by Lucy Diamond
More people arrived, some without having booked, meaning that it wasn’t long before every single table was full, inside and out. Rachel and I were madly busy, hurrying from table to kitchen, from kitchen to table, fetching and carrying as fast as we could go.
It was hectic, and we were only just keeping on top of everything, but it was all good. Our customers seemed to be enjoying themselves, eating everything on their plates and telling me how delicious the crab pâté was, and how gorgeous the café looked, and asking if this was going to be a regular thing, opening in the evening, because they’d definitely be back, if so. And I was buzzing with adrenaline and happiness and pride, lapping it up, and loving being able to pass all the compliments on to Ed. In fact, I loved everything about the evening at that point. I loved bringing out the plates of amazing-looking food and hearing people saying, ‘Oooh!’ when I set them down. I loved having the backdrop of the sun setting into the sea as people ate and drank, and the sky gradually turning from pink to purple to navy. I loved the smells of the main courses mingling with the smells of perfume and aftershave. It gave me a kick that people had dressed up in evening clothes to come to my little café on the bay.
There was no sign of Phoebe, though. Every time I had to serve one of the tables outside on the deck, I found myself looking out for her on the beach, wondering where she’d gone. But then in the next moment I’d be asked for more bread, or for tomato ketchup, or another drinks order, and I’d have to snap out of my thoughts and hurry away again, back in waitress mode.
Then things started to go wrong, typically all at once. First somebody accidentally spilled their glass of wine over me, which wasn’t a total disaster, but it wasn’t the nicest sensation to feel red wine dripping into my shoes. Then, when I returned from cleaning myself up, there was a complaint about a steak not being cooked to the customer’s taste, and I had to take it back. (‘There’s always one,’ Ed muttered, tossing it into the frying pan and whacking up the heat.) Then Rachel dropped a salt shaker, sending a long white trail of salt across the floor, which had to be swept up, and then lots of people seemed to finish their main courses at the same time, and all needed their tables clearing and their dessert orders taking simultaneously.
I felt as if everyone was trying to catch my eye and beckon me over for different things, and was becoming more exhausted and stressed and ragged by the second. My feet were killing me, I could feel my face turning pink and the room felt hot, too hot. Two people came through the door just then – more people who hadn’t booked – and I bustled over, all set to apologize that we were full, and could they come back later? Then I noticed that the taller, bulkier one had a large camera, which he was taking out of a bag, and the other had a notepad and pen. Oh, my goodness, was it really the local news guys? Had Rachel’s press release actually worked?
‘Hi, I’m Joe and this is Paul, we’re from the North Cornwall Gazette,’ the guy with the notepad said. He had a small, ratty sort of face with patchy brown hair and quick, interested eyes that seemed to take in everything. ‘Is it okay if we get a few pictures?’
‘Of course,’ I said, trying to smooth my hair back into place, and hoping I still had some make-up left on. ‘No problem. What sort of thing do you want?’
The cameraman – Paul – wanted a shot of the whole room, with everyone raising their wine glasses in his direction (miraculously, they all obliged), and then one of me, Rachel and Ed. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’ll just drag him out of the kitchen.’
I hurried in to see him plating up some steaks and a snapper. ‘Ed,’ I said, ‘some guys from the local paper are here. Could you come out for a quick photo?’
He glanced up at me. ‘These are ready for table three,’ he said, snatching another order and grabbing two more plates. ‘Sorry, I’m too busy to do anything else right now.’
‘It’ll only be for a minute,’ I told him, picking up the steaks and carefully balancing them, before taking the snapper. ‘Please? The more pictures they take, the better chance there is of them using one, and the more space we’ll get in the newspaper.’
He shook his head, stirring the risotto and ladling a steaming scoop of it onto a plate. ‘Sorry,’ he said again.
Frustrated, I delivered the food to table three, then went back to Paul, the cameraman. ‘He’s really busy in there,’ I said. ‘Can it just be a photo of me and Rachel?’
