The Waitress Page 6

  Katie lifted her head. “No thanks.”

  “And she meets all these wonderful men through it. Men who share her interest in antiques.”

  Deanna cupped the teapot with one hand and stretched across to flick the kettle on with the other.

  “You can’t tell me,” she said, a hint of firmness in her voice, “you just can’t—that you’d rather train for four more years, or wait tables in a crummy little café than get a nice job in publishing.”

  Katie scrunched her eyes shut.

  “I simply refuse to believe it,” continued Deanna. “Waitressing is what you were doing at sixteen.”

  “You were proud of me then.” Katie sat up.

  “Of course. It showed initiative then. You were going to become the next Conran restaurateur.”

  “Yes well,” said Katie. “We all have silly dreams.”

  “Exactly,” said Deanna.

  “How are they all at Ye Olde Tea Shoppe?” asked Katie.

  “Fine. They always ask after you. Mrs. Blatchett sends her love.”

  “Is she still alive?”

  Her mother closed her eyes in answer.

  “It’s a perfectly sensible question,” Katie told Bea, who nodded agreement.

  “Yes,” sighed Deanna, slowly opening her eyes. “She’s still alive.”

  “Although it’s hard to tell from the service,” muttered Bea.

  “The service isn’t quite as fast as it used to be,” conceded Deanna, “but she’s still got all her marbles.”

  “Just make sure you never go there hungry,” said Bea.

  “Mum,” started Katie. “I don’t wait tables instead of working in publishing. I wait tables until I know what I want to do.”

  “But when will you find out? You’re twenty-four—”

  “I know how old I am.”

  “I don’t want to see you throw all that potential away,” said Deanna.

  “Please stop sending me job applications in the post, Mum. I recognize your hand-writing,” continued Katie. “Not sending me a note inside does not make them anonymous.”

  “Oh, what are we going to do with you?” sighed Deanna.

  “You’re not going to do anything with me. I’m big enough and ugly enough to do what I want.”

  “You are not ugly. Or big.”

  “That’s me,” said Bea happily, putting another slice of toast in her mouth.

  “I will decide what I want to do in my own time,” explained Katie, “and when I decide, I will follow a career path of my own choosing.”

  Her mother chewed her lip. “You’re not serious about becoming an educational psychologist are you?” she asked eventually.

  Katie sighed before shaking her head, suddenly certain. “No.” Since her epiphany she’d watched all the children in the café with new interest. “Children are revolting,” she said. Bea gasped. “Not yours of course,” she rushed. “Yours will be beautiful.”

  “Well, it’ll be a baby first,” said Bea, a little quietly. “Maybe that will help.”

  “I’m sure it will,” assured Katie, “but I still couldn’t be an educational psychologist.”

  “Thank God for small mercies,” sighed Deanna.

  One hour later, Katie rang the bell of Great-Aunt Edna’s cottage and could hear sounds of movement from within. It wasn’t that she didn’t like her mother’s aunt, she just didn’t know her very well. Apparently, as a baby she’d bonded with her and would go only to her at family functions. This had worked its charm on the old bird and now Katie was to get the money—if she decided what she wanted to be before Great-Aunt Edna died—and Bea and Cliffie the contents of her minuscule rented cottage which was stuffed with antiques.

  “Just a minute!” came a thin voice. Katie wrapped her scarf tighter round her neck. Great-Aunt Edna had a thing about saving money, so rarely had the heating on.

  The door opened and a wisp of a woman stood before her. A thinning cloud of white hair was swept off her face, highlighting the sharpness of her blue eyes. Katie was always struck by her aunt’s frailty, until the woman spoke. Her body and features might be slowly shrivelling, but her mind was as sturdy as ever.

  “Let me have a look at you,” she said, clasping her favorite great-niece’s chin.

  Their eyes met. Great-Aunt Edna grinned. “Not bad,” she beamed proudly. “You’ll do, you’ll do.”

