by Jaq Hazell
“You have too much.”
“Don’t think your country won’t go the same way now you’ve joined the EU. Everyone wants to be someone whether they have talent or not.”
The camera shifts to a figure standing outside the curved window of Saviour’s Bar and Restaurant: jeans, a T-shirt, long brown hair and a slouchy bag. It’s me.
A sick feeling rises within me again, and I wipe my hot hands on the sofa, as I force myself to watch my younger self. What was I – twenty or twenty-one? It’s only a matter of a year or so. I look better than I realised at the time, but apprehensive, as I search up and down the street.
Run, leave – get away. I wish I could shout at that girl who is me, but isn’t me. Go home – save yourself.
Three
I had arrived early at Saviour’s that night and gone straight through the bar area to the backstairs and storeroom where we could leave our stuff. My mate Donna was already there, sneaking a quick fag as she teased the cockatoo hairstyle that added an essential two inches to her five-foot frame.
“What you doing here, Mia? It’s not your night.”
“Covering for Mags – her son’s ill.”
“What, serious?”
“No, I think it’s man flu.”
“Isn’t he about twenty-five?”
“Yeah, I know, weird isn’t it? How busy are we?”
“You don’t wanna know.”
In the kitchen everything appeared as normal, well, better in fact as it was head chef’s night off. Jason, my favourite, was at the main station, his whites pressed, his hair gelled, sauces prepped, cuts of meat portioned and wrapped, ready to be ordered. Even so, something had obviously kicked off.
“How can I work without a stove? I’m not a fucking magician,” Jason said.
Our boss, Vivienne Saviour looked agitated, as she flicked her blonde highlights. “Someone’s coming in on Friday to fix it,” she said.
“We’re fully booked and I’ve only got two poxy gas rings.”
“You’ll just have to manage, Jason. You’re a professional – surely they train you to cope with unforeseen circumstances.” Vivienne turned on her patent court heel and walked out of the kitchen.
“It’s a fucking joke. She could have got someone out today. She’s just too tight to pay the emergency call-out fee.”
“Is there anything we can do to help?” Jenny asked. She was the commis chef. She’d only been there two months but was considered the best commis chef ever. She was lovely looking too, in an understated way, with long mousy hair that she wore in a plait down her back.
“Jen, you just keep doing what you do. It would help if Mia and Donna get the first tables’ orders in quick so we can get them out the way.”
There were people waiting: a balding man of about fifty and two women. “Party for four – Drake,” the man said. He was about my height, and well dressed in a dark suit, his forehead deeply lined. It was Nicholas Drake, the art collector, but I didn’t know that then.
I showed them to the best table by the limestone fireplace, and gave them menus and a wine list. “Can you do the crab and scallop cakes without the crab?” the blonde woman asked. She was dressed in a flesh-coloured top that from a distance made her appear naked.
“I’ll have to ask chef.”
“I’ll have the duck,” the other woman said.
I returned to the kitchen: “Jase, we’ve got an awkward anorexic on table two.” I passed him the order.
“I can’t do the crab and scallop cakes without the crab. They’re prepped.” He was calm considering.
“Can you see to that other customer? He’s hot.” Donna said, as she was in the middle of serving a table of four. I looked out the porthole window of the kitchen’s swing door at the solitary figure in a pinstriped jacket over jeans and T-shirt. Jack Flood. A rush of nervous excitement went through me and I returned to the restaurant.
“Hello, I didn’t know you’d booked?”
“We meet again,” he said and smiled. “There should be a table under Drake.”
He’s not single, was my first thought. And what is he doing dining with them?
“Jack, at last,” Nicholas Drake said as soon as he saw him. “Let me introduce you. This is Mandy.” He gestured towards naked-top woman. “And this is Christine. We’ve already ordered, so get a move on.”
“Can I get you anything to drink?” I said.
“My lady friend would like to change her choice of main,” Drake said. “She’d also like the cod without the roasted garlic potatoes and paprika oil.”