The cameraman duly clicked off a shot of us standing in front of the counter. I noticed several tables needed their plates clearing, while others had finished their drinks. Hurry up, I thought, becoming increasingly agitated. He seemed pleasant enough, but there was a slowness about him that put me on edge. Rachel obviously felt the same way, because she dashed back into the fray like a spring being released as soon as the cameraman thanked us.
‘Could I take a snap of the chef in action, if he’s too busy to come out?’ Paul asked, and Joe nodded. ‘That would be good,’ he said. ‘And maybe a quick interview, if you’ve both got a minute?’
‘I’ll see,’ I said, heading towards the kitchen again, feeling slightly desperate at the sight of all the plates and glasses building up on the tables.
‘Excuse me,’ someone called, waving.
‘Two minutes!’ I promised, smiling and hoping it didn’t look too much like a grimace. I stuck my head into the kitchen and realized that Paul and Joe had both followed me.
‘All right, mate, can we just get a photo for the newspaper?’ Paul asked, holding his camera to his face and lumbering towards Ed.
To my surprise – and, to be honest, my embarrassment – Ed flung up a hand in classic ‘protecting myself from the paps’ pose and swung round away from them. ‘I said I was too fucking busy, all right? Not now!’
Blood throbbed in my face at his aggressive tone of voice. I couldn’t believe he’d been so damn rude to these guys, when they were only doing their job – and, more to the point, when they were doing us a favour, coming out here in the first place. Didn’t he care about the café? I’d thought he did, but maybe I’d got it wrong.
‘Sorry,’ I said, ushering them away. I tried to make a joke of it. ‘You know how temperamental chefs can be. Listen, if I give you my email address, do you want to send some questions over and we can do the interview that way? Or on the phone later? It’s just that we’re quite busy . . .’
I sensed that ratty Joe in particular had had his interest piqued by Ed’s show of temper. I could almost imagine a pair of whiskers twitching on his face, his nose trying to sniff out a story. ‘Sure, whatever,’ he said. His eyes narrowed and he glanced back towards the kitchen as if something was bothering him. ‘Where do I recognize that guy from?’ he muttered. He chewed the end of his pen and looked at me. ‘What did you say his name was? Your chef ?’
‘Ed,’ I replied, and then, because I knew he was going to ask Ed’s second name and I didn’t want to make even more of a prat of myself by replying that I didn’t actually know (great boss I was), I added, ‘Jones. Ed Jones.’
‘Ed Jones, okay.’ He scribbled it down. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell, but he’s very familiar . . .’
‘Can I get some service here?’ someone called out. I spun round to see a red-faced man waving an empty glass in the air.
‘I’ll be right with you,’ I said, my polite smile feeling more fake and fragile by the second. I was delighted that the local press had taken an interest in our opening night, of course, but I was now terrified they might write less than flattering things, having seen us at our most hectic (and rude, when you had Ed in the equation). I really wanted them to sod off now. Rachel was dashing back and forth like a blur, doing all the waitressing single-handedly and being generally amazing, but she couldn’t manage on her own for much longer. Everything seemed to be hanging by a thread and we were only a split-second away from all-out disaster.
Then Phoebe walked in. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered as she went past me. She washed her hands, put on an apron and promptly got stuck in, clearing away empty plates
and glasses with efficiency and speed. I could have kissed her for her perfect timing, and for saving me from my own nervous breakdown, if it weren’t for the fact that I still had the press guys standing next to me. ‘Well, thanks for stopping by,’ I said to them. ‘I’d offer you a table for dinner, but we’re actually fully booked right now. However, if you’d like to wait and sample the food, you’d be very welcome.’
‘It’s all right, love, I’ve got a date with the pub,’ Joe said. He handed me a business card. ‘Give me a ring about this interview, yeah?’
‘Will do,’ I said. ‘And do take one of these menus, if you want to write about our range of food.’ I thrust the printed paper into his hand before he could say no, and thankfully watched them leave. Yikes! What had just happened there, with Ed? It had been excruciating. I really hoped they wouldn’t turn the article into a slagging-off, or just ditch the coverage altogether. Why had he been so rude to them, so belligerent?
