‘You don’t want to think about it first?’ I ask, knowing it’s me who needs to think about it first. I like to take my time, consider my options.
‘Let’s have a trial,’ Nina suggests.
‘Today?’Oh shit!
‘If you burn the kitchen down I’ll reconsider. What size are you?’
The room seems to be spinning. Everything is happening far too quickly. ‘Fourteen,’ I reply with faint shame. I used to be a size ten.
‘Angus, can you grab Holly a medium apron?’
‘Yes, boss.’
She turns to me. ‘Unless you’re busy today?’
I’m busy doing nothing. ‘Um. Er.’
‘We can start next weekend if you’d prefer?’
I take in a deep breath. Get on with it, Holly. You’ll only fret for the whole week if you don’t start today. Angus chucks an apron my way. I don’t catch it in time.
‘It gets hot in the kitchen, you won’t need your cardy,’ Nina warns me, as I pick up the apron, noticing my hand shaking, and horribly aware Angus is watching me.
‘Yeah, best to wear as few clothes as possible,’ he advises.
‘If today goes well, there’s more paperwork and forms, but let’s call this a trial. Angus, can you show Holly the ropes? I need to chase the delivery guys. And where the hell’s Scottie?’
‘He’s on his way,’ says Angus, leading me into a small kitchen with cream worktops and an industrial-sized fridge and dishwasher. He places a hand on my shoulder. ‘How you doing?’ he asks, for a second allowing me to see a kind person behind the jokes.
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ I say, before deflecting the attention off me. ‘So, this is where it all happens.’
‘Yep. Scottie cooks here.’ He motions to one corner. ‘Everything has to be donejust sobut don’t let him bully you. And this is where you’ll be stationed, Holly. At the stroke of twelve-thirty we open the doors, and take the orders.’ Angus stands in front of the hatch which divides the kitchen from the dining room. ‘Everyone queues up in a not-so-orderly line, I take their orders, hand the punters a wooden spoon with a letter and number on it. The tables are in alphabetical order, so the table at the far end of the room…’ he points to it, ‘is A, the next is funnily enough B, and so on. They take their seats, and we do our best to hand out the right food to the right people. There are a few old folk here who have dementia, they order veggies with their sausages, before telling you adamantly they ordered chips. It’s best to agree with them, the customer is always right. It’s a bitFawlty Towersbut that’s half the charm.’
‘How are your computer skills, Holly?’ Nina asks, sticking her head round the door. Computers and I do not get on. We’re like a bad marriage. I can turn one on and off and write the odd email in between and that’s about the extent of our relationship.
‘Great.’ Why am I pretending to be a computer whizz?
‘We print the menus. Angus will show you where the office is. It’s upstairs. To be honest, it’s more like his bedsit right now.’
‘She’s exaggerating. I only stay here the odd night.’
My mobile rings. It’s probably Mum. Or a scam. Someone pretending to be calling from Amazon. No one else calls me this early on a weekend morning.
Angus watches me reject Mum’s call. ‘When you’re cooking don’t leave your mobile lying around,’ he warns.
‘OK,’ I say slowly, semi-catching his drift.
‘I might nick it.’
‘You wouldn’t. It’s ancient. About as old as me.’
When Angus smiles, I notice he has a dimple, like me. He clears his throat. ‘Everyone is lovely here, but occasionally things go missing if you know what I mean. Some of these guys walk in with nothing but the clothes on their backs, and things kick off. So keep your mobile and any money in your apron pocket.’
‘Fine,’ I say, though I’m dreaming now of being at home with no threat of being robbed.
‘Oh, here comes Aleksander,’ Angus says as we head out of the kitchen. Through the glass doors I can see a frail-looking man with a wispy beard, ghostly pale, walking down the narrow path towards the café, clutching a walking stick. I notice one side of his arm is covered in tattoos and he’s carrying a shopping bag which looks too heavy for his withered arm. ‘Polish. We call him Sander, incredible chef, far more talented than Scottie but don’t tell him that. Only thirty-five,’ he continues, as if reading my mind that he looks young to need a walking stick. ‘In and out of prison. One word of warning.’
‘What?’
