Champagne Secrets

by Amanda Brunker

  I felt very pleased with my work as I arrived in the office, homework done. For future reference Bradley suggested I actually look at the camera lens rather than the reflection of the view-finder in the mirror. (Which I could have turned round, and so seen myself directly.) But, considering it was my first attempt, he told me, ‘Not bad at all – and your pieces to camera weren’t rubbish, either!’ Of course, that gave me a much-needed confidence boost, and from that grew a desire to succeed.

  Not wanting to lose momentum, Bradley shooed me out of the building again mid-morning to swot up on more scripts, only this time I would have to come back to his office later that day and record them under his direction. Feeling like I was auditioning for Britain’s Got Talent, I paced the aisles of a nearby Marks & Spencer’s repeating my lines over and over, and instead of trying on any clothes in the dressing-room cubicles, I performed each of my pieces to the full-length mirrors, becoming more expressive and energized each time I did them – or so I thought.

  Back at Bradley’s office, though, I was told I looked like Ross Kemp playing a pantomime dame, and that less was definitely more when it came to TV presenting. He said, ‘You’re over-acting, like Darius.’ And, like Darius, I needed to start listening to heavy metal rather than Britney Spears. Seemingly that would start showing through in my delivery. That evening I was sent home with another batch of scripts and the video camera again, and told, ‘You’re under pressure now.’ As if I wasn’t already aware of that.

  The next morning Bradley’s verdict was, ‘Third time lucky.’ And that even though there was some room for improvement, I had pretty much nailed the task. Over the next two days we moved on to master classes in how to work the cameras: from using the best light to film, to disguising my pinhole surveillance camera in either clothes or a handbag. We also did hours of role-playing to learn how to set up ‘stings’, as Bradley called them; and I continued to learn more about the dodgy dealings of my future workmates.

  None of my new knowledge could have prepared me for the next bullet, though. I was just walking out the door on Friday evening when Bradley revealed the location of my new workplace. ‘It’s Sir Charlie’s,’ he said casually. ‘I’ve a map and some directions printed out. You’ll need to be there Monday morning at 10 a.m. Your contact is Helen Foley, and she’ll show you the ropes. You can call me on your progress when you get your break.’

  Remembering the newspaper story about Tanya, I asked, ‘Are you sure? Isn’t that a nightclub?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Bradley smiled, his eyes widening at the recognition on my part. ‘But it’s also a restaurant by day. I’m glad you know it, but I didn’t tell you about it before as I didn’t want you to fret about bumping into any of your old WAG friends. On that front, I think you should come up with a new name.’

  Totally taken aback, I joked, ‘Would you like me to change the colour of my hair, too?’

  But that only seemed to spark an idea in Bradley’s head. ‘You know what?’ He was now talking to himself rather than me. ‘That’s spot on. OK,’ his attention quickly snapped back to me. ‘How do you reckon you’d look as a redhead?’

  Laughing at the idea, I joked, ‘Is that not a tad clichéd for an Irish girl?’

  ‘You’re dead right,’ replied Bradley. ‘Blonde it is.’

  Stuffing £200 in dirty twenty-pound notes into my hand, he whooped, ‘That’s perfect. Text me later when you decide on a name. But nothing too Oirish. Think more Melinda Messenger than Danielle O’Donnell, all right?’

  Fighting against the temptation to respond with a smart comment like, ‘So would you like me to get my boobs done as well?’ I bit my lip and charged out the door before he came up with any other ways to upset me.

  Having been a brunette all my life, the thought of going blonde was as scary as getting cosmetic surgery from a surgeon who credited himself for working on Katie Price, Jodie Marsh and Leslie Ash! But after remembering how Lisa had bravely cut off her own long blonde hair when she first started chemotherapy, I thought what little sacrifice and bought myself a couple of cheap packets of hair dye at the local pharmacy. With extra cash in my back pocket after choosing to bleach on the cheap, I was happy that I could hand more over to Maura as a thank you for caring for Daisy. I would need to give Maura a much-needed break from her that weekend anyway, so a trip to the hairdressers was just not a workable option.

