The Waitress Page 3

  “Right. First day of the week girls, first day of the week. Here we go. Salads out front, chip oil frying in back, make your boss a nice cup of coffee.”

  And Sukie and Katie would reply the same thing every single Monday morning.

  “Make it yourself, you lazy bastard,” from Sukie.

  “You’ve got hands, haven’t you?” from Katie.

  And Alec would make himself a cup of coffee, while expressing his doubts over their parentage with imagination and spirit.

  Today, though, Katie did not feel swamped by the usual onslaught of misery and failure. Today, the rudeness of the commuters, the miserable fug of the café and the dismal attempts at leadership from Alec had the opposite effect—all because of what had happened to her late on Friday afternoon.

  For she had had an epiphany. She was going to become an educational psychologist.

  It all happened during a double-shift that had gone so painfully slowly that she thought she must have actually died and gone to hell. She’d started chatting to a customer. It wasn’t the done thing—it was hard to chat freely with Alec around—but he’d been oppressing someone in the kitchen at the time and the customer had been at table 18, right by the door, so it had felt a fairly safe risk.

  The woman had had a quiet Friday at work and had popped in for a quick coffee before getting home to a house full of overtired children and an underpaid nanny. She’d started chatting to Katie about the weather and somehow Katie had found herself telling her that she was considering becoming a teacher. This thought had occurred to her only the week before, after she’d seen a reality TV show about an inner city school where a teacher had got locked in the girls’ toilets and had escaped through a window. It seemed like an adventurous job. It just so happened that the woman had been a teacher once, a while ago, before she’d started training to be an educational psychologist. Once you’d been a teacher for two years, all you needed was a masters degree and voilà! An educational psychologist. Much better for pulling at parties, the woman told Katie, and better still, you didn’t have to wait for a bell to go to the toilet.

  Katie was reborn. Not only did she already have the requisite psychology degree (from Oxford no less) but she’d always liked children. They liked her too—she had an affinity with them. By the time she had deposited the warmed croissant on a plate and taken it to the woman, Katie’s new future was set; restaurant franchises were a dim and distant memory. This woman was meant to come into the café that day, and she, Katie Simmonds, had been meant to see that TV program the week before. It was destiny.

  So here she was, starting the first week of the rest of her life. Which was why today, The Café’s usual Monday morning depression didn’t seep into her bones and numb her; instead it reminded her—as if she’d already mentally escaped this place—of what she’d left behind.

  “Table 8 wants serving.”

  Katie turned to Alec, who was still sitting by the till, the steam from his coffee cup mingling with the smoke from his hand-rolled cigarette. He nodded briefly over at table 8. He always sat in the near corner by the till because he said it gave him a good view of everything in The Café as well as the window-front. By happy coincidence, it also gave a good view of any passing policemen who might want to check his kitchen for illegal substances and any passing traffic wardens who might disagree with him that laziness was a disability.

  Katie walked over to where two men were having a morning meeting, both pretending that their self-made careers were going excellently and that they were content to be in a café rather than a pub.

  “Two English breakfasts and two coffees,” said one man, returning the menu to Katie without looking at her.

  “One decaffeinated,” added the other, briefly examining her chest.

  Katie walked away, muttering, “I’m going to be an educational psychologist, I’m going to be an educational psychologist.”

  Keith the “chef” had just arrived, a man not driven by demons as much as devoured by them. He had so many phobias it was a wonder he made it from his flat down the street into the café. He was telling Sukie about his weekend. Katie could tell this, because she kept hearing Sukie’s regular murmurs of “Oh dear.”

  “Two fried breakfasts,” interrupted Katie.

  Keith turned to her. “Morning Katie,” he said. “I was just telling Sukie my neighbors are trying to drive me out of my flat.”

  “Oh dear,” murmured Katie.

  Sukie and Katie made brief eye contact before Katie went to make the coffees and give them to the men at table 8.

