The Waitress (20 page)

‘What do you think, Katie?’ she heard suddenly. She turned to Paul.

‘What do I think?’ she responded.

‘Yes, you know the market more than any of us. None of us know the punters like you.’

She blinked. Dr Hook was in love with a beautiful woman.

‘I think you’ve got to hold your ground,’ she said. She felt Dan watching her.

‘So you think fricassee chicken with lavender polenta is a good idea or a bad idea?’ frowned Paul.

‘You know what I think?’ she said. ‘I think we need to explain more.’

‘Explain more?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Paul.

‘Could you . . . explain more?’ Dan asked her, smiling.

She gave him a look. ‘All right. What does fricassee actually mean?’ she asked.

The men looked at her. Nik laughed.

‘Some of our customers think latte means Coffee for Homosexuals,’ she explained. ‘And now you want them to eat fricassee chicken and lavender polenta.’

‘Do ’em good,’ said Nik. ‘Narrow-minded oiks.’

‘They’ll think it’s the name of a ship,’ pointed out Katie.

Dan snorted.

‘And anyway,’ she added, ‘I thought we wanted to make money out of them, not educate them.’

‘Ooh,’ said Paul. ‘Good point.’ He made a note.

‘Oh for . . .’ said Nik. ‘
Everyone
knows what fricassee means.’

‘Oh good,’ said Katie. ‘What then?’

‘Well, it’s the cooking method isn’t it? It’s how it’s been cooked.’

‘And how has it been cooked?’

‘It’s been
fricasasseed
.’

‘Oh, I think there’s been some misunderstanding,’ said Katie, bristling. ‘I’m not deaf. I just think we need to explain ourselves more.’

Nik suddenly brightened. ‘You don’t know what it means, do you?’ he asked, pointing an accusing finger at her.

She sighed. ‘Yes, I do,’ she said. ‘It means stewed in a thick white sauce.’

‘There!’ exclaimed Nik, looking at Dan and Paul. ‘Told you! Everyone knows!’

‘I didn’t,’ said Dan.

‘Neither did I,’ said Paul.

‘Yeah, but you don’t have to!’ he cried. ‘You’re not the experts.’

They all looked at him and he realised his mistake. He turned to Katie. ‘All right then, Miss Clever Clogs. You give us some of your ideas.’ He crossed his arms and sat back.

‘Yes, go on Katie,’ said Paul. ‘I’d love to hear your ideas.’

How could she tell them that she didn’t want to give them her ideas because she was going to leave?

‘Or don’t you have any?’ asked Nik.

‘OK then,’ she said. ‘Here goes.’ She launched into her ideas. All-day-breakfast – full English and Continental, plus a fat-free version (grill instead of deep-fat fry) which would be very popular with those who don’t want to put on weight but can’t be doing with bio-yogurt and muesli. They’d need an extra hob in the kitchen to keep the oil ready all day, but she knew where you could buy individual ones. Fat-free version of everything to start off with to see if there’s a market for it. And yes, that included fat-free chocolate cake. That would become their unique selling point, or USP. All food available all times of day, there was nothing more annoying than deciding what you wanted to eat, only to discover that you were half an hour later than the cut-off time. Live music Sunday mornings, and, on the walls, work by local artists, on sale. Kiddies corner with smaller tables and chairs, games, paper and crayons. Once a week storytime for parents and babies.

‘Wait a minute!’ interrupted Nik. ‘First of all I’m not cooking all bloody day. Second of all is this a crèche or a restaurant. Third –’

‘I hadn’t finished,’ said Katie.

Nik swore under his breath.

‘And then finally,’ she said, ‘I thought it might be an idea to put a suggestion box on the counter. Ask the punters what they’d like to see. Obviously we don’t go for
everything
, but if there’s a clear majority vote for a need we’re not providing –’

‘Oh! That reminds me!’ cried Nik suddenly. ‘I forgot this one! You’ll love this.’

‘Go on,’ grinned Paul.

‘And then we’ll discuss Katie’s ideas,’ said Dan. Paul nodded.

‘Right,’ said Nik. ‘Well, you know the Naked Chef?’

They nodded. He leant forward, staring at Dan then Paul then back at Dan.

‘Well, we
really
give them the Naked Chef.’ He grinned wider and wider. ‘Geddit? We give them The . . . Naked . . . Chef.’

‘You’re not suggesting –’

‘I bloody am!’ laughed Nik. ‘I’ve got a
fantastic
body. The chicks’ll love it.’

‘Hmm,’ said Dan. ‘Interesting.’

‘Wouldn’t it be dangerous?’ asked Paul. ‘I mean with all the knives.’

