The Waitress (38 page)

Hugh woke, dry-mouthed and bleary-eyed, to a dark, cold, empty room. He turned to his new clock, which lay on an upturned cardboard box. Almost 10. He felt crap. And hungry. He’d make himself some toast in his cheap new Argos toaster. God, it was the silence he hated most. He leaned over to his remote control and switched on his cheap new telly from the bed. Maxine had insisted they be able to watch telly in bed and he was bloody grateful now. It was some crappy reality show – did anyone really watch them? – but it was good background noise. Good to see other losers in the world. He put on his slippers and a big loose sweatshirt and went downstairs.

The kitchen was stunning, even without any of its designer appliances and furniture. It had taken them weeks to decide on the tiles and cupboard doors and he had to hand it to Maxine, she’d got it right. He flicked the switch for the lights and filled up his cheap new kettle, turning on his cheap new telly with the remote by the sink. Someone in the reality show was crying. Hugh turned to watch as the kettle boiled. Two girls comforted another girl who was distraught because she’d been called a rude name. Lucky bitch, he thought. How old was she? She looked about nineteen. He wished he was nineteen again and upset because someone had called him a rude name. Better than having your whole life crumble round your ears. The kettle boiled and he realised he hadn’t put the toast on. He went to the American-style fridge, big enough for a family yet stylish
enough
for a young London couple. Maxine hadn’t taken it with everything else because there hadn’t been enough room in the carpenter’s van. It had half a loaf of bread and some mouldy cheese in it. He took two slices and put them in his cheap new toaster and turned back to the telly. The girl was saying that she wanted to go home. Lucky bitch, he thought. I’m at home and I fucking hate it. He took his toast upstairs, turning off all the lights as he went. He sat in his bed, drinking tea, eating toast and watching
Big Brother
. They were now cooking together, laughing and jostling loudly for attention. Lucky bastards, he thought as he lay down in his cheap new bed and went to sleep.

Katie couldn’t believe literary critics. First they put you on a pedestal you didn’t ask to be on, critically acclaiming your first book and calling you a debut wonder, and then they pan your second book, calling you a has-been. I mean give a girl a break. Haven’t they heard of the Curse of the Second Book? How could you enjoy the gift you’ve been born with when you have the whole of the country on the edge of their seats, waiting for you to fail? And anyway, she’d be willing to bet that none of
them
could do it. Oh yes, it was easy to criticise someone else, but to actually put yourself on the line? She didn’t think so. You see, the trick was learning how to write without the ghosts of your readers haunting you. All those ex-boyfriends, all those potential boyfriends, all the would-be ex-boyfriends, all your old friends, your old enemies, your family, all those sad critics – all those people with crinkly smiles and hazel-flecked eyes . . . all those people
everywhere
. How
could
you keep sense of who you were while at the same time letting go? And all the endless questions – Are the characters fictional? Were you using your book as catharsis? Or revenge? Was that me in the book? Was that your mother? Is that Dan?

Oh! It was too much to bear. How would they like it if she started publicly criticising
their
jobs . . . ‘
I opened Mr Smith’s reviews of this week’s best paperbacks with dread and awe – could he possibly have been as accurate and fulsome as last week?
’

The truth was, did any writer actually enjoy writing? It was one of those eternal questions. She was nothing but a victim of her gift. She didn’t choose it, it chose her. That’s right – it had chosen her.

Katie spread her hands over the keyboard and began again.

Matt was halfway back down the street before he was even able to take in what had happened. Oh sweet Jesus, she was a goddess. And he should know; he’d felt her breasts. He looked at his hands, reliving the moment.

He’d just stood there, not expecting anything, just waiting to say goodnight and have her peck him on the cheek if he was lucky – but no! She’d swayed towards him and landed him one right on the lips, one of those kisses you know means business, leaving a boy in no doubt whatsoever of where he stood.

Then, when he’d imagined it was all over for this lifetime, it went into overdrive, like she’d suddenly sold her soul to the Devil. Talk about being in the right place
at
the right time. He’d lost himself totally in the moment, while trying to etch it in his mind for ever. He remembered thinking that the rest of his life didn’t matter any more. None of it mattered. This was what it was all about. This was real and raw, this was life, this was death, this was –

Then he’d got her zip stuck.

