Flying by the Seat of My Knickers

by Eliza Watson

I felt someone staring over my shoulder and peered up to find Declan wearing a cautious smile. My body went rigid.

  “I hope you aren’t looking for a new job because I’m a complete arse.” He shifted his stance, fidgeting with the silver Celtic design on the leather band around his wrist.

  This was the first time I’d seen Declan lack confidence. My shoulders relaxed slightly. Admitting he was an arse earned him a half smile, and maybe I’d overreacted a tad earlier. Pissed over the whole Gretchen spa fiasco, I’d been a volcano waiting to erupt. And I had to stop allowing certain smells, sounds, or people’s actions to trigger memories of my ex and provoke such intense emotions. Recognizing the triggers was a step in the right direction. Now I needed to learn to manage, or better yet, prevent them. However, Declan had reminded me of my ex. Not only the way he’d taken control, but his suave and charming demeanor might be a cover for his manipulative behavior. I doubted Declan was like my ex, but I wasn’t the best judge of character. I wasn’t sure what to think of him.

  Knight in shining armor, always coming to my rescue, or controlling ass?

  “No, I’m not looking for a new job because you’re a jerk, even though you were. I’m only working this meeting to help out Rachel. It’s not my new career.”

  “Right, then. You said that before. Trying to convince yourself, are ya?”

  “I hate flying and sleep like crap in hotels. And I need some stability in my life, a full-time job, not one or two meetings a month.”

  He gestured to the bench across from me.

  I nodded fine.

  He slipped off his suit jacket and slid into the booth. His white oxford shirt collar and front were crisply pressed, the arms and back a wrinkled mess. He gestured to his shirt. “Why bother ironing more than what people see?”

  “I’ll have to remember that. Ironing sucks.”

  “Stick with me—I’ll teach you the tricks of the trade.”

  He glanced down at the menu, then slowly raised his gaze, meeting mine. “Sorry about earlier. I don’t think you’re incompetent. That wasn’t why I stepped in. I’d made the restaurant change and rang the tour company about it, so I knew the situation.”

  I nodded. I got it, but I was still upset. “Yeah, well, I might have overreacted a tad.” However, I was glad I’d stuck up for myself.

  “So what job you looking for, then?” he asked.

  I had no clue now that I’d decided I really didn’t want to be an admin assistant. But I didn’t want to admit I had no sense of direction…

  “I think I’d like to counsel women.”

  Where had that come from? I’d been thinking a lot about Martha’s advice the past few days. But did I really want to be a counselor?

  Caity Shaw—Avenger of Women. Superhero extraordinaire, swooping in and coming to women’s rescue with a single business card. That was how it had happened with me. I’d been in a restaurant’s bathroom when Martha, the woman at the table next to my ex and me, approached me with a sympathetic smile and a card for the women’s shelter and crisis center where she worked. When I assured her my ex wasn’t beating me, she pointed out that emotional abuse was as damaging as physical. She’d heard his demeaning comments, such as changing my pasta order to a salad so the new dress he’d bought me for his friend’s wedding would fit. He’d always bought me a size too small so I’d have to fast off any extra weight before wearing it. If I couldn’t fit into the expensive designer dress, I obviously didn’t appreciate it.

  Martha had rattled off a slew of other narcissistic personality traits, describing my ex to a tee. She’d had him pegged after eavesdropping for five minutes, whereas I’d been clueless after living with him for two years. She’d left me standing there in the bathroom, dumbfounded yet enlightened.

  Ironically, that was the same restaurant my ex had taken me to on our first date. He’d sucked me in, impressing me with an expensive dinner and his charming and attentive manner. He’d even suggested that I have tiramisu for dessert. Once he’d earned my trust, he slowly began to manipulate and control me.

  It had taken me several weeks to work up the nerve to call Martha. She’d given me the strength and support to leave my ex.

  However, ending the relationship had merely been the first step on my road to recovery. You didn’t just rebuild your self-esteem overnight or stop doubting your thoughts, opinions, and ideas when someone had repeatedly questioned and shot them down daily for two years.

