Chapter 9 - The Complaint in the Staff Room
The staff room smelled like coffee that had been sitting since lunch and the lemon cleaner they used on the tables. I came in ten minutes early for my shift, my white shirt pressed, my apron folded over my arm, and my manager, Diane, was already at the small desk by the lockers with a sheet of paper squared in front of her.
She didn't look up right away. She tapped the paper once with her manicure.
"Maya," she said. "Close the door."
I closed it. The room was tight, cinder block painted white, a schedule taped to the wall, my name written in for the dining room that night. I set my bag down and stood with my hands at my sides. I could hear the kitchen line starting up through the wall.
Diane slid the paper toward me. It was a printed comment card, but formal, on thick stock. At the top in a looping signature it said Vanessa Hale, Table 12, and a phone number I recognized from Ethan's second phone.
I read it. Two lines, neat and sharp. She'd written that her server was illiterate and unprofessional, that I'd made a personal, threatening remark, and that she demanded I be removed from service permanently. The word illiterate was underlined.
"Did you say this to a guest?" Diane asked. Her voice was even. She wasn't angry, just careful. "Because Mrs. Hale is a regular. Her husband's firm does our private events."
I breathed. I felt my heart in my throat but kept my face still.
"I did speak to her," I said. "I shouldn't have. It was quiet. I didn't raise my voice."
Diane looked at me. "Maya, you've been solid for three weeks. No complaints. Are you telling me you know this woman outside here?"
That was the moment I had to choose. I could have covered, said she was mistaken, made it go away for a night. But Mark already knew my name, and Vanessa knew my face. Covering would put Diane in the middle later and cost me the job anyway.
"I do," I said. "Not well. She knows my husband."
Diane's eyebrows lifted a fraction. She waited.
"It's personal," I said. "I realized who she was at the table. I said something I shouldn't have. I wasn't on script. I'm asking to be moved off any table she's at from now on. I don't want it to affect service."
I didn't say affair. I didn't say second phone. I kept it to that one true line. Diane studied me for a long beat, then exhaled and folded the complaint in half.
"You're not fired," she said. "But I have to respond to this. If I keep you on her table, it looks like I'm ignoring a guest. If I pull you, she'll think she won. So I'll reassign you to the back section tonight. You stay out of the main room."
"Thank you," I said. My shoulders dropped a little. "That's fair."
She stood and checked the schedule, crossed out my table numbers with a pen and rewrote them. The scratch of the pen was loud in the small room.
My phone buzzed in my apron pocket. I didn't usually keep it on, but I'd left it on vibrate waiting for the agency. Diane glanced at it.
"Take it," she said. "Office."
I stepped into the narrow office behind the staff room, a desk, a landline, a clipboard with the wine order. I answered.
It was Carla from the staffing agency. Her voice was brisk.
"Maya, I have a Mr. Mark Hale on the other line," she said. "He asked for you by name. Said he met you at the restaurant. He wants a private word. I told him I don't give out personal numbers, but he asked if you would speak with him briefly."
My hand tightened on the phone. I could see Diane through the doorway, hanging my apron on a hook.
"Did he say what about?" I asked.
"He said it was about the other night. He was polite. He asked if you could meet off the floor after your shift, five minutes," Carla said. "I told him that's your call. I haven't given him your cell. Do you want me to connect him or tell him no?"
I stared at the cream wall, at the calendar with the produce delivery dates circled. Mark had my agency contact and he'd used it correctly. He hadn't shown up, hadn't cornered me. He'd asked.
I thought about Vanessa's complaint still folded on Diane's desk, about the line underlined. If I talked to Mark on the dining floor, it would prove Vanessa right that I was chasing guests. If I refused, he'd keep looking somewhere less private.
"Don't give him my cell," I said quietly. "Tell him I'll do a brief phone call. After service. Not on the floor."
"Where?" Carla asked.
"The private dressing suite off the back hallway," I said. "The one they use for coat check during events. It has a door. I'll be off the clock. Ten minutes max. If Diane approves."
Carla put me on hold. I waited and listened to the kitchen printer chatter through the wall. A second later she came back.
"He said that works," she said. "He'll call the restaurant line and be patched to that room at ten thirty. He said thank you."
I hung up and stepped back into the staff room. Diane was waiting, arms crossed but not unkind.
"That was the agency," I said. "Mr. Hale, the husband of that table, requested a private word. I told them I'd only do a brief phone call after my shift, in the dressing suite, not on the floor. With the door closed. Is that okay with you?"
Diane looked at the complaint in her hand, then at me.
"Phone only, off the floor, after you're clocked out," she said. "Five minutes. You keep it professional. You don't bring the restaurant into your personal business."
"I won't," I said.
May you like
She nodded once and handed me my apron. "Then go get set up for back section. And Maya, keep your phone off during service."
I tied the apron around my waist, the knot tight at the back. My hands were steady again. I had ten thirty and a closed door ahead of me, and a way to speak without being seen on the floor.