Still, no time to think about that now. My customers needed me, and I had to whizz round and take orders for desserts and coffees, before anyone had a chance to complain about slow service. ‘Thanks,’ I said to Phoebe as we passed each other. ‘You’re a life-saver.’
With Phoebe, Rachel and me on board, we were soon back on top of things, and then the first diners had finished, and were paying and, joy of joys, leaving big fat tips. ‘That was delicious,’ Annie said, hugging me as she pressed some notes into my hand.
I deliberately hadn’t given her a bill, so I tried to return the money. ‘Oi,’ I said. ‘Yours was meant to be on the house, as a thank-you for your amazing baking. Have this back.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Absolutely not. You’ve earned every penny of that. We’ve had a lovely night.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m glad. And thanks for coming.’
‘I’ll drop in tomorrow, so we can chat about Tuesday,’ Jamie said.
‘Definitely,’ I told him. ‘Look forward to it. Bye.’
Other people left and new people arrived to fill the tables all over again, but I was starting to feel more relaxed, as if we were into the swing of things now. As fast as a table was cleared, it was relaid with clean cutlery and menus, and we managed to keep abreast of the orders. And then, all of a sudden, I realized I was actually enjoying myself again, feeling upbeat about the evening after a few hair-raising moments had threatened to derail the whole thing.
Okay, so maybe I was biased, but it did seem as if everyone was having a good time: every table deep in conversation, lingering over coffees and last glasses of wine, as the sky turned completely black outside. It struck me how lucky we were that it had been a warm, still evening, meaning that diners could eat outside on the deck. If it had suddenly started raining when we’d been full, there would have been no means of shelter out there, and no room for them to come inside. The situation could quite easily have descended into utter farce. I giggled in horror, imagining the awful scenes that might have taken place, and sent up a grateful little prayer to the god of café owners, thanking him or her for keeping my customers dry.
By eleven o’clock we were done, and the four of us collapsed into a booth, knackered but exultant. ‘Brilliant,’ I said, high-fiving them all, aware that my face was shiny, my dress still smelled of wine, and my hair was all but standing on end from where I’d been running my fingers through it in moments of stress. I didn’t care in the slightest, though. ‘Absolutely brilliant! You all played a blinder – everyone had such a great night.’ I couldn’t quite bring myself to look at Ed. I still wasn’t sure what to make of his outburst to the press. I mean, yeah, everyone knew that chefs were prone to diva-like behaviour, but honestly. It was only the North Cornwall Gazette, for heaven’s sake, not some sleazy gossip rag trying to stitch us up, or run a damaging exposé.
‘Whew,’ Rachel said, letting her heels fall off with a thunk-thunk to the floor and wiggling her toes. ‘We did it. No dramas, no disasters. And a visit from the local press – how cool is that?’
‘Yeah,’ I said, still not catching Ed’s eye. ‘That was really . . . cool. I just hope I don’t look too manic in that photo.’
‘What photo?’ Phoebe asked. She had gone very pale. ‘For the newspaper?’
‘Yeah,’ I told her, then realized she was probably freaking out that her mum might get to see it and track her down. ‘But don’t worry, they left just after you arrived.’
‘Well, all in all, I think this evening calls for a celebratory something,’ Ed said, getting to his feet and loping into the kitchen.
‘Good on ya!’ Rachel shouted after him, and grinned at Phoebe and me. ‘I’m always up for a celebratory something.’
‘I hope it’s the rest of that toffee pudding he’s bringing out,’ Phoebe said, licking her lips. ‘That looked totally yum, didn’t it?’
I smiled at her, but said nothing. I wished I could be as exuberant as they were. Yes, I felt triumphant that the evening had gone well on the whole, but I was too discomfited by Ed’s strange behaviour to chill out totally and enjoy our success. Still, now that Phoebe had mentioned the pudding, I realized I quite fancied some too. I was absolutely famished.
I kicked off my shoes and tucked my feet up under me on the seat, hoping to force myself into a better mood. ‘Toffee pudding would hit the spot,’ I said. ‘I’ve been ravenous all evening – I was too nervous to eat before we opened up, and the smell of all that amazing food has just been . . .’
