The Undomestic Goddess
Page 103
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No. I can’t go in there. No way.
“Absolutely! I just have to … get some cocktail napkins.…” I try to back away, but she grabs me.
“No, you don’t! You wanted this job! Now work!”
She shoves me hard, and I stagger into the crowded room. I feel like a gladiator being pushed into the arena. Jan’s standing at the door, her arms folded. There’s no way out. I’m going to have to do this. I grip the tray more tightly, lower my head—and advance slowly into the crowded room.
I can’t walk naturally. My legs feel like boards. The hairs on the nape of my neck are standing on end; I can feel the blood pulsating through my ears. I edge past expensive suits, not daring to look up, not daring to pause in case I attract attention. I can’t believe this is happening. I’m dressed up in a green-and-white uniform, serving mini-éclairs to my former colleagues.
But one thing I’ve learned from doing parties with Eamonn is, the waiting staff are invisible. And sure enough, no one seems to have noticed.
Several hands have plucked éclairs from the tray, without even glancing at me. Everyone’s too busy laughing and chatting. The din is tremendous.
I can’t see Arnold anywhere. But he has to be here somewhere. I’m compelled to look for him, to raise my head and search him out. But I can’t risk it. Instead, I keep on moving steadily around the room. Familiar faces are everywhere. Snatches of conversation are making my ears prick up.
“Where’s Ketterman?” someone is asking as I pass by.
“In Dublin for the day,” replies Oliver Swan. “But he’ll be at the partners’ farewell dinner tomorrow night.” I breathe out in relief. If Ketterman were here I’m sure his laser eyes would pick me up at once.
“Éclairs. Fab!”
About eight hands dive into my tray at once and I come to a standstill. It’s a group of trainees. Hoovering food, as trainees always do at parties.
I’m starting to feel edgy. The longer I stand here without moving, the more exposed I feel. But I can’t get away. Their hands keep plunging in for more.
“Are there any more of the strawberry tarts, do you know?” a guy with rimless glasses asks me.
“Um … I don’t know,” I mutter, staring down.
Shit. Now he’s peering at me more closely. He’s bending down to get a good look. And I can’t pull my hair over my face because both hands are holding the tray.
“Is that … Samantha Sweeting?” He looks agog. “Is that you?”
“Samantha Sweeting?” One of the girls drops her éclair. Another gasps and claps her hand over her mouth.
“Um … yes,” I whisper at last, my face boiling. “It’s me. But please, don’t tell anyone. I want to keep a low profile.”
“So … this is what you do now?” The rimless-glasses guy looks aghast. “You’re a waitress?”
The trainees are all staring at me as though I’m the Ghost of Failed Lawyers Future.
“It’s not so bad.” I attempt an upbeat smile. “You get free canapés!”
“So you make one mistake—and that’s it?” gulps the girl who dropped her éclair. “Your legal career is ruined forever?”
“Er … pretty much.” I nod. “Can I offer you another?”
But no one seems hungry anymore. In fact, they all look rather green about the gills.
“I might just … pop back to my desk,” stammers the guy with rimless glasses. “Just check I haven’t got anything outstanding …”
“Me too,” says the girl, thrusting down her glass.
“Samantha Sweeting is here!” I suddenly hear another of the trainees hissing to a group of junior associates. “Look! She’s a waitress!”
“No!” I gasp. “Don’t tell anyone else—”
It’s too late. I can see all the people in the group turning to look at me with identical expressions of embarrassed horror.
For an instant I’m so mortified I want to curl up on the spot. These are people I used to work with. These are people who respected me. And now I’m dressed up in stripes, serving them.
But then, slowly, I begin to feel defiant.
Fuck you, I find myself thinking. Why shouldn’t I work as a waitress?
“Hi,” I say, shaking back my hair. “Care for a dessert?”
More and more people are turning to gasp at me. I can hear the whispering round the room. The other waitstaff are all clustered together, goggling at me. Heads are swiveling everywhere now, like iron filings in a magnetic field. There isn’t one friendly face among them.
