The Waitress (15 page)

‘And not a single florist’s in the whole area,’ she explained, exasperated. ‘I’ve walked the length and breadth of the entire area. Can you believe it?’ Katie shook her head sympathetically. ‘I mean, I can’t very well take flowers from the supermarket, can I? I wanted something special.’ Katie shook her head again. ‘Not a single one,’ continued the woman.

Katie stopped shaking her head.

By the time she had gone to the coffee machine, made the woman her pick-me-up and brought it back to her, she was decided. She, Katie Simmonds, would open up the first florist’s in the area. It didn’t blow her skirt up, but it was probably the obvious career for her. She waited for the familiar bubbles of optimism to start plop-plopping like hot sulphur within her. When they didn’t she told herself it was because she was finally maturing.

And lo, finally, it happened that on a cold night in late December, in a little town north-west of London, Katie’s last shift of the year did actually come to an end. And she was to enjoy a whole week’s holiday while the café closed during the festive season and Alec visited his mother in Stoke. No more coffee orders for irate commuters for a whole week. No more dishwashing for an entire seven days and nights. No more boredom, no more aching back, no more stinging feet. Just seven days of over-eating, family politics and TV repeats. Yeeha. She tried to imagine how different she’d be feeling about it all if her date with Dan had gone well.

‘So,’ she said over-buoyantly, as they finished the final tidy. ‘Nothing left but to celebrate the birth of our Lord.’

‘Who was born in February,’ muttered Matt.

‘We
know
,’ snapped Sukie. ‘And Father Christmas is only red and white because of Coca-Cola advertising.’

‘And the yule log was actually used as part of a pagan ritual,’ added Katie.

‘We know all of this,’ finished Sukie.

‘And we can beat you hands down at being Scrooge,’ concluded Katie.

‘Well, doesn’t it annoy you?’ insisted Matt.

‘Not half as much as you reminding us every ten minutes,’ said Katie.

‘Fascist,’ muttered Matt.

Katie sighed. ‘Well, hard as it is to leave you all –’

Alec suddenly appeared in the kitchen, holding a carrier bag.

‘A token,’ he announced, ‘for my dedicated staff.’

There was silence.

He held up a bag. ‘Chocolate coins for all!’

There was a moment’s hesitation as they all took this in. At first, they were too gobsmacked that he’d even bothered, then they were gobsmacked that he’d only bought them chocolate coins for their last Christmas with him. Then they realised that chocolate coins were still chocolate coins.

And so, here she was, driving home again, surrounded by presents, luggage and sweeping fog, trying not to think about the mess that was her life. As she turned into the driveway, only four hours after she’d left London, after only one frantic phone call with her parents at that roundabout again, her mother came out to greet her, flanked as usual, by her two trusty Labradors and silhouetted against the hall’s welcoming lights. Katie practised her smile. Her father and brother came to help her unload the car while Bea and Maurice finished the washing up from dinner.

Although Bea was now eight months pregnant, Katie still couldn’t believe how big her sister’s stomach was and, naturally, she feared the worst: that most of Bea’s bump was the baby’s chin, inherited from Maurice’s side. She pushed the thought to the back of her mind as she was
enveloped
by the warmth of her family. She couldn’t help but smile. Here was a place where she didn’t need to explain anything, a place where she could just be herself. Perhaps it was all going to be all right.

‘Now,’ said her mother quickly. ‘Come and have something to eat. You must be starving.’

‘Ooh yes,’ joined in Bea eagerly. ‘Dinner was delicious.’

They nattered about everything, filling Katie in on the village gossip and Bea’s latest pregnancy symptoms. Nobody mentioned her date with Dan. Yep, thought Katie, they’d discussed it. If they hadn’t, Bea would have asked by now. She ate another mince pie.

Despite this, if she hadn’t felt Christmassy up until now, the vast tree in the hall would surely have done the trick. It was a specimen Queen Victoria herself would have been proud of, and it cast its silent spell over Katie. After placing all her presents under it and revelling in the intriguing shapes of the presents there for her, she stood back and looked up at it, remembering all the Christmases past, savouring the realisation that at this moment, there was nowhere else she’d rather be. Then she started wondering if, perhaps, she should by now have found something else in her life that gave her this much contentment. It wasn’t a particularly good sign if the happiest moments you could recall from your twenties were of remembering your past, was it?

