Friends Forever! (14 page)

“Actually,” he adds, “I'm bigger than God.”

 

 

Inside Harbinger Hall's kitchen, a bulky man wearing chef's whites with a ruddy face and eyes like pieces of coal is whisking a bowl of yellow gunk furiously, while beside him two younger lads are chopping herbs and kneading dough.

“Rosco,” Siegmund shouts to the older man, “attention,
s'il vous plait.
Let me introduce, er, Fanny, Claire and Maud, our new waitresses.”

I was about to correct him, but then I figured we may well be fired before anyone learned our real names. Best not complicate matters.

“Ladies, this is Rosco Flanders, your head chef. Oh, and those are Gene and Leon, his two assistants.”

While Rosco gives us a quirky military-style salute, his two deputy chefs wave hello. Leon is rather small and ferrety, age about twenty, with a silly mustache, and Gene is the same age, rugged with sandy hair and big friendly blue eyes.

“Hey! Are you living here?” Gene pipes up rather mischievously, directing his question to Fleur.

“Yes, we're in the West Turret,” Fleur says.

Leon and Gene look at each other in mock horror, then begin laughing. Quickly Leon is prancing about in a spooky zombie manner, while Gene cracks up.

“What?” the LBD howl.

“Rather you than us!” chuckles Leon.

“Boys! Boys! Less of the nonsense,” barks Siegmund, rolling his eyes. “Girls, ignore them, they're just excited to see beautiful women. I've had them locked in here making eggs Benedict since February.”

The LBD decide to ignore them.

“Now,” continues Siegmund, “before you begin, I need to warn you about Rosco. You may find he shouts a lot.”

Rosco nods in agreement.

“He's allowed to do that,” says Siegmund. “We think he had an unhappy childhood. But if he
throws
anything at you, like, say, a shoe or an espresso machine, just tell me and we'll review the situation. Right?”

“Throws anything?” Claude and Fleur gasp. I just chuckle. It'll take more than a shouting chef to scare me—I've lived with one for sixteen years.

“Any customers out there yet, Sieg?” asks Rosco.

“Not yet,” replies Siegmund, checking his Rolex. “Give them five minutes, though, and they'll start to flock.”

The chefs smirk as Siegmund cranes his neck to peer through the serving hatch. “They're on holiday, for crying out loud!” Siegmund continues. “Can't they just have a lie-in?”

“Weirdos,” grumbles Rosco, opening the fridge and producing a ginormous tray of duck eggs. “I'd ban them. Ban the lot of them.”

“You'd ban all of the customers?” says Claude, looking rather shocked.

“Hmmpgh, yes . . . make my job a lot easier,” grumps Rosco before wandering off muttering something profound about Cumberland sausage.

“Oooh! Spoke too soon,” tuts Siegmund. “Here's one now! It's Colonel Three-Minute Egg! Right, you, Fanny? You take him. Grab a menu and go give it to the old man with the navy blazer and the military tie. Take his order . . . believe me, it'll be a three-minute soft-boiled egg with wholemeal toast. Well, it has been at 5:57 A.M. for the last four weeks.”

“Who, me?” I shudder.

“Well, you've got to start somewhere,” laughs Siegmund, throwing a large red leather menu at me.

“Er, oooh, okay,” I stutter, my stomach doing double somersaults. I thought I'd at least get a training session.

“Oh, and a word of advice,” yells Siegmund. “
Don't
let him start talking about the Second World War. I've sat through the Siege of Monte Cassino with him twice this week already.”

“Okay,” I nod, biting my lip.

“Oh, and Fanny . . . one other thing,” adds Siegmund, as I waltz into the dining hall. “Smile!”

The LBD's inaugural breakfast shift passes by in a blur.

It's a cacophony of kippers, eggs, bacon, croissants, extra spoons, missing forks and Highland marmalade, as legions of hungry, impatient and exceedingly snooty guests pour into the dining room, requiring greeting, seating and their orders taken. As soon as their bums are perched upon the scarlet velour seats, their moans commence for racks of toast, jugs of milk, organic butter and oceans of coffee. Chucked in at the deep end, the LBD, accompanied by a rather spiky Russian waitress called Svetlana, have no choice but to get to work, scampering all over the room, carrying plates, scribbling orders and attempting to keep the guests happy.