  “Are you sure that’s decaffeinated?” asked one, examining her chest again.

  “Yes.” Katie smiled at his bald patch.

  He smelt it warily.

  “I can smell coffee.”

  “Well,” said Katie gravely, crossing her arms so he couldn’t give it back to her. “That’s because it’s so good.” She turned away and walked back to the kitchen, muttering, “Believe me, if I wanted to put something in your drink, it wouldn’t be coffee.” Then she repeated under her breath, “I know the names of everyone in the Cabinet, I know the names of everyone in the Cabinet.”

  As she walked to the kitchen, Matt appeared. He was seventeen and working as a part-time dishwasher while studying for his A-Levels.

  “Matt!” greeted Katie.

  Matt grunted.

  “Nice to see you too,” she answered.

  He grunted again and followed her in.

  “I’ve got something that will cheer you up,” said Katie. She went to her bag and pulled out an A-4 sized piece of paper. Because of Sandy’s software package, there were four pictures from Saturday’s party, which she’d e-mailed the day before. It had only taken her five attempts and two hours. There was a photo of Jon, Sukie and Katie, all a little worse for drink, one of an unnamed couple in a clinch (the man in an almost luminous green shirt), one of Hugh and Katie chatting and one of Katie in deep conversation with an unknown man.

  “Ta-da!” trumpeted Katie. “My new date.”

  Keith, Sukie and Matt all approached and Sukie took the piece of paper out of Katie’s hand. They all studied Dan and made approving noises. Then Sukie performed the now cherished ritual of adding the latest photos to the dairy fridge. Both fridges were covered with beaming glossy faces of various members of staff in poses with friends, partners, lovers, exes, but the meat fridge door was entirely filled with photos of Katie with men. It was titled “The Ones Who Got Away.”

  Sukie coughed loudly.

  “May I have everyone’s attention please? I hereby call this relationship…” she stared at the photo, as if for inspiration, “Doomed.” She Blu-Tacked it with all the other staff photos. It had become a bit of a standing joke just how fussy Katie was with her men. In fact, Sukie had hardly been surprised to discover that last weekend’s party had been so full of Katie’s exes. She’d been highly amused to see that Katie hadn’t even recognized some of them because she’d extricated herself from the relationships so quickly.

  “I have a feeling this one will last,” insisted Katie.

  “Really?” said Sukie. “And I have a feeling Matt will lose his virginity before next year.”

  “Piss off,” said Matt.

  “Don’t talk to me about sex,” began Keith.

  “OK,” chorused Katie and Sukie.

  “Oh go on,” said Matt.

  Alas, just then Alec came in and the chef’s sexual anecdotes had to be left for another occasion.

  Chapter 3

  EVEN THOUGH KATIE NOW KNEW SHE WANTED TO BE AN EDUCATIONAL psychologist, she was glad that today she had a job that didn’t need any concentration. She’d have found it hard to concentrate, what with her mind re-playing every nuance of her conversation with Dan and planning and re-planning what she should wear for her date with him.

  Every time the café door had opened to the bizarrely welcoming sound of a strangled cat, she’d had a very silly daydream that did no one any good at all. Briefly, the d
aydream was that she would turn round to find, standing there in the doorway, surrounded by a halo of light and accompanied by a brass fanfare and choral blast, Dan. Their eyes would meet, their hearts would explode, etc etc etc. Well, it kept a girl going.

  Every time she remembered certain key points about Dan, such as the way his cheek crinkled when he smiled, the way his legs stretched all the way up to his bottom and the undeniable look of keenness in his eyes, she felt invulnerable. He was on her mind so much that had he suddenly appeared—wham! out of nowhere—it would have felt more like witchcraft than coincidence.

  After their shift was over, Sukie and Katie went home to live their lives of wonder, fulfil their dreams and see what was on TV. They ambled up Asherman’s Hill together.

  “So when’s the date then?” asked Sukie.

