by Marc Scott
When she arrived in the car park at the rear of Chez Blanc, Poppy tidied her hair, pulling it down as far as possible. She applied some fresh makeup to her pale and battered features and searched her car in the hope that she may have dropped a cigarette in there. She hadn’t, she would have to face the day without that fix of nicotine.
‘Nice of you to bother showing up, lass,’ Matt said, as she passed him in the kitchen. ‘Still looking as hot as ever!’
Poppy simply raised her middle finger towards the cheeky chef and mimed the words ‘fuck off!’ She was not in any frame of mind to suffer any of the Geordie’s bullshit today. She made her way to the refrigerator and helped herself to some slices of fresh chicken to make a sandwich. She was famished.
‘They will be here in about half an hour,’ Danny said, as he entered the kitchen to collect some clean glasses. ‘There are two extras coming, so there will be eighteen of them now. Did you sort the cake out, Matt?’ The chef nodded. ‘All done, boss, let’s hope that none of them have any nut allergies.’
Danny suddenly noticed Poppy in the corner, a half-eaten sandwich in her hand. ‘Thanks for coming in, love, it is going to be a bit manic today. We have that birthday bash, three tables of four and the walk-ins, so we needed you. Chantelle is out front. She is on her half-term holiday, so I gave her some extra hours this week. I thought we could do with another pair of hands.’
‘I am fine now, Danny,’ Poppy said. ‘Just a bit sore, I will be fine.’
‘Good girl,’ he said rushing past her. ‘Make sure you have plenty of white wine in the chiller, Matt, this lot sound like a right bloody bunch.’
‘It’s all women,’ Matt said to Poppy as she finished her snack and started to prepare for work. ‘Eighteen hot and horny lasses, some sort of hen-do to celebrate some woman’s birthday.’
‘Fuck me, Matt!’ Poppy replied. ‘Even you might get lucky if there are that many pissed women in the restaurant.’ Matt’s child-like grin beamed across his face. ‘That is funny for you, Poppy, really funny. Maybe that fall you had has knocked a friendly personality into you.’
Poppy wrapped her apron around her waist. ‘Don’t bank on it, Matt, don’t fucking bank on it!’
Danny had been right, within thirty minutes or so, a small cavalcade of taxis brought the group of women to Chez Blanc. The air turned blue as the rowdy bunch of forty to fifty-year-old ladies made their way to the tables that Danny had decorated with an assortment of coloured balloons.
‘Get over here, girl!’ shouted the largish women with her cleavage hanging over the top of her black dress. ‘We need to get the bloody drinks sorted!’ Chantelle stood still. She was clearly intimidated by the brash tone of the guest.
Danny intervened. ‘I will take your drinks order, ladies. Poppy and Chantelle will look after your food requirements.’
The young waitress seemed noticeably nervous as she was joined by Poppy to oversee the diners’ orders. ‘Have you ever seen such a bunch of ugly old dogs in your life?’ she asked her senior.
Poppy laughed. ‘Just smile at the bitches,’ she said. ‘Don’t let them get to you.’
When Danny had made a list of the drink requirements, he asked Chantelle to assist him, leaving Poppy to face the hen party alone. The group had settled in now, a sea of fake tan, vulgar fashion jewellery and oversized breast implants on view across their table. The women’s conversation was coarse to say the least, but for Poppy this was nothing new. It was highly unlikely that anyone sitting at this table was going to unnerve her. A chubby woman, dressed in an ill-fitting leopardskin top, with badly bleached blonde hair and a strange piercing in her nose, seemed to have taken an instant dislike to Poppy and did nothing to hide it. ‘Don’t you ever smile, darling?’ she asked, as the waitress passed around the menus. ‘You have a face like a smacked arse!’ Poppy ignored her comment and gave the woman one of her well-practised stares, the ‘you wouldn’t want to fuck with me!’ stare that had served her so well in prison. The woman with the red stud on the side of her nostril was braver than most though. ‘Moody bitch!’ she said, returning Poppy’s stare with one of her own. Poppy soon realised that she was going to be tested to the full today. The throbbing pain in her neck wasn’t helping matters much either. She left the women chatting as they looked over their menus and walked away. The less time she spent near that woman, the better, she thought.
