“I was working more when I was doing fringe.”
“Darling,” said Greta, launching into one of her speeches. “I’ve never seen a Beatrice like yours. Such passion, such fire. And your Titania at the Open Air Theater when you got drenched in the hail—exquisite poignancy. And your Rosalind—such spunk, such sensitivity, such humor. I cannot wait for the call from the National to say they’re doing Macbeth and need his lady. You’re the next Judi Dench, my dear. You are standing In. Her. Wings.”
Sukie drank it all in.
“The trick is my love,” continued Greta, softening her tone slightly, “you have to relive those moments when it counts.”
“What do you mean?”
Greta came and sat next to Sukie on the couch, took her hand in hers and placed it in her small lap.
“Television directors are different from theater directors.”
“I know.”
“There are a lot of new, young TV directors out there who think Judi Dench is actually Queen Victoria. They think a British Classic is a re-run of Dr. Who. And unlike in the theater, they don’t give you a chance to shine because, bless their little hearts, they don’t know how to. They think if they can capture you on tape, they can capture your soul.”
“Greta, just tell me what to do.”
Greta took a deep breath and began.
“The audition is not a time to be yourself,” she said slowly. “It’s a time to be who they want you to be.” She closed her eyes. “Lose yourself. Give yourself over to the Muse.” She opened her eyes again and they shone at Sukie. “Start performing before you’ve opened the door.”
“I thought I was.”
“They have said ‘Action’ before you have walked into that room.”
Greta sighed the sigh of a movie star and Sukie caught a glimpse of the young, lithe actress inside her agent. “My dear,” began Greta. “First impressions count more than anything, especially in this business. It’s a fact.”
“You mean pretend to be who I’m not,” repeated Sukie dully.
Greta flinched dramatically. “I mean act—perform—”
“Lie—”
Greta clasped her hand to her heart. “Inhabit the role before you walk in.”
“Pretend I’m a hardened Northern pathologist before I walk in—”
“Yes—”
“Pretend I’m really a Victorian lesbian music-hall star?”
“Yes—well—”
“They’re idiots.”
“Yes! Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Sukie grimaced.
“Darling,” another squeeze of the hand, “you re-think your definition of lying and I will have another look at some of the scripts on my desk with you in mind, with the beautiful, exciting knowledge that you will be as sublime in the auditions as you can be on stage.”
“OK,” said Sukie firmly.
“OK, dearest heart.”
“I can do it.”
“I have every faith.”
Sukie nodded.
“Meanwhile,” said Greta, returning to her desk, “I’ve got a lovely voice-over audition, 5 P.M. today, for an Anusol advert on Essex Radio with your name on it.”
While Jon squinted at the screen at her previous CV, Katie stood by the printer watching her new one emerge, thinking of Dan.
“What was this old one for?” asked Jon. “I’ve forgotten.”
“Teacher. How lame was that?”
“What was the one before that?
“Physiotherapist.” She laughed.
“And the one before that?”
She thought hard. “Dentist I think. Weird.” She shivered.
“And the one before that?”
“Can’t remember.” Katie made herself comfortable on his bed.
Jon gave her a long look.
“What?” she asked him impatiently.
He shrugged. “It’s just…are you sure we aren’t wasting our time? We could be watching Pop Idol. I taped it.”
Katie pointed at his computer. “You said you’d help me.”
“But you’re only going to change your mind again.”
“I am not!”
“Do you realize my folder of Katie’s CVs is almost as big as my book? Two great works of fiction.”
“Thanks!” She laughed. “Just because we don’t all have a vocation like you.”
“Hmm.”
“Mr. Tortured Writer.”
“All right. Point made.”
They sat in silence for a moment before Jon spoke.
“If I don’t get an agent I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“You will get an agent. It’s only a matter of time.”
Jon shook his head.
“Yes you will,” insisted Katie. “They keep asking to meet you after just reading three chapters.”
“Yeah and then I’m too terrified to meet them because I know I’ll spill my coffee or laugh too loud or fart, or just…I don’t know, spontaneously combust.”
“You just need some assertiveness training.”
“I just need a stunt double.”
“Maybe you need a makeover.”
Jon looked up at her. “Oh cheers!”
“I just mean…” she came toward him, took off his glasses, swept his hair aside, undid the neck zip of his fleece and pushed him in front of the mirror.
“What do you think?” she asked him.
“Where’s everything gone?” he squinted.
She put his glasses back on him. “Image is everything Jon,” she told his reflection. “Contact lenses, a new hairstyle and a trip to the shops—you’ll have an agent.”
“And then spill my coffee, laugh too loud and fart.”
She pointed at him in the mirror. “Ah yes, but it won’t matter because you’ll look so good. Now,” she said, giving his shoulders a squeeze. “Let’s get going on my CV, then I can go to the library and get some prospectuses.”
“Or watch Pop Idol.”
“Or watch Pop Idol.”
That evening, student and The Café’s dishwasher Matt was sitting in his bedroom, staring at his A-Level French book. His school counselor had told him that this stage of his life would probably be the hardest time ever, and it had only just occurred to him that the word “probably” meant that it might never get better than this.