  “Is that your degree, counseling?”

  I glanced up from my diet soda, realizing I’d zoned out. “I majored in sociology.”

  Because I’d aced a sociology class, the first course that had held my interest, I’d switched my major for the fourth time. Amazingly, it’d only taken me five years to earn my undergrad degree. I couldn’t imagine going back for a master’s, which many counseling jobs likely required. I’d planned to be a career advisor. I thought helping others find direction in life would help me figure out my own life. I’d applied for the few job openings in the area but never landed an interview. If I’d been sucked in by my ex when I had a sociology degree—the study of human relationships—was I qualified to counsel others?

  Although I’d never be fooled again.

  “So what made you decide on counseling women?” Declan appeared truly interested in my career aspirations, not merely sucking up after being an ass.

  “I know someone who works at a woman’s shelter and finds it very fulfilling. I’m going to bring her my hotel toiletries, do what I can to help for now.”

  If I was too ashamed to tell my sister the truth about my ex, I certainly couldn’t confide in someone I barely knew. Besides, Declan was a guy. He might say I’d been overly sensitive to my ex’s degrading comments and read too much into them. The same thing I’d told myself until that day in the restaurant when Martha had come to my rescue.

  Chapter Eleven

  After lunch, Declan waited in the lobby for the van to take him to the Kildare Sausage plant to pick up attendees. I wanted to sneak away with him so I didn’t have to spend the afternoon shadowing Gretchen. However, sneaking off wouldn’t prove I could do this job, not only to Rachel but, more importantly, to myself. I returned to the office, where Rachel and Gretchen were eating salads while glued to their laptops.

  I gestured to a small pile of papers on the corner of Gretchen’s desk. “Are those the BEOs?”

  Gretchen nodded absently without looking up.

  I snagged the BEOs. “I’m going to photocopy them since I’m shadowing you this afternoon.”

  Rachel glanced up, smiling with approval, then buried her face back in her laptop. Gretchen appeared surprised that I still planned on shadowing her after the spa debacle. I wasn’t backing down. Next time she snidely drilled me on BEOs, not only would I know what one looked like but what it meant, including her red notes scribbled all over them. I added horrible penmanship to her long list of flaws.

  I made copies and placed the originals back on Gretchen’s desk. I three-hole-punched the BEOs and added them to my binder, which currently held an attendee list, hotel rooming list, emergency plan, and the meeting agenda. The binder was the same size as Declan’s and Gretchen’s but with a quarter of the contents. Rather skimpy. What info did they have that I didn’t? I needed to fill my binder. Maybe if I looked more important, I’d feel more important.

  I sat down at the desk next to Gretchen’s, studying the BEOs. Her red notes detailed things such as alternating the flavors of the jams and juices daily, providing ketchup and hot sauce for the eggs, and a bunch of numbers and abbreviations: GTD, EXP, and ACT. I asked her what these meant.

  She stopped typing, forcing a strained smile. She couldn’t even fake being nice. Good thing I could.

  “Can we go over those later? I have to help Rachel with this other meeting right now.”

  “Anything I can do, since I’m supposed to be shadowing you?”

  “I’ll let you know.” She continued typing, brushing me off.


  I stifled a growl and the urge to scratch her eyes out.

  I stared blankly at the unfamiliar acronyms and industry terms and table dimensions given in centimeters, which would have meant little to me in inches. Nice to know we were having French toast for breakfast tomorrow. Now that I was back on carbs, I was tempted to start slipping brown bread in my purse at breakfast to satisfy my late-night cravings.

  A Brecker executive walked into the office. He was fortyish, tall, with light-brown hair, and dressed in black slacks and a red Brecker-logoed, button-down shirt. He’d been a witness to my garbage meltdown earlier. Not one of my finer moments. I sprang from my chair, eager to redeem myself and to start a conversation before he could mention the garbage.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  Rachel and Gretchen glanced up from their computers, apparently not having heard him enter the room.

  “I can help him,” I assured them.

