Chapter 11 - The Agency File
I was back in that apartment before nine the next morning. That morning the agency sent me for breakup cleanup, not dinner service. I wiped crystal in the kitchen while the city went white-gray outside the windows, and my left hand throbbed under the glove every time I squeezed the cloth.
Luca's home office was right off the dining room with the door half open. I could hear papers move and his phone click on speaker. He didn't know I was that close. Or maybe he didn't care. He said my agency's name clearly, gave the date of the engagement dinner, gave my first name off my name tag.
"I'm not filing a complaint," he said. "I have a question about policy. About gloves for service."
I stopped wiping. My breathing went shallow enough I could hear the clock in the hall.
A woman answered. Her voice was middle-aged and practiced, the kind that had placed a hundred girls like me. She said the agency allowed a single glove for medical coverage if it was black and clean and didn't break uniform appearance. She asked if there had been a problem with presentation.
Luca leaned back in his chair. I could see the edge of his shoulder past the doorframe, black shirt, the tattoo at his neck moving when he swallowed. "No problem with presentation," he said. "I want to understand qualifications. She carried a heavy tureen steady. I want to know her standing."
There was a pause and keyboard tapping. Then the coordinator said, "Claire requested only gloved assignments after a clinic visit. We have the note on file."
My stomach dropped. I set the glass down before my right hand shook it off the counter. I hadn't thought they'd keep that wording. I'd asked Mrs. Doyle in person because I didn't want it in writing, and she'd written it anyway.
Luca didn't react right away. He asked, neutral as a bank teller, when the request was made. The coordinator gave the date. Two weeks after I started back. She added that I was otherwise in good standing, punctual, no client complaints until last night's note about slow service.
"And before us?" he asked. "Where was she placed?"
More tapping. I pressed my gloved left fingers against the cool granite to dull the burn ache. I knew what file she was opening. I'd filled out that application with a gap I hoped no one would check.
"She was at a country club outside the city," the coordinator said. "Dining room, about eight months. She quit after a kitchen accident. Scald. She didn't finish the incident form. She just didn't return."
I closed my eyes. The words were flat, but I could hear the stockpot hissing again, the steam rolling up my forearm when the bus tub slipped. I had told the club manager I was fine. I had iced it in the locker room and worked two more shifts with gauze stuck to the skin because I needed the hours. When it blistered and split, I stopped showing up. I told myself quitting was cleaner than being let go for missing shifts.
Luca asked if the club reported unsafe work. The coordinator said no. She said the record showed voluntary quit, eligible for rehire, no discipline noted. She offered to pull the full reference if he wanted it in an email.
He didn't say yes. He thanked her and said he wouldn't need anything in writing. His chair creaked. I picked up the cloth again fast and made myself move, because his footsteps were coming toward the kitchen.
He stopped in the doorway. He looked at the row of glasses I'd cleaned, at my apron, at my left hand curled tight around the cloth to hide how swollen it was underneath.
"That was about last night," he said. It wasn't an apology and it wasn't an accusation. Just a fact laid down between us.
I didn't ask what he'd heard. My throat was dry. "Are you going to report me?" I said. It came out quieter than I meant.
He studied me for a long second. The stubble along his jaw, the steady gaze I'd seen at the table. He shook his head once. "No," he said. "If I wanted you fired, I'd have let that email go through. I want to talk to you directly. Not through them."
My right hand kept_shop wiping though there was nothing left to wipe. I nodded because I couldn't get a full sentence out. He glanced at my glove, then back at my face, and didn't push it further with Vanessa's dishes still in the sink and the morning light hard on both of us.
May you like
"After your shift," he said. "Five minutes. Just us."
I said, "Okay." And I stood there listening to him walk back to his office while my whole past sat open on some agency screen, waiting for me to explain it myself before someone else did.
