Tea, Coffee, and Me Ch. 03

Ch. 3: The Compatibles.

Running the cordless Dyson over the crumb-strewn carpet of the Pavilion Lounge, I concluded that my employer Mrs Hilary Harper had got it right when she'd said that the thirty SPOILT! Boutique manageresses attending this year's Annual Conference at the Brighton City-Break Hotel and Spa were liberally mixing pleasure with business; the manageresses, not just colleagues but friends with shared interests, were taking full advantage of the opportunity their five-day conference presented them for a rare girls' get-together.

The high-end fashion, accessories, cosmetics, and personal services store manageresses' laid-back attitudes said it all: as much as a working conference, it was a pleasure trip, an all-expenses-paid excursion to the East Sussex seaside and the bright lights of Brighton.

On top of that, Mrs Harper's two nineteen-year-old junior partner assistants, Amanda and Zoe, both on friendly terms with the manageresses who during the week had gifted them both a small fortune's worth of cosmetic and perfume samples, said they had seen the manageresses out on the town enjoying the famed Brighton night-scene. Their hair skillfully coiffured, make-up expertly applied, and dressed to impress in their SPOILT! Boutique evening-attire fashionwear and eye-catching high-heeled shoes, the manageresses were having a high old time, basking in the rapt attention of great-looking men who were none too shabbily dressed, themselves.

Mrs Harper's opinion was corroborated, by the lax attitude the manageresses showed towards their refreshments break schedule.

Their morning coffee break was supposed to be 10:00 - 10:30. But, just as Mrs Harper had predicted they had arrived early, and it was pushing eleven o'clock when with evident reluctance the Head of Conference, Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish, finally announced that they should return to their conference room.

Their half-hour coffee break had gone on for over an hour, just as Mrs Harper said had been the norm. And she told me to expect at least the same schedule-busting overrun this afternoon when, for the final time before their five-day conference wound down to a close, they returned to the Pavilion Lounge for their tea break.

But then I supposed it would make it more challenging to keep within reasonable bounds to a half-hour schedule, when some of the manageresses far exceeded their fair and equal time take-up to the unfair and unequal diminution of their colleagues', selfishly overindulging in their refreshments-break luxury 'little something extra'.

Running the powerful vacuum cleaner over the carpet of the Pavilion Lounge to pick up the scattering of biscuit, cake, and sandwich crumbs that the thirty-strong contingent of coffee-breaking SPOILT! Boutique manageresses had left in their wake, left to my own devices for the moment, I was at liberty to let my mind wander to reflect on the events of the last hour or so ...

Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish, Head of Conference and manageress of London's Oxford Street's premier everything-under-one-roof SPOILT! Boutique, and who at Mrs Harper's suggestion had been delighted to be the one to initiate me into my male-worker role's principal duties, in taking tenure for sixteen minutes she had been the most flagrant flouter of the refreshments-break 'little something extra' overindulgers.

Miss Martina Morris, though, manageress of Brighton's SPOILT! Boutique store and who as the local agent was deputed to organise this year's Annual Conference, in taking tenure for fourteen minutes she had run Miss Connaught-Cavendish a close second on the selfishness scale.

During the second half-hour or so of (over-schedule) coffee-break time, indulging themselves for seven or eight minutes each, only another four of the other twenty-eight manageresses had taken tenure of their refreshments-break luxury little-something-extra facial footrest.

I did the math - and in my mind's eye I envisioned the all-too-possible aftermath:

At just six out of a total of thirty, this meant that, on this, the final day of their Annual Conference, it was going to be a very long tea break this afternoon if all of the other twenty-four manageresses were going to insist upon having their rightful turn with Mrs Harper's new footboy.

Julie, manageress of the SPOILT! Boutique in Cardiff was one of the latter four.

The first, of the latter four to avail herself of their prized-position facial footrest, while other coffee-breaking colleagues made do with making use of my albeit still desirable and comfort-affording but 'lesser' back, sides, and shoulder-footrests, as ceded during the in situ manageress's mid-tenure from-foot-to-foot switchover.

While I traversed the Pavilion Lounge; the Dyson, gobbling up the carpet-strewn crumb debris left by the thirty refreshments-breaking manageresses as though voracious for such titbits, I recalled Julie's 'accession'.

