The Waitress

by Melissa Nathan

  Katie watched her bread roll zoom away into the distance. She looked up and blinked. “Thanks,” she whispered, nausea creeping up from her solar plexus to her chest.

  “It’s so exciting!” breathed Geraldine. “Just think, this is the man you’ll get stretch-marks for.”

  Katie’s hand instinctively went to her stomach.

  “The man you’ll be watching TV all evening with for the rest of your life,” trilled Geraldine.

  Katie felt a strange plopping sensation in her gut.

  “The man whose socks you’ll be pairing into the sunset!”

  Katie could hear whistling in her ears.

  “The man whose snore you’ll know better than your own!”

  Her face felt all tingly.

  “The man who’s gonna lose his hair and gain a paunch in your home.”

  And very cold.

  “And you met through me!” cried Geraldine. “Oh it’s so romantic!”

  Katie held down a retch.

  “Just relax and enjoy the evening,” said Geraldine and she rang off.

  Katie stared at the table, a pulsing panic throbbing inside her. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t breathe. And she certainly couldn’t eat. She had to get out. Get some fresh air. She managed to push her chair back and stagger to her feet. She wondered if she looked normal to everyone else; she certainly felt as if she was tilting at a dangerous angle. Without catching anyone’s eye, she focused all her mental energy on walking in such a way as to prevent the floor from rushing up to smack her in the face. Somehow she found her way out of the cloying heat of the restaurant.

  Cold air hit her like a slap on a new baby’s bottom. She floundered away, trying to get her bearings, trying to breathe. Across the road was a bench and she ran blindly to it. Once there, she sat down with her head between her knees, counting to three—the highest number she could manage—again and again, over and over.

  She heard her phone ring and turned it off. So she never heard Sukie’s message: “Turn your phone off. Geraldine just phoned here and Jon told her you were out. She wheedled out of him where you were and I wouldn’t put it past her phoning you. Hope you’re having a fab time, sweetie.”

  The next thing Katie knew, a taxi was driving past with its light on and she jumped up, yelled, and got inside. It wasn’t until she got home and landed on her bed, covered in a film of cold sweat, that the pounding faded into the distance and the panic subsided.

  It wasn’t for another full ten minutes that she even thought about Dan, alone in the restaurant.

  Chapter 6

  IN THE CORNER OF THE SIXTH FORM COLLEGE COMMON ROOM MATT slouched with his mates, pretending to find them as hilarious as they found themselves because some of the blondest, cutest girls had just come in and sat near enough to hear. It was such a rare event that it might never happen again in his lifetime at this college.

  Matt had been amazed at how much harder it had been to make friends across the sexes at this college than it had been at school. As a bloke here, you could only be one of two things: a top-of-the-tree second-year or a bottom-of-the-shit-heap first-year. The girls’ story was the other way round. They had one year of being toasted and feted as the new hottest things, and then wham! second year came and they were last year’s news. There were younger, lither girls than them now, all the second-year boys had gone and all the boys in their year, who’d been shat on from such a great height the year before, turned their charm offensive (offensive being the operative word) to the ingenues who hadn’t witnessed their humiliation. And so it went on in an unbreakable rhythm.

  He’d also been amazed at how unoriginal everyone was here. He’d assumed that the freedom of a sixth-form college would create an atmosphere of fashion anarchy and he’d been eagerly anticipating looking and learning. But it wasn’t to be. All the girls mixed religiously with friends who looked like them. It was an unspoken rule. Not one dark, curly-haired, buxom girl went around with a straight-haired, skinny blonde. Just wasn’t done. It was as if they wanted to make it easier for you to spot them from a distance. Let you know what you were getting. Then, just in case you needed a bit more help, they started to dress like each other. The most way-out girls would all come in one Monday with the same purple streaks in their hair and identical eyebrow piercing. They would all buy the same pencil cases, even grow their nails the same length, and gradually create an instant gang gauge for you and your mates. He wasn’t sure what he felt most let down by, the girls’ total lack of individuality or the fact that they all ignored him the same amount.

  But here, today, when he’d least expected it, was one of the prettiest of the A-grade gangs, all turquoise eyeliner and pearly lipstick, sitting in prime position. Just waiting. From here, the boys could see their juicy prey well enough, but knew to their own cost that the risk could be too great, the effort too exhausting, the humiliation too deep to do anything about it.

  Outclassed, his mates did the only honorable thing. They acted like they didn’t care. Then, to show the girls that nothing in this sorry world was above contempt, they stopped moving their tongues to the top front of their mouths every time they needed to pronounce a “t,” making do with a lazy half-closing of the back of their throat. They went phoney Estuary, and almost felt a rush of testosterone surge through their veins. Then they rolled their shoulders, squared their chests, swore like troopers and dissed their Saturday jobs.

