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stared at Meg. Before she could reply, Meg had grabbed a large tray of glassware and thrust it at Debra. Ignoring Meg’s direction to hoist the tray to shoulder level, Debra slammed the tray right back onto the sideboard.
    “What do you mean by that?” she demanded.
    With hands planted on hips, Meg let rip. “All your hoity-toity airs don’t mean squat down here, lady. You might own this hotel, but you don’t own us. You ain’t no better than us plebs. You’d do well to remember that.”
    The shock of the unexpected attack caused Debra’s lunch to compress into a sickening ball and threaten to exit her stomach.
    “I-I—”
    “Where did you learn to be such a toffee-nosed, stuck-up little snot? Some fancy overseas finishing school?” Meg turned aside with a noisy “harrumph” and might have left if Debra’s hand hadn’t snaked out to touch her arm.
    “Meg, p-please, wait.” She stammered and swallowed, not quite dislodging the ominous lump which she feared was her lunch. Floundering under the glare of the diminutive woman confronting her, Debra searched for words to defuse the tension, while still not quite comprehending how she had offended. With a deep breath she forced some steel into her backbone and voiced a stilted apology.
    Meg’s head tilted to one side. “You haven’t a clue, have you?”
    Debra’s chin jutted out. “What do you mean?”
    Instead of replying, the other woman returned to the sideboard and, absently rearranging some glassware, stood shaking her head. The condescending action spurred outrage to surge through Debra.
    “I asked you a question, Meg. What do you mean by that statement?”
    The freezing tone had little effect on Meg. In fact Debra’s ire rose still further when she witnessed a twinge of mirth around Meg’s lips.
    “You want to know?” Meg’s eyebrows rose. “You really want me to tell you?”
    Debra nodded, her lips tightly clasped together.
    “You’re so far up yourself you don’t even know how to talk to common folks like us, do you?” Meg’s tone clearly conveyed her disgust—disgust that tightened Debra’s stomach like a giant clenching fist, sending a painful stab somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.
    “Meg. I’m sorry, that’s not true.” Debra laid a tentative hand on Meg’s arm before jerking it away, not wanting to invade the other woman’s space. “It’s just I d-don’t socialise much.”
    To her dismay her whispering voice broke but she forced herself to continue, to explain. To change the negative impression she’d made. “I’m not good at interacting with...anyone.” Her lips twitched but she guessed they wouldn’t form a smile. “So don’t assume you’re being treated any differently from anyone else.”
    Debra couldn’t be sure if Meg’s expression softened or not. Her wrinkles made it hard to tell, but her eyes lost their chill as they stared at Debra. After what seemed like an eon Meg turned aside and without a further word on the subject picked up the tray of glassware again.
    “Once you get the tray balanced...”
    One hour before their evening shift was due to begin Meg called a halt to her instruction. Debra flopped onto a nearby chair, more exhausted than she could believe. She flexed her aching hands.
    Manoeuvring the fork and spoon to serve rolled-up napkins substituting for vegetables had turned her fingers into big, uncoordinated thumbs which got tied in knots. Her arms ached, too.
    The silver trays alone were heavy enough balanced on one hand, but then Meg loaded them with glassware and expected Debra to prance around as if they were feather-light. Debra groaned aloud at the memory.
    “Your attitude toward the guests is very important, Debra.” Meg sat down beside her.
    Debra’s tired back stiffened, but Meg soon diffused any suggestion her comment had been an implied criticism.
    “We call it table radar. Always be aware of the guests. Always check to see they’re happy. Do they need anything else? Is