“Coming right up!”

It just shows, what Mum says is right. The way to make a friend is to give a helping hand. I feel quite special, helping out the hostess. It’s almost like I’m throwing the party with her!

I’m not sure where the kitchen is, but the waiters are all heading toward one end of the room. I follow them through a set of double doors, and find myself in the kind of kitchen Mum would absolutely die for. Granite and marble everywhere, and a fridge which looks like a space rocket, and a pizza oven set into the wall! There are waiters in white shirts hurrying in and out with trays, and two chefs standing at a central island hob, holding sizzling pans, and someone’s yelling, “Where the fuck are the napkins?”

I find a bottle of water and a glass, and put them on a tray, then start looking around to see where the gin might be. As I bend down to open a cupboard door, a man with cropped bleached hair taps me on the shoulder.

“Hey. What are you doing?”

“Oh hi!” I say, standing up. “I’m just looking for the gin, actually. Somebody wanted a gin and tonic.”

“We haven’t got time for that!” he barks. “Do you realize how short-staffed we are? We need food on tables!”

Short-staffed? I stare at him blankly for a moment. Then, as my eye falls on my black skirt and the realization hits me, I give a shocked laugh.

“No! I’m not a… I mean, I’m actually one of the…”

How do I say this without offending him? I’m sure being a waiter is actually very fulfilling. Anyway, he’s probably an actor in his spare time.

But while I’m dithering, he dumps a silver platter full of smoked fish in my arms.

“Get! Now!”

“But I’m not—”

“Now! Food on tables!”

With a pang of fright I quickly hurry away. OK. What I’ll do is I’ll just get away from him, and put this platter down somewhere, and find my place.

Cautiously I walk back into the dining room, and wander about between the tables, looking for a handy surface to leave the platter. But there don’t seem to be any side tables or even spare chairs. I can’t really leave it on the floor, and it would be a bit too awkward to reach between the guests and dump it on a table.

This is really annoying, actually. The platter’s quite heavy, and my arms are starting to ache. I pass by Mr. Wunsch’s chair and give him a little smile, but he doesn’t even notice me. It’s as though I’m suddenly invisible.

This is ridiculous. There must be somewhere I can put it down.

“Will-you-serve-the-food!” hisses a furious voice behind me, and I feel myself jump.

“OK!” I retort, feeling slightly rattled. “OK, I will!”

Oh, for goodness’ sake. It’s probably easier just to serve it. Then at least it’ll be gone, and I can sit down. Hesitantly I approach the nearest table.

“Erm… would anyone like some smoked fish? I think this is salmon… and this is trout…”

“Rebecca?”

The elegantly coiffured head in front of me swivels round and I give a startled leap. Elinor is staring up at me, her eyes like daggers.

“Hi,” I say nervously. “Would you like some fish?”

“What do you think you’re doing?” she says in a low, furious voice.

“Oh!” I swallow. “Well, I was just, you know, helping out…”

“I’ll have some smoked salmon, thanks,” says a woman in a gold jacket. “Do you have any nonfat French dressing?”

“Erm… well, the thing is, I’m not actually…”

“Rebecca!” Elinor’s voice comes shooting out of her barely opened mouth. “Put it down. Just… sit down.”

“Right. Of course.” I glance uncertainly at the platter. “Or should I serve it, since I’m here anyway…”

“Put it down. Now!”

“Right.” I look helplessly about for a moment, then see a waiter coming toward me with an empty tray. Before he can protest I deposit the smoked fish platter on his tray, then hurry round with trembling legs to my empty chair, smoothing down my hair.

As I sit down, and spread my thick napkin over my knees, there’s silence around the table. I try a friendly little smile, but nobody responds. Then an old lady wearing about six rows of huge pearls and a hearing aid leans toward Elinor and whispers, so audibly we can all hear, “Your son is dating… a waitress?”


Eleven


“SHE DID?” There’s a long pause. Luke frowns and glances at me. “Well, I’m sure she didn’t…” He breaks off into silence and I feel a flutter of apprehension.

It’s a couple of days later, and on the other end of the phone, speaking to Luke, is Elinor. God only knows what she’s saying about me. I wish we had a speaker phone.

On second thought, no, I don’t.

“Really?” Luke looks surprised. “I see. Interesting.” He clears his throat. “And on that matter — what about the two of us trying to meet up?”

Thank goodness. They’ve stopped talking about me.