Thankfully, Deanna chose that moment to call her to come and help. Within the hour, the women had discussed their complex cooking rota – no mention of Dan – the men their somewhat less complex log-chopping rota and Katie had had a hot bath. There was little time to
waste
– tomorrow, Christmas Eve, Deanna’s parents and Sydney’s mother would be arriving for lunch and staying until the day after Boxing Day.

‘So,’ said Katie eventually, unable to put it off any longer. ‘Don’t you want to know about my disastrous date?’

There was a pause.

‘Only if you want to tell us, dear,’ said her mother.

Katie shrugged.

‘What happened?’ asked Deanna softly. ‘Did you mess it up?’

Katie’s eyes widened. ‘I love the way you assume it was my fault.’

‘Well, I just wondered . . .’

‘How do you know he wasn’t a murderer?’ Katie demanded. ‘Or a serial rapist? Or a paedophile? London’s full of them.’

‘Oh sweet Lord,’ mumbled Deanna, sitting down.

‘Was he?’ asked Bea.

‘No,’ said Katie. ‘I messed it up.’

‘Thank God,’ whispered Deanna.

‘And then I saw him with someone else the next night,’ mumbled Katie.

‘Ouch,’ said Bea.

‘I don’t want to discuss it.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Deanna. ‘Have some eggnog.’ And the subject was never broached again.

Later, Katie decided to announce her dramatic career news – a seasonal gift for her parents. Given the choice, she’d have waited until she was more settled, but she was fully aware that these were the last few moments of sanity
in
the Simmonds household.

It appeared she was mistaken. Completely unintentionally, she had seemingly unleashed the dogs of hell.

‘A
florist
?’ Deanna had exploded, almost spilling her mulled wine. ‘Have you finally gone out of your deluded mind?’

Katie felt her eyes sting.

‘You want to be a
flower
girl?’ Deanna spluttered.

‘Um,’ pondered Katie huskily. ‘No?’ Perhaps she should change the subject to something more positive. Like her date with Dan. She stared at the fire.

‘
You want to be the next Eliza Doolittle
?’

‘Darling –’ attempted Sydney.

‘Don’t “darling” me,’ snapped Deanna. ‘You worked your fingers to the bone to pay for her education and this is how she repays you. By becoming Eliza bloody Doolittle.’

Katie had made her mother swear. On Christmas Eve.

Sydney sat back and gave Katie a look. You’re on your own girl, it said.

‘Not a flower girl, Mum –’ started Katie.

‘What is wrong with you?’ Deanna turned her attention back to her youngest daughter. ‘Do you think I don’t have enough on my plate? What with your father’s mother coming first thing tomorrow –’

‘Now that’s unfair, darling –’

‘Your mother,’ shot his wife, ‘is a foie gras short of a hamper and you know it.’

Sydney glanced apologetically at Katie, and then he sat it out with the rest of them and hoped for the best.

They all stared as Deanna gulped back her wine in one.
As
she eyed the decanter somewhat glassily, they looked feverishly at each other across the living room. This was not good. Upsetting Deanna just before Christmas Eve was not good. It was one of the great family no-nos. It was like teasing Sydney about his golf handicap. It simply was not done.

‘I’m sure Katie didn’t mean it,’ attempted Bea.

‘Oh, are you?’ asked Deanna sternly. More warning glances shot round the room. This was worse than bad. Not only was Deanna turning on her own young, she was doing it when they were eight months gone. Something had to be done.

‘Never mind, Mum, I’m sorry,’ urged Katie. ‘Please don’t get upset.’

Deanna’s face seemed to crumple and all the tension ebb out of it. This would have been fine had it been the day after Boxing Day, but it wasn’t. As she sank into her armchair, the family glimpsed the truth and the truth was terrifying. Deanna was exhausted and it wasn’t even Christmas Eve yet. She needed bucking up and fast.

‘Right,’ said Sydney, poking the fire. ‘Enough talk, your mother’s tired.’

The fire crackled against the deafening silence that followed this statement, and the family grew more scared still. They waited, breath-baited, for the silence to be broken, for Deanna to insist that she wasn’t tired, but no sound came. Instead she took a deep, long sigh and eventually turned to Katie, a look of melancholy on her face.

‘Do you remember,’ she began throatily, ‘performing in a school concert when you were eleven?’