The truth was that Matt didn’t know what to be depressed about first: the unpredictability of exam questions, the predictability of acne, the fear of turning into a commuter and, worst of all, the terror of his virginity becoming a fact of life rather than a phase he’d grow out of.
These were just some of his favorite musings. Global warming, the risk of being wrongfully imprisoned for murder, being buried alive and his unruly hair were some of the others. The fact that his body (once a haven he’d felt totally at home in, now an enemy that could attack when least expected) didn’t seem satisfied with being six-foot and was intent on making him the tallest boy at college, the fact that all his mates seemed to have been “doing it” since they were twelve, and the fact that his mother had a tendency to ask his friends questions like “Boys, enlighten me, what’s a golden shower?” were a few of the minor leaguers. On the way home from The Café this afternoon, he’d realized that if he got run over and killed today, he would actually die a virgin.
Darkness was now falling mid-afternoon and Matt stared out of his bedroom window at the silky red snake of sunset filling his aluminum-framed square of sky. For a few seconds, he had an out-of-body sensation of contentment. At moments like this he could believe he was just another normal bloke and his life was going to be fine. His body would stop growing, all the other boys’ bodies would catch up, his mother would lose her voice and he’d get a shag. Then, all too soon, the sun had set and he was stuck in his harshly lit room staring at his French vocab. As he glanced back up at the blue-black sky, he heard his mother’s voice calling him for dinner. He turned off his lamp, shut his book and went downstairs.
By Friday morning, Katie
was in such a state of nervous excitement about her date with Dan on Sunday, she could barely eat. Tomorrow she was off to spend the weekend with her family in Glossop, Derbyshire, but she’d be coming home early for the date. She usually took the train, but, because there was work on the track now for the foreseeable future, she was taking the car. All she had to get through was seven hours of café hell before the fun commenced.
It had been a long week. Christmas shopping had begun in earnest in Porter’s Green and the stress levels were seeping into The Café. Two women had almost had a punch-up when one realized the other had been the very person who’d bought Woolies’ very last Snowboarding Barbie. Everyone had so many bags of shopping that The Café’s cumbersome chairs and heavy tables had become a nuisance. On Wednesday, Katie mentioned to Alec that it might be a great idea to put a couple of comfy sofas in the window, but he looked at her like she’d just suggested he juggle nude. She would have persisted, but she had four tables to wait on.
By Tuesday, the weather had turned and it was now raining from dawn to dusk. Umbrellas littered the floor and radiators, which meant that wet umbrella steam was now added to the coffee machine steam. People were slipping on wet patches of floor and The Café reeked of damp coats. Unsurprisingly, more customers were smoking and the smell of cigarettes clung to the damp fabric. Overall, this was not somewhere anyone wanted to stay for too long, which meant its customers wanted to be served sharp. Which was a shame, because there was now double the usual amount of them with the same amount of staff. On Wednesday morning, Katie suggested taking on part-time staff for the Christmas rush. Alec listened to this suggestion thoughtfully and then said, “Table 4 wants serving.”
On Thursday, Katie had not had a chance to go to the toilet until noon. The Cafe only had one Ladies and one Gents, so she stood outside in the corridor, jiggling quietly as she watched the people who had just ordered food from her get increasingly irate that it hadn’t yet arrived. It was a tough decision, but she decided it would be preferable to make them wait rather than have an accident in front of them.
She put her ear to the door. Inside, she could hear the distinct voice of a woman on a phone.
“I must talk to you about Playstation,” she could hear. She started shifting from foot to foot again. Was someone using the toilet as a phone booth? She looked out into the café. Alec was on the prowl.
“I’ll see you at school later anyway,” came the voice inside.
Eventually, Katie decided she’d have to take some action. She gave two quiet but firm knocks at the door.
Silence. Then, “Who is it?” came the voice.
Katie was nonplussed.
“Katie.”
There was a pause.
“Katie who?”
Katie blinked. She looked to her right and left.
“Simmonds.”
There was another pause.
“Yes?” came the voice. “I’m on the phone.”
“Yes,” Katie told the door. “I wondered if I could use the toilet.”
“Well, I’m on that too,” came the voice impatiently. Then she heard it say, “Look, I’ll have to call you back.”
When the lady came out, Katie tried a smile. It didn’t work. The lady gave her a look that would sour chocolate.
Katie locked the door behind her. She was so grateful to sit down in a quiet room that she closed her eyes and blocked out the noise of the café outside. Her body ached so much she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be able to stand up again. She rolled her head from side to side.
Two loud bangs on the door made her jump.
“Hello?” she called out.
“Are you sure you’re comfortable?” came Alec’s voice. “Only I don’t want to disturb you. Would you like some cushions perhaps? Or a bed?”
She tensed. She was about to answer when she realized her eyes were watering. She took a deep breath to steady her voice.
“That is you, isn’t it, Katie?” Alec’s voice was suddenly less harsh.
“I’ll just check,” she said drily, staring at her shoes.
There was a pause outside and she knew Alec would be frowning.
She closed her eyes for a full minute. “Yes!” she called out. “It’s me.”