  Katie closed her eyes in little girl glee.

  “Sunday night.”

  “Interesting,” considered Sukie, nodding slowly. “A Sunday. OK. Not too obvious, but still keen.” Katie took in this new opinion like an expert taster swilling a new wine round her tongue. “I once got asked out on a Wednesday morning,” continued Sukie. “Not a good sign.”

  “What happened?”

  “I ended up helping on his dad’s market stall.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Fourteen. It was the summer holidays.”

  “I think that’s sweet,” smiled Katie. “A way of getting to know you.”

  “Oh, he wasn’t there,” said Sukie. “It was just me and his dad. He was off skateboarding with his mates.”

  Katie nodded. “Actually,” she said eventually, “Dan suggested Saturday, but I’m away at my folks this weekend so I’ll come home early for the date. It was that or wait till the following weekend because I’m too knackered mid-week.”

  “That’s completely different,” said Sukie. “He’s desperate.”

  “Excellent. What shall I wear?”

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s after what’s underneath.”

  “But how do I make what’s underneath as alluring as possible?”

  “Turn up.”

  They parted at the top of the road.

  “What you up to this afternoon?” asked Sukie, putting on her old, brightly colored, woolly gloves.

  “Re-writing my CV,” replied Katie, blowing into her hands. “I’m hoping I can get Jon to help me. Have you got any auditions today?”

  “Nope. Going to see my agent.”

  “Oh good, why?”

  “Because I’m not depressed enough already.”

  They said their farewells and parted company.

  Twenty minutes later, Katie opened her flat door, picked up all the post, twitched her nose like Mole smelling his home, and knew from all the signs that either Jon’s writing was going well today, or he was still sleeping off last night’s bar shift. If it was the former, she was in with a chance of getting first-class help with her latest CV.

  She knocked on his door and at the murmured greeting, opened it into a rank writing den. Jon was sitting at his laptop, tapping away, wearing a dressing gown that could have sat up and probably written its own novel by itself.

  “Want a coffee?” she asked, breathing through her mouth.

  Jon blinked his intense black eyes up at her through his glasses.

  “Hello,” he said. “Left work early?”

  “No, Jon. It’s three o’clock. Children are leaving school. The sun is nearly going down. Please wash that dressing gown.”

  “I’d love a coffee thanks.”

  He stretched up and gave a big yawn, and Katie backed her head out of the room.

  “I won’t make you one unless you shower first,” she said. “I’ll make you some white toast and chocolate spread too.”

  “OK, you win,” grinned Jon. “I was just about to finish for today anyway. It’s going to be a brilliant book, even though I say so myself.”

  “Excellent!” Katie felt a warm glow wash over her. All was well, Jon’s book was brilliant, she was going to be an educational psychologist and Dan was in the world.

  “Are you doing a shift at the bar tonight?” she asked.

  Jon looked at his clock. “Yeah, but much later. I’ve got till twelve.”

  “Fancy helping me with my CV?”

  Jon left a beat. “What do you want to be this time?”

  “Educational psychologist.”

  She could see his mind beginning to whirr.

  “Why not?” he grinned. “I’m feeling creative.”

  Meanwhile Sukie’s bus journey was taking even longer than she’d expected. At each stop there was another old person who took up precious Countdown time heaving themselves and their wheelie shoppers on. The driver was one of those types who felt he’d made his contribution to world peace having waited for them. She wouldn’t have minded if she was sure the little trip was going to be worthwhile, but deep down, she knew this agonizingly slow journey was a self-deceptive ploy to make her feel she was doing something positive in the tidal wave of negativity that was her career.

  She was a living, breathing cliché: the out-of-work actress who worked as a waitress. How did she get here? Most people at least went to LA for this humiliation, but she hadn’t even managed that. She sighed and rubbed the condensation on the window with her gloved hand. She leaned her forehead against the cold glass and watched busy shoppers bent in the cold until her eyes shut.

