The Waitress (22 page)

The next thing Dan remembered was his alarm going off at 6.45 a.m. sharp. He felt himself shift from unconsciousness to consciousness. He could hear the ensuite shower going. He could sense the duck-down pillows round his head. He could now tune in to the bass of Geraldine’s ensuite radio. She was back. He was safe. No one could hurt him again. At the thought of Katie on that date, his body immediately went into mild panic, yet again. He forced himself to think of Geraldine. ‘Listen,’ he told himself. ‘She’s in the shower now.’ And then, with that thought uppermost in his mind, he allowed himself to picture Katie now: Katie from the café; Katie who was powerless to hurt him because he had Geraldine. God he’d been stupid to think he could go back to the hell of single life. He scrunched his eyes shut and imagined Geraldine in the shower, tall and powerful. All was right with the world, he told himself. Katie could not hurt him. Life was good.

What would the builders have done by this morning, he wondered suddenly. And his eyes were open. Would they have finished the floor? And the new counter? When would that arrive? Would that artist remember to come today? And the guitarist? And the organic supplier? When his stomach started to feel as if it was eating itself, he got out of bed.

An hour later, he was at the café. The builders weren’t there yet, but in fairness he could see that they were
progressing
quite well. As he wandered round the shell of a room checking tiny details – sockets, skirting boards and such like – he heard Katie arrive, the coffee machine being filled and the milk being steamed. It was a weirdly reassuring noise.

‘Morning!’ he heard a male voice.

He couldn’t help a smile when he heard Katie give the man what for because he’d made her jump, and tuned out of the conversation. He truly didn’t want to overhear anything. Then he heard his name. He froze.

‘. . . all right,’ he heard Katie say. ‘Doesn’t know his arse from his elbow, but that’s OK because neither are on the set menu.’

‘Do you think he’ll ruin the café?’ came a male voice.

‘Nah,’ said Katie. ‘He’ll have a steep learning curve, but he’ll be fine.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘’Cos he’s insanely bright – and you lot haven’t got the wit to find somewhere else to go.’

Dan jumped at the sound of Harry arriving behind him.

‘All right boss?’

Dan gave him a broad grin back. ‘Morning Harry! And isn’t it a fantastic one?’

‘I’m more of an evening man myself actually.’

‘Excellent, excellent,’ said Dan, feeling better than he had all day. He got out his notebook for today’s snagging list.

Two hours later, after the last of the commuter coffees had gone on their merry way, the new menu was unveiled. As the Beachboys harmonised about the quality of their
vibrations
to the sound of buzzing, sawing and thumping, Katie and her new bosses, Dan and Paul, entered the future world of Crichton Brown’s. Nik, the new chef, presented them with his finished menu and they read it slowly. Katie concentrated on not looking up at Dan. Dan concentrated very hard on the menu.

‘Well?’ beamed Nik eventually, nudging Dan, who was seated next to him, opposite Katie. ‘Eh? Eh?’

‘I’m not sure it’s an “A”,’ said Paul kindly. ‘But B-plus for effort.’

‘Eh?’ frowned Nik.

‘What’s “Lightly Whipped Organic Eggs Abed Softly Toasted Rye”?’ Dan asked the table, his eyes resting on Katie for a moment.

‘Scrambled eggs on toast,’ she said. They smiled briefly at each other.

‘That’s all right mate,’ said Nik, ‘that’s just what you do nowadays. It’s spin, isn’t it? All the rage.’

‘But isn’t spin about rendering the truth opaque?’

‘Eh?’

‘Exactly,’ grinned Dan. ‘Not nice is it?’

‘What’s not nice?’ asked Nik. Katie looked down.

‘I think what Dan’s trying to say,’ explained Paul, ‘is that, like the government, we need to be transparent.’

‘
Eh
?’

‘People have got to be able to understand the menu,’ Katie told Nik. ‘So they know what to order.’

‘But it’s bloomin’ obvious,’ said Nik, picking up his again.

‘How can a mushroom be elegant?’ asked Paul. Dan and Katie both laughed.

‘A
ha
!’ cried Nik. ‘I’ll show you how. They don’t call me Nigella for nothing.’

‘What makes a chicken proud?’ asked Paul.

‘Crossing the road?’ asked Katie and Dan in unison. Dan gave a little cough and stared hard at the menu, so Katie stopped laughing and didn’t say ‘jinx’.