My voice trailed away as I saw that Ed was re-emerging with a bottle of bubbly and some glasses.
‘Oh Ed,’ I said, touched by the gesture. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
He nodded, his eyes seeking out mine, a slight anxiety about his gaze, as if he knew that he’d pissed me off. ‘Do you mean, is this the finest cava that Betty’s shop can manage? Yes,’ he replied. ‘You bet it is. I thought we all deserved a treat after that.’ He glanced at Phoebe. ‘Well, those of us who are old enough, that is.’
‘I reckon she could have a small glass,’ I decided. ‘What do you say, Pheebs?’
She smiled. ‘Sounds great.’
Ed poured the foaming fizz into the tall champagne glasses he’d unearthed and we all held them up together. ‘To the four of us,’ I said. ‘For making the Beach Café’s first evening venture such a success. Thank you and cheers!’
‘Cheers!’ everyone chorused.
‘And to Evie,’ Ed added. ‘For being a great boss, and a great person.’
‘CHEERS!’ Rachel and Phoebe chimed in, clinking their glasses against mine.
Tears rushed to my eyes. It was silly to get so emotional, I knew, but no one had ever called me a great boss before. I wasn’t even sure if anyone had ever called me a great person, either, come to think of it. Mind you, I thought in the next breath, he was probably just trying to butter me up, apologize for what had happened – and if that was the case, platitudes weren’t quite good enough.
‘Aw, shucks,’ I said. ‘Well, because I’m a so-called great boss, I’m going to insist we all finish tonight’s leftovers. I, for one, am having me a bit of that sticky toffee pudding. I reckon it will go perfectly with this bubbly. Who’s joining me?’
By the time we’d sunk the bottle of cava and worked our way through the leftover crab pâté and French bread, mushroom risotto, salad and puddings, it was nearly midnight, and we were all flagging. ‘We’ll open a bit later tomorrow,’ I decided. ‘Is ten-thirty all right for everyone?’
‘Cool,’ said Rachel. ‘Sounds good to me.’
Rachel and Phoebe took the dishes and glasses away, and Ed cleared his throat. ‘You’re probably wondering why I overreacted to those journalists,’ he said awkwardly.
‘Well, yes, you could say it had crossed my mind,’ I replied.
‘I’m sorry I lost my temper with them,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a few run-ins with the press before, and don’t trust any of them.’
‘Ed,’ I said, exasperated, ‘they’re from the North Cornwall Gazette, not
the News of the World. They just wanted a photo and two lines from you that they could put in the article. It was a really good publicity opportunity, but . . .’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘And I’m sorry. It’s just—’
Frustratingly, before he could finish his sentence Rachel reappeared, slinging on her jacket, and he fell silent. ‘Well, I’m off,’ she said. ‘Ed, d’you mind walking me back to the main street? There’s no moon tonight, and it’s totally black out there.’
‘Sure,’ he said. The perfect gentleman.
I said goodnight to them both, feeling more baffled than ever. Why had Ed had ‘run-ins’ with the press previously? What was his story?
I locked up after they’d gone and realized that Phoebe was hanging around, looking rather self-conscious, the smile no longer on her face. Oh God, was she hoping to have a big Life Chat now? I wasn’t sure if I could cope with any more high drama tonight.
‘Let’s hit the sack,’ I said, pre-empting her. ‘We’ll have a talk tomorrow, okay?’
‘Okay,’ she said quickly, sounding relieved. ‘And, Evie – I’m sorry I stormed out earlier.’
‘No worries,’ I told her. ‘I’m glad you decided to come back. You were a massive help this evening. We couldn’t have done it without you.’
‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘I’m going to bed then. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Phoebe.’
I couldn’t get to sleep immediately once I shut my eyes in the darkness of my bedroom. I was so revved up from the mad long adrenaline rush of the last four or five hours, and so stuffed with leftover food, that I felt too wired to doze off, and my mind kept replaying all the details over and over again. It had been knackering and stressful at times, but overall I’d really enjoyed it, and so too had the customers it seemed. I felt proud of myself and my little team for pulling it off. We did it! But what the hell had happened with Ed? Really – what had all that been about?