  Rachel nodded hesitantly, smiling at the guy, then went back to work, undoubtedly eavesdropping on our conversation. Gretchen was also listening, anxiously waiting for me to screw up.

  Distressed lines creased the guy’s brow, and his breathing was labored. My heart raced. Great. He had a problem.

  “I lost my phone. I thought I left it in my room this morning, but I just checked, and it’s not there. I mainly use my work cell, so I didn’t even realize my personal one is missing.”

  I’d misplaced my cell scads of times. I was a pro at locating a lost phone.

  “When did you last use it?”

  “At the castle last night. I sent my wife pictures of the tour.” He rubbed a worried hand over his chin. “All my family pictures are on it, and ones of my dog, Max, who just passed away.”

  My heart sank over the loss of his dog and all his pics. I had over a thousand pics on my phone. After losing my phone for the third time, I’d finally downloaded them on my computer. I jotted down his name, Martin Brown, and the phone’s description. I promised to call his work cell when I located the phone. He thanked me and left, not looking overly hopeful about the phone’s recovery.

  I felt horrible for the guy. However, I was a bit excited at the prospect of returning to Malahide Castle. Alone. I asked Rachel for her contact at the castle. I called, but no luck. The woman promised to keep an eye out for the phone.

  “Maybe he left it on the bus,” I said. “I’m going to get Declan’s contact for the ground company.”

  Rachel look mildly impressed that I wasn’t asking her for direction on how to resolve the situation. This really wasn’t that difficult. Hopefully.

  Declan was still in the lobby, waiting on the van to go to the Kildare Sausage plant. I explained the situation.

  “No problem at all,” he said. “I have the ground’s dispatch on speed dial. I’ll ring them.”

  “Would it be okay if I called?” Ground was Declan’s gig, and I didn’t want to step on his toes after I’d gone berserk over him taking charge of the tour earlier, but I needed to do this on my own.

  “That’d be grand. My van just drove in.” He gladly gave me the number.

  I gestured to the thick stack of ground transportation paperwork on his clipboard. “Can I get a copy of that later?”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  The stack of papers would help bulk up my binder.

  I called dispatch, and within five minutes the guy had located the lost phone wedged in a seat on last night’s bus. The driver was in the area and would drop it off in ten minutes.

  Twenty minutes later, I was standing in the lobby, still no driver with a phone. I called the dispatcher back, and he contacted the driver while I held.

  He returned to the line. “He said he dropped it off ten minutes ago.”

  “I’ve been waiting here twenty, and no driver has been in the lobby. It’s dead.”

  “Hold please.” He returned a few minutes later. “The driver dropped it at The River Liffey Hotel.”

  “I’m not at The River Liffey Hotel. I’m at the Connelly Court Hotel. I’m sure that’s the hotel I told you. It’s the only one I know in Dublin.” There was no way I’d given him the wrong hotel name, which would have been a bigger mistake than if I’d given the spa the wrong room number.

  “You did indeed tell me Connelly Court. He dropped a group from the airport earlier at The River Liffey Hotel and had it in his head it was to be dropped there. When he couldn’t find you, he left it with the bellstand. I’ll have someone run there straight away to collect it and deliver it to you.”

  “How far is that Liffey hotel from mine?”

  “Five blocks.”

  “I’ll go get it.”

  I wasn’t trusting anyone at this point. No way was I telling Rachel they’d delivered it to the wrong hotel. She’d assume I’d given them the incorrect hotel name, group name, city, or country.

  I ran to The River Liffey Hotel, sweating despite the cool fifty-five degrees. An anxiety-induced sweat. Even though I now knew the phone’s location, I didn’t want Rachel to discover my location and that I’d gone off-site without telling her. Sometimes I felt like a prisoner.

  Liffey was a totally cute name and a fun word. However, the hotel wasn’t so cute with its sparse décor, worn brown furnishings, and dull cream-colored walls.

  Declan was right. I was already becoming a hotel snob.

  I approached a young guy standing behind the bellstand, dressed in a drab brown uniform. His name badge read Fintan. “A bus driver mistakenly dropped a cell phone off a half hour ago. I’m here to pick it up.”

