by Dee Palmer
“Some guy at the gathering, a ‘Friend of the University’ they’ve roped into giving some free lectures, flat out told me I was lying in front of my course leader.”
“What? Oh my God, Bets. What did you do? What did Mr. What’s-His-Name say?”
“Mr. Wilson, well, he didn’t say anything, he didn’t actually hear, this guy whispered it in my ear.” I get a shiver as I say this, like I can still feel his breath skim my skin. I can feel my face heat, and I quickly down the rest of my glass.
“Oh my… Miss Thorne, I do believe you’re blushing.” She giggles.
“I know! What is that about? Some random hot guy whispers in my ear and I light up like a red light district. They all swear like sailors in the kitchen, and the topics they share, well, it’s no holds barred most of the time and not a hint of colour!” I am just as shocked.
“Hot guy?” She hums with excitement.
“Oh yes.” I swallow. “Did I not mention that he was off the charts, hot as hell? And he knows, I don’t know what he knows, but he knows I’m lying.” I’m frowning now and waving to get more wine. Sofia leans forward and tops up my glass. I take a smaller sip this time. “Oh God, I can’t lose this place, Sofs.” I drop my head in my one free hand.
“Random guy, you say, so he is not on the staff?” She muses.
“No.” I like where she’s going with her thinking.
“And you didn’t confirm he was right?”
“No.”
“And your Mr. What’s-His-Name didn’t hear?” Her lips begin to curl in a reassuring way.
“Mr. Wilson, and no.” I mirror her pleasing smile.
“So then there is nothing to actually worry about, nothing material has changed here, so don’t worry. Nothing will come of this, I promise, other than me laughing at you for actually blushing over some ‘random hot guy’.” She moves to sit next to me and nudges my arm, not quite spilling my drink. I think about what she’s said.
“You are right, he’s not staff and not a student. I probably won’t even see him again.” I take a satisfying sip to drain my glass.
I WISH I had a bath. I stand under the less than powerful staff shower at the rear of the kitchens and attempt to dodge the range of temperatures, which fluctuate from skin flaying hot to freeze-your-nipples-clean-off cold. In fact, I think I would sell my soul for the luxury of a roll top bath with deep hot water and endless silken bubbles; throw in some candles and I wouldn’t even put up a fight. I squeal as I’m blasted with a final spurt of ice water as I turn the tap off and step onto the slatted wooden tray, which in the winter prevents my feet from freezing directly onto the concrete floor. I wrap myself in my large fluffy towel, slowly open and peep around the door. The corridor is empty, and I’m pretty sure I am early enough to brave the mad dash upstairs without the other employees catching a flash of flesh. This fact alone is the reason I am always awake at five in the morning. A brutal and mortifying lesson learned the hard way, and even though I cringe at the recollection, I am ever thankful no phone camera was at hand at the time.
I have lived here for two years. My sister’s disappearance kind of left me homeless, and my temporary month-long stay at Sofia’s turned into two years until I was eighteen. Sofia’s family took me in. They have a large town house in a fabulous part of London, and although they clearly have money, they are really down to earth; so friendly and welcoming. The house was always full. Full with friends and family, of wonderful aromas and of love. I dated Sofia’s twin brother, Marco, for a short time, not my smartest move, but he was funny, smart and persistent. He didn’t cover himself in glory when I found out he had been bragging about me to some friends. He was a little shocked when I didn’t take the opportunity to shame him and deny it all when I had the chance. I had my reasons and laughed it off, even gave him a high score when pushed for details. Sofia was not so kind and tore into him in private. She was the only one I ever told about John and completely understood why I was the way I was, but she was protective of me all the same. This, in itself, could have made my move into the family home awkward, but I have a talent for turning fragile relationships into strong friendships. Next to Sofia, Marco is my best friend.
Marco works in the Knightsbridge restaurant with me while Sofia is studying a food and wine diploma at an exclusive private school in central London. She is happy to live at home, forgoing the student experience for the utter luxury her five star home offers. She also chose not to work in the family restaurants, opting instead to work at a private members club, learning the hospitality and event side of catering. As the only girl, she is spoiled and indulged, and could have so easily become a proper princess. She can spend money like there is no tomorrow, but she is generous, too, and she works really hard.