  It had seemed, at one point, as if she was going to be one of the lucky ones. She had gone straight into a fringe production out of drama college. It wasn’t West End, but it was paid work. She got her Equity card with that first job and her agent was always ringing her with auditions. Before long, she was a regular on the fringe circuit. Then things went quiet. To tide her over she got a waitressing job. The next year, she started getting things in mainstream theaters. She started becoming a regular. But now she felt she couldn’t return to the fringe, so, when she had “resting” periods, she worked as a waitress again—reliable money, good tips and she wasn’t risking ruining her climb up the ladder by stepping down a rung or two. The third year though, things weren’t quite as regular. It was a bad year for actresses: a couple of theaters closed down and, by coincidence, others took on plays that had few or even no parts for women.

  She knew it was bad when she could no longer watch television without wanting to throw things at it when the acting was bad. That was when she and her agent decided they had to change tack. They would re-invent her. She would become a telly actress instead of a theater actress. Then, once she had made her name, she could return to her first love as a safe-bet for strapped theaters. However, it didn’t seem to be working and sometimes she couldn’t risk watching East-Enders or she might smash her telly for good.

  The bus journey finally approached its end. She jumped up and rang the bell.

  She felt calmer and more positive almost as soon as she turned the corner of her agent’s street. The big red door beckoned to her like a beacon of hope. She knew she could have phoned, but seeing Greta face-to-face was always so much better. She needed to know that for the short moment Greta was talking to her, she was actually thinking about her too.

  After being buzzed in and asked to wait in Reception, she was eventually summoned into the biggest office in the place.

  “Sukie!” greeted Greta, arms outstretched.

  “Greta!” Sukie practically ran to her arms.

  Greta came out from behind her desk, resplendent in a vermilion woollen two-piece with matching hair and lipstick, and clasped Sukie to her bosom like a long-lost child. Sukie fought the tears.

  “How’s my Vivien Leigh?” soothed Greta.

  “Fine,” gasped Sukie.

  Greta released her, sat back down behind her desk and intercom’d her receptionist. “Two coffees, my love, strong and sweet.” She winked at Sukie, stood up, opened a sash window behind her—“Let’s let the room breathe”—and sat back down behind her desk, shifting piles of Spotlights, CV
s and scripts out of the way, so that she could still be seen.

  Sukie sat upright on the edge of the deep leather couch framing the office.

  “I was just passing and wondered if there was anything I should know about, or…”

  Greta’s phone went. She thrust her hand up in the air, ceasing all talk, and picked up.

  “Greta.”

  A pause.

  “Darling!”

  Sukie stared, transfixed. As snippets of Greta’s conversation wafted over, (“I have just the boy…,” “don’t be put off by his accent…,” “marvellous as Romeo at Guildford…”), she ruminated on what it would be like to be Greta’s only client. Sometimes she felt like one of hundreds of infants in an orphanage where Greta had come searching for the perfect child. Which may have explained why she often had the unnerving compulsion to curl up on Greta’s lap. While Greta made all the right noises into the phone, her receptionist brought coffee and biscuits. Sukie ignored the biscuits—she was a good-looking actress, and there weren’t many parts for good-looking actresses turning to fat. She started the hot coffee without enthusiasm. After serving fresh ground coffee with different forms of heated milk all day, it always irked her to be given instant with cold milk.

  Just as she finished it, Greta put down the phone.

  “National’s new assistant,” she explained. “They’re doing a new Eldridge.”

  Sukie leaned forward eagerly with the expression of a stray cat in the rain.

  Greta gave her a smile so sympathetic it was almost another hug. “Darling,” she murmured, “it’s not for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re looking for a thirty-year-old black male. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

  Sukie tried to smile.

  “Now now, do I detect a soupçon of dejection in that lovely, Greta Garbo face?”

  “It’s been two months,” said Sukie in a small voice. “Christmas is coming.”

  “I know, sweetest heart, I know.”