Don’t You Forget About Me(7)

I notice Mrs Keith looks oddly calm, possibly grateful someone else is catching it from him instead. Unless she’s a fake wife, a critic’s stooge.

‘I thought you wanted it warmer?’

‘Yes, a warmer replacement meal, not this gunk again.’

Tony turns to me: ‘Why didn’t you tell me he wanted a new dish?’

I frown: ‘Er, I did …?’

‘No, you said to warm it up.’

I’m so startled by this bare-faced untruth I have no comeback.

‘No, I didn’t, I said …?’ I trail off, as repeating our whole conversation seems too much treachery, but am I supposed to stand here and say this is all my fault?

A pause. Yes. Yes, I am.

‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Tony continues, entire dining room riveted by this spectacle.

I open my mouth to reply and no words come out.

‘Oh right, you are! Tell you what. You’re fired!’

‘What?!’

I think he must be joking, but Tony points at the door. Across the room, Callum is shocked, mouth hanging open and hands frozen round a giant pepper pot.

‘Oh, hang on, this seems excessive …’ says Mr Keith, looking suddenly chastened. This is why Tony’s done it. It’s the only way to get the upper hand again, and hope his write-up doesn’t focus solely on the gusset-flavoured carbonara.

You could hear a pin drop – apart from Dean Martin crooning about Old Napoli.

I untie my apron, chuck it on the floor, find my handbag behind the bar with clumsy hands.

I dart out, without looking back. Incipient tears are stinging my eyeballs, but no way are they seeing me weep.

When I’m round the corner, fumbling for a tissue as my non-waterproof mascara makes a steady descent, I get a text from Tony.

Sorry, sexy. Sometimes you need to give them a scalp. We’ll have you back in a fortnight and if critic fuck finds out, tell him your mum died or something so we took pity. Call it a holiday! Unpaid though.

That’s Amore.

Then another realisation.

For fuck’s sake, I forgot my coat!





3


First thought: it’s a prisoner of war. They can’t torture it, so leave it behind. Second: damn it, it’s the bubblegum-pink faux fur. It’s armour, it’s my personality in textile form. It’s up there in sentimental value after my ancient tortoise, Jammy. Also, I’m shivering already.

Wait, wait – I have a man on the inside: Callum. I message him to ask, thinking he’ll surely feel sorry enough for me to do it.

Insta-ping.

I will give you your coat if you will go on a date with me

I blink, twice. You’ve just seen me get sacked in the most public, humiliating way and now you’re holding me to sexual ransom? I consider a blunt response saying, ‘I’m washing my nipple hair that night.’ Or pointing out it was only ￡50 in the Miss Selfridge sale three years ago so definitely isn’t worth that, concluding with the insult of a cry-with-laughter emoji.

But the objective is to get my coat back, not a load of middle fingers and a photo of it in the scraps bin.

Hahaha if I’m not too unemployed and skint to stand my round

See you at the front door in 1 min?

I would pay. Is that a yes lol?

Is there anything less charming than someone trying to push you into something unwillingly and acknowledging they are pushing you into it, and carrying on anyway?

OK, lying it is.

Sure

… LY NOT. And he knows I’ve got a boyfriend. We had a conversation where he said ‘Lol his name is Robin do you ever call him Cock Robin’ and I said no and he said hahaha, wicked bants.

Outside the door, there’s no sign of Callum. I wait for five minutes which feels like five hours and then text him a question mark. Another three minutes and he appears round the door.

‘It’s busy with only me on.’

I wonder if I am supposed to apologise for this.

I look down at the material he’s holding. A beige trench coat.

‘That’s not mine.’

‘Oh.’

‘It’s pink and fluffy.’

Callum disappears back inside. Minutes pass and I think: there’s no way more than one piece of outerwear the colour of taramosalata in the cloakroom to justify this length of hold up. I bob down and peer under the tea-coloured nets in the window. Callum is taking an order for a table of eight people. He is chatting and joking and obviously in no rush.

Frustration wins out over shame and I wrench the door open and march back in. I feel multiple pairs of eyes on me as I rifle among the row of pegs on the back of the door behind the bar and claim my property.

‘Young lady – young lady?’

I turn and see Mr Keith is beckoning me over. I glance warily in the direction of the kitchen, but what’s Tony going to do, sack me again?

I approach. He’s dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

‘I’m sorry about what happened just now. If I’d known the consequences …’

‘Oh, it’s fine,’ I say. ‘It’s not your fault.’

‘In the future, remember honesty is always the best policy.’

I stare at him. He’s telling me off again? For fu—

‘I was honest. The chef was lying,’ I snap.