I knew I was welcome to stay as long as I needed, but the house was full and sharing a bed with the human starfish meant I never slept all that well. Even though Sofia’s father kept on about not leaving me to “wander the streets,” I started to look for a room as soon as I turned eighteen. Realistically, sleeping on the streets wasn’t going to happen, I could afford a room, it just wouldn’t be pretty, and it might be a little out toward the sticks. However, one Sunday I was wiping down at the end of my shift and getting ready to leave, when Sofia’s father took me upstairs. He wanted to show me what his boys had been working on. The confusion on my face must have been a picture as he laughed and led the way. Above the restaurant were two small box rooms, which were too inconvenient to use for extra storage for the restaurant so had been relegated to a dumping ground for dying furniture and dead kitchen equipment.
I stood on the threshold and was completely overwhelmed; I couldn’t take a step further when I saw what they had done for me. Sofia leapt from behind an armchair shouting, “Surprise!” That was the understatement of the year. I had no idea this was all happening above my head. The room had been cleared and painted a warm honey white. The threadbare patchy carpet had been removed and the wide wooden plank flooring had been stripped and polished. Two large chocolate and charcoal coloured rugs almost covered the entire floor, but you could still see the rich polished wood around the edge.
In the far corner below the window, a book lamp illuminated a small white desk with a high backed wooden chair tucked beneath it. In the centre of the room was a two-seater sofa with a huge, fluffy, cream-coloured throw, which was hiding a rather hideous seventies style geometric pattern. Next to that was a faded and battered leather armchair, which I recognised from Marco’s bedroom. It was a much loved piece of furniture and very comfortable. The permanent indent in the seat cushion was a testament to that. Sofia had obviously been raiding my storage boxes and sixth form art portfolio case, as the walls now held two of my abstract landscapes. She’d had them mounted and framed. There was also a silver framed picture of my mum when she was my age on the coffee table and a cork notice board above the desk declaring, ‘Welcome to Your New Home ☺’ in the form of a colourful homemade poster.
Sofia came toward me and grabbed my hand, excited to show me all the improvements. There was a corner unit, which acted like a kitchenette with a single ring hob, kettle, and toaster. To be fair, there was a much larger kitchen downstairs if I was ever feeling more adventurous than tea and toast. Behind that was a separate toilet and sink; next to those, two smaller store cupboards had been knocked into one to provide a perfect sized bedroom. The queen sized futon bed dominated the tiny space and Sofia had hung white fairy lights all along the headboard. It looked magical. It was perfect. My new home was perfect! I was speechless and about to turn, when I noticed a tiny framed picture beside the bed. It is the follow on picture of the one I always keep in my purse. It is the photo of me and John, my soul mate and best friend since I was five years old. It was taken on my sixteenth birthday. It was my fault he never made it to seventeen. It was my fault he was murdered.
I couldn’t stop the tears that had been building since I stood on the threshold. I let out a sob and was quickly muffled to silence by tight embrac
es from Sofia and her father. I had decided a long time ago that crying accomplished little other than huge, puffy, red eyes and a snotty nose. So I reigned in the breath-stealing sobs I could feel bubbling under the surface, which I knew I was capable of in private, and gave a light laugh to lift the mood. After all, I was genuinely over the moon with my new pad. I thanked them again and again. The grand tour took no more than five minutes and after seeing how truly happy they had made me, Sofia and her father left for the evening. I was able to wallow in the solitude of my new home, because although I am often lonely, I am rarely alone. It was bliss.