As Poppy returned to the kitchen Matt was busy showing his new sous chef, Anton, the best way to prepare courgette fritters. The northerner was proud of the way his dishes were served and liked everything to look just right. He caught Poppy’s eye as she passed him. He could sense that she was in a bad mood by the look on her face. ‘How is it looking out there, gorgeous?’ he asked. ‘How hot are those ladies?’
Poppy smirked, having studied the rough and rowdy crowd of women in the restaurant. ‘Right up your street, Matt, right up your street!’
As Poppy reached to the top shelf to get some clean serviettes she felt a sharp stabbing sensation rip down her back. It shot through her like a hot needle. She tried to hide the pain on her face, but it had not gone unnoticed. ‘He has hit you again, hasn’t he?’ Matt said. Poppy carried on with the task in hand before Matt asked her again. ‘Your bloke, he hit you, didn’t he?’
Poppy brushed past him and headed back to the ever-growing din coming from the hen party. ‘It is none of your business, Matt!’ Poppy said bluntly. ‘So keep your beak out of it!’
The restaurant was alive now. Smutty innuendos and dirty laughter filled the air as the group of women became more intoxicated. The large woman in the leopardskin top still seemed to be targeting Poppy. She had her fully in her sights now, imitating her serving manner and sullen look, much to the amusement of her fellow party guests. Poppy heard the phrases ‘grumpy-faced bitch’ and ‘chavvy skank’ aimed in her direction several times from the newly formed ‘Poppy Hate Club’ but still managed to retain her composure. It would take more than a few insults from some middle-aged harpies to set her off on this day, despite those ever-growing pains tormenting her beaten limbs.
Danny was pleased to see his restaurant so busy at lunchtime. The birthday group were taking up half of the dining area and the rest of the tables were now full. Poor Chantelle was struggling to keep up with the pace that day, leaving most of the work to her senior, a fact that had not gone unnoticed by the owner of Chez Blanc. He made a mental note to reward her efforts with a larger share of any tips that night, something he often did to show his appreciation for Poppy’s efforts.
With the birthday party tucking into their main courses and Danny taking care of the drinks, Poppy decided to take a cigarette break. Luckily for her, Anton was a smoker and gave her a couple of ciggies. The new assistant chef probably did not realise it at that time, but he had become her saviour that day. Matt had noticed how hard Poppy had been working with very little help from her junior. ‘I think the young lass is out of her depth today,’ he said.
‘She is just a lazy bitch!’ Poppy replied. ‘Danny should get rid of her, she is fucking useless!’
As Poppy began to riffle her bag in search of a lighter, she noticed a shape in the kitchen doorway, a large shape. It was the leader of the ‘Poppy Hate Club’. ‘The toilets are down there,’ Matt explained, pointing down the narrow corridor. ‘You can’t come in here, you know, health and safety and all that.’
The woman eyed Matt up and down and grinned. ‘You are a fine-looking young man,’ she said, as she squeezed his arm in search of his muscles. ‘Why don’t you come and join us at the table? Come and have a drink with the girls.’
The cheeky northerner let out a nervous laugh. ‘You really shouldn’t be in here,’ he said, taking a step back from her grasp. The woman with the pierced nose was persistent. She smiled at the chef and ran her hand up his trouser leg in the direction of his groin.
Suddenly Poppy reacted to the woman’s un
welcome intrusion. ‘Are you deaf as well as stupid?’ she asked. ‘He told you that you shouldn’t be in here, so fuck off! The toilets are down the corridor to the left.’
Suddenly, the woman moved her hand from Matt’s leg and fixed her eyes on Poppy. She swiftly sidestepped the chef to vent her anger. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ she asked the waitress.