No sooner had the Brighton SPOILT! Boutique manageress and conference organiser Miss Martina Morris finally, and with apparent reluctance, given way; her bare heels, slapping against her kitten-heeled white mules as dolefully she'd reintegrated herself among spectating colleagues - when suddenly I'd found the apparently fleet of foot and stealing-a-march Julie standing in front of me.

And then it was her turn: Julie's, holding forth, opinion-positing, centre-of-attention tenure of their facial footrest.

Positioned inside the accommodating 'V' of my widely spread apart legs as I sat on the carpet of the Pavilion Lounge, though Julie stood with her back to me I knew who she was from her crimson final-day-of-conference T-shirt.

And recognised her, from her thin white stockings - the left, sweat-moistened sole, I'd earlier observed with anticipatory dread should she subsequently accede prized position - as, standing with her back to me, she'd rested her left foot upon my right shoulder during Miss Connaught-Cavendish's overindulgent overrunning occupation of the facial footrest.

Unlike my breaking-in first-user, the precariously teetering Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish, Julie had not been in need of my thoughtful and considerate transferal assistance, either initially or during her from-foot-to-foot switchover, mid-tenure.

Julie had not needed me to take hold of and hold down the heel of her shoe to steady her balance, as, standing on one high heel, she eased her right foot from her other yellow leather stiletto-heeled pump and raised her foot behind her, preparatory to adopting the single-footed stance of tenure.

But as Julie, unsighted and unguided, reached the sole of her thin-white-stockinged right foot behind her and upwards towards my conveniently positioned and compliantly waiting face, she had benefited, though, from my having earlier identified and addressed the understandably irksome and tiresome inadequacy issue that had faced Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish and Miss Martina Morris, pertaining my face being merely easily reachable.

Benefited, from my off-my-own-bat facilitation, as, carefully tracking her sole's wayward approach, I leaned forward and manoeuvred my forehead to receive early and with pinpoint exactitude the bottom of Julie's erratically approaching heel, thus thoughtfully aiding and making more easeful and less haphazard her blind navigational 'docking'.

Following the efficacious examples as set first by Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish and then by Miss Martina Morris, Julie had tested and retested, making the minor but essential adjustments to maximise security and minimise the uncertainty of high-heel shod single-footed balance:

The bottom of her heel, planted in the centre of my forehead; her arch, right in front of my eyes; the ball of her foot, upon the bridge of my nose; and the undersides of her thin-white-stockinged toes encapturing my nostrils, Julie had enhanced her surety of purchase, pre-commitment.

And, as once in situ - with the succeeding two manageresses to avail themselves of my shoulder-footrests; two more at my sides; another two at my back - I'd listened to Julie's pleasantly lilting Welsh tones as during her tenure she held forth, the focus of her coffee-breaking colleagues' attention.

Listened, to Julie's pleasantly lilting Welsh tones, as, albeit merely incidentally and consequentially and so not deliberately and intentionally, Julie had obliged me to inhale the tangy aroma of her under- and in-between-the-toes scent through her gossamer thin, almost transparent white stocking.

Listened, as, relaxing her weight and leaning into me as assuredly she would any sturdy and reliable inanimate footrest, Julie made the most of her tenure.

As I stared through the gauzy white veil of her stocking; my vision, encapsulated by the ultra close-up sight of her pale-olive complexioned arch, Julie lighted upon issues of current particular interest concerning their fashion-world work and, as fashionistas themselves, close common interests.

As the manageress in-tenure, Julie had the floor.

Julie's sweet-sounding oratory was not merely obligingly listened to with indulgent politeness by her coffee-breaking colleagues. But, her in situ status, serving to imbue her every utterance, gesture, and facial expression with an added little something, focusing their minds as well as seducing their ears she commanded their undivided attention as she talked fashion.

Though some of the manageresses offered their opinions relevant to Julie's pronouncements or chipped in with other contributions to the open conversation when Julie paused for breath, they withheld their comments and refrained from making such observations while Julie held forth, hanging on to her every opinion-positing word while in-tenure.

As I'd listened in on the manageresses' fashion world insiders' coffee-break conversation - my part-of-the-furniture presence, soon seemingly taken for granted; considered normal, by the thirty refreshments-breaking manageresses - I wondered if already I was learning to adapt.

For to my surprise, I was not the least offended, let alone repulsed, by the albeit unintentional and therefore merely consequential breathing in of the tart aroma of Julie's under- and in-between-the-toes scent through her sweat-dampened semi-transparent thin white stocking.