I work a split shift on Mondays, so having confirmed my timetable amendments with a quick email to Mr. Wilson, I head down to the kitchen. I am capable of turning my hand to most jobs in and around the restaurant, and Sofia’s eldest brother Anthony, Jr., who runs this restaurant, is pretty flexible where I work. He prefers me front of house, and I don’t flatter myself that I would ever be let loose cooking, but I can prepare vegetables and wash up like a pro. Besides, I am happiest in the kitchen. The pressure can be intense, and the language can be blue, but I like the banter and buzz that comes from working in a predominately dominant male environment. The guys never make any concessions for me being there, and they certainly don’t censure their language or the topics up for discussion. Frankly, what I didn’t learn in biology, I more than made up for in that kitchen. They would happily enlighten me, giving me tips and tricks, which would make a hardened professional blush but just made me laugh.
I prepped vegetables all morning; one of the specials today was zucchini fritters, which meant mountains of shredded courgettes. It’s the only way to eat such a dull vegetable and the way Joe cooks them; they are light, crisp, and melt in your mouth. I had a taster as I finished work and headed upstairs to change. I planned to go to the library to make a start on my reading. I can’t afford to buy all the course books, but reading them in the library is no hardship. As I put my jacket on, I dig in the pocket and pull out a crumpled piece of paper with the contact details I took from the job board, the one with the very vague but intriguing information. I decide to give the number a call, It was worth that to at least establish some details. I sit on the arm of my chair and punch the numbers.
The call is answered, “Late Night Calls…let me help you?” The voice is slow and sultry, and the question threw me. I couldn’t speak.
“Come on sweetie, don’t be shy,” The voice encouraged. I’m pretty sure it was a female voice, but it was low, so I couldn’t be hundred percent certain.
“Right, sorry.” I stumbled, “I got your details form the jobs board at my University, you know about flexible hours, extra cash… um, could I speak to someone about that?” I definitely sounded like I have the wrong number and am just about to hang up.
“Oh, sure thing, sweetie, I’ll just put you through to Mags, she’ll sort you out. Bye!” Her bright voice is cut off abruptly, and my call is clicked over and put through before I could thank her. This gives me enough time to compose myself, maybe not sound like such a moron.
“Hello?” I ventured tentatively as the line goes silent.
“Hello, my darling, what can I do for you today?” Her voice was equally low, and I wonder if that is a job requirement or maybe just something in the water.
“I was calling about the job, but to be honest I don’t really know what the job is, where it is, or, well, any of the details, really, so that would be a good place to start?” I try to come across as professional as possible, my voice a little lower than normal.
“Don’t you just have the sexiest voice?” Mags says, ignoring my actual question.
“Urgg?” She can’t see my confusion, but my eloquent noise must make that clear.
“Well, not when you grunt like that, you don’t.” She laughs a deep throaty sound, which still sounds inviting but not mean.
“Oh!” I am shocked, and given I work in the kitchen below, that is saying something.
“Yes ‘Oh’. Now that I can work with.” She laughs lightly this time. “I am going to say right off, I will be able to offer you something, but I think we should meet, despite my type of business, I really prefer to do this sort of thing face to face. Can you come by at three this afternoon? We are quiet then, and we can go over everything and start your training.” She is super friendly and can’t hide her enthusiasm.
“Training?” Pretty sure my ‘sexy’ tone had been replaced with pure panic.
“I know I’m getting ahead of myself, but I know people, and I have a good feeling about you. What is your name darling?” she encourages.
“My real name?” I ask, and she laughs out.
“Yes, darling, your real name.” She is still laughing but I can’t take offense. She makes me smile.
“Bethany.” I tell her.
“Take my details down, Bethany, and I’ll see you at three.” The light laughter is gone, and this is purely business. Her tone shifts, and she gives me everything I will need to meet her later.
After ending the call I am a little dazed. I now have a pretty good idea what “Late Night Calls” is, and yet I still agreed to meet with Mags. More interesting still is that I am actually a little excited about it.
The door to the Late Night Calls office was unnamed, and I almost missed it, nestled between the arches behind Waterloo station. I knew the pub to the left, The Hole in the Wall, but I had no idea there was office space too. I was half right; it wasn’t really office space at all. I press the buzzer and the intercom lights up.
“Please come on up, Bethany.” The same voice from earlier has lost a little of its sultriness with the accompanying crackle.