I don't think I've ever seen Fleur Swan being so quietly focused and polite in my entire life! She doesn't even throw a hissy fit when Gene and Leon put a comedy dog poo on a piece of toast and send her off to Table 5. It turns out our deputy chefs are big customers at Destiny Bay's joke shop, Joe's Jokes, and love nothing more than winding newbie waitresses up with severed fingers, plastic flies and fake blood. Horrid boys!

“Ignore them. You're doing just wonderfully,” winks Siegmund as I spin past carrying three plates of eggs Florentine, before pirouetting back toward the kitchen to shout some new breakfast orders to Rosco.

“Cheers, Siegmund!” I grin.

Of course, Claude, who's only ever waitressed once before at a local wedding, takes to the job like an absolute pro, finding the time to smile and make small talk with every one of her customers. Claude's guests appear to be leaving the breakfast hall with a spring in their step and joy in their heart, ready to embrace the day, commenting on Claude's wonderful service. How does she do it?

“That's bizarre,” muses Siegmund as I pass his podium around 10 A.M., wincing as my toe pokes through my tights inside my shoe. “Room 205 has just left your colleague Miss Cassiera a fat twenty-five-pound tip.”

“Wow!” I say. “That's, like, good, right?”

“For the breakfast shift, dear heart, it's a miracle,” announces Siegmund, observing Claude as she helps a customer put on her mink stole. “It seems we may have a star in the making.”

“What a surprise,” I laugh, rolling my eyes. But then I notice Svetlana, with her sleek black bob and horn-rimmed specs, shooting Claude the filthiest of looks. I put my head down and get back to work.

 

 

Officially breakfast is served until half past ten, which means that at exactly twenty-nine minutes past ten, virtually half of Harbinger Hall deluges the dining room, sheepishly begging for eggs. And by the time the breakfast guests have cleared out, it's time for the lunch crowd, and they're more demanding than ever.

Just after 1 P.M., I have my first meeting with a Harbinger Hall resident whom Siegmund affectionately terms Carbzilla, a.k.a. Mrs. Blaire Fontague, a huge woman-mountain with a dyed-black beehive and an ass as big as a TV set. I can see Fleur visibly blanching as Carbzilla crashes into the room. Very wobbly people give Fleur the heebies. I'm concerned she's going to trot over and start making Carbzilla do squat thrusts and ab blasts right then!

Not that it is poor Mrs. Fontague's fault she's so fat. Oh no. Apparently, as Carbzilla explains to me in intricate detail, it's evil carbohydrates that make her so flabulous. That's right, carbohydrates,
not
the two large mojito cocktails she sloshes back while perusing the lunch menu, questioning me on every single lurking gram of carb in every dish.

After twenty dizzying minutes Carbzilla opts for the baked chicken parmesan with a side of steamed asparagus . . . accompanied by a full bottle of merlot and a sticky toffee pudding with extra double fudge sauce and crème fraîche. Gnnngnnn!

“Marvelous to see you again, Mrs. Fontague!” shouts Siegmund as Carbzilla waddles out. “Same time tomorrow!”

“Can't hang about!” yells Carbzilla back. “I've got an appointment at the beauty spa. Having one of those body-contouring seaweed wraps!”

“Good for you!” replies Siegmund, taking his voice much quieter.
“Get them to wrap one round your gob.”

But the prize for the day's most very, very unbelievable guests? That has to be Mr. and Mrs. Segatti from Room 109, a bone-thin middle-aged Italian couple with mean eyes and thin lips who bitch at Fleur about every little piddly thing from the second they sit their scrawny bottoms down.

Eventually, after a huge hissy fit over a forgotten bread basket, things just get too much for our most sensitive bambino. Fleur snaps and storms out of the hall, chucking her apron behind her. Claude and I discover her outside, kicking the dustbins and sobbing.

“That's it!” squeals Fleur. “I'm going home. Scrumble can stick this job. I can be on the next train and in my own bed on Disraeli Road by tonight. This was the stupidest idea ever! I'm a rubbish waitress!”