  “I was pu’ on fuckin’ bog rolls the ovva day—”

  “Ah, man, tha’s the wors’—”

  “An’ then this old cow comes uppa me and goes—”

  “Why’s i’ always the old ones?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Yeah!”

  “She goes, ‘You’ve moved the ca’ food!’”

  “Ah no!” Eruption of guffaws.

  “Wicked, man!”

  “An’ then tha’ bastard tried to pu’ me on nights. Fucker.”

  “Good money though, nights.”

  “Yeah, but no’ enough for wha’ I need, man—”

  Matt tried to tune into the high-level girls’ low-level conversation. He was only able to catch snippets and kept shuffling round slightly to get better reception.

  “…put on two pounds last week…”

  “…calories in a Crunchie?”

  “…being sick in the bogs—”

  “…maybe she’s pregnant…”

  Matt glanced over at them. One was checking her split ends, another her nails, another her shoes and another her reflection in a tiny mirror, but there was something self-conscious about their smallest movements. Even Matt, amateur though he was, could sense that each one was on full alert, their antennae jutting sensually out, twitching hopefully into the air. Matt’s loudest, bravest mate, Daz, could clearly sense it too.

  “Oy!” he called across to a girl.

  The room went quiet.

  “Your name’s Sara, innit?”

  There was an awkward moment. All boundaries had been crossed. The boys held their breath. Then, slowly, the girls, one by one, turned to them.

  The Chosen One, Sara, gave a fraction of a nod and two of her friends inched forward. Matt felt heat rising up his neck. Daz continued.

  “D’you ’ave Wickford for English?”

  Sara nodded and her friends gave a knowing grin. The rest of Matt’s gang was now officially entitled to turn and look. The two gangs faced each other across the divide of faded old couches. Daz sauntered slowly forward—still in the enclave of his pack, but near enough to the girls. One of Sara’s friends stepped forward too. Sara arched her back slightly, as if willing the boys toward her with an invisible energy from her sternum.

  “Is it true,” continued Daz gravely, hands in pockets, shoulders rolling, “that ’e sells ’is dandruff as crack at parties?”

  A moment’s pause and then the delicious sound of girlish laughter, followed by excited boyish laughter that shifted gear quickly into manly guffaws.

  “I wouldn’t put it
past him,” said Sara, standing up and kneeling on the one last couch separating the gangs. Slowly, she raised her hands to put her (long blonde) hair up in a ponytail. Her tight sweater bunched up just where it was meant to and the boys watched in silent awe, just as they were meant to.

  “Mind you,” quipped one of Matt’s other mates, Si, lounging forward suddenly, identity bracelet jangling, “’e does use ’Ed and Shoulders, so the effec’s pretty much the same.”

  More girlish laughter! And on the laugh, the girls all moved to join Sara on the couch, short skirts riding up over gazelle legs.

  Daz and Si perched on the back of the couch, their roles as Alpha Males established. Tony, tall but not good-looking enough to be an Alpha, contented himself with slouching nearby, arms crossed, easy smile on his face—and Matt, accepting his fate as an E-minor, leaned forward. Without a moment to lose, Daz and Si now lunged for the kill, court-jestering their way into a communal invitation to a party that Saturday night.

  “Sound,” said Tony, as the girls picked up their bags and sauntered, loose-hipped, out of the room.

  “Watch out for the crack though,” called out Daz and they stared at the door as the sound of more laughter was drowned by the lunch bell going off.

  The quiet of the college was disrupted. Matt’s mates whooped and suddenly the common room was full to bursting. Matt got out of there. He had an afternoon shift at The Café. It was a bright, cold day and he hurried, trying to think more about his syllabus than this weekend’s party, taking extra care crossing the road today. It would be a really sick joke if he got run over just before he got himself a girlfriend.

  He was glad to see Katie. Katie, however, wasn’t particularly glad to see him. It wasn’t personal, she hadn’t been glad to see anyone that day.

  She’d woken an hour before her alarm this morning, having been roused into consciousness by the sensation of a knot being double tied in her stomach. She curled up in a ball and prayed that one day she’d wake up knowing that she had the right job, was in love with the right man, knew exactly how much money she had in the bank, had exercised the day before and had a tidy socks drawer. Until then, she was probably doomed to waking up every morning feeling like this.

  She thought of last night and Dan, and her stomach prolapsed. Before she had a chance to start catastrophizing, she jumped out of bed and performed numerous prevaricating tasks that she suddenly found energy for. Before her shower, she went for a jog and enjoyed the secret beauty of the winter morning, but, when her body almost vomited halfway home from the shock of it, she decided the secret beauty of a dark bedroom was good enough for her.