“It may be too late, I’ll have to check,” I said. And yes, Jason was already cooking the duck she’d previously ordered, but I mentioned it anyway and unfortunately Vivienne had made her way back into the kitchen.
“Change it,” she said.
“What?”
“Do as they ask.”
“Whatever you say, boss. It’s your profits going straight in the bin.” Jason flicked the part pan-roasted duck into the rubbish. Vivienne glared and walked out, and Jason said nothing for once, which meant he was really pissed off. And, to make matters even worse, Drake also changed his mind.
“Jase, the guy on table two’s now changed from pork to spiced rump of beef.”
“Where’s the chit?”
For some reason, I hadn’t thought to write it down.
“I need a chit.” Jason’s eyes were hard – the way he looked at Vivienne. “Look, I’ve got ten fucking chits here, if you just say it to me, I don’t know what you’re on about. It has to be written down.”
I tried to reply but it was all getting too much. I slipped back outside.
“You all right, Mia?” Donna asked. But there was no time to stop. Another table had arrived, and my table of six needed their wine and table three’s starters were due out. I seated the new arrivals, sorted the wine and went over to take Jack Flood’s order before collecting table three’s starters.
“Ah, my water, thank you, Mia” Jack said.
“You got her name already?” Naked-top said. “Fast work.”
“We’ve met before,” Jack said, “although I had no idea she worked here.”
“Well, I haven’t got much choice if I want to study and eat regular meals.”
“Fetch another glass for the champagne, will you?” Drake said.
They raved about the food in the end, sending compliments to the chef, but they declined dessert. Jack said they’d drink in the bar, and they relocated leaving a hefty tip. Drake and the anorexics didn’t stay long after that but Jack was still there in the bar as the restaurant emptied.
He called me over. “I must apologise for being such an awkward table,” he said.
“They were happy in the end.”
“Some people are never happy.”
“I suppose not.”
“Are you finishing soon?”
“I’ll be another half an hour.”
“I’d like to take you for a drink. I’ll wait outside.”
It was so decisive, assumptive even and I liked that, but it had been a long night, I was tired and felt I should go home. But it’s Jack Flood, I thought, I might not get another chance.
In the ladies I screwed up my uniform and changed back into my Diesel jeans and Blondie T-shirt. I wished I’d worn something else, something sexier. I didn’t even have any jewellery. At least my make-up looked okay. The eyeliner had stayed in place, still thick and flicked up at the corners. I pulled on my Bambi-coloured suede boots and zipped up the zip that started inside the foot and travelled round the back of the leg and up the other side. I loved those boots. Mum had bought them as a special back-to-college present. “That’s it for now, don’t ask me for anything else,” she had said, but I could tell she’d enjoyed buying them for me.
In the bar, Jason was having a beer with Clint, the kitchen porter.
“Are you gonna join us, Mia?” Jason asked.
“Not tonight, sorry.”
“You alway
s have a drink.”
“I can’t, I’m meeting someone.”
Jason nodded as if letting me go.
And so I left, expecting Jack Flood to be there, waiting, but I couldn’t see him.
The dark street was noisy. It was a thoroughfare that led to various clubs: Indigo, Oceana, Freedom, a neon-lit kebab shop and other fast food joints. There was a group of lads in shirts and jeans on their way elsewhere. Don’t notice me, I thought, wanting to melt into the chocolate woodwork that framed the curved glass at the entrance to Saviour’s. I should go. Jack Flood was a no-show, but then I heard my name. It must be Jack. Where is he?
Groups of lads and girls passed one another, shouting and laughing. I noticed a cab across the road, its engine running as its back door opened. “Mia, over here.”
I hadn’t expected a car. I crossed the street. “Why do we need a cab?”
“We can avoid the drunken idiots. Come on, jump in.”
“I thought we were going for a drink?”
“I know a great place, come on.”
“Hi Mia,” Jenny said, as she crossed nearby.