Mulling this over, I thought back, comparing the noticeably tarter between-the-toes scent of the Cardiff SPOILT! Boutique manageress Julie with that of the manageress Julie had acceded, Miss Martina Morris, and with the discernible intra-digital differences too of the manageress who had initiated me, Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish.

In conclusion, I realised that I hadn't in the least been put out by the incidental imposition and therefore the inadvertently unavoidable inhalation of these first three refreshments-break facial-footrest availing manageresses' foot fragrances; and that further, I held similar non-negative sentiments towards the subsequent three: Emily, Ceri, and Lindsay, respectively the manageresses of the Birmingham, Swansea, and Edinburgh SPOILT! Boutiques.

It seemed apparent now that all of the presuppositions previously perturbing me were unfounded; my fretful fears and fraught forebodings, unsubstantiated.

And, to my dawning astonishment, I realised too that I hadn't minded; was not put out in the slightest, that the Cardiff SPOILT! Boutique manageress Julie:

The bottom of her heel planted centre-forehead; the ball of her foot, centred upon the bridge of my nose; the undersides of her nose-gripping, nostril-encapturing toes ensuring enhanced safety and optimum surety of high-heel shod single-footed posture - luxuriated uninhibitedly in her having-the-floor, holding forth, opinion-positing, centre-of-attention tenure of the facial footrest.

Was this was another sign, that I was starting to come to terms with the requirements, expectations, and indeed the demands of my male worker's primary role - that I was learning to adapt?

I remembered Julie's from-foot-to-foot switchover, mid-tenure:

Julie, returning her right foot to its yellow leather stiletto-heeled pump, preparatory to availing herself of the facial footrest with the sole of her left, thin-white-stockinged foot.

And I remembered Julie's six accompanying mid-tenure switchover succeeding manageresses, taking up the 'lesser' footrest positions ceded by six of their colleagues:

Two of the coffee-breaking manageresses, standing to either side of Julie and likewise with their backs to me to avail themselves of my shoulder-footrests; an unshod foot, raised behind them to rest sole-upward atop 'their' shoulder.

Two of them, taking up positions at my sides to use the convenient footholds provided by the bumps of my hips, partaking of their refreshments as they listened attentively to the oracle-like oratorical outpourings of the in-tenure manageress.

And two of them, behind me, staking their coffee-time claims to 'their' half of my back, their toes, untucking the tail of my shirt from the elasticated waistband of my community-servant style white work shorts to enjoy the next-to-the-skin warmth on their bare soles.

Julie - mid-tenure, post-switchover:

Once again, in situ.

Single-footed postured.

Holding forth, once more.

The centre of attention.

Enjoying, the continuation of her coffee-breaking colleagues' constant concentration upon her every oracle-like utterance, eloquent hand gesture, and full-of-meaning facial expression - enjoying: the incumbent, having-the-floor, opinion-positing, focus-of-attraction status of tenure.

Julie's lilting Welsh tones charming me as, albeit inadvertently and unintentionally and so not meanly and maliciously, unavoidably albeit incidentally I was compelled to inhale the tart aroma now of the under- and in-between-the-toes scents of her left, sweat-moistened thin-white-stockinged foot, and—

"David, you'll wear that carpet out!" cautioned Amanda, suddenly materialising beside me to jolt me out of my reverie. "Didn't you hear me calling you? I've been shouting myself hoarse."

"No, Miss Amanda. I'm afraid not."

"Daydreamer!" admonished Amanda as she reached down to press the vacuum cleaner's Off switch; the whining note of the powering down Dyson, for all the world sounding disappointed and deprived.

"I'm sorry, Miss Amanda. I couldn't hear you over the sound of the vacuum cleaner."

"You mean you couldn't hear me because you were miles away; lost to the world - daydreaming. Don't you?"

"Yes, Miss Amanda."

"Zoe said you looked as though you were in a world of your own, and that she would have loved to know what you were thinking about - but I think I can guess. Penny for them ...?"

I didn't take Amanda up on her figurative pecuniary inducement to divulge to her my innermost thoughts but instead, glad at times like these to seek safety and take solace in full observance and complete compliance with AFP protocols as applicable to such female-male interactions, I stared down at the carpeted floor, at the spot between Amanda's black-leather flat shod feet.

