The Undomestic Goddess
Page 101
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“You’re not on my list,” she says at last.
“Well, I should be there.” I keep my head well down. “There must be a mistake.”
“Let me call up.…” Melanie taps on her phone and has a brief conversation with someone called Jan, then looks up.
“She’ll be down to see you.” She gestures to the leather sofas with a smile. “Please take a seat.”
I head toward the seating area—then veer in a sharp U-turn as I see David Spellman from Corporate sitting on one of the sofas with a client. Not that he seems to have recognized me. I walk toward a rack of glossy leaflets on Carter Spink’s philosophy and bury my head in one on Dispute Resolution.
I’ve never actually read any of these leaflets before. God, they really are a load of meaningless crap.
“Trish?”
“Er … yes?” I swivel round to see a woman in a tuxedo with a raddled face. She’s holding some typed sheets and regarding me with a frown.
“Jan Martin, head of waiting staff. You’re not on my list. Have you worked for us before?”
“I’m new,” I say, keeping my voice low. “But I’ve worked for Ebury Catering. Down in Gloucestershire.”
“Don’t know it.” She consults her paper again and flips to the second page, her brow creased in impatience. “Love, you’re not on the list. I don’t know what you’re doing here.”
“I spoke to a guy,” I say without flickering. “He said you could do with extra.”
“A guy?” She looks perplexed. “Who? Tony?”
“I don’t remember his name. But he said to come here.”
“He couldn’t have said—”
“This is Carter Spink, isn’t it?” I look around. “95 Cheapside? A big retirement party?”
“Yes.” I see the beginnings of doubt on the woman’s face.
“Well, I was told to come here.” I allow just the faintest belligerence into my voice.
I can see the calculation going on in this woman’s head: if she turns me away I might cause a scene, she’s got other pressing stuff to think about, what’s one extra waitress …
“All right!” she says at last, with an irritated noise. “But you’ll have to change. What’s your name again?”
“Trish Geiger.”
“That’s right.” She scribbles it down. “Well you’d better come up, Trish.”
I feel almost elated as I travel up in the service elevator with Jan, a plastic label reading Trish Geiger attached to my lapel. Now all I need is to keep my head down, bide my time, and, when the moment is right, get onto the eleventh floor.
We come out in the kitchens attached to the executive function rooms, and I look around in surprise. I had no idea there was all this back here. It’s like going backstage at a theater. Chefs are working busily at the cooking stations, and waiting staff are milling around in distinctive green and white striped uniforms.
“The outfits are in there.” Jan points to a huge wicker basket full of folded uniforms. “You’ll need to get changed.”
“OK.” I rummage around for an outfit in my size and take it off to the Ladies to change. I touch up my magenta lipstick and pull my hair further round my face, then look at my watch.
It’s five-forty now. The party’s at six. By about ten past, the eleventh floor should be clearing. Arnold is a very popular partner; no one’s going to miss his farewell speech if they can help it. Plus, at Carter Spink parties, the speeches always happen early on, so people can get back to work if they need to.
And while everyone’s listening I’ll slip down to Arnold’s office. It should work. It has to work. As I stare at my own bizarre reflection, I feel a grim resolve hardening inside me. He’s not going to get away with everyone thinking he’s a cheery, harmless old teddy bear. He’s not going to get away with it.
At ten to six we all gather in one of the kitchens and receive our orders. Hot canapés … cold canapés … I barely listen to any of it. It’s not like I’m intending to do any actual waiting. After Jan’s lecture is over, I follow the herd of waiting staff out of the kitchen. I’m given a tray of champagne glasses to carry, which I put down as soon as I can, then head back to the kitchen and grab an open bottle of champagne and a napkin. As soon as I’m sure no one’s looking, I escape to the Ladies.
OK. This is the difficult bit. I lock myself in a cubicle and wait for fifteen minutes in utter silence. I don’t clatter anything and I don’t sneeze and I don’t giggle when I hear a girl rehearsing her breakup speech to someone called Mike. It’s the longest fifteen minutes of my life.
