She put on a smile, grappling with this change in direction. ‘Th-thank you, Richard, for helping me.’
Suddenly agitated, he smoothed back his hair. ‘Look, if this goes well, then there’ll be plenty more money coming in.’ He led her through the door into the kitchen. ‘There’s a room for waitresses on the left. Help yourself to a few glasses of Champagne, relax and enjoy it – all the girls do.’ And with a playful kiss on her forehead, he headed back into the restaurant.
She peered into the frantic, brightly lit kitchens, a male chef screaming at assistants in crisp French. The door to the left led into a long changing room, where several young women were in various stages of undress.
‘Are you the new one?’ A brunette was bent over her bag. ‘I’m Nancy, the head waitress today.’ She was good-looking, probably in her late twenties.
‘I’m Lucy.’ She smiled uncertainly. ‘Richard asked me to come along, said I could meet his friends.’
‘Yes, he told me about you.’ She looked with curiosity at Lucy’s dress. ‘You’ll see how it works. Come with me.’
Lucy wondered how well Richard knew Nancy, who handed her a slim-fitting black dress, buttoned up the front.
‘I’ve never been a waitress before,’ Lucy said.
‘Don’t worry, no one will mind if you get things muddled up,’ Nancy replied. ‘You can get away with anything if you smile.’
And with that, Nancy went back to her makeup.
Slowly, Lucy dressed, trying her best to swallow the lump in her throat. How foolish of her to think that she would be invited to a private lunch in such an exclusive club. Yet at the back of her mind, all she thought about were the romantic interludes, the frenzied cavorting in Guest Room 33.
Had it meant more to her than it had to him?
Deep inside, that dread grew larger. She’d given him everything, laid herself bare. Was he using her? Was this all that she was worth?
‘You’d better hurry, love,’ Nancy said. ‘They’ll be here soon.’
Lucy struggled into the outfit. She needed to pull herself together, stop being so naïve, toughen up like these other girls. Why was she being such a baby, a country girl out of her depth?
And wouldn’t she do anything to get onto the big stage?
Maybe she was looking at this all wrong. Perhaps Richard was right, that today was part of his plan to help her become a star. She’d meet the agent, and everything would fall into place.
With this conclusion, she put on a smile and tried to ingratiate herself with the others.
There were almost a dozen waitresses in all, and Lucy couldn’t help but feel like the runt of the litter. Most of them were as tall and sleek as models, their makeup not too heavy, underplayed if anything, letting their natural beauty shine out – and beautiful they most definitely were. Their hair was perfect, their posture and self-assurance dignified and yet yielding. They exuded confidence and insight, whereas Lucy could only convey awkwardness.
At one o’clock precisely, Nancy clapped her hands. ‘We’re to file in.Each girl has been given her table, but we’re to help out where necessary. Patsy, no hogging table one! The upstairs rooms are empty, so they can be used for private meetings and so forth. Make sure to check them for glasses and plates afterward.’
‘What are the back rooms for?’ Lucy asked the girl beside her.
‘Various things,’ she replied. ‘The men have private meetings in them, especially the politicians. We get invited sometimes, too, which is good if you want to get to know someone better, get extra tips and favours, that kind of thing.’
Richard had said that she should get to know the men – they could launch her career. Was this how it worked?
With a final ‘Good luck, everyone!’ Nancy opened the door, and the girls filed out.
The dining room was packed, and as Nancy led the way in, the place erupted with whistles and cheers as the waitresses filed through to the different tables. Lucy was one of the last to enter, and she paused on the threshold, surveying a sea of men, all crisply attired in black dinner suits and bow ties.
‘Why aren’t there any women here?’ she asked the waitress beside her.
But the girl just looked at her as if she were a complete idiot. ‘It’s the Thursday Lunch Club. Philip and his equerry, a very private group of friends.’
And there, at the head table, was Philip himself, mid-story, his hands gesticulating wildly as everyone laughed.
‘The Thursday Lunch Club,’ Lucy repeated to herself. Surely there was nowhere more connected, more prestigious than this.
And Richard had cleverly found her a job as a waitress.