I climb the narrow stairs and tentatively open the only door on the landing. The room is more like a hotel lobby, luxurious and welcoming, a complete contrast to the slightly grimy exterior and not like any office I know.
“Hello, Bethany.” The girl behind a small reception desk smiles. “I’m Susan, and Mags is just on the phone.” She points to a closed door behind her. “She won’t be long… they never are.” She giggles.
“Please take a seat, and make yourself at home.” She gestures to the seating area, which resembles an adult playpen without the bars. I could choose from a large corner sofa, which takes up most of the room, or alternately, I could perhaps romp on the oversized cushions piled high on a faux fur rug. As no one can get up from those things with a modicum of dignity intact, I decided not to risk the lure of their softness and opt for the safety of the sofa. I sit on the edge, which is apt because I am on edge. I smile at Susan, who has returned to flicking through, what looks from here, like a lads’ magazine.
“No frowning, darling, you’ll get wrinkles.” Mags, I assume, enters the room with a dramatic swish emphasised by the flow of her chiffon three-quarter length bright pink jacket. She must be in her sixties and is immaculate. Her make-up is a little heavy around the eyes, and she has the brightest pink lipstick on. Her hair is cut in a sharp grey blonde bob, and her tailored suit and silk blouse perfectly fit her shapely curves. She’s wearing six inch gold Louboutins, and I know this because they are Sofia’s favourite, not because I am lucky enough to own a pair. After taking me in carefully, she sits beside me and sighs.
“Well, you are just as sexy as your voice. Pity we don’t do video calls.” She pauses. “Yet.” Her smile is warm, and she gives a light laugh. I don’t know why, but I find myself grinning back. She is warm and friendly, and I am about to be a huge waste of her time. I’m thinking it’s going to take a maximum of five minutes for her to conclude I am wholly unsuited to provide the type of service Late Night Calls offers. She squeezes my knee, her eyes soften and she looks intently into mine. I think that might be a record for interviews, not even five minutes, and I can feel a ‘Don’t call us’ heading my way. “Come on into my office; let’s give you a test run!” This woman has managed to shock me twice in the same day. She grabs my hand and practically hauls me across the room into her office and closes th
e door before I can change my mind. “Darling, don’t look so nervous. You know what we do, yes?” She raises her perfectly drawn on eyebrow at her query.
“Yes, Miss,” I quietly reply. She raises both eyebrows in surprise and almost imperceptibly utters, “interesting,” under her breath.
“Well, I will tell you the whys and wherefores, we will have a little trial and go from there.” She is very encouraging, and her face is alight with misplaced enthusiasm.
“Yes, Miss.” I hesitate and suck in a shallow breath. “I’ll try”.
“I run an exclusive service.” Mags continues proudly. “Top service, top quality, and top price.” She grins. “You work the hours you want, though I would like a minimum of one hour per day, I provide the phone and calls are directed through my switchboard. This protects you and the client. You can work wherever you like, you can come here if that suits, and you can earn up to a hundred pounds an hour if you can keep them on the phone that long.” She chuckles and I’m starting to wish I was up to the task. She continues, “…or more if you provide one of the speciality services.” As the obvious horror on my face must show, she quickly adds, “Oh, darling, I don’t mean that sort of service. I’m no Madam, although I’ve been called worse.” She laughs again. “I just mean we have dedicated lines, which cater to specific tastes.” She pauses and eyes me carefully. “Any questions?”
I am actually speechless, another indication of my unsuitability for a job totally reliant on speech.
“All right, then, let me hear your audition piece?” She fixes me with her expectant kind eyes.
“Oh.” I breathe. “Well, I’m not sure.” I hesitate and can feel my face flush.
Sensing my extreme discomfort, Mags smiles and hands me her phone. “Use this as a prop if it helps. Imagine it’s an actual call; all you have to do is imagine.” She is sweet and encouraging, but I am so out of my depth. I look at the phone in my shaking hand, sigh, and hand it back to her. “Listen, why don’t I let you listen to a few calls first, a few samples as it were, once the initial shock is over, I’m sure you’ll get the idea…what do you think?” She places her hand over mine but doesn’t take the phone back.