The Name I Call Myself (6 page)

I craned my neck, making an exaggerated display of looking for Marilyn.

“Having said that, the tool belt and overalls would have fooled anyone. And you had plenty of opportunity to tell me who you were, instead of all ‘call me Dylan', not Reverend Dylan or Pastor Dylan. And aren't people like you supposed to wear dog collars and black shirts, not ripped jeans? Right. Well. I'm going to shut up and leave now. Nice meeting you. I probably won't be seeing you again.” I scurried a couple of steps away, before looking back at him. “And you're not, by the way. Unnoticeable. At all.”

Dylan's shoulders were shaking. He reached up a hand and wiped both his eyes. Good grief! I knew people in his line of work were supposed to be sensitive, but had my ridiculous babbling made him
cry
? I would definitely never be able to set foot in here again. Stupid, clumsy idiot. It was only because he made me flustered that I even –

He lifted his head and smiled at me, his face bubbling over with mirth. When I tore my gaze away from those blue eyes, sparkling like mountain streams and as wide open as a cloudless, February sky, I saw he held out a card. “Give me a ring. Let me know which date in August and we can set up a meeting with your husband-to-be. I'd like to meet him. And we can discuss your requirements for the service.”

I took the card, hoping he didn't notice the tremor in my hand. “Really? Even though I've proven myself to be a terrible, rude, and judgmental heathen? You'll marry us?”

Dylan nodded his head, another smile tugging at his mouth. “Yes, I'll marry you, Faith. Call me.”

I gathered up my bag and jacket and located Marilyn, nattering away to Rowan, her hands waving wildly as she talked. She caught my gesture and nodded, giving Rowan a brief hug before coming to join me. On our way to the door, we walked past Dylan, two women now clucking around him like chickens. His eyes met mine as I passed. He shook his head slightly in mock disappointment and mouthed, “
Watery custard?
”

Blushing, I pushed Marilyn out of the door and nearly sprinted to the car. As always, my friend kept schtum. But I knew what she was thinking. I thought the same.

Watch out there, Faith. You could be heading for big trouble.

That Friday, I ironed my white shirt and black skirt, dug out my least snagged pair of tights, and put on my work shoes. Since my enforced resignation from HCC, life had returned to a desperate sprint from the poverty wolf snapping at my heels. I survived, just, on meagre savings, Perry's generosity, and three or four shifts a week doing waitressing work for a temp agency. The work was back-breaking drudgery for pitiful pay. I missed some of my workmates at HCC – the waitresses and bar staff. I missed regular customers, knowing who would tip generously and who would complain. I really missed being recognized as someone good at their job, who worked hard and could think on her feet. I didn't miss the sixty-hour weeks, the two-mile hike through country roads at all hours and in all weather, or being ordered about like a second-class citizen on a daily basis by a boss with an ego problem.

Temping suited me because it required no commitment beyond the next twenty-four hours, little brainpower, and if Sam needed me I could drop everything and go to him without facing another reprimand, verbal warning, written warning, or final go-before-you're-fired warning. Perry and his family strongly disapproved, stating their expectation that once married I would turn my attention to more suitable occupations (like playing tennis, shopping, and producing babies). I don't think they could imagine a world where not working meant not eating. For this reason, I rarely mentioned my job unless absolutely necessary.

This evening's gig consisted of a private party held in the grounds of a local mansion. As two hundred guests swept their way up the drive in a dazzling array of cars, I worked frantically in the steamy kitchen pouring out glasses of champagne and plating canapés. Thirty minutes into the party (two hours after my shift began) the manager sent me for a quick break prior to serving the first course. I gladly stole outside for a few minutes, escaping the heat. Things were bubbling towards boiling point as the chef heard the guest of honour hadn't arrived yet and, with much cursing and banging of pans, put dinner on hold.

Always anticipating a call from Sam – even more so since the horrifying news about Kane – I dug my phone out of my jacket, dumped in a side-room off the kitchen. Flicking the screen, I wandered outside into the balmy September air.

My heart clenched as eight missed calls registered on the display, easing off slightly when I saw four were from Perry and the rest from Marilyn. I walked over to a bench seated an unobtrusive distance from the nearest group of partygoers. One of them I had waited on regularly at HCC, but I often saw old customers at temp jobs, and the recognition was never mutual. Leaning onto the back of the bench, I dialled my answerphone. Six messages.

“
Hi darling. I'm taking you out tonight. Put on your fanciest dress and biggest smile. I'll pick you up at seven-thirty.
”

“
Just checking you got my message. I'll be there in half an hour. Text me.
”

“Faith? Where are you, darling? I'm outside your house. Call me!”

“Hi Faith, it's Marilyn. Perry called. He can't find you. Are you okay?”

