The Waitress (25 page)

He found an uneasy respect for her, she liked him for this and the two gradually formed a grudging alliance.

Unlike all the others, Matt did not like change. Like most teenagers he talked rebellion but acted like an old reactionary. For the first week he moaned about everything. By the second week he had forgotten how it used to be and was fine. One thing he definitely preferred was the change in clientele.

The day now looked like this: the usual commuters still came in every day, but were now much more eager to take a biscotti with their daily fix or even a home-made crostini that Nik had rustled up first thing – hot bacon and Emmental or melted cheddar and roasted peppers. Thanks to a brainstorming between Katie and Dan one morning, trying to get inside the heads of their customers, they decided that the key thing about commuters was that although they moaned about it, they actually thrived on routine. Katie should know – she needed her visit to the greengrocer’s and newsagent’s before work, just as they needed their coffee. So they sat Nik down and asked him to devise some portable, easy-to-eat mini-breakfasts to go with their coffee. And faster than you could say ‘One Skinny Latte to go’ the plan had worked. Once those commuters had taken the first leap of faith by giving Katie a £2-coin for a morning snack and coffee instead of a £1-coin for just coffee, that was it. They were hooked into a new routine. They began to crave their crostinis as much as their Americano almost as soon as they woke. Nik started making individual ones for individual regulars and within days, complaints were heard if he hadn’t made them their favourite – a
favourite
they hadn’t even known existed before.

After the commuters faded away, the mums came in for elevenses, beside themselves with an almost hysterical joy that their toddlers didn’t mind making new friends while their mums actually spent time doing exactly what they wanted to do, instead of the other way round. Patsy proved to be very much at home in the mini-crèche and a firm favourite with all the littl’uns. Some would even cry if she couldn’t play with them, which suited everyone, because Sukie and Katie were often close to tears for the same reason.

To everyone’s surprise, a whole new range of customers loved sitting at the counter, thanks to Dan’s inspired idea of providing internet access on the two computers – at a cheaper rate than at the run-down internet café down the road. People would lose themselves in the internet world while downing three lattes and a brioche.

The lunch-time clientele was almost completely new. Trendy home-workers came out of the woodwork like ants to take their lunch at Crichton Brown’s, and then stayed on with their laptops to finish their afternoon’s work surrounded by gentle background music and staff who let them stay as long as they liked. Writers, actors and theatrical agents were beginning to lunch in here – and the old regulars still came: all the staff from the local job centre, banks and offices traipsed in during the hour around nine a.m., with lists of orders for coffee and snacks, and then for another hour around four p.m. when the afternoon sag took hold and they needed a fix to see them through the rest of the day or just wanted to get some fresh air.

One clientele addition in particular had caused a change in Matt’s life that he liked very much. For he had fallen in love.

She had started coming in for lunch regularly and, boy, was she a sight for bored eyes. She must have been about his age – maybe a bit older – and she put the A-gang girls his mates now hung around with to shame. Her hair was like spun silk (not that he’d ever seen spun silk, but it was exactly what he imagined it would look like), her complexion soft as morning dew (he’d never seen dew, in the morning or not, but it was exactly what he imagined it looked like), and her bare midriff was like that of a children’s TV presenter, maybe even an American one (and he’d seen plenty of those).

She was a glossy fox in a world of battered mongrels and, more importantly, she was now here every day – so regularly in fact that Matt’s body had started to react on the dot of one o’clock. She came in at ten past one every day with a friend and had lunch till ten to two. Matt surmised that she had a local summer job and this was her lunch-hour. He also surmised that it wasn’t a fun summer job. The biggest give-away was the friend she brought in with her. Instead of being the obligatory carbon copy, she couldn’t have been more different if the two of them had decided to make some sort of wacky social statement. Her hair, unlike that of the glossy fox, was like wire wool from a black sheep. Her complexion was nondescript and her midriff was well hidden, which could only mean that she must be hideously scarred or something. All this told Matt, the expert on the social habits of teenage girls, that both of them had very little choice when it came to lunch
companions
in the temporary environment in which they now found themselves. Neither would have chosen the other – the glossy fox because the wiry sheep ruined her image and the wiry sheep because the glossy fox made her invisible to the male human eye.

