitator and general use footrest/foot-comforter to her refreshments-breaking female clientele.

For the sensations, engendered by the two manageresses standing behind me and rubbing their bare feet on 'their' side of my bare back and of the other two manageresses' nyloned feet on my sides with their heels digging in and their toes clutching my hips for enhanced surety of foothold, were far from unpleasant.

In fact, the combination of the two manageresses' cool, exploratively roaming and luxuriating bare feet rubbing on either side of my back and the other two manageresses' warm, nyloned soles on my flanks - not least, their absentminded toe-scrunching on my hips as they chitchatted - were of an undreamed-of sensual pleasure.

So much so, that it was all I could do not to laugh; not to giggle like a fool into the pale-olive complexioned bare left sole of the facial-footrest availing Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish.

The SPOILT! Boutique manageress and Head of Conference was undoubtedly by now seriously overrunning to the diminution of her twenty-nine store manageress refreshments-breaking colleagues her allotted two-minute time allowance, selfishly far exceeding her fair and equal share and thereby iniquitously reducing theirs.

But what business was that of mine? I was just their foot furniture, capable of accommodating sturdily and comfortably up to seven.

I was dismissing these disrespectful ideas and re-establishing in their stead my Zoe-inspired acceptance-of-purpose mindset, when, as though reading with utmost reproval my albeit fleeting thoughts and responsively admonishing me to keep a civil tongue in my mind, Miss Connaught-Cavendish suddenly removed her left foot from her facial footrest.

As before, when preparatory to her standing-foot switchover she'd removed her relaxing right foot with similar sudden heedlessness, despite the stabilising influences of my two shoulder-availing 'anchors' my head lunged forward as instantly my neck was relieved of the constant stress and strain of sturdily and comfortably supporting her single-footed luxuriating posture.

Albeit reluctantly, the two shoulder-footrest availing manageresses now considerately relinquished their positions, too. The left-shoulder footrest availing, lime green T-shirted manageress (who, from eavesdropping I learned was Samantha, manageress of Sheffield's SPOILT! Boutique); and the right-shoulder footrest availing, lemon T-shirted manageress (Sonia, manageress of Edinburgh's SPOILT! Boutique), making said shoulder-footrest facilities available to other coffee-breaking colleagues.

Finally relinquishing the facial footrest, Miss Connaught-Cavendish found it necessary to put her hand on top of my head and grab a good fistful of my hair to help keep her balance as now she reinserted her left foot into her four-inch heeled red leather pump.

As she did so, the Head of Conference ran her eyes over the gathering of refreshments-breaking manageresses and, spotting the one she apparently sought, said brightly, "Martina! Come over here now and take your turn, of our little something extra. I must say, there's no comparison with his absconded predecessor, Neville, who, clearly his heart wasn't in it in that he would sullenly and begrudgingly try to avoid rather than pleasingly and welcomingly receive. In wonderfully pleasing contrast you'll find David, our emergency replacement, who Mrs Harper did ever so well to procure for us at such short notice through her sympathetic Job Centre contact, Tonya, uncommonly amenable and incredibly well-behaved!"

"Hazel, I don't mind if I do!" eagerly replied the local agent deputed to organise this year's Annual Conference's facilities, same-hotel accommodation, and refreshments-breaks provision - the manageress of Brighton's SPOILT! Boutique, Miss Martina Morris.

Stepping inside the accommodating 'V' of my widely spread apart white-shorted bare legs and trainered feet, Miss Martina Morris, wearing her final-day-of-conference orange T-shirt, and her above-the-knee navy blue skirt and kitten-heeled white mules, items that, as a SPOILT! Boutique fashionwear store manageress she enjoyed a generous personal allowance, prepared to take up her facial-footrest availing position.

Unlike her prized-position availing predecessor, Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish, Miss Martina Morris had no such difficulties in extricating first her unconfined right foot from her kitten-heeled white mule and therefore was not in need of my heel-holding balance steadying assistance.

But, unsighted and unguided, as Miss Morris waywardly reached her right foot behind her and upwards in the general direction of my conveniently positioned and compliantly waiting face, the receptive inadequacy was apparent again and, it was evident that she, as well, would benefit from my proactivity.

And so, in my employer-approving and Amanda-gratifying and Zoe-pleasing demonstration of assistance-extending self-initiative, carefully I tracked the uncertain approach of Brighton's SPOILT! Boutique manageress's pale-complexioned sole and, leaning forward, I manoeuvred my forehead to facilitate with pinpoint precision the 'docking' with the bottom of her erratically oncoming bare heel, thus aiding her blind, haphazard navigation.