"Anyway ... what I've come to tell you is that we'll have to manage here without you for now. Mrs Harper wants you to report to the office of the hotel manageress, Miss Honeywell."

"Yes, Miss Amanda," I said respectfully. "I'll go right away."

"No - it's too soon. It's only ten past eleven, and Mrs Harper says you are to present yourself to Miss Honeywell at eleven thirty on the dot. And besides, I wanted a little chat, and this is the first chance I've had to talk to you on your own."

"Anything you say, Miss Amanda."

"Zoe and I had been looking forward to your very first foot massage for us round about now; just a quickie, to initiate you into our service so that we could compare our first-impressions when we went to our workstation in the kitchen.

"But Miss Honeywell has rescheduled her daily Heads of Department meeting from four o'clock this afternoon to eleven thirty this morning. So now Zoe and I will have to do your work for you ..." said Amanda, looking over to where Zoe and Mrs Harper were draping fresh white tablecloths over the four pushed-together serving tables "... and help Mrs Harper reset the serving tables.

"Which means that we're going to be behind with all of the baking and sandwich making and so on for the SPOILT! Boutique manageresses' afternoon refreshments break."

"I ... I'm sorry, Miss Amanda."

"It's not your fault - and don't worry, David. Zoe and I will be sure to make you make it up to us later. You can count on it."

"Yes, Miss Amanda. Of course."

"Oh - what refreshing respect! What, unaccustomed reverence. You are such an improvement, on the reluctant and begrudging, sullen and surly Neville. Not to mention, all of the other hopelessly unsuitable and inherently unadaptable male-worker employees before him who were hardly any better. Lost causes, all of them."

"Not at all, Miss Amanda."

"Zoe and I so enjoyed your premiere performance. What an impression you made! Even Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish herself called you a perfect sweetie - and I can tell you: that is praise indeed.

"And Mrs Harper is over the moon with you; she can barely believe the dramatic change in her fortunes. So much so that she is now pinning her future hopes on you.

"So many times, Mrs Harper has been sadly let down and bitterly disappointed by the severe shortcomings of your undermotivated and hence underperforming forerunner failures.

"But you, David, with your ready willingness and eager-to-please attitude, have revived her dwindling aspirations and renewed her diminishing ambitions.

"The quality of application of our niche selling-point luxury little-something-extra provision as demonstrated by you earlier is unprecedented; incomparable, with the woefully inadequate service provided by your lamentably lacklustre, lugubrious and curmudgeonly former incumbents.

"With your superlative self-initiative: your pleasing propensity for not-needing-to-be-asked-or-told, off-your-own-bat facilitations and other unprompted helpful aids and considerate off-the-cuff conveniences - you and your novel niceties were an unqualified success at the SPOILT! Boutique manageresses' morning refreshments break."

"Thank you, Miss Amanda."

"Oh - 'Anything you say, Miss Amanda'; 'Yes, Miss Amanda, of course'; 'Not at all, Miss Amanda'; 'I'm sorry, Miss Amanda'; 'Thank you, Miss Amanda' - I could get used to this!

"You may have thought that I was used to it already; that by now, I would be thoroughly accustomed to the deferential respect and solicitous consideration of male citizens - but no. We are getting there, but there is still a long way to go in the reconditioning process of male citizen mindset transition.

"But, at least in as far as we at Harper's Conference Catering are concerned, after witnessing your almost faultless debut this morning in the Pavilion Lounge, I really and truly believe now that Mrs Harper's exasperating and at times seemingly futile quest to find the elusive key-role male employee of the required calibre is finally at an end.

"I can't tell you, David, how much Zoe and I are looking forward to having you serve us.

"To have you - who in such stark contrast to all of your intractable and intransigent antipathetic antecedents, are so willing and welcoming and congenial and compliant - provide our at-work fringe benefit."

Feeling myself colouring at the compliment, again I looked down at the carpeted floor, meekly staring at the spot between Amanda's black-leather flat shod feet.

"Oh - and there it is again! What a wonderfully welcome change: An AFP protocol observing, Female-Friendly Code compliant, respectfully downcast gaze - how unutterably pleasing it is to see it!

"Your reverent attitude and humble demeanour are highly gratifying; a most welcome improvement from the brazen, insolent, authority-challenging eye-to-eye stares of Neville and his fellow truculent and defiant ne'er-do-wells before him who, thank heavens, Zoe and I are now no longer lumbered with," complimented Amanda.