Precious seconds were lost and then the hall light came on in her parents’ house and she was sucking herself away from him, unclamping his hands from that body, whizzing round, opening the front door and grinning a cheery goodnight at him. He’d stood in the late summer evening, staring at the closed door in front of him, dazed, confused and so happy he wanted to live for ever and so happy he was ready to die.

‘Hello!’ said Jon, diving on to Katie’s bed.

There was no answer. He looked up.

‘You all right?’

Katie was sitting at her desk, her arms slumped to her side, her head on the keyboard. She lifted her head suddenly, like a Jack-in-a-box.

‘You all right? You missed a cracking
Big Brother
. They made Bobby cry.’

‘Hunugh,’ she said.

‘How’s it going?’

Katie’s head fell on to the keyboard again. ‘One sentence.’

Jon lay back on the bed and laughed. Katie started moaning. ‘And it’s lousy,’ she wailed. ‘It took me four hours and it’s lousy. I just re-read it after a break – you
know
, for some distance – and . . .’ she started to weep, ‘it hasn’t got a verb in it.’

Jon felt his shoulders lighten. ‘Welcome,’ he sighed, ‘to my world.’

24

Dan stared at his reflection in the jeweller’s window, imagining what Katie would be doing at the café now. It had been a whole week since Sandy’s wedding and once they’d both got back to work it had been far easier to pretend that it just hadn’t happened. In fact, they’d hardly spoken to each other. He’d decided that the kiss really had been a drunken mistake on her part and she was now probably scared that he might come after her. The last thing he wanted to do was turn into another Hugh, so he had made a concerted effort all week to appear as indifferent to her as possible. In fact, he’d come close to telling her about his engagement just so that they could be normal with each other again, but he’d never been alone with her long enough. No, he’d wait until it was somehow relevant – maybe tell everyone at work together. Meanwhile, his wedding plans were hotting up, which was really helping to take his mind off the kiss. That and his mother’s mantra.

Standing outside the jeweller’s on a bright Saturday morning, he was suddenly assaulted by the image of Katie coming down the hotel stairs in that ball-gown. He let out a long, slow sigh.

‘I know,’ sighed Geraldine, bending forward beside him. ‘It’s so hard isn’t it?’ He looked down at her. She was staring hard at the rings in the window her neck slowly extended like a feeding tortoise.

‘Hmm,’ she murmured. ‘You see, I love that one, but it’s just like Sandy’s – only of course much bigger – and the last thing I want is her to think I’m copying her. As if. But it
is
wonderful. Unless, maybe it’s a bit too big. I mean I don’t want to have to take it off if I’m on the tube, do I? God Sandy would be green. But then, I’m bound to find one that’s similar, aren’t I? I mean that is today’s look. Then again, should I go for something so fashionable? Or should I go for a timeless classic instead? I mean I do have to love it in fifty years’ time.’

The mantra, the mantra, the mantra.

‘I never thought it would be so difficult.’ She stood up tall, a thought occurring to her. ‘Which one do you prefer?’ she asked Dan. He looked at the trayful of rings.

‘That one.’

‘Which one?’

‘
That
one.’

‘
Which
one?’

Dan nodded violently towards a ring. ‘
That
one!’

‘It’s no bloody use just repeating yourself. Which one are you talking about?’

‘The one with the wotsits.’

‘Do you mean diamonds, Daniel?’

‘Yes.’

She gave him one of her looks. ‘They’ve all got diamonds and you’re being a dickhead.’

He cocked his head at her. ‘What does that make you,’ he asked. ‘Mrs Dickhead?’

‘Dan, what the hell is your problem?’

There was no ignoring that tone; he’d gone and done it again.

‘My problem,’ he said slowly, ‘is should we be buying rings at all if we can’t do it without name-calling?’

‘You had a problem before then and you know it.’

‘What? Because I don’t know how to describe the ring with four diamonds instead of five?’

Geraldine stared at him. ‘I knew I should have come with a friend,’ she muttered. ‘You spoil everything.’

He lowered his eyes. ‘Sorry.’

‘Oh well, as long as you’re sorry. That’s fine then. Doesn’t matter that you’re spoiling my once-in-a-lifetime experience.’

‘You’re right. Let’s go in.’

‘Oh I’m
really
in the mood now.’

