“Smile. Look like you’re excited to be working.”
These are our stern instructions for the evening; no caveats, no exceptions. One should look perfect, but not ostentatiously so: hair scraped back and face pinched into a blandly ornamental femininity, malleable as a doll, and loaded up with crockery like a buckaroo; there should be no stray hairs, no stray tears. One should be gregarious, but not imposing: one should know when to shut up.
Some people, of course, are excited to be working. It’s an exciting opportunity to catch a glimpse of someone wealthy – the special treat of wiping up yuppies’ discarded slops as a mediocre boy band perform, or the rare chance to carry canapés around inside a Chelsea townhouse with impractically pale carpeting. These are quite the only perks of the job, but my God, what perks! The task of skulking in the dungeons of the…
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