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swing it.” Another sound emerged which Debra guessed might be considered a laugh. “No-one’s figured you to be the head honcho, though.” Meg’s shaking head suggested she wasn’t convinced either. “Most of us reckon his wife has George exactly where she wants him—and you’re Linda’s friend.”
    Debra lifted her chin. It was easy to look down at the smaller woman—she was barely one hundred and sixty centimetres tall. It gave Debra a much needed advantage to assert her position right from the start of their peculiar relationship. “Perhaps we should encourage this theory?”
    “Yep, that might stop the talk. I guess it’s important no-one figures what you’re doing here?”
    Debra inclined her head.
    “We’ll let on you’re having man trouble in Wellington and needed a quick exit.” Meg decided. “All the young ones are so busy chasing boyfriends and having their own man troubles, they’ll believe that soon enough.”
    When Meg turned toward the door, signalling the end of that particular conversation piece, to her amazement Debra realised her mentor hadn’t been asking permission.
    Left to trot behind the beckoning Meg, with her lips clenched shut, Debra accepted she had but two choices. Accept whatever this woman threw or give up the whole crazy scheme and go home. She groaned. Disappointing her mother wasn’t an option she could stomach right now.

Chapter Three
    Instead of working the usual split-shift of the dining staff, and using those hours off for some in-depth snooping, today’s down time was spent with Meg. The woman showed no respect for Debra’s position, but rigorously set about training her in the basic arts of waiting.
    “Seeing you’re only gonna be here a few days, George says you’ll stay in the dining room, so you don’t need to know nothing about the bar, or wine lists. Any of the guests ask, you summon the wine waiter, okay?”
    Debra nodded. Meg didn’t appear to expect conversation and that was fine with her. Opening her mouth might allow her growing annoyance to escape.
    “All we need you to do is serve and clear tables without making a hash of it.”
    In a small, private dining room, thankfully unreserved for the day, Meg set about teaching Debra the fundamentals of serving and clearing tables.
    By lunchtime Debra’s left hand ached. The unnatural positioning of her fingers to support plates stretched muscles Debra hadn’t even been aware of having.
    Starting lightly, Meg soon had her balancing numerous plates, albeit empty plates, while circling tables pretending to serve and clear. Never so relieved to have someone suggest a break, Debra dragged herself into the staff dining room behind Meg, thinking only of the respite from carrying crockery.
    Their arrival was heralded with scoffed queries as to their whereabouts and suggestions they were skiving off. Debra bit her lip. If she wasn’t pulling her weight—
    “Yeah right,” Meg shouted back over the din. “If we’d be so lucky.”
    Often the centre of attention, Debra was used to the cool, or more often downright chilly regard paid to her. This noisy familiarity was uncharted territory. Apprehension slithered up and down her spine as she clung to Meg’s presence beside her. As they dished their lunch and sat down, the noise and teasing continued, with newbie Debra at its centre.
    Fuelled by Meg sneaking in ribald comments at every opportunity, Debra’s persona was soon depicted as a sad, lovelorn creature from Wellington. It was scary how quickly everyone accepted the outlandish story.
    Uncertain how to react to the good-natured advice about men in general and her supposed man in particular, Debra mumbled out monosyllabic responses.
    Returning to the private dining room for more instruction, Debra was astounded when Meg rounded on her the moment the door closed, her eyes flashing. “You’d better climb off that high horse of yours, princess, if you want to be accepted here.”
    Her eyes boggling, Debra