There was another pause. Had Alec heard her?
“I’ve just had a complaint, young lady!” he shouted.
“Would you like to come in?” She was now shouting back.
“Get your fanny out here immediately.” She knew he was reversing sharp back to the café.
“It’s busy,” she yelled at the door.
She knew that if she stayed one second longer in the toilet she’d start crying and that wouldn’t help anyone. Thankfully, she knew—as well as Alec did—that he lacked the courage to actually reprimand her when there wasn’t the security of a locked door between them. Instead he made sarcastic comments whenever she came near about customers complaining while staff were in the toilet. By the end of the day, she just wanted to punch him.
On Friday morning, she was exhausted. It had been a monumental effort to get up today, even though she’d gone to bed at nine the night before. The backs of her knees were still aching from yesterday and today had barely begun.
She dragged herself out of the kitchen to join Sukie at the coffee machine and work her way through the queue of wet, shivering commuters, all of whom were so clenched they seemed to have lost their necks on the way in. She naturally assumed that Sukie’s heavy shoulders, general air of dejection and unusual lethargy were due to the crapness of the day. It wasn’t until they were on their last two customers of the 7.14 train to Euston that Sukie told Katie, “You’re looking at the person behind the voice behind the Anusol advert.”
“Wow!”
“On Essex Radio.”
“Wow!”
“I just found out I got the job.”
“Wow!”
“As soon as I’ve spent my earnings, I’m going to kill myself.”
“Oh.”
Sukie spun round to face the customers. “Would you like sugar in that?” she asked.
“Yes,” said the woman.
She turned to get the sugar.
“No!” the woman cried suddenly.
Sukie turned back to her.
“Yes or no?”
The woman hesitated. “I don’t know.”
Sukie blinked.
“What do you think?” asked the woman.
Sukie blinked again.
“I think you deserve the sugar,” said Katie quickly, as Sukie’s face registered exactly what she thought.
“Yes,” the woman turned to Katie. “I have been good all week.”
“Well then,” Katie went to pick up the sugar.
“But I’m being weighed tomorrow,” said the woman quickly. “It would be a shame to waste all the good work I’ve done this week.”
“It would,” said Katie.
“Half,” said the woman.
Katie didn’t move. “Final answer?”
The woman nodded firmly.
“Final answer. Half a sugar.”
Katie obliged. As the woman walked out of The Café with her black coffee and half a sugar, Katie said dully, “I know all the names of the shadow Cabinet.”
Sukie nodded. “I’m the voice behind the Anusol advert on Essex Radio.”
They stood there for a while watching the rain.
Early Saturday afternoon, Katie threw her last bag into her car. She hadn’t intended to leave for her parents’ this late—it was now starting to get dark—but the temptation of having three whole car seats to fill with luggage had proved too much and her packing time had extended way beyond the usual, even though she was only going for one night. She’d also started packing much later than she’d planned because she’d completely overslept and then had needed a hot bath to get her body working properly. Forty minutes after getting into it, she’d woken up, chilled and wrinkly. She had a coffee and phoned her mum to tell her she might be late.
The journey would be easy. Just a few motorways and she’d be home. She’d packed her CDs and was raring to go, boosted by the fact that the next time she hit London, she’d be on her way to her date with Dan.
Chapter 4
SO FAR IT HAD TAKEN KATIE FOUR HOURS. WEEKEND TRAFFIC DIDN’T help the fact that she took the wrong turning off the motorway twice which resulted in a loss of confidence so complete that she missed the next two exits and had to double-back twice. By the time she got home she would need a Valium and a shower.
As would most of her family.
Katie had a condition that was prevalent in her family, which the men dubbed Locational Dyslexia, the women A Crap Sense Of Direction. It didn’t much matter what it was called; the result was the same. She couldn’t direct herself out of a paper bag with an exit sign.
And now she was having a nightmare roundabout experience. As she approached, she saw that none of the locations she had memorized were mentioned—even briefly—on this roundabout sign. She glanced in her mirror—cars were slowing down behind her and there was no time to stop. She didn’t have a chance to look and see if any of the names on the signpost were even in the same direction as home. Needles of sweat pricked her armpits and her heart quickened. Getting nearer to the roundabout, she moved across into the middle lane. Perhaps the signs painted on the roads would help her—but what if she was in the wrong lane? She watched all the other drivers already on the roundabout, envious of their apathetic expressions. Couldn’t she just plump for a car and follow it?
A wide space emerged, leaving her enough time to pull out comfortably. She glanced behind her again—a queue of cars—there was no alternative, she would have to get on to the roundabout. Hoping that somehow there would be more clues once on it, she edged forward and, staying in the middle lane, went round as slowly as possible, reading the signs intently.
Still nothing. Not one sign gave her any information she could do anything with.
She was now grimacing heavily, panic having levelled out into misery. She completed the roundabout once more. Still nothing. Of the three exits, one was a no-go. She could see that it took the drivers on a dual-carriageway from which there was no return. Just looking at it traumatized her. Of the other two exits, one extended as far as the eye could see, with no possibilities of a U-turn, the other, seemingly, went straight back to London.
The Waitress Page 4