Poppy put down her handbag to face her enemy full on, looking around the kitchen area to assess the battleground. Something told Poppy that she needed to take a deep breath and find some soothing colours in her head, but the pain in her neck and side and the presence of the tyrant in front of her was making that increasingly difficult. The women were barely two feet apart now, eyeball to eyeball. Poppy was smaller in stature than her opponent, but that never bothered her. She bit the corner of her lip hard. It seemed now as if both women were resolved to conflict. Matt tried his best to defuse the situation. ‘Come on, girls,’ he said, ‘it is only a silly mistake, I am sure it is not worth arguing over.’
The kitchen intruder was not for backing down. ‘You have been a mardy bitch all day,’ she said. ‘I should teach you some fucking manners.’ Poppy said nothing, her eyes fixed firmly on her target. The woman tried a little harder to intimidate her opponent. ‘Trust me, girl, my bite is much worse than my fucking bark!’
Matt knew that it was time to act, the tension was growing, this confrontation was destined to escalate further. He tried one last time to reason with the duo before they locked horns, but his effort was short-lived as the angry woman took another step towards the stubborn waitress. In the blink of an eye Poppy had reached down to the table by her side and produced a knife, a long, sharp carving knife that was now pointing firmly at her aggressor, the shiny blade resting just a few inches from her startled face. ‘Come anywhere near me, you bitch,’ Poppy snarled, ‘and I will cut one of those fat fucking chins off your face!’
There was a few seconds’ silence. The woman with all the bravado was in complete shock. Her feet slowly began to backtrack. Matt wanted to speak but had been struck dumb by the sudden turn of events.
‘She is a fucking headcase!’ the woman said as she moved back to the safety of the kitchen doorway. ‘She is a fucking loony!’
Matt felt like agreeing with her, but also felt it his duty to support his co-worker. ‘She has had a really tough day,’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t really hurt you, would you, Poppy?’ The waitress said nothing, her outstretched arm still pointing the weapon in the direction of the shaken diner. Poor Anton was shell shocked. He had already retreated to the relative safety of the rear entrance.
Danny walked in at that point, complaining that one of the group of women had spilled half a bottle of claret onto the carpet. He walked past the shaken woman and Matt and headed for the washbasins. ‘Put it down now, love,’ he said, firmly but calmly, as if the object in Poppy’s hand was a potato peeler, rather than a ten-inch carving knife. ‘Put it down and give me a hand with the birthday cake.’ She followed his instruction but maintained full eye contact with her enemy who was still perched in the kitchen doorway. Finally, the woman with the bad hair and leopardskin top decided to return to her table with a parting shot at the restaurant owner. ‘She is a fucking psycho, that one, you should keep her on a leash.’
Danny laughed it off and began adding the finishing touches to the birthday cake with some bright candles, mumbling quietly under his breath, ‘Three years, six months and four days, God, that ex-wife of mine is a bitch, a fucking bitch!’
The storm in the kitchen had calmed and now it was the turn of Chantelle to be on the receiving end of the rowdy hen party. She started by complaining that the women, now extremely intoxicated, had been dishing out non-stop abuse. ‘She said I looked like a boy,’ she moaned. ‘That woman with the pink streaks in her hair, she said I looked like a little boy, because I don’t have any tits.’
Matt did his best to hide his laughter and carried on preparing some desserts for some of the other customers. ‘Can I take a break now?’ Poppy asked the restaurant owner. ‘I have been flat out since I got here.’
Danny nodded. ‘They are starting to leave now anyway. Take a couple of hours, we can manage here. I am going out this evening, there are not many in, so it will just be you and Matt.’
Poppy grabbed her bag and jacket and headed for the back door. She was followed swiftly by the chef who called out to her. ‘Why don’t you go back to my flat? It is just around the corner. You can use the shower and stuff and chill out for a while if you like.’ This is usually the point where Poppy would tell the Geordie lad to ‘get lost’ or words to that effect, but she found his mention of a hot shower enticing, after all it had been more than four days since her body had seen the bathtub. The well-meaning chef scribbled down his address and gave her brief directions. ‘No point taking your car,’ he said, ‘it is only a five-minute walk. The security number for the main door is at the bottom of the address.’