“Absolutely! I just have to … get some cocktail napkins.…” I try to back away, but she grabs me.
“No, you don’t! You wanted this job! Now work!”
She shoves me hard, and I stagger into the crowded room. I feel like a gladiator being pushed into the arena. Jan’s standing at the door, her arms folded. There’s no way out. I’m going to have to do this. I grip the tray more tightly, lower my head—and advance slowly into the crowded room.
I can’t walk naturally. My legs feel like boards. The hairs on the nape of my neck are standing on end; I can feel the blood pulsating through my ears. I edge past expensive suits, not daring to look up, not daring to pause in case I attract attention. I can’t believe this is happening. I’m dressed up in a green-and-white uniform, serving mini-éclairs to my former colleagues.
But one thing I’ve learned from doing parties with Eamonn is, the waiting staff are invisible. And sure enough, no one seems to have noticed.
Several hands have plucked éclairs from the tray, without even glancing at me. Everyone’s too busy laughing and chatting. The din is tremendous.
I can’t see Arnold anywhere. But he has to be here somewhere. I’m compelled to look for him, to raise my head and search him out. But I can’t risk it. Instead, I keep on moving steadily around the room. Familiar faces are everywhere. Snatches of conversation are making my ears prick up.
“Where’s Ketterman?” someone is asking as I pass by.
“In Dublin for the day,” replies Oliver Swan. “But he’ll be at the partners’ farewell dinner tomorrow night.” I breathe out in relief. If Ketterman were here I’m sure his laser eyes would pick me up at once.
“Éclairs. Fab!”
About eight hands dive into my tray at once and I come to a standstill. It’s a group of trainees. Hoovering food, as trainees always do at parties.
I’m starting to feel edgy. The longer I stand here without moving, the more exposed I feel. But I can’t get away. Their hands keep plunging in for more.
“Are there any more of the strawberry tarts, do you know?” a guy with rimless glasses asks me.
“Um … I don’t know,” I mutter, staring down.
Shit. Now he’s peering at me more closely. He’s bending down to get a good look. And I can’t pull my hair over my face because both hands are holding the tray.
“Is that … Samantha Sweeting?” He looks agog. “Is that you?”
“Samantha Sweeting?” One of the girls drops her éclair. Another gasps and claps her hand over her mouth.
“Um … yes,” I whisper at last, my face boiling. “It’s me. But please, don’t tell anyone. I want to keep a low profile.”
“So … this is what you do now?” The rimless-glasses guy looks aghast. “You’re a waitress?”
The trainees are all staring at me as though I’m the Ghost of Failed Lawyers Future.
“It’s not so bad.” I attempt an upbeat smile. “You get free canapés!”
“So you make one mistake—and that’s it?” gulps the girl who dropped her éclair. “Your legal career is ruined forever?”
“Er … pretty much.” I nod. “Can I offer you another?”
But no one seems hungry anymore. In fact, they all look rather green about the gills.
“I might just … pop back to my desk,” stammers the guy with rimless glasses. “Just check I haven’t got anything outstanding …”
“Me too,” says the girl, thrusting down her glass.
“Samantha Sweeting is here!” I suddenly hear another of the trainees hissing to a group of junior associates. “Look! She’s a waitress!”
“No!” I gasp. “Don’t tell anyone else—”
It’s too late. I can see all the people in the group turning to look at me with identical expressions of embarrassed horror.
For an instant I’m so mortified I want to curl up on the spot. These are people I used to work with. These are people who respected me. And now I’m dressed up in stripes, serving them.
But then, slowly, I begin to feel defiant.
Fuck you, I find myself thinking. Why shouldn’t I work as a waitress?
“Hi,” I say, shaking back my hair. “Care for a dessert?”
More and more people are turning to gasp at me. I can hear the whispering round the room. The other waitstaff are all clustered together, goggling at me. Heads are swiveling everywhere now, like iron filings in a magnetic field. There isn’t one friendly face among them.
