Promised
Page 5

I virtually burst through the swing door of the kitchen, finding Paul putting his coat on. ‘All right, Livy?’ he asks, his rounded face scanning me.
‘Yep.’ I dive into the large metal sink to wash my sweaty hands as the bistro phone starts ringing from the wall. Paul takes the initiative to answer, obviously concluding that I’m dead set on scrubbing my hands until they disappear.
‘For you, Livy. I’m outta here.’
‘Have a great weekend, Paul,’ I say, drying my hands before I take the phone. ‘Hello?’
‘Livy, honey, are you busy tonight?’ Del asks.
‘Tonight?’
‘Yes, I have a catering contract for a charity gala and I’ve been let down. Could you be a doll and help me out?’
‘Oh, Del, I’d love to, but . . .’ I have no idea why I said I’d love to, because I really wouldn’t, and I can’t finish that sentence because I can’t find a ‘but’. I have nothing to do this evening except faff around my grandmother and get told off for it.
‘Ah, Livy, I’ll pay you well. I’m desperate.’
‘What are the hours?’ I sigh, leaning against the wall.
‘You star! Seven to midnight. It’s not hard, honey. Just walk around with trays of canapés and glasses of champagne. Piece of cake.’
A piece of cake? It’s still walking, and my feet are still killing me. ‘I need to go home to check on my nan and change. What should I wear?’
‘Black, and be at the staff entrance of the Hilton on Park Lane at seven, okay?’
‘Sure.’
He hangs up, and I hang my head, but my attention is soon pulled to the swing door when Sylvie bursts through, her brown eyes wide. ‘Have you seen it?’
Her question quickly reminds me of the stunning creature who’s sitting drinking coffee in the bistro. I almost laugh as I place the receiver back in its cradle. ‘Yes, I’ve seen him.’
‘Holy f**king shit, Livy! Men like that should carry a warning.’ She glances back into the bistro and starts fanning her face. ‘Oh God, he’s blowing the steam off his coffee.’
I don’t need a visual. I can imagine it. ‘Are you working tonight?’ I ask, trying to divert her dribbling into the kitchen.
‘Yes!’ She swings back towards me. ‘Did Del ask you?’
‘He did.’ I unhook my keys and lock the doors that lead to the alley.
‘He tried to get me to ask you, but I know you’re not mad about night work, what with your nan at home. Are you doing it?’
‘Well, I agreed.’ I give her a tired look.
Her serious face grins. ‘It’s closing time. Would you like to let him know that it’s time to go?’
Stupidly, I’m battling off the shakes again at the thought of looking at him, and I chastise myself for it. ‘Yes, I’ll tell him,’ I declare with all the confidence I’m not feeling. Rolling my shoulders back, I walk with sureness past Sylvie and into the bistro, coming to an abrupt halt when I see he’s gone. The strangest sensation comes over me as I scan the area, feeling a bizarre sense of desertion mixed with disappointment.
‘Oh. Where’s he gone?’ Sylvie whines, pushing past me.
‘I don’t know,’ I whisper, slowly walking to the abandoned sofa and picking up a half-drunk coffee and three pound coins. I separate the napkin that’s stuck to the bottom of the saucer and start to screw it up, but some black lines catch my attention and I’m quickly unravelling it with one hand and flattening it on the table.
I gasp. Then I get a little mad.
Probably the worst Americano that I’ve ever insulted my mouth with.
M.
My face screws up in disgust, along with the napkin as I ball it and stuff it in the cup. The arrogant arsehole. Nothing makes me mad, and I know it exasperates my grandmother and Gregory, but I’m really heated with annoyance now. And it really is over something quite silly. But then I’m not sure if it’s because I failed to make good coffee when I’ve been doing so well, or simply because the perfect man didn’t approve of it. And what does M stand for, anyway?
After disposing of the cup, the saucer, and the offending napkin, then locking up with Sylvie, I finally reach the conclusion that M stands for Moron.
Chapter 2
Del leads us through the staff entrance of the hotel, dishing out instructions, pointing to the serving area and ensuring that we’re aware of the type of clientele.
Bottom line: posh.
I can deal with that. Once I’d checked on Nan, she virtually pushed me out the front door and chucked my black Converse out after me before she went to get ready for bingo with George at the local oldies group.
‘Never leave anyone with an empty glass,’ Del calls over his shoulder, leading on, ‘and ensure all empties are delivered back to the kitchen so they can be washed and refilled.’
I follow Sylvie, who’s following Del, listening intently as I pile my heavy hair up and secure it with a hair tie. It sounds easy enough, and I absolutely love people-watching so tonight could be fun.
‘Here.’ Del stops and thrusts a round silver tray at both of us, looking down at my feet. ‘You didn’t have any black flats?’
Following his line of sight, I look down and pull my black trousers up a little. ‘These are black.’ I wriggle my toes within my Converse, thinking how much more my feet would hurt if I were wearing anything else.
He doesn’t say any more; just rolls his eyes and leads on until we’re in a chaotic kitchen space where dozens of hotel staff are flying around, shouting and barking orders at each other. I move closer to Sylvie as we continue walking. ‘Is it just us?’ I ask, suddenly a little alarmed. All of the frantic activity suggests a lot of guests.
‘No, there will be the agency staff he uses, too. We’re back-ups.’
‘Does he do this a lot, then?’
‘It’s his main income. I don’t know why he keeps the bistro.’
I nod thoughtfully to myself. ‘Doesn’t the hotel provide a catering service?’
‘Oh yes, but the type of people you’re about to feed and water call the shots, and if they want Del, they’ll have Del. He’s notorious in this game. You have to try his canapés.’ She kisses her fingertips, making me laugh.
My boss shows us around the room where the function is being held and introduces us to the many other waiters and waitresses, all looking bored and inconvenienced. This is obviously a regular thing for them, but not me. I’m looking forward to it.
‘Ready?’ Sylvie places a final glass of champagne onto my tray. ‘Now, the trick is to hold it on your palm.’ She picks up her own tray, her palm underneath in the centre. ‘Then swing it up onto your shoulder, like this.’ In one fluid movement, the tray glides through the air and lands on her shoulder, without even a chink from glasses touching. I’m fascinated. ‘See?’ The tray glides back down from her shoulder until it’s at waist level again. ‘When offering, hold it here, and when you’re moving around, keep it up here.’ The tray swishes through the air, landing on her shoulder perfectly again. ‘Remember to relax when you’re on the move. Don’t be stiff. You try.’