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He snaps the light off under the pan and smashes dramatically through the doors, saying, ‘Which one?’ I don’t think this pugilistic attitude bodes well.
I Gollum my way past Tony and lead him to the relevant table, while making diplomatic, soothing noises.
‘What seems to be the problem?’ Tony booms, hands on hips in his not-that-white chef’s whites.
‘This is the problem,’ Mr Keith says, picking up his fork and dropping it again in disgust. ‘How can you think this is acceptable?’
Tony boggles at him. ‘Do you know what goes into a carbonara? This is a traditional Italian recipe.’
‘Eggs and parmesan, is it not? This tastes like Dairylea that’s been sieved through a wrestler’s jockstrap.’
‘Oh sorry, I didn’t realise you were a restaurant critic.’
Tony must be wildly high on his last Embassy Regal to be this rude to a customer.
‘You don’t need to be A.A. Gill to know this is atrocious. However, since you’ve raised it, I am reviewing you tonight for The Star, yes.’
Tony, already pale thanks to a diet of fags and Greggs bacon breakfast rolls, becomes perceptibly paler.
If this wasn’t a crisis and wildly unprofessional, I’d laugh. I pretend to rub my face thoughtfully to staunch the impulse.
‘Would you prefer something else, then?’ Tony says.
Tony folds his arms and jerks his head towards me as he says this, and I know in the kitchen I’m going to get a bollocking along the lines of COULD YOU NOT HAVE HANDLED THAT YOURSELF.
‘Not really, last time I asked for you to replace my meal you reheated it. Am I going to be seeing this excrescence a third time?’
I notice Mrs Keith looks oddly calm, possibly grateful someone else is catching it from him instead. Unless she’s a fake wife, a critic’s stooge.
‘I thought you wanted it warmer?’
‘Yes, a warmer replacement meal, not this gunk again.’
Tony turns to me: ‘Why didn’t you tell me he wanted a new dish?’
I frown: ‘Er, I did …?’
‘No, you said to warm it up.’
I’m so startled by this bare-faced untruth I have no comeback.
‘No, I didn’t, I said …?’ I trail off, as repeating our whole conversation seems too much treachery, but am I supposed to stand here and say this is all my fault?
A pause. Yes. Yes, I am.
‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Tony continues, entire dining room riveted by this spectacle.
I open my mouth to reply and no words come out.
‘Oh right, you are! Tell you what. You’re fired!’
‘What?!’
I think he must be joking, but Tony points at the door. Across the room, Callum is shocked, mouth hanging open and hands frozen round a giant pepper pot.
‘Oh, hang on, this seems excessive …’ says Mr Keith, looking suddenly chastened. This is why Tony’s done it. It’s the only way to get the upper hand again, and hope his write-up doesn’t focus solely on the gusset-flavoured carbonara.
You could hear a pin drop – apart from Dean Martin crooning about Old Napoli.
I untie my apron, chuck it on the floor, find my handbag behind the bar with clumsy hands.
I dart out, without looking back. Incipient tears are stinging my eyeballs, but no way are they seeing me weep.
When I’m round the corner, fumbling for a tissue as my non-waterproof mascara makes a steady descent, I get a text from Tony.
Sorry, sexy. Sometimes you need to give them a scalp. We’ll have you back in a fortnight and if critic fuck finds out, tell him your mum died or something so we took pity. Call it a holiday! Unpaid though.
That’s Amore.
Then another realisation.
For fuck’s sake, I forgot my coat!
3 (#ulink_b562e472-141e-5784-a524-830b482ec225)
First thought: it’s a prisoner of war. They can’t torture it, so leave it behind. Second: damn it, it’s the bubblegum-pink faux fur. It’s armour, it’s my personality in textile form. It’s up there in sentimental value after my ancient tortoise, Jammy. Also, I’m shivering already.
Wait, wait – I have a man on the inside: Callum. I message him to ask, thinking he’ll surely feel sorry enough for me to do it.
Insta-ping.
I will give you your coat if you will go on a date with me
I blink, twice. You’ve just seen me get sacked in the most public, humiliating way and now you’re holding me to sexual ransom? I consider a blunt response saying, ‘I’m washing my nipple hair that night.’ Or pointing out it was only £50 in the Miss Selfridge sale three years ago so definitely isn’t worth that, concluding with the insult of a cry-with-laughter emoji.
But the objective is to get my coat back, not a load of middle fingers and a photo of it in the scraps bin.
Hahaha if I’m not too unemployed and skint to stand my round
See you at the front door in 1 min?
I would pay. Is that a yes lol?
Is there anything less charming than someone trying to push you into something unwillingly and acknowledging they are pushing you into it, and carrying on anyway?
OK, lying it is.
