“In case someone turns up a tweet of them having a racist rant later, or finds out they used to run an illegal cock-fighting ring?”
“Sadly more common than you’d think – at least the first one. But we never really did that with you, did we?”
“Well, I never ran an illegal cock-fighting ring, and I certainly never had a racist rant. As to your original question – about family – I don’t have any. My parents died when I was eleven, and I was raised by my grandmother. She was pretty old school working-class London, lived through the Blitz and took no shit from anyone – she’d had a tough life and it made her a tough woman. She passed away when I was seventeen.”
He takes this all in and nods. I rarely talk about that part of my life – yet another chunk of the past I don’t enjoy thinking about – and I’m starting to realise Archie was right about yet another thing. I have a tendency to chop my life up into sections, rather than seeing it all as part of a whole.
“And you were out on your own then? At seventeen?”
“Yes. I had a home – the little terrace she’d lived in her whole life – so I wasn’t under the arches in a cardboard box or anything. I’d been working in pubs and cafés for a while, and then I managed to blag my way into the kitchen at one of thebigger restaurants, pretty much without any qualifications apart from an A in home economics and a winning smile.”
“Ah, the eighties – things were different then!”
“Yep. Rah-rah skirts were cool, and Spangles were still on sale in the corner shop. All was well with the world. How about you – do you still have family?”
“Not really. My parents aren’t around anymore, and my brother lives in New Zealand. Rowena’s family is pretty big, but they’re in Ireland. I suppose it’s always played on my mind, since I lost her – worrying that if anything happened to me, the girls wouldn’t have any parents. Every year they get older, I feel a bit more relieved.”
“I understand that. I always knew that mine would always have people here, which is comforting, but yes, there is that underlying worry isn’t there? Even now, when they’re technically adults – I know I was independent at their age, but I still worry. But look – we’re both fit and well, Zack, living on our extremely healthy diet of booze and crisps. I don’t think either of us is going to be shuffling off any time soon.”
He glances away for a moment, seeming to think that through, then nods firmly. “You’re absolutely right. Now, tell me all about your Spring Feast.”
“I can go one better than telling you. The actual event is the day after tomorrow – but tomorrow night, as is Starshine custom, I’ll be having a trial run in the café. I hope you weren’t lying about your waiting experience.”
SEVEN
I stand in front of the small crowd in the café, and run through the menu. On the actual night, I’ll do this before each course, explaining what the guests are about to eat and why I chose it. The dry run is a lot less formal – not least because every single person in front of me is wearing a brightly coloured paper crown and making a racket with plastic whistles and party blowers. Trevor found a job lot of Christmas crackers in storage and brought them with him.
Tonight, the tables aren’t dressed, and they’re scattered with a variety of different types of booze – it’s bring-your-own, and they’re all getting stuck in to cans of beer, bottles of plonk, and in the case of the Betties, a decanter of port. I laugh as I try to talk over the noise, my own paper crown perched on top of my unruly hair.
“Okay, okay,” I say, holding my hands up in defeat, “I can see none of you are taking this seriously – but are you hungry?”
There is an eardrum-splitting round of whistles and party blowers rippling out into the sky, and some stamping of feet to accompany it.
“Right. First course – sorrel and wild garlic soup, served with parmesan and rosemary croutons! My glamorous assistants will be around shortly.”
I turn back to my team behind the serving counter. I don’t need all of them tonight, as the guest list only includes George, Archie and Cally, Jake and Ella, Trevor, the baking Betties, and Jake’s brother Josh. All of their offspring, human and canine, are being looked after for a few hours by Rose’s mum, Lucy, and Miranda – it probably explains why some of them are especially riotous, enjoying a rare night off.
I could probably manage this lot on my own, but it’s good to practise – and more importantly it’s a lot of fun. It’ll give me the chance to make sure all my dishes are working, and to smooth out any wrinkles before the main event. Tomorrow night, there will be fancy white linen tablecloths, paired wines and absolutely no party blowers.
Marcy, Sophie and Rose are wearing their Cove Café T-shirts, along with big grins. Marcy is clapping her hands together, looking like she’s about to float off into the stratosphere with excitement.
Zack hasn’t even turned up yet, which is not the best of starts to his short-term unpaid employment in Starshine Cove. I try not to let it bother me – I don’t really need him. In fact he’s only here as a favour – so what if he’s changed his mind and decided to give it a miss? Like I said, I don’t need him.
As I bustle around with the girls, I know that I’m not quite as unbothered as I am trying to appear. I feel disappointed, sad that he has let me down, even this tiny bit. It’s unreasonable, but I am not a creature of logic at the best of times.
We’ve just finished serving the soup when he finally turns up. He missed the memo about the dress code – probably because I didn’t issue one – and is wearing a smart black suit and crisp white shirt, looking every inch the posh maître d’. He looks goodenough to eat, and it’s troublesome that I can still notice that even though I’m annoyed with him.
He dashes over to me, running his hands through his hair, and says: “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry I’m late – I had a call that I needed to take.”
“It’s okay,” I reply, smiling. “I’ll just dock your wages.”
“I’m getting paid?”
“No. So you now owe me £12 an hour.”
He grins, and I see the worry melt from his face at my light-hearted tone. He doesn’t know me well enough to spot that I’m faking it – not many people do.
“Right. That seems fair. What can I do to help?”