For the first half of the first week, he was content to eye his new obsession from the safety of the hatch in the kitchen, but by the Thursday he was growing impatient. A week was a long time in teenage love. What if her holiday job was only for a fortnight? He started to find excuses to come out and collect dishes from the tables, chat to Katie and Sukie, and generally loiter. To his amazement, he often found, when his eyes sought out the girl, that her eyes were fixed on him – and not shiftily either: confidently, squarely, like a real woman. Each day he ventured further forward into the café and each day he got further proof that it was not his imagination – this girl knew he existed: on the Friday of the first week they cast a glance at each other at the same time; Monday of the second week, it was most definitely more than a glance, it was a look; Tuesday, she was smiling at the same time as looking at him; on Wednesday, it was a look and a very definite smile of recognition, and on Thursday, a lingering smile. And Friday, oh sweet Friday, it was the same smile and look, again and again, only these looks lingered into an immense ocean of time – probably about five whole seconds – and all the while she was wearing the skimpiest top he’d ever seen. It was practically a bikini. It had taken every ounce of his self-composure not to send the crockery flying.

After lunch on the second Friday, while he was finishing
off
the cutlery wash, exhausted from an entire forty minutes of long looks lingering into immense oceans of time, he was, naturally, feeling a bit down. What if she wasn’t going to come in next week? What if the bikini top and long looks had been a coded message – come and get it now or not at all? And he, like the great pillock he was, had completely failed to respond. That was it. The greatest opportunity of his life – let’s face it, the only opportunity of his life – and he’d let her walk out, unapproached and unmolested.

Something must be done. If only she’d come in again next week.

Meanwhile things were changing elsewhere too. Back at home, Jon had signed on with Richard Miller and had finished his book. His dream had come true. Then he was auctioned and asked by Miller to come up with a synopsis for book number two and some ideas for future works. His dream was over. To his surprise he discovered that he had never thought beyond being published and guesting on
Parky
. Now he had to think of another idea and turn it into another completely new book. It dawned on him that it had taken him twenty years to come up with the first one and he’d put all his best lines and profundities in that. He coped with this by drinking and being morose.

Sukie had more auditions and was being asked to more and more final auditions. Perhaps Greta had been right after all. She was now adopting the persona before entering the audition and was initially astounded at the difference it made to how the panel responded to her. It was like dying your hair blonde and visiting a male prison.
Everyone
gave her the benefit of the doubt. Greta was right. The audition was just another extension of the job – it had suddenly clicked. She could tell a prime job was going to land in her lap any time soon.

Katie was feeling more positive too. She loved her job. She didn’t mind that working with Nik was like working with a temperamental bear with a sore head. Every morning she told herself that today she would prevent one of his mood swings by gentle sensitivity. Every day she failed. And every day it didn’t matter because his food was a dream. She didn’t mind that Patsy was driving her into an early grave. Every morning she told herself she would not lose her temper with Patsy. Every day she did. And every day it made no difference because Patsy didn’t notice, remember, or care. Katie didn’t even mind that sometimes Sukie gave her a look which made her feel more management than friend. (Yes she did, but she’d have to cope. Life was like that. That’s what growing up was all about.) She didn’t mind that sometimes her job felt like a glorified waitress, sometimes like a mother hen and sometimes like a slave, rather than a manager. (Well, yes she did, but she could see that Dan had no time or energy to deal with that right now. It was something she’d bring up at an assessment. Meanwhile, she’d enjoy it when it felt exactly like a manager, which did happen every now and then.) She didn’t mind that sometimes when Dan was at his most frazzled, he lost his temper with her because he knew he could. She didn’t mind that he hadn’t finished with Geraldine yet. (Yes she did, but she knew it wouldn’t last.) She didn’t mind that she didn’t have a boyfriend to prove she was over him. (Yes she did, but what could she do?)

