Mum raised an eyebrow at my deflection but let go of the bundle of crimson linen. As the heavy weight of them dropped into my arms, I drew them tightly towards my chest to stop them falling to the floor. I still only caught half of them, the rest trailing over the white tiles. I jerked them all together again and fought a rising bubble of emotion. I couldn’t pinpoint what it was exactly and by the time I straightened up, the tablecloths were successfully amassed but nearly suffocating me.
‘Beth?’
‘Don’t worry. There’s no problem,’ I mumbled through the material and beat a hasty retreat to the utility room.
I released the bundle with a huff on top of the washing machines and slipped off my shoes, letting my feet flex against the cool, tiled floor. Bliss.
Once I’d put the tablecloths in the wash, I delved in the basket of whites, still warm from the dryer and it only took me a moment to come across the angel’s dress, wrapped up in Nick’s T-shirt. The wash had successfully eradicated the rain water, dirt and any male scent clinging to the garments but they also both looked…smaller than when I put them in the wash. Great.
I slung Nick’s T-shirt over my shoulder (that was a problem I’d have to figure out later) and tested the little – and I meanreallylittle – knit dress between two hands. The tight weave gave way slightly. That was something, so I headed upstairs to see if I could squeeze it over her head.
After inhaling a bowl of cereal and jumping in the shower, I went into my bedroom. Rather than turn on the main light, I walked around the foot of my bed in the dark and flicked on the lava lamp on my bedside table. Soft shadows played across the stage set of my past as I climbed into bed with Angelica and the shrunken dress, measuring it up against her body.
‘Suck it in, Angelica,’ I told her, stretching the neck of the dress until I heard the stitches squeak. ‘We’ve all had to suffer for the sake of fashion at some point.’ She looked at me with eyes dark with concern. Or mud. It was one of those.
I wriggled her head in, millimetre by millimetre, untucking her hair so she looked more like one of those weird little cress egg heads kids make, than a doll. Finally, it gave, one last push – but now her arms were pinned to her sides. When I rested my head on my hand, I was surprised to find sweat building on my brow. It would have to do. I dumped her back on my desk, then burrowed under my covers and flicked the light off.
I was just slipping off to sleep when I felt Mum shaking my shoulder gently.
‘I’m leaving now. I’ll lock up behind me with the spare set of keys. My bunch is on your desk.’ There was a jangle as aforementioned keys were deposited. ‘You’ll have to go down at six to open up for Neeta. Beth? Are you listening?’ She was still whispering but she gave my shoulder another shake and I turned my face so I could see her shadowy form, silhouetted by the hallway light.
‘I’m listening.’
‘Good. So. Six a.m.’ She leaned over and brushed a quick kiss against my forehead. Her warmth and the scent of fabric detergent slid over me. I reached out and gave her a tight hug.
‘Be careful driving up there. Stop if you get tired and text me to let me know when you arrive,’ I murmured into her shoulder.
‘Yes, Mum,’ she joked and gave me a squeeze. ‘Call me if you need me.’ She gave me another kiss, this one firm, on my temple and then she left. My bedroom door shut and a second later the yellow line around the frame winked out.
I lay there, listening for the door to our flat to close behind her. After a few minutes I heard her distant footsteps crunching over the gravel of the drive, followed by the wheels of her car. That was it. She was gone, and I was left, the only member of staff in the building, wearing a pair of flannelette pyjamas and tucked up in bed beneath aTwilightposter.
This couldn’t possibly go wrong.
Chapter Four
Neeta, our head chef, was waiting on the third step down from the porch the next morning, the glowing tip of her roll-up drawing an orange arc in the air. She took one last drag and stubbed it out beneath the topiary bush, sculpted into a perfect cone. Mum would’ve killed her.
‘Mornin’, trouble.’ Her gravelly voice barely reached me, even though she was jogging up the steps. When Henry started working here, he was fresh out of catering college and I’d told him that she’d ruined her vocal cords during her years working as a top chef in London, screaming at her kitchen staff, Gordon-Ramsay-style. It hadn’t taken him long to realise how ridiculous that was; not because Neeta wasn’t talented enough but because she was so laid-back she could have limboed around the kitchen doing her job.
‘How’s tricks?’ she asked, and I grimaced in response, closing the door quickly behind her to keep the cold air out. She laughed. ‘That good eh? Where’s your mum? In the kitchen?’
‘Try Norfolk. Grandad’s had a fall.’
‘Oh blimey, when did that happen?’
‘Yesterday.’ I relayed the small number of facts I knew and how Mum had driven through the night, arriving there at about half two in the morning. Neeta made us both coffee and toast and we leaned either side of the kitchen island, enjoying a moment of blissful peace before the morning madness began. So far, so normal.
‘D’you reckon she’ll be back today then?’
‘Yeah, sure. She didn’t seem to think the snow that’s been forecast would be a problem.’ I tore the thick crust off my slice of toast and popped the soft bit, oozing with melty butter, in my mouth. It should have tasted amazing, instead it was like a lump of uncooked dough forcing its way down my throat, the same way I was forcing myself to be optimistic.
A rap at the back door interrupted our breakfast: the delivery of fresh milk, fruit and vegetables. Neeta threw the rest of her still-boiling hot coffee down her neck and stood up straight.
‘Right, treacle, I take it you’re covering the dining room since your mum’s not here?’
‘I guess so…’ I smoothed my hair back. I only had a rough idea of all the jobs my mum did in this place throughout one day. She was always busy, but not always busy with the same routine, depending on which staff were in. I needed to check the rotas. In hindsight, I couldn’t believe Mum hadn’t left me a list of instructions. Either she was severely distracted with worrying about Grandad (understandable) or she thought I knew exactly what I was doing (deluded).
Inside the admin office, behind the reception, hanging over Mum’s desk was a whiteboard split into a table showing the everyday jobs and staff responsible for them that week. I found that yes, indeed, I was to be one of the two waiting staff covering all the meals today and I also had to look after the reception. Still it wasn’t too bad…until I noticed the light blinking on the phone to indicate that there was a voicemail message. I punched in the code to listen to the messages.