  They kissed hello and then made their way slowly down the cold dark hall into the kitchen. “What will you have to drink?” asked Edna, patting Katie’s arm, which made her feel like a giant in Mrs. Tiggywinkle’s house. Once in the kitchen, a hot blast of air hit her—this was clearly where Great-Aunt Edna spent her day. The old woman settled herself at the table and instructed Katie where to get the things out for tea. Everything in the cottage, from the priceless ornaments to be exquisitely decorated cups and saucers, was old, collectible and in pristine condition. As soon as Great-Aunt Edna had become unable to manage it herself, she had taken on a girl from the village to help clean her home. She was not a spendthrift, but she was proud and determined that nobody could say she kept a dirty home.

  Katie made the tea and sat with her back against the wall, the kitchen clock chiming every precious quarter of an hour.

  “So,” said Great-Aunt Edna, pouring milk from the jug into the china cups. “What have you got to tell me?” Desperate not to talk about work and not to leave too long a gap before answering, Katie found herself saying, “I’ve met a man.”

  Great-Aunt Edna’s eyebrows, fine arches of smoke, rose as she took the tea cozy off the teapot.

  “Is he handsome?”

  Katie smiled. “Yes, he is.”

  Great-Aunt Edna nodded as she placed the tea strainer on to the cup.

  “Is he wealthy?”

  Katie considered this. “I suppose he must be,” she answered.

  Great-Aunt Edna placed one hand on the teapot lid and slowly poured out two perfect cups of tea. She placed the pot down heavily, just missing the doily, then she neatly replaced the tea cozy.

  They drank their tea.

  “So he could be a provider then,” considered Great-Aunt Edna.

  “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

  “You probably didn’t realize you did,” said Great-Aunt Edna, “but you’ve been conditioned to think of exactly that.”

  Katie frowned. “I just like him.”

  Great-Aunt Edna placed her teacup in its saucer and treated herself to a custard cream straight out of the biscuit tin. (“We don’t need to stand on ceremony here.”)

  “Would you like him as much if he were as poor as a church-mouse?” she asked, dunking the custard cream into her tea and sucking thoughtfully on it.

  “Yes,” said Katie. “In fact, I’d probably have preferred him.”

  Great-Aunt Edna bit into the rest of her biscuit. “Ah dear,” she said. “If only it was irrelevant.”

  Katie nodded. “Yes,” she said. “But I suppose you could say the same about him.”

  Great-Aunt Edna smiled at her great-niece, her eyes suddenly pretty in their red-rimmed sockets.

  “Yes dear,” she said warmly. “If you weren’t quite the lovely girl you are, he probably wouldn’t be interested.”

  “Thank you,” said Katie.

  “Oh it wasn’t a compliment, my dear,” the old woman said, dunking the last of her custard cream. “It’s pure economics.”

  The kitchen clock had chimed the quarters four times before Katie finally made her way back through the chilly hall. She had asked Great-Aunt Edna to join them for lunch, as she always did whenever she did her duty visit. And Great-Aunt Edna had smiled and said thank you but no, as she always did whenever asked.

  By the time Katie got back home, her body slushing with tea, Bea was helping Deanna with lunch and there were distinct noises of The Men’s arrival. There were also distinct noises of more than the usual amount of men. Katie glanced out of the hall window and could see at least six making their way to the hou
se for lunch. Her father had brought home eligible guests. At least their presence would stop her mother from pestering her. She bounded down the stairs and made her way into the kitchen.

  “Ah, Katie!” greeted her father enthusiastically. From the swift response from his entourage—she hadn’t seen men swivel round so fast since her brother played bobbing apples at a Halloween party ten years before and walloped Mrs. Higginbottom—it became apparent that she’d probably been promised as dessert. Her father approached and gave her a bear-hug.

  “Here’s my youngest daughter,” he told the men, like he was presenting a prize calf. “Katie, meet your old dad’s young drinking buddies.” Katie felt herself being scrutinized by three pairs of well-practiced eyes. She knew well enough that to men like this she was somewhat lacking in the most vital criteria. She didn’t have Bea’s Boadicea bearing, her hips were far from child-bearing and her petite frame did not signal a good homely cook. To London men she always felt fine, but to country men she felt like the runt of the family. She murmured something about helping the women, who were so busy adjusting their lunch-time menu to stretch to eight that their movements were almost a blur.