  Saturday morning and several bleached towels later, Maura was wishing she’d paid me to go to the hairdressers herself, after the mess I’d made in her bathroom. Despite following the instructions to the letter, my hair had turned out peach with the first natural medium champagne blonde kit I had tried, before turning platinum, and then a less scary ash blonde, thanks to Clairol. Worried that it would fall out completely, Maura ordered me to massage a full jar of Hellman’s mayonnaise into my newly destroyed hair as I sat watching back-to-back episodes of Hannah Montana and Spongebob Squarepants all afternoon with the kids.

  After washing the gunk out, I blow-dried my bob, feeling like Marilyn Monroe, and took a photograph of my new image on my phone, to send to Bradley. Tagging it with, ‘Codename: Alice’, I also sent it to Parker and Lisa, and sat by the phone with my fingers crossed. As if waiting for exam results, I hesitantly opened each of the messages that beeped through, praying for a positive reaction. On cue, both my buddies responded, ‘Who the fuck is Alice?’ I received nothing back from Bradley. Clearly bored, Parker spent the rest of the evening sending me stupid blonde jokes along the lines of, ‘What do bleached blondes and jumbo jets have in common? Black boxes.’ And, ‘Why do blondes wear underwear? To keep their ankles warm.’ But still there was no reply from Bradley.

  That night I went to bed feeling a renewed sense of confidence. I had never dreamed of dyeing my hair before, but I actually really liked it. Pouting in my vanity mirror, I pretended I was Scarlett Johansson and gushed, ‘Cause I’m worth it,’ several times over. I finally went off to sleep with a smile on my face, wondering: as a blonde, would I really have more fun?

  5

  It was hard to believe I could have made a bigger mess of Maura’s bathroom than I had during the brown-to-blonde incident, but my ability to apply St Tropez was always dodgy at the best of times … and with my auntie plying me full of booze, things went from streaky to downright manky.

  Once Daisy was in bed, Maura’s husband John gave her the night off from all parenting duties and ordered the pair of us upstairs to do whatever women do, with the warning, ‘Not too much male-bashing, or else I’ll try this tanning business meself, and mortify you both in front of the neighbours tomorrow!’ Locking ourselves away from the last-minute Sunday-night homework chaos that was unfolding downstairs, Maura and I bonded with our horror stories of childbirth and stretch-marks, as I prepped myself to become body-beautiful for work the next day, helped along by not one but two bottles of Sancerre. I did more talking than blending, and I looked like I had fallen into a river at Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory when we were finally evicted from our safe haven, so the kids could wash their teeth without fear of being heckled.

  Taking refuge in the master bedroom with the last of the vino, Maura took it upon herself to show me her and John’s goodie drawer, which had to be opened with a key she kept hidden on top of a picture frame. She proceeded to list each mechanical device in order of preference, crediting them with adding years on to her relationship with John. ‘Well, how else do you expect to keep a twenty-year marriage alive?’ She asked this in all seriousness, before breaking into one of her dirty laughs and gasping, ‘Who am I asking? Sure, I might as well be asking you what a macrobiotic diet is …’

  In between the nipple tassels and the furry handcuffs, they had a different-coloured vibrator for every day of the week: the large black one acting as their favourite midweek treat, and a small ugly finger-type purple one being, as Maura put it, ‘John’s personal pleasure-finder!’ Grossed out, and terrified I’d never be able to look the poor man in the eye again, I abando
ned Maura, who had now become suitably horny, and promised to send John up to her just so he could get his ‘Sunday service’.

  The next morning I felt like a novice soldier going into battle. Even with my new blonde do, my patchy fake tan didn’t ease my terror about the people I was going to meet, and my fear that they would suss me straightaway as a fraud. Advised not to take any cameras with me on the first day, I was very relieved I hadn’t wired up when Helen – the assistant manager I’d learned about from my list of profiles – handed me a skimpy black dress and told me, ‘You look great, but this is our uniform. We’ve all got to wear them.’

  Instead of giving me some privacy, Helen ushered me into a small, run-down staffroom cluttered with duffle bags and oversized winter coats – in total contrast to the über-cool, modern restaurant she’d walked me through – and insisted on discussing the plan for the day as I struggled to slip out of my grey trouser suit and into the flimsy dress she’d given me.

