Page 72 of The Player in New Zealand
I squinted at the email. “Today. This afternoon.”
He nodded and bent over the bed, knuckles on the sheet, and kissed me. “I gotta go. Good luck today, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I said half-heartedly. When the door shut behind him, I flopped back down on the bed. “This is why this was a bad idea, Claire,” I lectured myself. “Your time is running out.”
TWENTY-SIX
I emailed back confirmingthe interview—no harm in talking to the hiring manager, right? After twenty minutes and several dramatic flops and rolls in the bed, I made myself get up and go downstairs. Nina was already there, based on the clattering of pans in the kitchen. I followed the noise. And my nose.
Nina turned when the doors swung open. “Oh good, you’re up. Tane told me to feed you.”
I was in charge of toast and juice; the veggies, sausages, and eggs were already cooking. When Tane didn’t have a game day and I was working the lunch shift, we usually came downstairs to cook a proper breakfast, since I wouldn’t likely have time to eat until after the lunch rush.
I sat on the stainless-steel counter, feeding bread into the toaster and munching on a piece. I swallowed as Nina dished out breakfast onto plates. “I’ve got an interview today.”
“Tane told me that, too. What’s the place like?”
“Upscale. Fancy. Full-service restaurant on”—I checked the map—“Queen Street.”
While I’d applied to tons of restaurants and bars in Wellington, I had only applied to places in Auckland that were the dream—jobs that might be a stretch for me with my background, but they offered the kind of drinks I wanted to make, the craft cocktails I’d brought to Haft & Hops.
But I hadn’t heard back from many places in Wellington yet. I’d scheduled an interview with one, but when Tane heard where it was, he told me: “Absolutely not.” I hadn’t been aware that there were places in Wellington where he’d be uncomfortable with me taking the bus or walking.
“Queen Street is great. Lots of traffic. When’s the interview?”
I told her and Nina said she’d make sure to give me free time to use her computer. We ate our breakfast at the bar, a little bit of tension in the air.
“Have you talked to your sister lately?” Nina asked me.
It made me pause. While we didn’t have a strict schedule, Iris and I usually messaged back and forth most days. But as I speared a bit of sausage with my fork, I realized I hadn’t heard from her in a while. Two days? Three?
“I need to talk to her today. I’ll give her a report on the interview when it’s over.” I popped the sausage into my mouth but pulled out my phone to message Iris.
Got an interview today! Wish me luck.
Staff started to filter in and I washed our dishes before reporting to bar duty. Since it was a Friday, the lunch crowd kept me busy. When not running around and slinging drinks, I prepped for the evening shift, mindful that I’d be taking a break for the interview, making sure the ingredients for the cocktails were stocked up and even premaking some mixers.
At quarter to four, Nina took over and I stepped into the office, shutting the door. I turned on the video camera, testing the view and audio, checking my teeth and settling my nerves. A few clicks later, Joe, the hiring manager for McGraves’, appeared on my screen. We said pleasantries and he dug into the questions.
“Tell me about what you’ve been doing at Haft & Hops.”
I perked up. This was going to be good for me. The McGraves’ cocktail menu was seasonal and local, just like I’d tried to bring in here at Haft & Hops. I waxed for a bit about discovering the local produce and experimenting with new flavors.
“That’s great,” he said a little absently. “We’ve got a pretty solid seasonal menu. You won’t be doing menu creation with us.”
“Yeah, that’s fine. I enjoy it, though. Actually, I also crafted some cocktails based on nonalcoholic spirits. There’s an importer that works with—”
“We’ve got a mocktail menu too,” he said.
I bit my tongue. They did, but it was mostly lemonades and juice spritzers, nothing that actually tasted like alcohol.
He plunged ahead, asking about my potential schedule and my visa. “How soon could you get here?”
“Ah well, my six months at Haft & Hops is almost up.”
“Well, if you can get here to start Wednesday, the job is yours.”
Wednesday, as in five days. I’d have to quit here early, pack up my meager things, fly or take the bus to Auckland—still no car—and find a place to stay. I knew it would come quickly, but I hadn’t expected it to be that fast.