“Fleur, calm down,” I plead. “Please don't go home.”

“I'm going home!” repeats Fleur. “I've just had Leon frightening the life out of me too. Did you know the West Turret is haunted? By an executed earl who roams the apartment with his head in his hands!”

“What?” I gasp.

“Oh, Fleur,” tuts Claude. “Just ignore him. He tried that with me too. It's a load of old tosh. He's winding us up.”

“A headless earl,” I shudder.

Claude frowns at me to shut up.

“Fleur,” says Claude, wrapping her arms round her, “you're just tired. And that Italian couple would test anyone's patience. No wonder you've lost your temper.”

“But they just called me a blonde bimbo and threw a fork at me!” sobs Fleur. “They've not even had their main courses yet! I'm sorry, girls, but I'm quitting.”

“Okay, lady,” says Gene, who'd been sitting on the step smoking a cigarette. He pulls a clean white napkin from his pocket and passes it to Fleur in a gentlemanly fashion. “Nobody needs to quit.”

Fleur blows her nose noisily.

“Now listen to me,” Gene says, batting his long black eyelashes. “Maybe it's time you girls learned a few Harbinger special emergency moves. For dealing with nasty customers.”

The LBD look at him curiously. We move closer.

“Okay,” says Gene, with a small mischievous twinkle. “Now, when you take the Segattis' starter plates away, make sure you take all of their other cutlery too.”

“All of the cutlery?” we repeat.

“Yes, I mean the cutlery for the main courses too. Get me? You can take these knives and forks back when you serve their main dishes.”

“But why?” sniffs Fleur, dabbing her eyes. “That makes no sense.”

“Watch and see,” chuckles Gene, ruffling Fleur's hair at the front before sauntering back into the kitchen. “Hey, and no quitting. Quitting is not allowed!”

Mr. and Mrs. Segatti's behavior doesn't improve one tiny iota during the remainder of their lunch session. They bawl at Fleur, bicker loudly with each other and even accuse Siegmund of overcharging them. Yet, despite the torrent of abuse, Fleur starts feeling a little rosier. She even serves the Segattis' desserts with a tiny joyous spring in her step. Because, yes, she might be a “brainless bimbo” in their opinion, but at least she hasn't just eaten lunch using knives and forks gently warmed inside Gene's three-day-old underpants.

By the time Siegmund officially lets us go at 4 P.M., the LBD look like walking corpses. We can barely climb the 188 steps to the West Turret. All our fabulous intentions to quick-change into bikinis and hit Misty Beach to catch the late-afternoon rays are dashed in favor of crashing on our beds, facedown in star shapes, groaning in unison.

“I ache,” mumbles Fleur into her pillow. “I ache worse than after a sixty-minute butt-blast class.”

“Mngggh,” moans Claude, wrapping herself in a duvet. In seconds she's doing her usual impression of a chain saw. Ugh. When I agreed to share a room with her for an entire summer, I'd forgotten about Claude's atrocious snoring problem.

Just then I notice a slip of paper lying behind our front door. It's a note from our friend Miss Scrumble, with a timetable attached. Somebody has clearly been having a lot of fun on their PC, because to my utter horror it appears that the LBD are scheduled to work double shifts
every single day for the next fourteen days!

Aaaaagggggh!

“Fleur!” I say, poking my blonde buddy, who had quickly slipped into a comatose sleep. “Listen to this!”

“Mnnnn? Wah?” mutters Fleur, curling up into a fetal position and cuddling her pillow. “Wassamatter?”

I gaze at her. She looks so peaceful.

“Erm, nothing,” I grump, chucking the schedule on the bedside table quietly. “Just get some sleep.”

I lie on my rather lumpy single bed, simmering quietly with rage.
Right, Scrumble, you square-assed slave driver,
I think.
You can stick the Big Beach Booty Quake. Stick Misty Beach. Stick the West Turret! Stick your flipping job up your . . . jumper. I've had enough!

Just then I hear a creepy dragging noise and, if I'm not wrong, a small groan, upstairs in the attic.

That's it,
I think adamantly.
I'm going home.