“Right, Perry didn't want me to tell you but he's got this big surprise planned. You really need to call him now, Faith. He's freaking out.”

“Faith? For goodness' sake, where are you?”

My heart unclenched, and sank like a stone to somewhere at the bottom of my bowels. I checked my watch. Eight-fifteen. Should I pretend not to have seen the calls until my shift finished? With a
sigh, I phoned Marilyn. In the huddle of guests a few metres away, a ringtone went off. It was “Fat Bottomed Girls”, the Queen song.

What? That was Marilyn's ringtone. I hung up, sweating. A voluptuous figure in a 1950s-style dress with her back to me rummaged through her clutch bag and pulled out a phone. As she twisted to the side, I caught a glimpse of the baby in her arms. As she leaned over to the man standing next to her, swiping the phone with her free hand, I saw a matching baby in a papoose strapped to his back.

Right. That's fine. Marilyn knows I waitress at functions. Probably best for me not to stroll up and say hello, but there is no problem here.

A teeny, tiny horrible thought suggested otherwise. Before I could tell it to shut up and get lost, my phone rang. I hurriedly answered before the connection became obvious, and slipped behind the trunk of a nearby tree.

“Faith! International woman of mystery. Where are you?”

“I'm at work.”

“Oh dear. That's bad. When do you knock off?” she asked.

“I don't know; at least midnight.” I felt a prickle of sweat on my back where it pressed against the tree.

“Ah. Have you called Perry?”

“Not yet. I wanted to find out what's going on first.” I risked a quick peep around the trunk, scanning for anyone else I might recognize.

“I think you might need to have a sudden attack of diarrhoea and vomiting.”

“At a catering job?”

“Well, you'd better think of something. There's a party you need to be at.”

As I suspected.

“Is it at White Cross Manor?”

“Yes! Did you figure it out? If you did that was pretty low of you to go to work. I know you're trying to be assertive, but still.” I
could hear her growing breathless as she jiggled a restless baby up and down.

“I didn't know I was invited! I need this job, Marilyn. I'll call Perry and tell him I'm ill. He won't mind. There'll be other parties.”

“Er – not where you're the guest of honour there won't.”

“Excuse me?” The party sounds faded into the background, overpowered by the hammer in my head.

“It's a surprise engagement party. For you and Perry. I can't believe you hadn't guessed. You need to get here as soon as possible.”

“Right. Well, that's not the problem. I can be there really quickly.
In no time at all in fact.
”

There was silence on the other end of the call for a few seconds. Then Marilyn began to turn slowly around as the truth dawned. I stepped back out from behind the tree and gave her a small wave.

Speechless, she hung up the phone and handed Nancy to James, swapping her for a glass of champagne. Downing it in one, without taking her eyes off me she handed the glass to a waiter and headed to the side of the manor house, where a back entrance offered some shelter.

I joined her moments later.

“Well this is a fine crock of pickle,” she said.

“Yep,” I nodded.

“What the Jiminy Cricket are you going to do?”

“If I disappear from work, I'll not be hired again and this company provide over half my bookings. Plus, one of the other waiters is bound to notice when they serve me my smoked venison.”

“Look around you, Faith. Champagne, swanky dinner, semi-famous swing band. This party probably cost five figures. If you don't turn up, you'll bring shame on the Uppertons. People will gossip about it for years. They'll be a laughing stock.” She waved her hands in the direction of the marquee.

“I can tell them I had an accident and had to go to A&E.”

“Without telling Perry? He'd be straight over there. You can't pretend to them all you had an accident when you didn't. And are
you really going to be able to hide from them all evening?”

I checked my phone. “My break's nearly over. I need to figure out what to do. Whose house is this, anyway?”

“Perry's aunt. Eleanor Upperton. The whole family are here to meet the woman who finally snagged golden boy.” She grimaced.

I tucked my phone back in my pocket and folded my arms. “What if I told them the truth? I'm not ashamed of being a waitress.”

“Are you sure? Are you brave enough? And if you did, you can hardly expect them to let you keep on waiting on them all at
your party.
You'll have to be introduced to everyone, in your uniform. That'll be it for getting any work done. And, no offence, but you stink of fish and could really do with five minutes in front of a mirror.”

I shrugged. “Then I'll explain to the manager. No one could expect me to keep working at my own party. I'll tell her while you race home and grab me a change of clothes. I can call Perry and tell him I'm at work, but on my way.”

At that moment, the catering manager opened the door, bursting out with a tray of salmon entrées. “There you are! Your break ended five minutes ago. We've been given the go-ahead.” She rammed the tray into my chest, forcing me to grab hold of it.