  Fintan smiled brightly. “We delivered it to the guest’s room.”

  My eyes widened. “How did you deliver it to his room when he’s not staying here? I never gave the driver a room number.”

  “I looked up Mr. Braun’s room.”

  “It’s Brown, not Braun. What’s this man’s room number?”

  Fintan’s brow creased in contemplation. “I’m not supposed to give out room numbers.”

  “You also aren’t supposed to deliver a phone to someone who doesn’t own it.” Okay, that was bitchy. This guy was obviously new and starting to look a bit panicked that his stint at The River Liffey Hotel might be short lived. I could relate. I took a calming breath. “I get how this happened, but can you please give me the room number? If I don’t get the phone back, I might lose my job.” I was fairly certain that was a fib.

  He nodded in understanding, and after debating the dilemma with another bellman, he agreed to escort me to the guest’s room. He knocked on the door, and a middle-aged American woman greeted us with a scowl and a curt hello. She didn’t look very welcoming, like someone who might not turn over a misdelivered cell phone. The bellman explained the situation.

  Her expression relaxed. “I was wondering why my husband had a cell phone I didn’t know about.”

  Thank God her husband wasn’t there, or this misunderstanding might have put a serious damper on their vacation.

  I called the bus dispatcher to share the good news.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Niall is a very seasoned driver. He must be having an off day.”

  “That’s okay. It happens.”

  I was starting to think no matter how seasoned you were, shit just happened in this industry. There were too many variables out of your control. You could be a meeting-planning goddess like Rachel, with years of experience, but when you came on-site, it was all about troubleshooting. I wanted to tell Rachel what had happened so she knew how well I’d resolved the issue. However, would she believe I hadn’t given dispatch the wrong info, even though I’d proven I hadn’t given the wrong room number to the spa?

  I was proud of how I’d handled the situation. Maybe being proud of myself was more important than Rachel being proud of me.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mr. Brown was ecstatic that I’d found his cell phone. Hopefully, he shared my incredible super-sleuthing skills with Tom Reynolds. Rachel told me “good job,” then promptly sent me
off on my next task, obtaining additional restaurant options from the concierge in case attendees besides Tom Reynolds stopped by requesting recommendations. After Declan returned from the sausage plant, I copied his paperwork for my binder, now containing almost half the contents of Gretchen’s.

  What the hell did she have that I still didn’t?

  My final errand for the day was to pick up office supplies and snacks for the bus tour to County Wicklow later that week. Rachel asked Declan to accompany me under the pretense it would be too much for me to carry. She was probably afraid to have me venture out into a strange city by myself. She didn’t know I’d found my way to The River Liffey Hotel, even though it’d only been five blocks.

  I popped into the gift shop on my way out and grabbed a bag of cheese-and-onion-flavored Taytos—Ireland’s yummy potato chips, or rather crisps, as the Irish called them. I didn’t want to waste time on dinner. I planned to sneak in some souvenir shopping, and I had to buy undies. Most of the shops closed in two hours. Not that it would take much time to spend my meager souvenir budget. No way were leprechaun socks and shamrock undies going to be my only mementos of my first trip abroad, especially since I’d likely toss the socks, a reminder of my humiliation.

  We stepped outside, and I breathed in the fresh air, wanting to yell, I’m free! I’m free! No breeze made it feel a bit warmer than earlier, despite dusk settling in. So nice out that Declan only wore jeans and a white T-shirt, which showed off his nicely toned biceps and a tattoo. The tattoo matched the Celtic symbol on his leather bracelet. He was obviously into the design.

  Not only did the absence of rain put a bounce in my step but also the absence of Gretchen, who’d stayed at the hotel to help Rachel. Sometimes it paid to be incompetent at your job, like me. Although I wondered if Gretchen felt a bit less competent after her spa screwup. Doubtful. She likely still blamed me. I was proud I’d stuck up for myself.

  I reviewed tomorrow’s breakfast BEO as we walked down the street, taking advantage of Declan’s willingness to share his industry knowledge with me.