“Oh, I see.” The deflation in Luke’s voice is unmistakable. “No, of course I understand. Yes, I will. Bye, then.” He puts down the phone and gazes down at it for a few seconds.

“So!” I say, trying to sound relaxed. “What did your mother think of me?”

“Oh! Well…” Luke screws up his face puzzledly. “She said you were… overzealous. What did she mean by that?”

“I’ve no idea!” I give a shrill laugh. “Probably just… you know… hardworking! So, erm… did she mention your gift?” I add, changing the subject.

“No,” says Luke after a pause. “As a matter of fact, she didn’t.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling a pang of indignation toward Elinor. “Well, you know, she did absolutely love it.”

“Do you think?”

“Absolutely!” I say emphatically. “She… she almost cried, she was so pleased. And she said you were the best son in the whole world.”

“Really?” Luke’s face glows with pleasure. “She said that?”

I smile vaguely and reach down for my shoes. Maybe that wasn’t quite true. But I mean, I can’t tell him she just shoved it back into the box as though it were a pair of socks from Woolworth’s, can I?

“See you later.” Luke picks up his briefcase and gives me a kiss. “And good luck this morning.”

“Thanks!” I beam back, and feel a small trickle of excitement.

All of a sudden, things have started to happen over here. I keep getting phone calls from people who want to meet me, which Luke says is the “snowball effect” and he expected it all along. Yesterday I had three meetings with different sets of TV executives — today I’ve got a breakfast meeting with a Greg Walters from Blue River Productions. He’s the one who sent me the basket of fruit and was “desperate” to see me. I’ve never had anyone desperate to see me before in my entire life!


An hour later, I’m sitting in the Four Seasons restaurant, feeling like a movie star. Greg Walters is tall and tanned and has already dropped the name of every TV network I’ve ever heard of.

“You’re hot,” he now keeps saying, in between bites of croissant. “You realize that?”

“Erm… well…”

“No.” He lifts a hand. “Don’t be coy. You’re all over town. Folks are fighting over you.” He takes a sip of coffee and looks me in the eye. “I’ll be frank — I want to give you your own show.”

I stare at him, almost unable to breathe for excitement.

“Really? My own show? Doing what?”

“Whatever. We’ll find you a winning format.” He takes a gulp of coffee. “You’re a political commentator, right?”

“Um… not really,” I say awkwardly. “I do personal finance. You know, mortgages and stuff?”

“Right.” Greg nods. “Finance. So I’m thinking… off the top of my head… Wall Street. Wall Street meets Ab Fab meets Oprah. You could do that, right?”

“Erm… absolutely!”

I beam confidently at him and take a bite of croissant.

“I have to go,” he says as he finishes his coffee. “But I’m going to call you tomorrow and set up a meeting with our head of development. Is that OK?”

“Fine!” I say, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. “That would be good.”

As he walks off, a huge grin of delight spreads across my face. My own show! Things are just going better and better. Everyone I speak to seems to want to offer me a job, and they all keep buying me nice meals, and yesterday, someone said I could have a career in Hollywood, no question. Hollywood!

I mean, just imagine if I get my own show in Hollywood! I’ll be able to live in some amazing house in Beverly Hills, and go to parties with all the film stars. Maybe Luke will start a Los Angeles branch of his company. I mean, people out there need PR — and he could easily switch from finance to movies. And… yes! We could set up a film production company together!

“What a pleasant surprise,” says a cheerful voice, and I look up dazedly to see Michael Ellis pulling out a chair at another table.

“Oh,” I say, wrenching my mind away from the Oscars. “Oh, hello. Do join me!” And I gesture politely to the chair opposite.

“I’m not disturbing you?” he says, sitting down.

“No. I was having a meeting but it’s over.” I look around vaguely. “Is Luke with you?”

Michael shakes his head.

“He’s talking to some people at JD Slade this morning. The big guns.”

A waiter comes and clears away Greg’s plate, and Michael orders a cappuccino.

“So — how are things going?” I ask, lowering my voice slightly. “Luke told me about one of the backers getting nervous.”

“Right.” Michael nods gravely. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on there.”

“But why do you need backers?” I ask. “I mean, Luke’s got loads of money…”

“Never invest your own money,” says Michael. “First rule of business. Besides which, Luke has very grand plans, and grand plans tend to need a lot of capital.” He looks up. “You know, he’s very driven, that man of yours. Very determined to succeed over here.”