Sure
… LY NOT. And he knows I’ve got a boyfriend. We had a conversation where he said ‘Lol his name is Robin do you ever call him Cock Robin’ and I said no and he said hahaha, wicked bants.
Outside the door, there’s no sign of Callum. I wait for five minutes which feels like five hours and then text him a question mark. Another three minutes and he appears round the door.
‘It’s busy with only me on.’
I wonder if I am supposed to apologise for this.
I look down at the material he’s holding. A beige trench coat.
‘That’s not mine.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s pink and fluffy.’
Callum disappears back inside. Minutes pass and I think: there’s no way more than one piece of outerwear the colour of taramosalata in the cloakroom to justify this length of hold up. I bob down and peer under the tea-coloured nets in the window. Callum is taking an order for a table of eight people. He is chatting and joking and obviously in no rush.
Frustration wins out over shame and I wrench the door open and march back in. I feel multiple pairs of eyes on me as I rifle among the row of pegs on the back of the door behind the bar and claim my property.
‘Young lady – young lady?’
I turn and see Mr Keith is beckoning me over. I glance warily in the direction of the kitchen, but what’s Tony going to do, sack me again?
I approach. He’s dabbing his mouth with a napkin.
‘I’m sorry about what happened just now. If I’d known the consequences …’
‘Oh, it’s fine,’ I say. ‘It’s not your fault.’
‘In the future, remember honesty is always the best policy.’
I stare at him. He’s telling me off again? For fu—
‘I was honest. The chef was lying,’ I snap.
‘You’re saying he didcook me another meal?’
Ah.
‘No he didn’t but he told me he wouldn’t so I …’
‘Lied?’
‘To keep my job! He told me to lie!’
‘And how’s that working out for you?’
I open and close my mouth and dumbly repeat: ‘He was the one lying.’
‘Anyway. I’ve decided not to write it up, so as not to embarrass you.’
My jaw drops.
‘That’s what he wanted! That’s why he sacked me! So you’d feel bad about saying how shit the food is!’
I’ve become shrill and everyone’s looking round now.
‘Write it up! Tell everyone what it’s like, say I was sacked, I don’t care!’
‘That’s not a very collegiate attitude, is it?’
‘Or …’ I say, I feel the room hold its breath, ‘I’ll write it up for you. I could write you a great piece about this place. No conflict of interest anymore.’
Mr Keith clears his throat.
‘Well. Employee of the Month.’
I’m about to mention the time the kitchen’s tub of Stork margarine had what looked like rodent footprints in it, and Tony used an ice cream scoop to take off the top layer and carried on using it. Or, I could get my phone out and show Mr Keith the text I just received. Yes, that’d do it.
Callum is looking over with an aghast expression. When his line of sight moves to the kitchen door I know what’s coming.
Tony swaggers out holding another plate of pasta, affecting a casual air of bonhomie. When he spots me, his eyes are pinwheels.
‘Can’t stay away when you’re not being paid? Go on, Georgina, on your way. This customer doesn’t want more hassle from you.’
Tony sets the plate down. It actually looks half decent – he might’ve Googled ‘carbonara’ and cracked an egg.
‘I’m not hassling him, he spoke to me. I came back for my coat.’
Any noises of scraping cutlery in the dining room are yet to resume, so it’s us and volare, woooooaaah oh.
At that moment, my eyes settle on someone beyond Mr Keith. A little girl with pageboy hair and a disproportionately large forehead, wearing a large paper crown with BIRTHDAY on it, tomato sauce splattered across her cheeks. She’s paused in the middle of eating penne marinara and along with her awestruck family, is listening to every single word in this unseemly stand-off. We’re ruining a kid’s fifth birthday. Given everyone’s poised to see what I’ll do next, I’m ruining it.
Some of my few good childhood memories are of the excitement of being taken out for dinner, eating chicken nuggets in baskets and hustling for a second Coca Cola.
‘Forget it. I only wanted my coat. I’m done,’ I say.
‘Don’t let the door hit you etc. etc.,’ Tony mutters. Then louder, to Mr Keith: ‘I hope her drama doesn’t keep you from enjoying your meal.’
‘I hope your meal doesn’t keep you from enjoying your meal,’ I say, and Mr Keith shakes his head in dismay.
I turn and walk out, conscious of the many pairs of eyes on me. I keep my focus at the level of the SPECIALS chalkboard, acknowledging no one. I never thought this job would go especially well, I didn’t think it would end with a dignity ransacking. The door falls shut behind me and I exhale.
I stride and stride some more and I’m still too het up to fumble for my fags. I don’t want this to turn into a panic attack. I remember what the counsellor said about concentrating on my breathing when I felt anxiety rising like a sea level inside me.
My phone pings.
Keep our date a secret yeah, Tony will go well ape if he finds out and sack me too lol