Poppy wanted to show her gratitude in some way, but it wasn’t in her nature. She simply took the keys and the address and started walking. ‘Ta,’ she said, as if she was doing him a favour. As she was about to leave, Matt mentioned that there was some cocoa butter in his bathroom cabinet which might help the swelling on her neck. Lighting up a cigarette to accompany her on her short walk, Poppy checked her mobile for messages. None of them were good, so she switched her phone off. Fuck you all! she thought.
Poppy was surprised when she entered Matt’s flat, everything looked so prim and proper. The place had a distinct smell of lilacs, probably down to the number of air fresheners scattered around the living room. The wooden floors shone as though they had been polished that morning and the array of pictures on the walls looked as if they had been organised by a professional photographer. The flat resembled a show home, something you might find in a magazine. She decided to have a look around before taking her shower. She was curious to see if the squeaky-clean chef, who was always so clean-cut and well mannered, had any dark secrets hidden in his home.
The living room was spacious. An expensive-looking red leather sofa sat facing the large television screen mounted on the wall. There was a glass table in the middle of the room, with a neatly arranged assortment of fruit staring at her from a shiny bowl. Nothing was out of place. Pushing open the door to Matt’s bedroom, she had a browse through his wardrobe, three sets of dazzling bright chef whites on one side, a dozen or so smart jackets and shirts on the other. Everything was neat and tidy and well laid out, somewhat different to her own abode, which often resembled a section of a landfill site. She noticed that the top drawer of his bedside cabinet was slightly open. Maybe this is where she could find something sinister, she thought, maybe he secretly wore frilly knickers or had leather thongs tucked away in there for secret sex parties. Her curiosity got the better of her and she opened the drawer. There was no erotic underwear, there were some expensive-looking underpants sporting a fancy label, but certainly not erotic. As she looked closer she could see that tucked away in the corner of the drawer was a large bundle of cash, £500, £600, maybe £700 in £20 notes. Something in Poppy’s head told her that he wouldn’t miss a few of those and she scooped up three of them and tucked them inside her trouser pocket. She completed her examination of his room before heading into the bathroom, where she was met with the aroma of jasmine and lavender. The shiny bath and toilet were spotless, even his toothbrush looked as though it was waiting to be photographed, as it sat at an angle in its holder. He must have a cleaner, Poppy thought, nobody is this clean!
The steaming hot spray from the shower hit Poppy full on. She stood there for a full two minutes before reaching for the shower gel. It felt so refreshing, as if the water was cleansing her inside and out. She covered herself with streams of soapy lather. They rushed over her bruised and battered body, bringing some much-needed comfort to her aching limbs. Her hair got the full treatment now. She was more than generous wi
th the application of shampoo she ran through her greasy mane. She recognised the shampoo bottle as an expensive brand she had once stolen in her shoplifting days. It took a full ten minutes to get all the sticky traces of after-sun out of her tangled locks of hair. It felt good, she felt good, she felt as if she had come back to life.
Wrapping herself in Matt’s large fluffy white bathrobe, Poppy made her way into the living room and headed for the kitchen area at the back. After opening the refrigerator in search of some refreshments she suddenly noticed something familiar. There perched nicely on the wine rack beside the fridge were four bottles of Moobuzz Pinot Noir. They were identical to the ones that Danny served at Chez Blanc. A coincidence? Poppy didn’t think so. ‘Who’s a naughty boy, Matt!’ she said, as she bent down to look more closely at the contents of his neatly organised shelves in the refrigerator. Poppy suddenly noticed a small amount of fresh salmon. She could swear that it was the same type of wrapping that Danny’s fish supplier used. ‘Matt! Matt! Matt!’ she said, realising that she had found a chink in the friendly northerner’s armour. ‘You really are a dark horse!’ She poured herself a large glass of the fruity wine and helped herself to some ham and cheese to make a sandwich.