  “First,” said her father, taking Katie by the arm, “you must meet everyone. This is Basher, this is Toby and this is Foxy.” The three guests acknowledged her with politely interested nods and varying widths of smile. “And of course,” he continued jovially, nodding to Cliffie and Maurice, “you know those two rascals.” Cliffie grabbed her in a brotherly arm-lock and then darted out of the way before she elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Right,” said Sydney, clapping his big red hands together, “time for a pre-lunch drink, I think.” And suddenly, as if by magic, the men disappeared.

  “What’s wrong with Basher’s head?” whispered Bea.

  “I think that’s his face,” replied Katie.

  “Quiet, girls,” said Deanna, “and help me with the vegetables.”

  It was at the table that Katie had the opportunity to examine thoroughly why she didn’t want to marry any of these men. Basher ate like a horse, Toby’s idea of Women’s Lib meant letting women out to do flower-arranging “if they showed an aptitude” and Foxy was so-called because if you looked really carefully you could see his nasal hairs came out at such an angle that they looked like whiskers. But most importantly, none of them were Dan.

  After lunch, Sydney appeared in the kitchen.

  “Well?” he asked Katie, clearly proud of his potential date selection. Before she had to answer, Deanna swept in front of her.

  “Come on with you,” she told her husband, tight-lipped, almost brushing him out of the room with her hand like she would unsightly dust. “Out from under our feet. We’ve work to do. We’ve just served a four-course lunch for eight and you’re in here with your ‘Well?’”

  Sydney moved out of the way to give the women more room to clear the kitchen, his contribution to Sunday lunch. “Toby’s great-uncle’s an Earl,” he whispered excitedly over Deanna’s head at Katie, as he reached the door.

  “And his mother’s a horse, by the looks of things,” Deanna retorted, flushed with heat and exertion. “Get along with you. She’s got a date tonight with a nice boy from Oxford, stop interfering.”

  “Oh really?” said Sydney, body half out of the room, “and what does his father do?”

  “Minds his own business, probably,” scolded his wife. “Get out of my kitchen or there’ll be no tea.”

  Sydney winked at Katie and tapped his nose before the door was shut firmly behind him.

  Katie put down the cutlery she was drying. “Thanks Mum,” she said. “I was starting to have nasty visions of an arranged marriage there.”

  “Arranged marriage my foot,” said Deanna. “I’m not having my daughter married off like some pig at auction.”

  “Thanks, Mum.”

  “Not until you’ve got a career to fall back on.”

  “Oooh!” said Bea suddenly. “It’s kicking!” She turned to face her mother and sister and sure enough, her bulge was dancing its own little rumba.

  “Ooh!” echoed Katie. “It’s going to be a dancer!”

  “No it’s not!” retorted Bea fiercely. “Rugby, center back.”

  “Won’t she get teased about that at ballet?” asked Katie.

  They looked again at the amazing dancing tummy, before Bea replied, fondly stroking her bump, “It’s a boy, I just know it.”

  They all beamed the same Simmonds smile and silently made the same vow with God that they didn’t mind if it was a boy or girl, as long as it was healthy and didn’t have its father’s chin.

  At three o’clock that afternoon, about the time that Katie set off back from Glossop, the London sky gave up all pretense of providing any light. And Sukie could hold out no longer. She knew it was frowned upon, but if Greta had not wanted to be phoned at home, she wouldn’t have given out her home number.

  It only rang once.

  “Greta Michaels?”

  “Greta, it’s me, Sukie.”

  “Sukie, darling. Everything all right?”

  “Yes I’m fine. Sorry to phone you at home—”

  “What’s up?”

  “I just—”

  “Did you get the voice-over?”

  “Yes, I just—”

  “Well done! I knew you could do it.”

  “I just wanted to ask you a bit more about how I can improve things at audition.”