“Jenny.” I waved, and she came over. “This is Jack Flood. He’s an artist – quite famous,” I said. “Jenny’s one of the chefs.”
Jack said, “Great meal, I enjoyed it.”
“We’re just off for a drink,” I told Jenny. “See you next week, Jen.” I climbed in the back of the cab next to Jack and it took off immediately as if the driver had already been instructed where to go.
A glittery blue elephant hung from the rear-view mirror. Lucky? I thought, as I watched it gently sway.
Initially, Jack didn't say a thing. I felt awkward and racked my brain for something to say. “I liked your show,” I said, though I hadn’t been that keen. “Where did it all come from?”
“Didn’t we have this conversation?” He stared ahead.
“I don’t think so.”
“You grilled me at the private view.”
“Hardly a grilling.”
“Your tutor had to step in and save me.”
“You’re kidding right?”
He smiled.
“I like the untitled piece. Why is it untitled?”
“Words can sometimes pin a work down too precisely.”
“You weren’t just being lazy then?”
“A lot of thought went into settling on ‘Untitled’. Who do you like art-wise?”
“That’s hard. There are so many: Peter Doig, Sarah Lucas, Rachel Whiteread, Gary Hume. I love Gary Hume – do you know him?”
He nodded. “Some of them are neighbours of mine.”
“Where do you live?”
“Spitalfields.”
“You have a studio there?”
“I have the whole floor of an old wire factory.”
“Oh yes, it’s on your card – The Wireworks, Quaker Street...”
“That’s it. You must visit – bring your work. Let me have a look.”
“Really?” I said, unsure whether he meant it or not, and if he did – would it help?
“What sort of work do you do?” he asked.
“It changes, I’m not sure I’ve found my thing yet. I draw a lot.”
“Is drawing not passé?”
“I don’t think so.”
He smiled, and said, “What do you draw?” And I was about to say, anything really: what’s outside my window, people, me – when the cab stopped.
“Thank you, my friend,” Jack said.
“What’s this?” We were outside the Merchant’s House Hotel.
“I need to change. One of those silly tarts spilt beer over me.”
“What – deliberately?”
“No, though you never know.”
“Who are they?”
“Tarts.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true. They were with Drake, the art collector. He recently divorced. It was acrimonious to say the least.”
“And now he has to pay?”
“He prefers it that way after his wife took him to the cleaners.”
“They’re really prostitutes?”
“Yep.”
“My God.”
“It’s not unusual.”
“I guess not, it’s just...” I didn’t want to sound naïve but I’d never seen the high-class sort before. I was used to watching them outside my window, but they were all drug addicts and alcoholics, or so I assumed, and that meant they had little choice.
“It’s whatever turns you on in this world – you’ll learn. Anyway, come on, I need to change.”
The elephant hanging from the rear-view mirror stilled. “I’ll just wait here in the cab,” I said.
“Maciek has to go.” He passed the driver some cash. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
The driver nodded and turned his pitted face in a way that let me know I had to get out.
I slammed the car door behind me. “Sorry,” I said, and the driver looked away.
“Have you been here before?” Flood asked.
I shook my head. “No.”
“You’ll like it.” The Merchant’s House Hotel was the place to stay, and I was curious. Jack Flood stood back. “After you.” He gestured for me to take the revolving door into the reception. It had hot pink, paisley wallpaper that eventually gave way to pared-down elegance. It was a picture of minimalist chic within its Georgian shell: pale limestone floors, framed architectural prints, leather Barcelona chairs, Perspex coffee tables and huge exotic floral displays, while the bar was a black-panelled room with club chairs and glass coffee tables with mixed salted nuts in little white bowls.
“I’m sorry, sir, we’re about to close.” The tall, lean barman was about my age. “We can do you drinks in your room?” he said.
“You have Cristal?”
“Certainly sir, can I take your room number?”
I had no intention of going to his room. “Hold on,” I said and stopped.