Oh God, thought Katie. Not this. I can’t take it.

‘You played the triangle.’

Katie nodded.

‘We drove fifty miles, through horizontal sleet, to see our baby play the triangle in the school orchestra.’

Katie held her head down.

‘And then when we got there, we sat through two hours of piercing hell waiting for your piece to come up.’

Katie stared at the parquet floor.

‘And then,’ Deanna’s voice was a whisper, ‘there you stood, at the very back of the orchestra, triangle aloft . . . and we sat, breathless, waiting for you to transform Rhapsody in Blue from a cat-fight into something worth waiting for.’

Katie achieved a nod.

‘And we waited.’

Katie breathed hard.

‘And we waited.’

Silence.

‘And then, suddenly,’ whispered Deanna, ‘we heard clapping.’

Katie nodded and sniffed.

‘It was over. And you hadn’t played a single note.’

‘I lost count of the bars,’ croaked Katie. ‘Percussion’s harder than it looks –’

‘
Three years
of percussion lessons,’ interrupted Deanna, leaning forward in her chair, ‘a 100-mile round trip and a rendition of Rhapsody in Blue that still keeps me awake at night. And for
what
?’

Katie didn’t move. Deanna sank back into her sofa.

‘The truth is, I don’t blame you,’ whispered Deanna.
‘How
can I? I understand you far too well. You are as unable to make a decision as I am. Thankfully for me, your father came along and made mine for me, but I fear for you.’

Katie stared enviously at the Labrador curled up at her mother’s feet.

‘And that is why,’ concluded Deanna, ‘your mad Great-Aunt Edna refuses to change her will until she is convinced you know exactly what you want to do with your life. Her mother did not fight for the vote for you to be a bloody flower girl.’

‘I know.’

‘She refuses to watch you choose the bloody triangle and then not play it.’

There was a pause.

‘Have I made myself clear?’

Katie nodded.

‘Good.’ Her voice softened. ‘Do you still want to own a flower shop?’

Katie shook her head.

‘Good.’

Sydney poked the fire about a bit and the family swapped reassuring looks. Deanna shut her eyes and Katie sat motionless, paralysed by such a performance.

Christmas was everything it should be. Apart from when Bea complained of pubic-bone ache at the table, there had not been a moment’s awkwardness or silence. The food was delicious, the presents were all instantly forgettable and the TV repeats were utterly predictable. Even Sydney’s mother, a woman who had reached the grand old age of
ninety-two
, mainly out of spite, had found nothing to complain about. And while they were in the kitchen, Deanna had given her youngest daughter a sudden bear-hug that had made both of them wipe their eyes furiously before getting on with the tidying up.

By New Year’s Day, Katie was ready to get back to London.

10

Three months later, the novelty of the new year had more than worn off. In fact, it had worn off in the first week of January when the entire idiot nation had been depressed to discover that, yet again, the new year had failed to deliver them a new life. Now all they were left with was grey weather and repeats of
The Good Life
. Not even the changing of the clocks had helped. All that had produced was more daylight to be disappointed in.

Life at The Café had gone on this year much as before. There were two new photos of Katie on the fridge door. One was taken by Sukie at a drunken works do where Katie chatted to a lovely bloke all evening about what a failure they both were at relationships. Funnily enough, neither of them had wanted to take it any further. The other photo was of her enjoying a great night with a bloke at Jon’s bar. Jon had taken the photo before the bloke had showed her his tattoo of the ship he was on at the moment.

Sukie was finally getting somewhere with TV auditions because she had learnt how to play the part. Her latest audition was for an adaptation of Dickens’s
A Tale of Two Cities
. They’d asked her if she’d read the book and
she’d
said, ‘Oh no, I don’t read the classics. I find it spoils the adaptations.’ They’d laughed and then asked her to read it. To everyone’s joy, she had got through to the last ten for the part of Lucie Manette, the genteel heroine. She was now grateful for last year’s Anusol advert because it was still going strong and she was still getting money from it.

Alec had hardly been at The Café at all and when he was there, he hadn’t acted like a boss. He’d acted like an arse. Once the contracts were exchanged he didn’t care any more, encouraging Katie to be rude to the customers, chain-smoking all day and telling anyone who’d listen how glad he was to be leaving. He was determined that by the time The Café was sold, it would be worth less than its price.