  “Darling, it’s not about improving things, you’re a—oh hold on, I just have to let the cats out—you’re a natural. It’s about redefining what auditions are.”

  “Right. Redefining.”

  “Yes.”

  “I just wondered if there was anything else I can do,” repeated Sukie. “I mean, seeing as I haven’t got any auditions next week and the voice-over’s only one afternoon.”

  She could hear Greta fiddling with papers in the background.

  “I tell you what, my dear,” said Greta after a pause. “I’m just reading your CV. Now that we’re re-inventing you as a telly actress, it could do with changing.”

  “Oh. How?”

  “Well, TV directors don’t really need to know that you can jazz dance and fence. You don’t see many jazz-dancing fencers in your average sitcom.”

  “What do they want?”

  “They want to know things like whether you’ll do nudity and what your measurements are.”

  “You don’t get many naked scenes in your average sitcom either.”

  “I know darling, but you know what I mean. Take a look at your CV.” More rustling. “Ooh, and your letter, darling. It needs to be completely rewritten.”

  “Right. Completely rewritten.”

  “When you’ve got those to me, we’ll get you back on the audition road.”

  “You mean, you won’t put me forward for auditions until I’ve done my CV and letter?”

  “Well, darling, once you’ve reread them, you won’t want me to. I’m so glad you phoned. Now we can really get the ball rolling.”

  By the time Sukie put down the phone, she had already promised herself never to phone Greta at home again. That would teach her to be so undisciplined. She pinned a note to her fridge saying “Only phone Greta when happy.” Then she phoned her mother for some utterly biased support.

  “I think you should change your agent,” said her mother helpfully.

  “No, Greta’s wonderful,” replied Sukie wearily. How was it possible to be so supportive that it made things worse?

  “But she’s not helping you at all,” argued her mother, “and she’s making you depressed. I think she’s harmful.”

  “No she’s not. She’s trying to advance my career.”

  “Yes, but are you happy?”

  When she got off the phone, Sukie added to her fridge note, “And Mum.” Then she phoned Katie’s mobile and left a message saying she needed to talk. Then she texted Katie’s mobile saying “Agent and Mum mad. Am going to yours via offie.” Then she went
round to Katie’s flat in the hope that Jon was in so that she could wait for Katie to get home.

  Chapter 5

  KATIE ALWAYS FOUND IT SO MUCH EASIER GETTING BACK TO LONDON, so just three hours later, she was trying to find a parking space within a five-mile radius of her flat. She only had one hour before her date with Dan to get the feeling back in her bottom.

  She very rarely used her car, for two very sensible London reasons. One, it was cheaper to walk or get public transport, and two, it meant she didn’t have to faff around trying to find a parking space once she got to her destination. Some bastard must have seen her set off on Saturday and nipped into her spot. He probably wouldn’t move for a month. She carefully balanced her weight from one numbed buttock to another.

  Suddenly, she heard a front door bang shut. Then she saw someone leave a flat further up the road and walk to their car. She was there in an instant, her indicator clicking territorially as he drove away. Within seconds she was in his space, never to leave again. Hah. That would teach him to go out on a Sunday evening.

  She turned off her engine and sat in the dark car. Oh dear. She knew the signs. She was almost unbearably nervous about this date. It hadn’t been many days since Dan asked her out, but it had been enough for it to turn into a Terrifying Prospect. Day One it had just been a nice tingly feeling of something to look forward to. Day Two the tingly feeling had grown into a tingly feeling with tense undertones as the reality of a date with Dan crept nearer. Day Three onward, no tingly feeling left, just tension.

  As soon as she opened the front door and hefted her luggage in, she heard voices in the lounge. She struggled in. There were Sukie and Jon sitting companionably on opposite sofas. Sukie’s eyes lit up on seeing Katie.

  “Aha! The wanderer returns!”

  Jon smiled a greeting as Katie collapsed on to the sofa. “Next time I decide to take the car instead of the train,” she said weakly, “someone chain me to my bedroom.”