‘And against health and safety?’ asked Katie. ‘You have to keep washing your hands, God knows what you’d have to do with your . . . you know.’

‘What about chip fat?’ asked Dan.

Nik winked. ‘I’d wear a sock, wouldn’t I?’

They thought about this. Katie glanced up quickly at Dan. She knew that look from this morning. He was trying not to laugh. He was doing OK until he glanced at her.

Nik turned to Katie. ‘Well it’s better than her idea of asking the bloody customers. They don’t know anything about food.’

‘It was only a suggestion,’ said Katie quietly.

‘Yeah, well. So was me being the naked chef.’

‘Well, thanks for that Nik,’ said Dan. ‘We’ll discuss it at our next meeting.’

‘Right,’ said Nik, springing up. ‘I’m gonna look at my kitchens.’ As he walked away, Dan turned to Katie. ‘I don’t think it’s a great idea to be quite so rude to the chef.’

‘Sorry,’ she said innocently, ‘but I had no idea he had some of his brain missing.’

‘He’s an amazing chef,’ said Paul defensively.

‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’ asked Katie.

‘Go on.’

‘Have you ever eaten his food?’

‘Yes of course,’ said Dan. ‘We’re not quite as green as you think.’

‘And it was exactly the kind of food you wanted here?’

Paul and Dan looked at each other. ‘We assumed so.’

‘He was working in Hampstead wasn’t he? In a gastro pub?’

They nodded.

‘With all due respect,’ she started, ‘that’s a very different clientele from a Porter’s Green café.’

‘Yes, but that’s exactly our point,’ said Paul. ‘We’re up and coming. We’re going to lead the way. And we’re a Café/Bar/Restaurant now.’

‘Right,’ nodded Katie. ‘And short of providing a free bus to bring Hampstead village diners here you’re going to have to start with what people
here
know and love.’

‘Mm,’ said Paul. ‘All right, we’ll all have a rethink of the menu.’

Nik walked back into the café. ‘Nice kitchen,’ he said. ‘Only one flaw.’

‘Most kitchens only have one floor,’ said Dan.

‘Except Hampstead kitchens,’ said Katie. ‘They have two. Don’t you know anything?’

‘What the fuck are you two talking about?’ asked Nik.

‘What’s the flaw?’ asked Paul.

‘Well,’ said Nik, ‘the diners can’t see me cooking. There’s a wall in between me and my people.’

‘Why is that a problem?’ asked Dan.

‘And not a plus point?’ added Katie.

‘Well, what’s the point of me being naked,’ said Nik slowly, ‘if there’s a great big fucking wall in-between me and them?’

There was a pause as they all stared at their new chef. Katie turned to her new bosses.

‘Dan? Paul?’ she asked. ‘What
is
the point of him being naked if there’s a great big fucking wall in between him and them?’

She didn’t need to ask again. Nik left the room, and, once he’d recovered himself, Dan followed him to make peace.

13

Richard Miller, hotshot literary agent, sat back and looked across his shiny new desk in his shiny new office, at the shiny new potential publishing sensation: a client who could confirm his reputation in the literary world, who was so near his grasp he could feel his fingertips tingling. Jon stared back across the vast desk at him, taking deep breaths from his diaphragm and concentrating on not dribbling. He swallowed as if he had meant to.

‘Gosh, sorry,’ said Richard Miller politely. ‘I never asked, would you like some water?’

‘Thanks.’

‘No problem.’

While Richard Miller popped out of his office, Jon wiped his brow, loosened his tie and continued his deep breathing.

It was going well, he thought. Surely it was a good thing that Richard Miller was the same age, same height and same colouring as him and pretty much came from the same background. Surely it had been a good thing that Richard Miller had identified so strongly with his anti-hero Henry Logan (‘we both love Häagen Dazs!’) and that
they’d
both loved
Pulp Fiction
but hated
Fight Club
?

‘So,’ smiled Richard Miller, returning and putting a plastic cup of cold water on his desk near Jon, ‘are you seeing any other agents at the moment?’

‘Well,’ hesitated Jon. ‘Obviously I have to keep my options open . . . I am seeing someone else this afternoon, but . . .’

‘Of course,’ smiled Richard, sitting back down behind his desk. ‘Very wise. Well,’ he lifted his hands in a despairing conclusion, ‘all I can say is . . .’

Richard paused and Jon held his breath.

‘. . . that I . . .’ he blinked slowly, ‘
love
your voice, and, more importantly, I think there’s a market for your voice.’

Richard held his gaze.

‘Obviously, I can’t make any official deals unless there is a finished manuscript,’ he continued, ‘but as soon as there is one, I would very much like to hear from you. My plan of action would be to auction you. In fact, I already know who I think would be interested, and I know we’d be talking big bucks.’