‘Look, I’m sorry. You’re right, I spoil everything. I’m just a bit preoccupied with the café –’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake, not again. This is the first whole Saturday you’ve had off in God knows how long. You live and breathe that bloody café. I’ve got a career too, but I manage not to bring it home with me. At least when you were in the city you cut off at weekends. If I’d known the café was going to take over our lives, I’d . . .’ she trailed off. She’d made her point. Sometimes it was best to leave things hanging.

‘You’d what?’

‘I don’t know, Daniel. I just hadn’t realised it was going to have such an impact on our life together. One bloody
Saturday
looking for the most important ring of my life and you’re still in bloody Porter’s Green.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m crap. I don’t know what you see in me.’

She half-smiled. ‘Neither do I.’

‘Do you forgive me?’

Geraldine gave a deep sigh before giving him the other half of the smile. ‘Well now,’ she said, ‘that all depends on how many wotsits my engagement ring has.’

Two hours later, the wedding list assistant at Harrods handed them their forms and Geraldine giggled with excitement. Dan smiled and put his arm round her. It had taken a lot of wotsits and a two-course lunch with a classy Bordeaux at Fortnum’s, but she was finally back to herself again. And he knew he could expect this familiar sensation of shell-shock from one of her bombs to have died down by this time tomorrow. They went to the china department first, Geraldine almost running up the escalators. They held hands at the entrance, took a deep breath and went in to find the dinner service of their dreams.

Meanwhile, Sukie Woodrow, tomorrow’s Brit-flick sensation, watched her feet take her to her last audition for the
Tale of Two Cities
adaptation. She looked up at the people waiting at the bus queue. No one glanced her way. Was all this about to change? Was her anonymity coming to an end? Was she finally about to gain recognition? Was this where her life would begin? Her stomach clenched. Just one more audition. So near and yet so far. Greta had phoned her just yesterday and told her the good news.

‘Darling, it’s between you and that minx Miranda.’

‘Miranda Armstrong?’

‘Yes. You can do it.’

‘But she’s half my age. How can she be up for that part?’

‘I know. It’s utter madness. They’ll be auditioning foetuses next.’

‘Oh bloody hell.’

‘Now now, my love, my Katherine Hepburn, my silver screen queen. Do not give up hope.’

‘So it’s just us two.’

‘It is just you two. You’re within a cat’s whisker. The part of Sydney Carton has gone to Harry Hampton.’

‘Hal!’ cried out Sukie. ‘Fantastic! I was with him at The Almeida – the dynamic was exactly the same, he had an unrequited crush on me. You told them that, didn’t you?’

‘I did,’ sighed Greta, ‘and they said “Where’s The Almeida?” ’

‘Oh for God’s sake.’

‘But it will help you and him become those people instantly.’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s the good news. The bad news is that they’re auditioning you first. You’re in the morning, Miranda’s in the afternoon.’

‘Damn.’

‘So you
have
to make a lasting impression. You have to
inhabit
Lucie, so that when these silly TV people go to bed at night, they see you as her and not that lanky teenage gobshite.’

And so it was. Sukie Woodrow, tomorrow’s Brit-flick
sensation
, stared at her hob-nailed, tightly laced ankle boots, inhabiting Lucie Manette, nineteenth-century heroine. And as she walked past the bus stop she wondered if her time had finally come.

As soon as she entered the now familiar audition room, she saw Hal perched on the back of a chair, drinking tea with the cameraman. She dearly wanted to do the luvvie thing and rush up to him, throw her arms around him and launch into reminiscing about their work together, but it would look too staged. And anyway, it might be good to have some tension between them. After all, Sydney Carton and Lucie were hardly friends. She smiled at the director and screenplay writer and gave the cameraman a wave. They all acknowledged her with the polite satisfaction of knowing that they had less to fear than she did. Ooh, she thought, we’re just like one big happy, dysfunctional family. She plopped her bag and little summer cardi down on a chair at the side of the room and went over to Hal. He gave her an encouraging smile and a kiss on her cheek. Good man. He hadn’t had to do that.

‘Congratulations,’ she whispered.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Good luck.’

And that was when she remembered. Hal had bad breath.
Really
bad breath. Hal, short for Halitosis, she had privately joked during their run together. She had spent her entire time at The Almeida popping mints and offering him them on the pretext that really she needed them. How could she have forgotten? And today she had no mints in her bag. Which meant she had to remember her lines, work to the right camera, obey the twelve-year-old
director’s
idea of direction, perform the part for the first time with an actor and make a lasting impression – all while not breathing in.