“This way.” Jack ignored my hesitancy and walked ahead, turning the corner into the stairway. I waited a moment before curiosity got the better of me. I hurried and caught up as Jack opened the door to room 12. It was the sort of hotel suite I’d only ever seen in magazines. There was a huge crystal chandelier, a large bed with a dark padded-leather headboard, a bronze satin bedspread, a couple of velvet club chairs and a pile of camera equipment on a side table.
“What’s all this equipment? It’s like you have a camera for every day of the week.”
“Something like that.”
“This room is amazing. We’re still going out though, aren’t we?”
“I just thought you’d be more comfortable having a drink while I change.” He gestured to one of the two armchairs. “Please, take a seat and enjoy a small drink before we go.”
The barman rapped on the door and Jack directed the drinks tray to a side table. “Shall I open the champagne, sir?”
“No, it’s fine. Thank you.” Jack tipped him and showed him out. “More fun to pop the cork yourself,” he said, smiling as he passed me a flute. “Cheers,” he said, pulling up a chair and sitting down opposite. For a moment our knees lightly touched. “Have you had Cristal before?”
“No. Isn’t it what footballers and rappers like Puff Daddy or P Diddy or whatever he’s called drinks?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“It’s what Kylie likes; she mentioned it in an interview once.” Flood laughed – and I felt myself redden. “I sound celebrity-obsessed – I’m really not.”
“I’m not going to judge you,” he smiled. “You have lovely pale skin.”
“It takes me ages to tan. I don’t really bother.”
“We couldn’t be friends if you did.”
“What?” I thought he was joking but he didn’t smile.
“Help yourself to more champagne. I’m going to get changed.”
“Then we’re going out?”
“Mia, relax or you’ll never have any fun in this world. I won’t be
long, and then we’ll move on, I promise.” Flood selected a fresh shirt from his wardrobe, entered the bathroom and shut the door.
Why am I making such a fuss? I took another sip of champagne. I’m going to tell Kelly and Tamzin that Cristal’s overrated. I flicked through a glossy magazine on “Best British Hotels”, impressed at the Merchant’s House Hotel’s inclusion. Who’d have thought I’d get to go here tonight? I drank a little more then got up to have a nose round the room. I looked through the CDs and put on Norah Jones, then checked out the free stationery, twirling a silver pencil stamped with the Merchant’s House Hotel between my palms. For a moment I wanted to keep it, but then I thought better of it. What would I say if Jack noticed? Oh sod it. I slipped it into my bag then moved over to one of the tall multi-pane windows.
Outside, a hen party was shrieking up the road. They were dressed in pink wigs and plastic tiaras while the bride had an ‘L’-plate pinned to her back. “Last chance to knob our Laura,” one of her mates shouted. How naff, I thought, and turned away but I must have moved too quickly as I felt odd, a little light-headed, like I’d drunk too much. I’ve only had one glass. I looked down at suede brown boots. Are they my feet? My vision blurred and I tried to focus. My head? What’s happening?
Jack Flood was standing in the bathroom doorway with a brown towel round his waist. Why is he smiling? I feel funny – how embarrassing. A phone rang – a mobile. Is that mine? Where did I leave it? I’d only had my bag a moment ago. The ring-tone stopped. There was muffled talking. I tried to concentrate, and looked back at Jack, but he was all blurry. What’s the matter with me?
Four
I lifted my head. Oh God, I’m dribbling. How come I’m lying face down? I never lie on my front. I lifted my head a little more. It hurt.
What is going on?
My cheek was wet where I’d been lying. And as I moved away from the dark damp patch my spit had made on the satin bedspread I looked back at myself – naked. Oh my God, shit. What is going on?
The earnest words of a Sky News correspondent resonated in the background. Where is that coming from? There was a plasma TV in the corner, and seated in a dark armchair, dressed in a hotel-issue white towelling robe was Jack Flood.
I grabbed at the corner of the bedspread to cover myself. I checked my watch. Jesus! It had gone four. How did that happen?