Love Me Or Leave Me. Claudia Carroll
as you probably know, I’m not so big on formality.’
‘Yes, that’s fine.’
Not so big on formality? I think. Ha! Rob McFayden is famous for coming to work in jeans and trainers; almost like he was in such a rush to get there, he ended up sprinting. Rumour has it he’s frequently acted as impromptu doorman/receptionist and even barman on the rare occasions when he feels things aren’t being done snappily enough in his hotel chain. Received myth is that, at a wedding in his Parisian hotel, he once jumped in and acted as a sous-chef for the night, on account of they were one man short in the kitchen.
Yup, an unpredictable man, by all accounts.
‘Great,’ he nods curtly back at me. The mighty Rob McFayden doesn’t even bother to sit behind his desk either, I notice, like would-be-employers usually do in interviews. Instead, he just rolls up his sleeves and perches casually on the edge of it, as if he’s already decided this meeting will take no longer than three minutes, so the application of his bum to the seat is just a waste of time.
‘So, I have your CV here, Chloe, and my HR team tell me it’s all looking pretty good. Well,’ he throws in briskly, ‘obviously it’s a glowing CV, otherwise, you’d hardly have got through my door in the first place.’
‘Well, emm … thank you,’ I smile tautly, although I’m not actually certain he meant it as a compliment.
Suddenly, the nervy tension between us is shattered as his phone rings. He whips it out of his pocket, checks the number then rolls his eyes.
‘Sorry, but do you mind if I take this? It’s my Locations Manager in Italy and it’s more than likely an emergency.’ Then with a wry smile, he adds, ‘It inevitably is.’
‘Of course not,’ I smile overly brightly to compensate for sheer antsiness. ‘Please, go right ahead.’
He takes the call, giving me the chance, for the first time, to really get a half-decent look at the guy. A lot younger than I’d have thought, is my initial impression. Early forties at most, salt and pepper slightly greying hair, long, skinny build. Well travelled, lean, all angles. One of those ectomorph body types you’d almost automatically take a dislike to, on account of they can probably eat all they like and never gain a single gram. Well, either that, or the man lives off fags.
Then with a quick, businesslike, ‘well, let’s set up a meeting with the architect and I’ll see you in Milan on Thursday. We’ll pick this up then,’ he’s off the phone.
‘Apologies for that,’ he says, though not looking at me, instead totally focused on the CV in front of him, eyes darting busily up and down the page. ‘So I see you’ve been working at the Bloomsbury Square Hotel here in London for the past couple of years.’
‘Emm … yes,’ I answer brightly.
‘And you’re Reservations Manager there …’ he says absently, still scrutinizing the CV closely.
‘That’s right!’
‘In other words, Chloe,’ he says, pointedly using my name, ‘you’ve basically spent the last two years looking after high maintenance guests, unhappy that they weren’t allocated a panoramic view and dealing with complaints that the en-suite’s not big enough. That sort of thing, yeah?’
I bristle a bit at this, mainly because my job involves a helluva lot more than just basic housekeeping.
‘Well, of course, that’s some of what my work entails, yes,’ I answer him, ‘but the job isn’t just about troubleshooting staffing issues and rotas, but ironing out countless unforeseen guest-related issues on virtually an hour-by-hour basis.’
And don’t even get me started on the guests that needed to be ‘handled’, in much the same way that you’d handle nitroglycerine, I’m about to tell him. But no such luck; he’s already moved on.
‘But before that, I see you were Functions Manager at the Merrion Hotel over in Dublin,’ he says, impatiently tapping a biro off the CV. ‘Now that’s good, that’s more like it. In fact, that’s the main reason I wanted to meet you personally this morning. Having an in-depth knowledge of the Irish hotel system would be hugely helpful for this particular job. As I’m sure you’ll appreciate.’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I thought that might be of interest, alright. Plus as you know, the Merrion is part of the Leading Hotels of the World group, so it was fantastic to gain first-hand experience working in that environment. I loved my time working there,’ I tell him, growing more and more confident now I’m talking about what’s essentially my passion. What I know and love best.
‘Go on,’ he says blankly.
‘You see, I saw my job as so much more than just making a function such as a wedding, run smoothly. I took it as my personal mission to see that every single bride’s dream day was utterly magical in every way that we could possibly make it. After all, every bride deserves her perfect day, doesn’t she?’
Good girl, you did it Chloe! You actually managed to get it out. I allow myself a tiny sigh of relief now. Mainly because it took many, many hours of rehearsing that last bit in front of a mirror at home to finally get the wobble out of my voice, but somehow, I think I pulled it off.
‘Well, I wouldn’t know myself, never having actually been a bride,’ says Rob dryly, looking right at me now. ‘But if you’ve brought any back-up with you, I’d love to see it.’
‘Of course,’ I smile, but then I’ve come fully prepped for this. Out of my briefcase, I whip a full list of every wedding, fiftieth birthday party and corporate black-tie shindig that I’ve ever organized and worked on. Back-up photos, the whole works.
‘As you’ll see here,’ I tell Rob, handing it over, ‘there was absolutely nothing I wasn’t prepared to do for any of our guests, no matter what their budget. I’ve arranged for doves to be released at midnight, just as one couple asked; I’ve even organized themed weddings too, from a Caribbean indoor beach theme, to a couple who wanted the hotel dining room transformed into a scene from Hogwarts.’
‘Hogwarts? Seriously?’ he says, raising an eyebrow.
‘Believe me, that was the tip of the iceberg,’ I say. ‘When the happy couple asked for a fleet of owls to fly in carrying emails from well-wishers in their beaks, that was when we ran into difficulty.’
‘I can only imagine,’ he says, shaking his head.
‘But if you ask me, I think you can sum up any manager’s mission statement in a single word. WIT.’
‘Which stands for …?’
‘Whatever it takes,’ I say, really feeling in control now. ‘Whatever a guest wants, I’ll personally jump through hoops to ensure we secure it for them. No matter what.’
‘I see,’ Rob nods at me, then goes back to scanning through the file I’ve just presented him with. Now I worked hard on it and am bloody proud of what’s in there, but I have to say, so far he looks completely unreadable and not at all bowled over and impressed as I was hoping he would be.
‘So you’ve worked on weddings, functions, birthdays, I get it,’ he says again, just that bit unenthused. ‘But you see, this particular hotel I’m planning on opening in Dublin will, as you’ll appreciate, appeal to a quite specific niche market. So, you want to tell me exactly why you think you’d be right for the job of General Manager there?’
I smile brightly, but then, boy am I ready for this.
‘Firstly,’ I tell him, taking care to meet the slate grey eyes boring into me now, ‘because you see, I’m from Dublin. I know the city upside down and particularly the area around Hope Street, where the hotel will be situated. I’ve devoted my entire career to working in boutique hotels and have so many ideas I’d love to share with you.’
‘Such as?’ he says, and I could be mistaken, but swear I pick up just the tiniest