She was sitting in the corner of her father's office, watching him take a phonecall. Her weekend had come to this.
Jarlath did not live an ordered life—comfortable in chaos, he was, with things strewn about wherever he dropped them. Always missing his keys until he learned to put them into his shoes. Then: missing his shoes. Getting into the back seat of his car always involved several minutes of clearing miscellaneous items in order to fit inside. Umbrella. Golf clubs. A stack of important documents he would later complain were missing. His office was no exception.
He sat behind the large mahogany desk in the specific, golden light of early September, and around his finger was the coiled wire of the telephone while he rifled through papers in pursuit of a booking report.
“Bear with me, Michael, bear with…”
Tossed a hand in surrender.
“No. Apologies. Have you got it there? …Yes. 72%, is it? Really? That’s shit. What are the Shelbourne doing?”
He winked at Lissa, perched on the Chesterfield armchair that had occupied the room since her great-grandfather was the owner, and she smiled.
“...so we’re too expensive. Drop the deluxe rooms by twenty euros. That’ll shift them. And then…” Lissa watched him click around the desktop of his ancient, yellowed computer. A folder called fdghj. Files: hfjgk and hfjgk(1). “I have a record somewhere. They’ve announced that concert in January, haven’t they? Do you know—yes? Exactly. Let’s bump the prices 30% for that.”
He was suave, generally. Even while discussing numbers on the phone, though Lissa was sure some of his theatrics were exaggerated in her presence. He might as well have put his feet up on the desk and pulled out a Cuban cigar to suck on.
“That’s just an insight for you there,” he said to her once the phone was back on the receiver. “How the booking business works.”
“Seems quite simple.”
“Well, there’s more to it than meets the eye. Lots of hidden logistics, see.”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
And for lunch, they met a client in the lounge, where servers rushed over with menus. Mr. Mansfield this, Mr. Mansfield that, and Lissa sipped her glass of wine. It was still summer enough to enjoy the rosé, and she did, while stealing opportune glances out the window behind Mr. Galbraith’s head at a troupe of young tourists sharing sangria in the sun.
He wasn’t talking to her anyway. Once they’d wrapped up the perfunctory introductions and he’d understood that she was essentially a token woman at the table present to learn the ropes, Galbraith decided he no longer had to acknowledge her. A conference, the men were discussing. He wanted the hotel for a weekend, and of course, yes, Jarlath would work out a rate that made them both happy.
It was another tech event. Tech men—because let’s face it, they were usually men—were invading Dublin like the Axis forces and expecting to be thanked for it. Those pallid, hunchbacked boys who had once punched incomprehensible digits into their computers over a nest of cables had recently become something modern and dangerous. In blazers over graphic t-shirts, they loped through the lobby on conference weekends, and at night, raided the minibar and worked themselves up into such a spurt of rebellion that they flung bibles out the window onto the terrace. They would do it again this year for a discounted rate. Some faceless person would clean it up, nothing would be said, and the pattern would repeat.
“... and catering, naturally,” Galbraith said, to punctuate his long list of expectations. “We weren’t satisfied with the spread last time. Sandwiches and whatnot. Underwhelming fare.”
Lissa raised her eyebrows.
“Sorry to hear that,” Jarlath said. Unaffected expression on his face. “We can arrange something more appropriate—get the chef to come up with a menu.”
“We’d be looking for something gourmet.”
“Sure.”
Lissa watched him scribble lobster?? into his notebook, then he slid it toward her so she could nod earnestly at it.
“And can you—” Galbraith waved his pointed finger vaguely at the notebook. “If you’d include a note about the service. The last time attendees waited twenty minutes for coffee orders. Can you make sure the girls can keep up this time?”
Lissa had been the manager on staff that day. She remembered it because an elderly customer had a medical incident. While awaiting an ambulance, the conference attendees formed a pointedly long queue and complained. What-kind-of-establishment this, are-the-waitresses-even-qualified that. Then they all took to Yelp and left two-star reviews where they used her actual name. Jarlath barely knew how to use Google, so it was fine, but in self-destructive moments Lissa still looked them up and seethed.
Jarlath smiled pleasantly. “Look, I’ll speak to events and we’ll come up with a rate. Fifty rooms, conference space, catering… we’ll see if we can throw in late checkout, as we’re aware these events can run on. We’ll consider it an apology for the service last year. What do you think, Lissa?”
She realised she’d been grinding her teeth. “Yes, we’ll see what kind of deal we can work out for you.”
Jarlath grinned, his hand on her shoulder, and she felt like one of the boys.
They wrapped up with handshakes and great thumps on each other’s backs and promises of contracts by Friday, then Galbraith left, the napkin he’d blown his nose into stuffed into his glass.
“You did well, Lissa,” Jarlath said. “That’s what it’s all about. Making everyone happy.”
“You think he’ll be happy? Doesn’t seem exactly easy to please.”
“Oh, he’ll complain about something in the end. He always does that, and we’ll take it on the chin and sort it. It’s the way it goes,” looking at her seriously. “It’s the nature of the business.”
“I know that. Just—he’s a bit—”
“A bastard, yes, but a rich bastard.” He laughed and made a gesture with his fingers to signify money. Money, money, yes, that’s what the business was built on. More. Everywhere, all the time. But Lissa saw no good reason for it to justify rudeness—more dreaded Yelp reviews with her full name in the title.
The restaurant door opened, and in came Phil, hands in his pockets and the demeanour of a man who was just poking around in someone’s drawers. “Jarlath,” he said, and her father stood.
“I needed to run something by you.” He acknowledged her with a nod. “Lissa.”
“Hello Phil.”
“You two busy?”
Jarlath buttoned his jacket with one hand. “Well, we can wrap it up there, do you think, Lissa?”
She glanced at her watch. “It’s earlier than we agreed.”
“Oh, well, I think it’s probably enough for one day.”
She looked at him. At Phil. “Yes, I suppose.”
“I’ll see you later at home?”
“I—I don’t know. I might be staying at a friend’s.”
“That’s fine, darling. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
“And tell Nicky I was asking for him, won’t you?”
“Mm.”
She watched them go, and through the fluted glass panel in a door, their navy suits were fractured, then blurred, then gone.
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