“Well, I should be there.” I keep my head well down. “There must be a mistake.”
“Let me call up.…” Melanie taps on her phone and has a brief conversation with someone called Jan, then looks up.
“She’ll be down to see you.” She gestures to the leather sofas with a smile. “Please take a seat.”
I head toward the seating area—then veer in a sharp U-turn as I see David Spellman from Corporate sitting on one of the sofas with a client. Not that he seems to have recognized me. I walk toward a rack of glossy leaflets on Carter Spink’s philosophy and bury my head in one on Dispute Resolution.
I’ve never actually read any of these leaflets before. God, they really are a load of meaningless crap.
“Trish?”
“Er … yes?” I swivel round to see a woman in a tuxedo with a raddled face. She’s holding some typed sheets and regarding me with a frown.
“Jan Martin, head of waiting staff. You’re not on my list. Have you worked for us before?”
“I’m new,” I say, keeping my voice low. “But I’ve worked for Ebury Catering. Down in Gloucestershire.”
“Don’t know it.” She consults her paper again and flips to the second page, her brow creased in impatience. “Love, you’re not on the list. I don’t know what you’re doing here.”
“I spoke to a guy,” I say without flickering. “He said you could do with extra.”
“A guy?” She looks perplexed. “Who? Tony?”
“I don’t remember his name. But he said to come here.”
“He couldn’t have said—”
“This is Carter Spink, isn’t it?” I look around. “95 Cheapside? A big retirement party?”
“Yes.” I see the beginnings of doubt on the woman’s face.
“Well, I was told to come here.” I allow just the faintest belligerence into my voice.
I can see the calculation going on in this woman’s head: if she turns me away I might cause a scene, she’s got other pressing stuff to think about, what’s one extra waitress …
“All right!” she says at last, with an irritated noise. “But you’ll have to change. What’s your name again?”
“Trish Geiger.”
“That’s right.” She scribbles it down. “Well you’d better come up, Trish.”
I feel almost elated as I travel up in the service elevator with Jan, a plastic label reading Trish Geiger attached to my lapel. Now all I need is to keep my head down, bide my time, and, when the moment is right, get onto the eleventh floor.
We come out in the kitchens attached to the executive function rooms, and I look around in surprise. I had no idea there was all this back here. It’s like going backstage at a theater. Chefs are working busily at the cooking stations, and waiting staff are milling around in distinctive green and white striped uniforms.
“The outfits are in there.” Jan points to a huge wicker basket full of folded uniforms. “You’ll need to get changed.”
“OK.” I rummage around for an outfit in my size and take it off to the Ladies to change. I touch up my magenta lipstick and pull my hair further round my face, then look at my watch.
It’s five-forty now. The party’s at six. By about ten past, the eleventh floor should be clearing. Arnold is a very popular partner; no one’s going to miss his farewell speech if they can help it. Plus, at Carter Spink parties, the speeches always happen early on, so people can get back to work if they need to.
And while everyone’s listening I’ll slip down to Arnold’s office. It should work. It has to work. As I stare at my own bizarre reflection, I feel a grim resolve hardening inside me. He’s not going to get away with everyone thinking he’s a cheery, harmless old teddy bear. He’s not going to get away with it.
At ten to six we all gather in one of the kitchens and receive our orders. Hot canapés … cold canapés … I barely listen to any of it. It’s not like I’m intending to do any actual waiting. After Jan’s lecture is over, I follow the herd of waiting staff out of the kitchen. I’m given a tray of champagne glasses to carry, which I put down as soon as I can, then head back to the kitchen and grab an open bottle of champagne and a napkin. As soon as I’m sure no one’s looking, I escape to the Ladies.
OK. This is the difficult bit. I lock myself in a cubicle and wait for fifteen minutes in utter silence. I don’t clatter anything and I don’t sneeze and I don’t giggle when I hear a girl rehearsing her breakup speech to someone called Mike. It’s the longest fifteen minutes of my life.