  Although I wouldn’t normally wear Spanx under trousers, that morning had been particularly cold, so I had justified them as an alternative to thermals. And even though I was a tad mortified when I caught Helen trying not to stare at them, I thanked my lucky stars I had pulled them on when I saw myself in the dress. Trying to defuse the tension, I joked, ‘They don’t leave much to the imagination, do they?’

  Helen bluntly retorted, ‘If I was you I’d try and lose a few pounds. Craig doesn’t hire staff over a size 10. If you don’t fit the dress, you don’t fit in, full stop.’

  Patting my belly and throwing my eyes up to heaven, I said, ‘I have my period, and you know yourself—’

  Helen interrupted, ‘It’s my job to keep an eye on these things. You need to know there’s a standard to be kept.’ While I was still struggling for a comeback, a beeper in Helen’s pocket went off and she was quickly out the door. From the hall she yelled back, ‘I’ll see you outside in a few minutes,’ and then she was gone, and I was left in the stinky staffroom, feeling frumpy and inadequate and wishing I’d never had that hangover cooked breakfast which Maura had so kindly made me.

  For most of my life I had been a size twelve, and if anything I had felt great about being a small twelve, or, as I had more appropriately described myself to Maura the night before, an eleven and a half. Until Helen’s cutting comments I had felt sexy and womanly, but I was in a fragile state of mind already, and her advice was missing the sugar that might have made it easier to swallow. And, as if it hadn’t been enough, I walked out on to the floor just in time to hear an extremely stick-like member of staff ask, ‘Who’s the fat chick?’

  I could have pretended not to hear, of course, but I chose instead to confront my critics face on. ‘I’m the new girl. My name is Alice. But I’ll answer to any derogatory fat names, such as Porker, Salad Dodger, Lardass, Muffin Top, Tyra Banks, Busted Sofa, Omega Mu, Forgetful Bulimic, Great Personality. You name it, I’ve heard it. So I’d appreciate a little inventiveness in future, thanks.’ Humour seemed like the best route – after all, I wanted these people to like me, or at the very least respect me for having attitude.

  Momentarily flummoxed by my brazen manner, my skinny new nemesis just looked me up and down before walking off without even making an excuse. She clearly thought me mad, or maybe just plain dangerous. Her comments had cut me like a knife, but I was determined not to let her know that, so I simply asked Helen to start showing me the ropes.

  The rest of the day was pretty uneventful as regards further confrontation. With business frustratingly slow in the restaurant, I spent my time folding napkins, polishing glasses and shadowing a waitress called Naomi, who took a grand total of seventeen covers to the kitchen, with the most calorific meal ordered being a prawn piri-piri. It was becoming painfully clear to me that the city crowd were different beings, and not big into eating. Forget Kansas, I most definitely wasn’t anywhere near Grafton Street now.

  Despite keeping my eyes peeled for unusual activity, the only person I became suspicious of was the kitchen porter, and that was just over his hygiene standards. After seeing the way he used large trays of salad to prop open the freezer door, I knew I could never order it again without visualizing it resting on the floor beside a mop and bucket and a sign that read ‘Staff Toilet’. On my way home I rang Bradley to say that so far any scams or rackets were corruptly well hidden, and the only thing exposing itself was me. He apologized for the skimpy dress, but said if I wanted an honest opinion on it, he’d be happy to give me a babe rating out of ten on receipt of a picture message. I told him to use his imagination instead, and so he generously scored me a fifteen!

  The next few days were a mixture of terror and exhilaration as I began to take chances with filming pieces to camera. While each location was carefully chosen to reveal the behind-the-scenes grime and disorder, my dialogue was sensational, bordering on full-on conspiracy theorist. Unless I actually started to witness some action soon, the entire project would look more like a spoof than a true-life documentary. More David Attenborough than Donal MacIntyre, I would crouch beside the bins to deliver my impassioned pieces to camera. Today was no different.