‘I just think,’ began Paul slowly, ‘that the style isn’t quite right. As to the content . . . Dan?’

‘Hmm,’ Dan was concentrating. ‘Not sure.’

‘Why?’ asked Paul. ‘You think it’s a bit too Hampstead?’

‘No,’ said Dan. ‘Because I can’t understand it.’

‘I think I can,’ said Katie.

‘Well?’ asked Paul. ‘What do
you
think of the content?’

‘I think it’s as good as the style.’ She stared very hard at Paul.

Dan and Paul nodded.

‘Eh?’ asked Nik.

‘It’s just not very Porter’s Green,’ explained Dan.

‘Yes but we are up and coming, remember,’ said Paul.

‘Yes,’ conceded Dan, ‘but this is like a different language. I mean,’ he looked at the menu again. ‘What’s a shy turnip?’

‘It’s a turnip that’s only just been shown the oil,’ cried Nik. ‘What are you? Amateurs?’

‘Yes,’ shrugged Dan.

Nik stood up. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I have to go to my kitchen now.’ And he walked out, his dramatic exit being hampered by having to squeeze out of half a doorway and climb through builders’ polythene, instead of being able to get a good slam in.

‘I wouldn’t call you amateurs,’ started Katie.

‘Thank y—’

‘So much as complete novices.’

‘Thank you.’

They sat in silence, apart from the pearly sound of Cliff Richard and the occasional thud of mug hitting floor.

‘So tell us, oh expert,’ Dan looked at Katie, ‘what you think of this menu.’

‘In its favour –’

‘Yes?’

‘I must say –’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s a fantastic font.’

And Dan gave her a smile that took her straight back to Sandy’s party. They both looked down quickly.

15

At the end of a fortnight, the builders, polythene doors and Capital Gold were all as a dream and The Café was no more. Long live Crichton Brown’s.

The day the builders left, Katie was given the afternoon off, so Messrs Crichton and Brown could finish the final transformation on their own. The next day, the day before its official opening, they decided to keep the Café/Bar/Restaurant – for such it was now – closed, so as to give their staff a chance to acquaint themselves with the new equipment and teach Patsy the ropes. Only the coffee queue would stay open as usual. Tomorrow was to be the first day when everything was up and running. Initially, Katie had disagreed with their decision to keep the food section closed for another day. She thought it should open as soon as possible, before the customers forgot that once, a long time ago, they used to be able to buy food here. It was, after all, now into the third week of closing. However, after ten minutes with Patsy she saw the wisdom of her owners. For Patsy was an oaf. With a capital ‘OH F . . .’

That morning, Katie was the first in. As she walked down the road, she glanced laconically over at the café
and
gave an audible cry. It looked as if The Café had been plucked out by a vast hand from the sky and replaced with a new, sparkling restaurant. It was unrecognisable. Shiny new lettering glistened across the street at her. The colour was an almost golden coffee against soft cream. The font – a smart italic – somehow conjured up a feeling of cosy finesse. She could almost see the waiters in their long white starched aprons carrying tiny espresso cups and speaking French while the clientele lounged in cushioned seats. On the window, in the same font and colour was written
Cappuccino, espresso, latte, Americano, tea and herbal teas. All-day-breakfasts, pastries, meals
and then,
All organic, soya milk, gluten-free options
. Oh well, thought Katie. Nothing diet then.

She sped up. As she approached she could see so much more of the inside from the street than pre-renovation. She hadn’t realised how dirty the window must have been. She ran across the road and pushed open the door. A delicious sound of tinkling bells, like laughing fairies, announced her arrival. She stopped and stared, taking everything in.

The tables were shiny steel – very modern, very fresh – and all small squares to seat just two. There was nothing, not a saltcellar, nor sugar bowl, nor flower, on them – and yet the room didn’t feel cold because the seats were big, comfy square tub sofas, each one a different vibrant colour – turquoise, purple, fuchsia or yellow – and on the walls hung vast mirrors and artwork. Here, not a single line was straight – the mirrors curved into witty shapes, the artwork swooped in elegant bends. The space was full of movement and warmth, like a smiling invitation. In the
far
corner, nearest the counter, was a white-gated children’s section like a mini-crèche, with tiny chairs, tables and toys. On the wall in jaunty lettering were the words ‘Mini CB bees’ (the C for Crichton, the B for Brown) and prices of mini-meals, milk shakes and juices. There was a toy till and even a toy coffee machine. Genius. It was so good she wanted to have a baby.