Jon stared at him.

‘And I mean . . .
big
bucks,’ Richard gave a laugh.

Jon wanted to drink the cold water very badly, but knew his shaking hand would give him away. Likewise, he wanted to say something polite and grateful, but knew his shaking voice would give him away. He felt keenly that the moment required him at least to smile, but he seemed to have lost control of his lips and he knew that the slightest tremor would give him away.

He gave a slow, repetitive nod.

Richard Miller scratched his head. God he was cool,
this
one. Very cool. He could see him now on
Shooting Stars
, or in fact, any of the post-modern quiz shows that offered kudos and pay without the client having to do anything except pretend to be in on the joke.

‘And I can already see the dust jacket photo – that’s always a good sign,’ winked Richard.

Jon laughed abruptly and then stopped more abruptly.

Whoa, thought Richard. Almost broke the ice there.

‘So,’ he said, ‘when do you think you could finish this book for me?’

‘For you?’ asked Jon, amazed.

‘Sorry, I mean, obviously you haven’t committed yourself.’ Big smile. ‘A turn of phrase.’ Shit.

‘Well,’ Jon cleared his throat. ‘I’m about two-thirds of the way through, so . . .’

Richard looked expectantly at him, puppy dog eyes. ‘A month?’ he tried.

Jon licked his lips, braved a quick grin and nodded.

‘I’m still very keen to receive it,’ Richard said with a cautious warmth, ‘if you’re still keen to send it to me.’ He stood up and shook Jon’s hand. ‘It’s been a real pleasure to meet you.’

Two hours later, Jon found himself in a penthouse flat in Soho, ‘interviewing’ Dick Higgins. It was much easier than interviewing Richard Miller because Dick Higgins didn’t expect him to speak.

‘I was having lunch with Graham Highson yesterday,’ said Dick. ‘Best editor in the country. I mentioned I was seeing you today. Talked about your character, Harry Logan –’

‘Henry Logan,’ said Jon.

Dick Higgins stared at him with large bulbous eyes. Jon almost expected him to call for a nurse.

‘Pardon?’

‘My anti-hero. He’s Henry, not Harry.’

Dick Higgins turned briefly to the manuscript on his table. ‘Yes, well, we can discuss that. Anyway, where was I?’

‘Graham Highson.’

‘Ah yes! Graham.’ He sighed. ‘Gray. I mentioned your style, the genre, etc etc. He was very interested. Very interested indeed. Of course he also publishes Xavier McDonald, who’s one of mine too.’ Dick Higgins sat forward. ‘Xavier’s having troubles at the moment, shocking stuff with his ex-wife and children. She wants money and he simply hasn’t got it. Going to turn legal any minute. All blocking him terribly as you’d expect. We have morning chats trying to unblock him. He’s a
trouper
.’ He tapped his nose with his finger and sat back again. ‘You see, as an agent, I’m 100 per cent involved in your life, twenty-four seven. You’ll have a friend as well as an agent. Been invited to three weddings, five barmitzvahs and six christenings. All part of the job.’ Dick paused.

Then the phone went and twenty-five minutes later, Jon had heard a superb example of how involved Dick Higgins would be in his life.

Dick put the phone down and looked triumphantly at Jon.

‘Jeffrey Daniels,’ he explained, shaking his head and smiling to himself. ‘Six-figure deal, contracts ready to sign and he wants to talk golf. I ask you.’ He shook his head
some
more and gave a fond tut to illustrate the madness of writers and the fund of stories he could tell if only he had the time.

‘So,’ he concluded eventually, through cigar smoke. ‘I can give you till five this evening.’

‘What? To finish the book?’

Dick roared with laughter. ‘No, no.’ He laughed again and Jon envisaged him telling this hilarious anecdote in an after-dinner speech. ‘To decide.’

‘Decide what?’

‘Who you’re gonna go with!’

Jon blinked. ‘You mean –’

‘This business is all about decisions, Jonathan.’

‘Jon.’

‘Hmm,’ he murmured, stroking his chin. He ripped off a piece of paper from a pad and picked up a fountain pen. He wrote down Jonathan and Jon several times. Then he looked up and gave Jon a brief working smile. ‘You see, Jonathan has more gravitas, but Jon fits better on one line of the cover.’ He gave a little shrug. ‘We can discuss that later.’ He snapped his fingers suddenly. ‘No, I need to know
now
, so I can get on the phone to the most important editor in the country
now
–’ he snapped his fingers again, ‘so he can get on the phone to the most important director in the country
now
.’ Another finger snap. ‘So he can get on the phone to the most important actor in the country now. Who do you see as Harry?’