  ‘It’s Friday of my first week at Sir Charlie’s and the mood in the restaurant is pretty bleak. There is an obvious lack of teamwork among the staff. The bar guys seem to be up to something. They’re giving the waitresses the total silent treatment. The management are being extremely shifty when cashing out bills, and I’ve also noticed the head chef asking for bin money out of the till a couple of times this week, so I’d be curious to find out if and what that could be code for.’ Slipping my camera back into my locker safely, I returned to the floor and had a big shock.

  There, sitting propping up the long bar, were my two lunatic mates, Parker and Lisa. Unsure whether to acknowledge them as friends, my heart skipped a beat as I wondered how I should play this. Or, more to the point, how they would. I didn’t have to hold my breath for long. The minute Parker saw me, he winked slyly, while maintaining his cool and collected composure, and spoke to me like I was a member of staff.

  ‘Eh, hello, sorry.’ He put his hand on my arm as he talked. ‘Do you know where my friend and I can score some drugs, please? We badly need some.’

  Frozen to the spot, as one of the barmen was in earshot, all I could respond with was, ‘Pardon me?’ while forcing a large smile that said Don’t fuck with me here, or else I will have to break your legs.

  Signalling to Lisa, who was also pretending to be a stranger, he spoke again with a strange quasi-South African accent. ‘My girlfriend here has a headache. She was wondering if you could provide her with some painkillers.’

  I was just about to offer some weak response when the barman jumped in with, ‘Sorry, mate, we’re not allowed to hand any out for legal reasons. There’s a Boots just a couple of streets down. Won’t take you longer than five minutes max.’

  ‘Fuck it, then,’ blurted Parker. ‘We’ll just have to get you pissed, darling. That’ll get rid of your headache just as quick.’ Parker then said to the barman, ‘A bottle of house champagne for the little woman, please.’ So I took it upon myself to walk away and leave them to their boozing. But it seemed Parker was only getting warmed up. ‘Excuse me, miss?’ He called after me. ‘Can you sort us a table when you’re ready? What station are you working? I like the look of you. Can you serve us?’

  I was in the process of giving him another of my frosty smiles when Helen strode up and took control of the situation. ‘Hello, there,’ she gushed, signalling for me to run along. ‘You’re looking for a table for two, is it?’

  ‘Yes, please. And we’d like that gorgeous girl to serve us,’ said Parker defiantly. ‘Can you arrange that for us? We’re planning on spending a lot of money on champagne today.’

  Following the motto that whatever the customer wants, the customer gets, the odd couple were seated in my section, all the while loudly gushing, ‘This is great! This is going to be a fun afternoon.’ Once other staff members were safely out of
earshot my friends quickly let their guard down. ‘Surprise!’ they both chimed proudly.

  Slightly annoyed at the lack of warning, I growled back at them, ‘Yeah, just a pity it wasn’t a nice one.’

  Thrilled with himself, Parker kept poking me in the arm to make his point. ‘You shoulda seen your face. It was priceless! I thought you were going to faint.’

  ‘Yes, thanks for that. Ouch. Now behave, or else I might actually have to faint on you.’

  By 5 p.m., my drunken friends had polished off two bottles of champagne and had started up a friendship with the table next to them. Despite my begging them to keep their afternoon low-key they had cosied up to these two other couples, who appeared equally jolly, and kept loudly asking, ‘Isn’t this girl great? A credit to the establishment. Join us for a glass of bubbles.’

  Something seemed a little odd about the other table: the guys were immaculately dressed in expensive silver pin-striped suits, with almost forties-style greased-down hair, while their companions were slightly less than groomed, and looked as if they had street-walked all the way from the opposite side of the Thames. Not that I was any great expert on class, but in this instance manners were in scarce supply, and fake tan and badly backcombed hair was in abundance. Thinking that she was saving me from the rowdy bunch, Helen asked if I wanted to swap tables with one of the other girls, but I thanked her and laughed my customers off as just a temporary pain – especially as I would be handing over my station at half five anyway.

  By 5.42 p.m., Ms Alice had left the building, with tables six and seven following swiftly after me. I felt terrible about calling Maura to ask her to babysit at the end of such a long week, but I knew I’d feel even worse getting the Tube home and having an early night while my pals went on the lash without me. So, after some grovelling, and promises to take the whole gang out from under her feet for a few hours on Sunday, the deal was done.