“What are you waiting for? We're twenty minutes behind schedule, I'm half blind with a stress migraine, and Richard just sliced his hand open on a broken glass. We're already one man down thanks to that loser Karen not turning up. Do I give a filet mignon if her daughter's fallen out of a window? Get those on the tables and be back here in two minutes. I want to see you harassed, pressured, in crisis mode. Go!”

“Errr…”

“GO!” She whipped out an inhaler and started puffing on it furiously.

I glanced at Marilyn. “Will you call Perry?”

She nodded. “Keep your head down, and serve the back tables. You won't be recognized there.”

The manager took a break from her wheezing. “If I catch you
engaging the guests in a conversation I'm docking your pay. NOW WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING HERE?”

Adrenaline pumping, I hurried over to the marquee as fast as I dared, the plates slipping back and forth across the tray. Ducking into the side entrance, I whipped each starter onto the table, trying to keep within the boundaries of professionalism so as not to draw attention from the guests.

One of them leaned back as I plonked the plate down in front of her. “She's not even turned up!” she drawled. “Gone AWOL
.
How utterly ungrateful.”

“It's Larissa and Milton I feel sorry for,” another woman said, a tiny bit of bread roll flying out of her mouth. “They've waited all this time for Perry to find a wife, and now this! And nobody knows anything about her. How are you to know she's suitable if you don't know her family?”

“I heard she's only nineteen. Fifteen years younger. And she hasn't got any family. It's a classic – trashy young trollop ensnares older man with her sleazy seduction techniques.”

“She's a gold-digger? Poor Larissa. She must be relieved the girl hasn't turned up.”

I placed the last plate in front of a middle-aged man with a bushy moustache, trying to prevent my hands from shaking. He looked at me. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” My voice cracked.

He spoke louder as I topped up his water glass, so the whole table could hear. “Any young woman prepared to take on the Uppertons deserves a medal, in my opinion. And you should be ashamed of yourselves, sat here accepting their hospitality while you spout forth poisonous speculation and distasteful gossip. Peregrine is a grown man with a sound mind. Give the fellow some credit. At least wait until you've met the girl before you damn her. And she's twenty-five, not nineteen. Not that it matters.”

I resisted the urge to plant a kiss on the top of his balding head before rushing back out.

“Pssst!” Marilyn hissed at me from the side of the catering van.

“Did you phone him?” I pulled her behind the van, out of sight.

“Yes. I said you'd run out of battery so had to use a payphone. He knows you're at work but will be here ASAP. I've sent James to go and fetch you a change of clothes.”

“James?! You've sent your husband to go rummaging through my wardrobe for a party dress!”

“Chill, Faith. He's a man of the world. I need to stay here to co-ordinate the mission.” She frowned at me, but her eyes were dancing.

“I knew it. You're enjoying this. If you'd heard what they were saying about me on table twelve…”

“Pah. Table twelve is full of the Woodbridge witches. They wouldn't have a kind word to say if you were Kate Middleton. And we're here now, might as well enjoy it.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “I've got to go. Let me know when James gets back. And when you figure out what on earth I'm going to do when he gets here, Mission Commander.”

I dove into the kitchen, grabbing another tray before heading back into the breach. On the third run, I passed another waitress. Wiping the sweat off her forehead, she clutched my arm. “One of those needs to go to the top table. Someone missed out the bloke's mum.”

“Okay, take one of these.”

“Not a chance.” She took a step back. “That woman is like a scorpion in a bad wig. She's already sworn to have me fired. No way I'm going back there.”

I felt as though a clammy hand squeezed hold of my spine. “I'll give you all my tips if you do it.”

“If you think your tips are going to reach one hundred thousand pounds, you might have a deal. Otherwise, not a chance. Better hurry up, Faith. The scorpion's waiting.”

She sprinted off back in the direction of the kitchen. Frantically looking around, there wasn't a single member of staff to be seen. I
entered the tent and offloaded all the contents of the tray but one onto a table. Taking a shaky breath, I swiped a scarf from the back of an unoccupied chair as I swept past. Ducking behind one of the disco lights, I emerged the other side with the scarf wrapped around my head. Head high, plate clattering on the tray in time to the quaking in my shoes, I glided past Larissa's table, practically throwing the starter in front of her before racing away. Glancing at my future mother-in-law out of the corner of my eye she appeared rigid, livid, puce. I was going to be severely punished for missing a party I knew nothing about. Goodness me, if she knew the truth of the matter, she'd never let Perry forget it.

A week of no sleep due to my terrifying secrets, no dinner, the evening's ridiculous antics being far from over, and the thought of spending the rest of my life as an Upperton all combined together to create a whirlwind in my stomach. I smoothly exited the tent, whipping off the scarf and draping it on a nearby bush before watering said bush with that day's lunch.