"Oh, my!" exclaimed Miss Martina Morris delightedly at such pleasing ease of 'docking' after I'd eased my way back to a straight-backed, sturdily supportive posture; though as yet, she was not ready to fully commit the relaxed weight of her single-footed stance.

"I see exactly, what you mean, Hazel!" Miss Morris enthused.

"Didn't I tell you, Martina!" gushed Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish. "Isn't he just a perfect sweetie?"

Well, well, well, this was a turn up for the books! I could hardly believe my ears. Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish, who up until a moment ago had neither even remotely suggested, let alone, expressed such sentiments, heaping such fulsome praise on my head!

"Steady on, Hazel, don't get carried away. He is, after all, here to do a job of work and provide a good service," said Miss Martina Morris, deflating my balloon.

Some of the gathered encircling refreshments-breaking manageresses spoke up to express their agreement with Miss Morris:

"It was this - or in all likelihood, he would have gone to Greystone Prison, enroled on a female-friendly course. And, compared to the Jailhouse Blues, we're pussycats," said one manageress, who was wearing a pink final-day-of-conference T-shirt, and who as yet I was unacquainted.

"It was this - or perhaps he would have been Placemented; possibly here, in our Brighton boutique under Martina, as an in-store pedicurist," said another manageress with whom I was yet to make acquaintance, and who was wearing an emerald green T-shirt.

"It was this - or maybe he would be put on attachment to one of the most critically undermanned female-friendly programmes, projects, or schemes," - this, suggested by one of the shoulder-footrest availing manageresses: the wearer of the crimson T-shirt and the ultra-thin, almost see-through white stockings, the Cardiff SPOILT! Boutique manageress Julie. "So, let's not go overboard with our praise, just yet," she cautioned in her pleasantly lilting Welsh tones. "He'll have to earn it!"

"Oh, absolutely right, Julie!" agreed Miss Morris. "I do have to say, though - and far be it from me too, Julie, to cheerlead our footboy - I must concur with Hazel and give credit where credit is due: his reception skills are exemplary. And the added, bonus: David must be a good four, maybe five inches shorter than his runaway predecessor, Neville. And so, in addition to the new boy's apparent self-undertaken facilitation, thanks due to the perfect combination of his short stature and, as I've been witnessing, the assuring steadfast reliability of his upper-torso strength, the difference in the level of in-situ comfort, too, is so appreciable."

"Yes, you are right, Martina. Mrs Harper's new male employee David is the ideal height and build; the perfect footrest, for refreshments-breaking businesswomen such as ourselves."

"But of course, it always helps to wear heels, for the extra elevation afforded to one's standing foot," commented Miss Morris matter-of-factly.

Miss Morris looked down at her standing left foot and regarded her kitten-heeled white mule.

"Even these kitten heels put one to advantage, compared to wearing flats," added Miss Morris sagely, to the nods and murmurs of agreement of her encircling spectating colleagues.

Miss Martina Morris then proceeded to make the minor but essential single-footed postured adjustments. Testing and retesting to her complete satisfaction that the ball of her foot was positioned correctly and supported firmly upon the bridge of my nose; the undersides of her clutching, nostril encapturing toes, ensuring her an enhanced surety of purchase and thereby her easiness of mind, pre-commitment.

Their own, peace of mind now assured, two more footrest-availing manageresses came forward from the gathered coffee-breaking SPOILT! Boutique representatives to claim my shoulders and to, albeit inadvertently, helpfully 'anchor' me in position and, albeit incidentally, mercifully ameliorate my wearisome workload with the stabilising influences of the combined weight of their resting legs and their gratefully unshod foot. The left-shoulder footrest availing manageress to Miss Morris's left, wearing a lilac T-shirt; the right-shoulder footrest availing manageress to Miss Morris's right, an amber T-shirt.

No sooner had they taken their places beside their local agent and conference organiser Miss Morris, when from the peripheral vision of my once again compromised eyesight, imperfectly I saw, taking up their positions on either side of me, two more footrest-availing manageresses. The one to my left, wearing a purple final-day-of-conference T-shirt; the one on my right, a mauve T-shirt.

And, behind me, I sensed another two presences - another two manageresses. These, insinuating the bare soles of their invasive exploratory feet under the pulled-out tail of my shirt to take advantage of the foot-comforting next-to-the-skin warmth of my back, while they chatted, ate their sandwiches and drank their coffee.

Miss Martina Morris's pre-commitment preparations, all checked and ticked off, in-situ, she opened a coffee-time conversation with her two shoulder-footrest availing colleagues.

Mostly, it was girl talk.

But again, as with Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish's conversation with the Bristol and the Cardiff SPOILT! Boutique manageresses, Maxine and Julie, a lot of what they said was to do with their fashion-world work and, as fashionistas themselves, enthusiastic interests.