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“Especially to them,” I say.
Just then, a streak of red and white flashes through the doorway behind Angela—someone running full tilt toward the Social’s back door. It happens so quickly, I barely have time to take it in, but if my eyes don’t deceive me, that flash was my very own Juan Manuel in his white chef’s uniform, carrying a huge bouquet of red roses.
“Did you see that?” I ask Angela.
“See what?” she asks, her fingers fiddling with her apron strings.
“Someone just ran through the storeroom behind you.”
“No,” she says. “I don’t think so. I didn’t see anyone.” There’s a look on Angela’s face that’s very hard to decipher. She makes a futile attempt to arrange her restless hair, which as usual refuses to respect the boundaries of her hair tie.
“I think it was Juan Manuel,” I say.
“It can’t be,” Angela answers. “Why would your boyfriend be here instead of downstairs in the kitchen? You’re seeing things.”
“Someone was just there. I swear.”
Angela begins to aggressively scour spots from a glass while I make my way around the bar to stand beside her.
“What are you doing back here?” she asks.
I ignore her, walking straight into the storeroom toward the rear exit, Angela nipping at my heels.
She ducks in front of me, then blocks the back door. “See?” she says. “Look around. No one here.”
Indeed, the room is filled with bins and boxes, beer kegs and crates, but there’s no one in it except us.
“Excuse me,” I say as I sidle past Angela and push the long metal handle of the back door. I peek outside, looking left and right into the short alleyway out back—not a soul in sight.
I come back inside, shutting the door tight behind me.
“Honestly,” says Angela. “You should get your eyes checked. Professionally.”
I suddenly feel daft and ridiculous. Why am I chasing shadows that don’t even exist, and what did I think I’d see outside that door?
“I don’t know what got into me,” I say. “Looks like I’m seeing things. Sorry. I best be off. Guest rooms don’t clean themselves.”
“Catch you later?” Angela says, and I nod, making my way to the bar, then leaving through the front entrance of the restaurant without looking back.
Only when I’m halfway through the lobby standing by the gold revolving doors do I spot the red-and-green smear on the palm of my hand. The handle of the Social’s back door was sticky when I opened it, and whatever was on it is now stuck to me.
I hold my palm up for closer inspection. I sniff—the scent is sugary and sweet.
It may be fondant or royal or buttercream, but one thing is for certain—the sticky smear on my palm is icing…which means, contrary to Angela’s assessment, my eyes don’t require professional attention after all.
Chapter 7
I scrub my hands in the lobby washroom to remove the icing caked on them.Out, damned spot.The phrase repeats ad infinitum in my mind.
As I stare into the flow of tepid water, I remember how some time ago, a hotel guest used a word I was unfamiliar with, and when I later asked Angela about it, she said it had nothing whatsoever to do with electrics. The word was “gaslighting.”
“It’s when someone messes with your mind, makes you question reality,” Angela explained.
Now, as I scrub out this red-and-green spot, her words return. Isn’t that precisely what Angela just did to me—gaslighting? She made me doubt myself, question what I saw with my own two eyes—Juan Manuel, running full tilt out the back door of the Social with a big bouquet of red roses.
But why? Why would she pretend he wasn’t ever there?
A thought crosses my mind, but I banish it before it can takeroot and spread like a contagion. Not only is it absolutely improbable that Juan was at the restaurant, but it’s equally improbable that he was there to see Angela.