She took a step in and realised she was standing on a vast mauve mat. To the left of it, small, brightly coloured steps beckoned children to their section. Where the mat finished, a honey-coloured stone floor began which led her to the counter. She rushed towards it. What a counter. She placed her hand on it, almost to prove that her eyes weren’t lying. Was it marble? Was it stone? Was it tiles? It was warm to the touch, mottled and honey – almost the same as the floor except gloss. It curved round to the side of the restaurant where four vibrantly coloured bar stools nestled below it like sleeping punk flamingos. At two of the stools, on the counter, sat two glistening state-of-the-art Applemacs, one purple, one cerise.

The coffee machine now glistened in contrast, resplendent in its black and chrome stateliness. The back wall was mirrored and the shelves were glass which more than doubled the size of the place. She realised she was now staring at herself, and that she was gawping. She started to laugh, then put her hands over her mouth and turned back to the café to take another look. I’m the manager of this, she told herself, a deep throaty laugh escaping from the base of her throat. I am Manager of Crichton Brown’s.

‘Morning!’

She jumped and turned. When Dan saw her
expression
, a grin almost split his face. He started speaking and then stopped. There was that crease again, just where she’d left it. His eyes were luminous and he looked like a little boy who’d just found Santa. She wanted to hug him. She made do with laughing out loud. He returned the complement. They stood there laughing at each other. It seemed the only thing to do. Her laughter had a life of its own and just when Katie expected it to makes its excuses and leave, it chose to stay. She let go of all her reserves and roared till it hurt. Dan returned the compliment. This Katie found very funny and her laughter, only recently ready to wend its way, found new energy and made to stay with vigour. So they stood there having hysterics at each other for a while.

‘I said “
Hello
”.’

Paul was staring at them, bemused.

‘Hello,’ she grinned.

Ten minutes later, the three of them were sitting at one of the new shiny tables.

‘So Katie,’ said Paul. ‘What do you think?’

She gave a big sigh. ‘Oh Paul,’ she breathed finally. ‘Dan.’ She tried to find the right words. ‘I think it’s absolutely wonderful.’

There was silence. Paul grinned happily at her and Dan looked down. But the glimpse of a deepening colour in his cheeks gave her a sudden surge of confidence. ‘And I’m honoured and excited to be your manager,’ she said keenly. Dan looked up at her, his deep blue eyes focused on hers completely. She gave him a slow, wide smile. ‘Thank you for trusting me,’ she said softly. ‘I won’t let you down.’

They stared at each other until they heard a little cough from Paul. He raised his espresso cup. They raised theirs in the air and clinked Paul’s.

And then Sukie arrived.

She stopped still. She stared at everything in turn, pointing and gasping and then turning back to them.

‘Oh. My. God,’ she breathed, open-mouthed. They all laughed. ‘Oh my God,’ she repeated, pointing at the artwork, and they laughed again. ‘Oh my
God
, oh my
God
.’ She whirled round, pointing at the counter and the mirrored back wall.

‘I feel like I’m watching
Big Brother
live,’ mused Katie happily. ‘When do I get to vote?’

‘Oh my
God
.’ Sukie was pointing at the children’s area.

‘You did this,’ Katie told the boys. ‘How does it feel?’

‘Oh my
God
,’ they heard Sukie in the distance. She was running round, sitting on every chair in the place.

‘Good,’ Paul confided. ‘Although most of it was Dan’s idea.’

‘No mate –’

‘
Yes
,’ interrupted Paul. ‘The café-style crèche . . .’ he began listing.

‘Well –’

‘The Internet sites –’

‘Yeah, but you said to make them Apples –’

‘The artwork – it’s a local artist,’ Paul told Katie, ‘they’re all for sale.’

‘That was Katie’s idea,’ rushed Dan. ‘I thought it was brilliant. And the café crèche. She suggested having a kiddies’ section. I just took it one further.’

Katie was speechless.

‘Oh my
God
.’ Sukie again, now waving at a monitor in the top corner above the till.

‘The colour scheme, the mirror at the back, the footsteps to the crèche, the interconnecting tables: everything. I’m just money. He’s money and brains.’ Paul gave Dan an English bear-hug – a sort of teddy-bear-hug – over the table.

‘Thanks mate,’ coughed Dan.

Sukie grabbed Paul and Dan from behind in a Sukie bear-hug and almost winded them.