She didn’t mind that she had to get up an hour earlier and leave work an hour later. She didn’t mind that she was so knackered at the end of the day she could barely flick over from one soap to another. She didn’t mind that she hadn’t visited her parents in a while because she wanted to supervise the weekend shifts. She didn’t mind any of it because on her CV it said Manager of Crichton Brown’s and that was something to be proud of.

Slowly, after a month on choppy waters, she began to feel on terra firma again. It was a May morning and the air felt lighter than it had done for months as she walked down Asherman’s Hill. She could feel summer beckon: cool dresses, flip-flops, birds, the sun on her skin, pink-skyed evenings, open windows, barbecues, strawberries, shimmery lipgloss and espadrilles. Katie’s heart seemed to expand with anticipation. She popped into the grocer’s to pick up a banana (healthy option), and then the newsagent’s for a chocolate bar (happy option). And then she entered Crichton Brown’s. She called out to Nik, who was always first in. No answer. She wandered into the kitchen. No one there. She frowned. That was odd. He was usually chopping vegetables and ranting by now. Hmm, she thought. She put down her bag, then realised she didn’t know Nik’s phone number. She picked up the pen she’d fixed to the wall by the pad of paper under the phone.
Make contact list
she wrote. She’d collect everyone’s phone number today and put them up on the fridge and in her mobile phone. She reprimanded herself for not having done it sooner, but for now, she’d just have to get cooking until he got in.

Nik had still not arrived by the time Sukie came. Katie
was
starting to feel edgy and decidedly understaffed. Matt wasn’t in all day because of a coursework deadline. As she cooked, Sukie started making the commuter coffees and was as fast a draw as the best of them, but Katie could see the queue lengthening. There were just too many for her. However, she decided it was worth the risk of making them wait a few minutes longer, rather than tell them their new breakfast fix was off today.

‘What are you doing in there?’ shouted one of her regulars, as she brought the results of her efforts from the kitchen.

‘Highland fling,’ she shouted back. ‘What does it look like?’

He smiled and looked at Sukie. ‘Always a pleasure.’

By the time Dan arrived, Katie was feeling concerned. Tetchy even. Where was Nik? What if he never came back? What was his contract? How were they going to cope today?

‘Hello, where’s Nik?’ asked Dan.

‘How should I know?’ she answered. ‘You’re the boss. I don’t even know his phone number.’

Dan assessed the situation quickly using his newly honed powers of management know-how.

‘You’re angry,’ he said, taking off his jacket. ‘We’ll put Patsy with Sukie on coffee duty this morning.’

Katie snorted.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’ll go on coffee duty with Sukie.’

‘I didn’t know you could make coffee.’

‘I can’t,’ he said, putting an apron on, ‘but at least I don’t do it in heels, chewing gum.’

Left alone Katie raised an eyebrow. So he
had
noticed Patsy was less than a pretty face.

Dan reappeared.

‘That was management speak,’ he said. ‘You tell anyone I said that and . . .’

‘I won’t.’

‘Good. Thanks.’

Blimey, thought Katie, realising that meant she couldn’t tell Sukie. This management business was tough.

Nik phoned at nine. He had food poisoning and had been sick all night. He gave such lurid details over the phone and complained so bitterly about how the café would go to rack and ruin without him that Katie believed him. She went to tell Dan, who was making someone an espresso and sandwich. His little white starched apron suited him. She waited till he’d finished, then guided him back into the kitchen, so as not to let the customers know that their chef had food poisoning.

‘You’re kidding,’ he said, ashen faced.

‘I’m not.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘Yes.’

He tried some lateral thinking.

‘Bollocks,’ he concluded.

‘Yes,’ said Katie. There was no faulting him.

‘So,’ she said. ‘What’s Plan B?’

He stared at her. ‘I don’t have a Plan B. I hadn’t worked out Plan A yet.’

‘Look,’ she said, ‘just tell the customers there’s a limited menu and I’ll carry on cooking.’

‘I’ve got a lasagne I can make,’ he said.

‘And I’ve got a chicken breast,’ she said.

‘Oh I wouldn’t say that.’