Ch. 3: The Compatibles.
Running the cordless Dyson over the crumb-strewn carpet of the Pavilion Lounge, I concluded that my employer Mrs Hilary Harper had got it right when she'd said that the thirty SPOILT! Boutique manageresses attending this year's Annual Conference at the Brighton City-Break Hotel and Spa were liberally mixing pleasure with business; the manageresses, not just colleagues but friends with shared interests, were taking full advantage of the opportunity their five-day conference presented them for a rare girls' get-together.
The high-end fashion, accessories, cosmetics, and personal services store manageresses' laid-back attitudes said it all: as much as a working conference, it was a pleasure trip, an all-expenses-paid excursion to the East Sussex seaside and the bright lights of Brighton.
On top of that, Mrs Harper's two nineteen-year-old junior partner assistants, Amanda and Zoe, both on friendly terms with the manageresses who during the week had gifted them both a small fortune's worth of cosmetic and perfume samples, said they had seen the manageresses out on the town enjoying the famed Brighton night-scene. Their hair skillfully coiffured, make-up expertly applied, and dressed to impress in their SPOILT! Boutique evening-attire fashionwear and eye-catching high-heeled shoes, the manageresses were having a high old time, basking in the rapt attention of great-looking men who were none too shabbily dressed, themselves.
Mrs Harper's opinion was corroborated, by the lax attitude the manageresses showed towards their refreshments break schedule.
Their morning coffee break was supposed to be 10:00 - 10:30. But, just as Mrs Harper had predicted they had arrived early, and it was pushing eleven o'clock when with evident reluctance the Head of Conference, Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish, finally announced that they should return to their conference room.
Their half-hour coffee break had gone on for over an hour, just as Mrs Harper said had been the norm. And she told me to expect at least the same schedule-busting overrun this afternoon when, for the final time before their five-day conference wound down to a close, they returned to the Pavilion Lounge for their tea break.
But then I supposed it would make it more challenging to keep within reasonable bounds to a half-hour schedule, when some of the manageresses far exceeded their fair and equal time take-up to the unfair and unequal diminution of their colleagues', selfishly overindulging in their refreshments-break luxury 'little something extra'.
Running the powerful vacuum cleaner over the carpet of the Pavilion Lounge to pick up the scattering of biscuit, cake, and sandwich crumbs that the thirty-strong contingent of coffee-breaking SPOILT! Boutique manageresses had left in their wake, left to my own devices for the moment, I was at liberty to let my mind wander to reflect on the events of the last hour or so ...
Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish, Head of Conference and manageress of London's Oxford Street's premier everything-under-one-roof SPOILT! Boutique, and who at Mrs Harper's suggestion had been delighted to be the one to initiate me into my male-worker role's principal duties, in taking tenure for sixteen minutes she had been the most flagrant flouter of the refreshments-break 'little something extra' overindulgers.
Miss Martina Morris, though, manageress of Brighton's SPOILT! Boutique store and who as the local agent was deputed to organise this year's Annual Conference, in taking tenure for fourteen minutes she had run Miss Connaught-Cavendish a close second on the selfishness scale.
During the second half-hour or so of (over-schedule) coffee-break time, indulging themselves for seven or eight minutes each, only another four of the other twenty-eight manageresses had taken tenure of their refreshments-break luxury little-something-extra facial footrest.
I did the math - and in my mind's eye I envisioned the all-too-possible aftermath:
At just six out of a total of thirty, this meant that, on this, the final day of their Annual Conference, it was going to be a very long tea break this afternoon if all of the other twenty-four manageresses were going to insist upon having their rightful turn with Mrs Harper's new footboy.
Julie, manageress of the SPOILT! Boutique in Cardiff was one of the latter four.
The first, of the latter four to avail herself of their prized-position facial footrest, while other coffee-breaking colleagues made do with making use of my albeit still desirable and comfort-affording but 'lesser' back, sides, and shoulder-footrests, as ceded during the in situ manageress's mid-tenure from-foot-to-foot switchover.
While I traversed the Pavilion Lounge; the Dyson, gobbling up the carpet-strewn crumb debris left by the thirty refreshments-breaking manageresses as though voracious for such titbits, I recalled Julie's 'accession'.
No sooner had the Brighton SPOILT! Boutique manageress and conference organiser Miss Martina Morris finally, and with apparent reluctance, given way; her bare heels, slapping against her kitten-heeled white mules as dolefully she'd reintegrated herself among spectating colleagues - when suddenly I'd found the apparently fleet of foot and stealing-a-march Julie standing in front of me.
And then it was her turn: Julie's, holding forth, opinion-positing, centre-of-attention tenure of their facial footrest.
Positioned inside the accommodating 'V' of my widely spread apart legs as I sat on the carpet of the Pavilion Lounge, though Julie stood with her back to me I knew who she was from her crimson final-day-of-conference T-shirt.
And recognised her, from her thin white stockings - the left, sweat-moistened sole, I'd earlier observed with anticipatory dread should she subsequently accede prized position - as, standing with her back to me, she'd rested her left foot upon my right shoulder during Miss Connaught-Cavendish's overindulgent overrunning occupation of the facial footrest.
Unlike my breaking-in first-user, the precariously teetering Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish, Julie had not been in need of my thoughtful and considerate transferal assistance, either initially or during her from-foot-to-foot switchover, mid-tenure.
Julie had not needed me to take hold of and hold down the heel of her shoe to steady her balance, as, standing on one high heel, she eased her right foot from her other yellow leather stiletto-heeled pump and raised her foot behind her, preparatory to adopting the single-footed stance of tenure.
But as Julie, unsighted and unguided, reached the sole of her thin-white-stockinged right foot behind her and upwards towards my conveniently positioned and compliantly waiting face, she had benefited, though, from my having earlier identified and addressed the understandably irksome and tiresome inadequacy issue that had faced Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish and Miss Martina Morris, pertaining my face being merely easily reachable.
Benefited, from my off-my-own-bat facilitation, as, carefully tracking her sole's wayward approach, I leaned forward and manoeuvred my forehead to receive early and with pinpoint exactitude the bottom of Julie's erratically approaching heel, thus thoughtfully aiding and making more easeful and less haphazard her blind navigational 'docking'.
Following the efficacious examples as set first by Miss Hazel Connaught-Cavendish and then by Miss Martina Morris, Julie had tested and retested, making the minor but essential adjustments to maximise security and minimise the uncertainty of high-heel shod single-footed balance:
The bottom of her heel, planted in the centre of my forehead; her arch, right in front of my eyes; the ball of her foot, upon the bridge of my nose; and the undersides of her thin-white-stockinged toes encapturing my nostrils, Julie had enhanced her surety of purchase, pre-commitment.
And, as once in situ - with the succeeding two manageresses to avail themselves of my shoulder-footrests; two more at my sides; another two at my back - I'd listened to Julie's pleasantly lilting Welsh tones as during her tenure she held forth, the focus of her coffee-breaking colleagues' attention.
Listened, to Julie's pleasantly lilting Welsh tones, as, albeit merely incidentally and consequentially and so not deliberately and intentionally, Julie had obliged me to inhale the tangy aroma of her under- and in-between-the-toes scent through her gossamer thin, almost transparent white stocking.
Listened, as, relaxing her weight and leaning into me as assuredly she would any sturdy and reliable inanimate footrest, Julie made the most of her tenure.
