A small white van was parked on the flagstones and the women from the catering company were sliding the crates they’d been packing in the Pavilion through the back doors. On the open door was stuck a small notice:Staff Wanted.Honor hesitated. When one of the women looked up, she smiled. ‘Is it waiting staff wanted? Because I’m looking for summer work two or three days a week.’
The woman looked at her as if she must be mad. ‘Really? You need to speak to Lawrence — Lawrence! Lady here wants a job.’
The man, Lawrence, breathing hard, stacked the box he was carrying and rested his great big behind as if it, too, was too heavy for him to drag around. He studied her. ‘I’m looking for daytime staff. Too many of my part-timers are students or young mums and want evening and weekend work — great for dinners and parties but no good for corporate. It’s astonishing how many organisations experience sudden needs to shut away together a couple of hundred people. If you’re flexible and you can coverthe kind of corporate business that bursts out of nowhere, I could give you a trial.’
She shrugged. ‘I’m pretty much without ties or schedules and I worked my way through school waiting tables.’
Lawrence pulled out a pen. ‘Then I’ll take your details.’
* * *
In two days, Honor was working for Florence Events Catering.
With her hair caught tightly behind her head and a full white apron over a plain black dress — that she had had to buy because she hadn’t brought anything suitable from home — she ensured coffee pots and hot water urns were full when delegate hordes flooded out on caffeine and sugar breaks, cleared away when the tide flowed back into the conference rooms and prepared for the after-meeting treat of canapés and wine. In no time she could respond to, ‘What’sthat?’ with a helpful, ‘Deep-fried mushroom risotto bites with parmesan mayonnaise,’ or, ‘Cajun chicken with spicy vodka and tomato dip.’ A wooden charger protected her fingers from the heat of the square black stoneware plates, and cheerful unconcern protected her from the disdain of people who would have preferred a bag of chips.
She’d spent enough time in the corporate torture chambers to be amused at being on the other side of the tray, gliding serenely between suited shoulders, through the politics, backstabbing and plain old ass kissing, thanking her lucky stars that she wasn’t the one networking like mad.
Honor’s role carried little responsibility and no brainwork and that was just how she wanted it. But those were the only good things about the job. Though she’d looked forward to visiting Brighton hotels of all ages, styles and sizes, seafront or city, by the time she’d been with Florence Events Catering for almost two weeks she’d begun to dislike the way that the regularhotel staff viewed the events staff as intruders, every friendly overture to be repulsed and all co-operation to be withheld. Lawrence was way too visible, fawning over the client’s event organiser, unsettling the chefs, barking at the waiting staff, big ass waggling in his dark suit. And though she worked only part-time, her feet ached full-time. And so did her back. And her hair had to be washed as soon as she got home or else it smelled like garlic, salsa or prawns.
So. Staying long? Didn’t think so.
After a particularly crappy hot July Friday of seminar delegates being given hell all day by their bosses and passing it along to the servers, with interest, she made for the taxi rank on King’s Road, though a minimum-wage job didn’t justify her taking cabs.
Tired and overheated, she just wanted to shower, get a glass of cold wine with her meal and then maybe a walk along the undercliff in the cool of the evening. So she groaned when she reached the rank to see it empty of taxis but full of people. She sighed. The bus would be a hell of sweaty tourists and insufficient seats.
Her burning feet felt too big for her shoes as she dragged out her tattered bus schedule and started the trek to the nearest stop, the heat of the day seeping up from the flagstones to cling around her aching calves.
And then Martyn Mayfair’s oversized vehicle hummed up beside her.
The window eased down. ‘I’m on my way to Eastingdean, if you want a lift?’
She hadn’t talked to him since the snippy conversation at the bus stop and could see his smile was forced. But, being a polite Englishman, he wouldn’t drive by. And being a poor dragging waitress, she wouldn’t repulse his olive branch. ‘Damn right!’She climbed up into the passenger seat and collapsed. ‘It’s been a tough day so I really appreciate the ride. Thanks.’
She sank back to enjoy the air conditioning as he steered the vehicle back into the flow of the hundred other vehicles crawling slowly along the seafront, tourists stepping into the road as if the traffic wasn’t there, licking ice-creams and exhibiting red shoulders.
‘You’ve got a job?’ He touched a button on the steering wheel and the music pouring from the stereo in the centre of the dashboard diminished.
‘Conference catering. Very casual and not much fun and I’m pretty sure I’m not going to stick it another week. How about you?’ She hoped that sounded like a friendly enquiry and not a dig.
He held back to allow a blue sportscar to come out of a side street. ‘We’ve just been shooting on the beach.’
Her eyebrows flew up. ‘On thebeach? I thought you guys didn’t carry guns?’ Having served in a room overlooking the beach for much of the day, she was amazed that she hadn’t heard gunfire and sirens.
He laughed shortly. Then he threw back his head and laughed harder, as if what she’d said was sinking in. ‘Well, you know. It’s tourist season — that means we can shoot them.’ He slapped his knee, his laughter rocking around the confines of the SUV.
Well, good. Enjoy your stupid joke and don’t tell me why it’s funny.She shut her eyes. The English were nuts, the lot of them.
There was an email from Stef’s co-worker, Billie, short and to the point.
Honor,
Because Stef hasn’t got internet access he wrote you a message and asked me to pass it to you. Here it is:
How’s the moral high ground? Hope the view is better than from here. ‘Here’ stinks. Come on, Honor, do the right thing — come see me.
Trying to make her the guilty one, which made her boil with fury. In the circumstances.
It also made her sad. And then mad at him for making her feel sad. He wasn’t happy with how things had worked out for him but he’d got himself into a fix that she couldn’t get him out of. Anyway, she had to get out of the habit of taking responsibility for him.
