‘I thought I’d be waitressing.’
‘We all do a bit of everything here. Waitressing, making coffee, cooking, cleaning. We work as a team rather than having specific job roles. I’ll teach you how to use the coffee machine later when it’s not so busy. The kitchen’s just through there. Fran’s in there, she’ll show you what to do.’
‘OK,’ said Sarah, tying her apron over her jeans.
‘Don’t worry, the cavalry’s here.’ Felix burst into the building, all wide smiles and big brown eyes. He hadn’t bothered to shave or brush his hair from the looks of things. His faded blue T-shirt had a stain down the front that looked as though he’d dribbled red wine at some point.
‘Thank God,’ said Hattie, throwing him an apron. ‘I need six Americanos, two cappuccinos, one flat white and a mocha.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Felix, saluting Hattie before heading to the coffee machine.
Sarah walked through to find the kitchen. Behind a swing door, she found a hive of activity.
‘Ah, you must be Sarah. I’m Fran,’ said a short, plump woman, wiping a flour-covered hand on her apron before holding it out to Sarah. ‘Welcome to the team. I’m so glad you’re here. My KP has called in sick and I can’t manage this lot on my own.’ Fran pointed to the pans bubbling on the stove, and various mixing bowls lining the worktops.
‘You make everything from scratch?’
‘Of course I do. It’s what keeps people coming back again and again. I used to be a school cook if you can believe it. But then they started making us cook things from packets and I chucked the job in. Have you heard of Turkey Twizzlers?’
Sarah shook her head.
‘Then you’re lucky. Let’s just say you’ll find no junk food here.’
‘What would you like me to do?’
‘Start on those dishes, would you, love? The dishwasher’s self-explanatory, but those pans will need scrubbing by hand.’
‘Sure,’ said Sarah, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. ‘I don’t want to sound stupid, but what’s a KP?’
‘Kitchen Porter, otherwise known as a general dogsbody, otherwise known as my slave.’ Fran chuckled. ‘The chap who works with me is a lovely lad, but very unreliable. He’s always off sick with some complaint or other. If you ask me, he’s a bit too fond of the wacky baccy.’
‘Wacky baccy?’
‘Goodness me, love. You are an innocent, aren’t you? You watch those folks out there don’t corrupt you too much.’
‘How would they do that?’
‘Best you find that out for yourself. I’m not one to tell tales. Now, enough chatting, these pies and cakes won’t make themselves.’
Sarah spent the next four hours elbow-deep in dirty plates, cups, and pans. Water trickled inside her rubber gloves and she could feel the skin wrinkling beneath them. This was not what she had signed up to. The job advert had specified waitress, not skivvy. It was all very well Hattie saying they all mucked in where needed, but she and Felix looked quite at home behind the counter, and she couldn’t imagine either of them washed up much.
In her pocket, Sarah felt her phone vibrate.Please let the house still be on the market, please let me be able to go home. Sarah resisted the urge to check her messages, knowing if it was bad news, she wouldn’t be able to hide her disappointment.
Fran announced it was time for a break. She plated up two slices of cake fresh from the oven and made two cups of tea from her personal kettle. ‘If I asked that lot through there for a cuppa, I’d been waiting all day,’ she explained.
‘Thanks,’ said Sarah, carrying her plate and cup to a step outside. ‘How long have you worked here?’
‘Ooh, getting on for ten years I should think.’
‘And you enjoy it?’
‘Love it. I complain a lot, but they’re a good bunch here. We rarely get fresh faces joining the team, as most folk who come here don’t want to leave.’
Unlike me, thought Sarah, taking a bite of lemon drizzle cake. ‘Wow, this is delicious. I’m supposed to be on a diet, but I worry working with you will have the opposite effect.’
‘Diet? What nonsense. You’re lovely as you are, love.’
No, thought Sarah,I’m not. Kate and Hattie, they’re lovely as they are. They don’t get cut in the flesh by too-tight waistbands, or have muffin tops spilling out every time they put on a pair of jeans. ‘That’s kind of you, and I wish it were true. I’m so unfit I find climbing a flight of stairs tricky.’
