“Okay.” The Pryce Family Foundation sounds familiar. Then I remember: Eric was talking about it earlier.
Hmm. If Eric likes it that much, it’s probably a terrible, snobbish place. They might even have a team that goes after people for saying Erik with a K.
I change in record time, then buy a chocolate bar and shovel it down fast. It’s probably more sugar than I need, but it’ll tide me over until I’m done with today’s shift. Then I can go home and enjoy a bowl of mac and cheese.
With the last bit of chocolate melting away in my mouth, I follow the signs to the main ballroom. Once I’m outside of the industrial-looking employee-only area, the full opulence that the hotel reserves for its paying customers practically smacks me in the face. Gleaming, polished marble. Giant chandeliers glowing from the cathedral ceiling, their crystals fracturing the light. Even the air is different: lightly scented with a fragrance that hints at wealth, power and exclusivity.
And the milling guests have all three. Silk and other lustrous materials I can’t begin to guess at drape bodies that are kept in shape by the most up-to-date personal trainers and nutritionists. Jewelry and watches that look priceless sparkle, letting everyone know how well off the wearers are.
I bet they never had to shop clearance racks or give something up because they couldn’t afford the price tag.
Suddenly, I feel small. And just a tad pathetic.
I probably don’t belong here. I…
I stop. What the hell am I thinking? I’m not here to mingle. I’m here to serve these people. Two very different things. They don’t care that I can only afford items on sale or that most of my dreams have price tags I can’t afford.
Come on, pull yourself together. Mina didn’t hire you to feel sorry for yourself.
A sumptuous dinner is served. I check my table, making sure I have everyone’s drink correct—every guest seems to be getting their own thing. The aroma of the rich soups, grilled veggies and meat cuts into my belly like a knife, intensifying the emptiness. I should’ve had two chocolate bars.
Meanwhile, a gorgeous blonde woman who seems to be in charge gets on the stage and makes a speech about helping the poor. People clap and say all the appropriate things, like how they’d love to help. They could’ve just sent the money they’re spending at the hotel to a soup kitchen, and they would’ve done more good. But that would mean no cool selfies for their social media profiles.
After the dinner is over and the guests are milling around, I take a tray of white wine and start working the room. One of the women—a redhead—stops me with an indolent roll of her wrist, which is glittering with diamonds.
“Is that Chardonnay?” she asks.
I look at the wine glasses. There’s no note saying what they are.
Before I can answer, she plucks one and takes a sip. Then, almost immediately, her face scrunches like she just took a mouthful of Kool-Aid. “Ugh, gross. This is Riesling, not Chardonnay.” She spits the words like the glass was served on a picture of me pegging her significant other with a strap-on.
“I didn’t say it was Chardonnay,” I point out professionally.
The redhead lets out a sound of annoyance. “Did you just talk back to me?”
“I just wanted to clarify. If you’d like some Chardonnay, I can get it for you.”
“So you can bring me a white Sauvignon instead?” She sneers. “It isn’t like you’re going to know the difference anyway,” she mutters, her eyes on my name tag. “They don’t serve wine coolers here, Angelika W.” Her tone says I’m trash, just like my name and everything else about me. She cocks an eyebrow, one end of her lips quirking up. I
sn’t she superior?
I fantasize about taking the Riesling and pouring it all over her prettily styled hair and expertly made-up face. But since I need money—and don’t we all need money, other than the people invited to this fundraiser?—I bare my teeth in what I hope passes for a friendly smile and take the glass from her. “I’ll take this subpar vintage off your hands and go see if there’s a Chardonnay I can bring out for you.”
“Make it fast. And make sure it’s dry and crisp,” she adds, snapping her fingers at me. “With the right aroma!”
I need to eat, I need to eat, I need to eat. “I’ll get right on that.”
“Please do.” She looks up, beseeching the heavens. “So inconvenient.”
I turn around and leave before she can whine about being microaggressed because I gave her the wrong white wine. If her attitude reflects the foundation’s in any way, Eric will fit right in. I sincerely hope he gets an internship so he and the redhead can put their heads together and complain about all the ways things can go terribly wrong in their lives.
I go to the kitchen. Mina sees me and frowns. “Why are you back already? Your tray’s still full.”
“Somebody wants a dry and crisp Chardonnay. She was insulted I had Riesling on the tray.”
Mina rolls her eyes. “Fine. Here, take this to her.” She hands me a glass.
I take it and point at the tray I put down. “Apparently, the Riesling’s subpar.”