  On the walk into work, she started to fear for her sanity. Her thought processes were fixating on her appalling behavior last night. No matter how hard she tried to move on, she couldn’t. It was like being stuck in a maze. For the first time in her life, it was dawning on her that she might actually have a problem. The alarming fact was that her dismal attempts at relationships were starting to take on a theme and that theme was only now revealing itself to her, thanks to her first date with a man she actively liked.

  Until now, she’d been able to console herself with the heartwarming fact that she would still chuck every single man she’d ever chucked, were she given the choice again. She had always known that the simple reason that she was single was because she hadn’t met the right man yet. But not any more. Dan had been right and she hadn’t been able to cope with it.

  What did it all mean? Was it only possible for her to go out with men she didn’t care about? And if so, why? Would she ever be able to go out with someone she actually liked or was she doomed to end up on her own? Or worse still was she doomed to end up with someone like Hugh, someone who couldn’t hurt her? And if so, who could she blame for all this? Had her parents not loved her enough as a baby?

  As if that wasn’t enough to worry about, she had no future career plan. She was stuck in a dead-end rut. It was amazing how life could suddenly turn from being full of potential to full of nothing. How come everyone else could work out what to do with their lives except her? Why didn’t she have some burning, yearning vocation, something that she’d wanted to do ever since she was out of nappies? Had her mother actually been right about her all along? That was just too harrowing to contemplate.

  There were so many new, shiny neuroses to consider now. It was hardly surprising that by the time she got to work that morning, she couldn’t remember how she got there and was almost vibrating with negativity.

  If that wasn’t bad enough, Alec was early. He barely looked up when she came in, he was so busy scouring the worktop. Then, instead of making himself the first of many espressos and wandering over to his corner, he hovered behind Katie as she put out all the freshly cut vegetables for today’s salads, wiped all the tables clean, got the milk out of the fridge for the coffees, opened the window shutters and turned on the ovens, and as he hovered, he wiped down every single surface she had been near, tutting just loud enough for her to hear. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of asking why he had a sudden interest in cleanliness, Katie simply got angrier and angrier and so they continued for half an hour until Alec suddenly announced that he had to go somewhere and would be back on the dot of three, by which time he expected the place to be as clean as it was now.

  By the time the café opened, Katie was in no mood for serving coffees. Her belly was on fire.

  “Two black coffees, please,” said the first commuter. “No sugar. Oh no. No sugar at all. No siree.”

  “Right,” muttered Katie. “No sugar.”

  “Actually,” corrected the commuter. “Make that with sugar. Oh God, I don’t know.”

  “Tell you what,” said Katie sharply, “don’t have any sugar, but have a slice of toast with your coffee.”

  The woman brightened. “Of course!”

  “It’s a win-win situation,” said Katie firmly. “You don’t feel guilty, we get more money.”

  The woman laughed.

  “And of course,” said Katie, head tilted, “we don’t have to listen to you.”

  They stared at each other. Katie’s lips were thin. The woman smiled uncertainly.

  “Cappuccino,” clipped the man next in the queue. “No toast.”

  “Large or grande?” asked Katie, before Sukie got a chance to start making it.

  “What’s the difference?” he asked, irritated.

  “About a pound,” said Katie, hands on hips. “Quick quick, there’s a queue behind you.”

  “Oh sod it,” said the man. “I’ll have the bigger one.”

  “Right,” said the next man in the queue. “A large latte. And a slice of toast—if you’re making.”

  “You asking?” asked Katie.

  There was a pause.

  “I’m asking,” said the man, a hint of a smile on his lips.

  “Then I’m making. You sweet talker, you.” As she went to the toaster, she called out, “Who else wants toast? I’m not coming back here again, I’ve got better things to do with my morning than rush to and from the bloody toaster.”

  She was beginning to feel better.

  Four people decided toast would be perfect this morning. When the queue died down, she and Sukie stared at each other. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t want to spoil the atmosphere. By the time the next rush started for the 7.44, Katie decided she really couldn’t be bothered to do any more coffees. Sukie did the first three, while she stood there, arms crossed, staring at the queue.

  “Excuse me,” said a man tightly, at her. “I’ll have a coffee please. If you’re not too busy.”

  “Oh, I’m not too busy,” she smiled sweetly.

  “Good.”

  “I’m just too bored.”

  The queue suddenly became very English: some blushed, some looked away and some pretended they hadn’t heard. Katie wasn’t having any of that. She was on a roll.

  “Right,” she said. “It’s about time you lot learned how to make your own coffees. This is
the coffee machine.” She waved theatrically at the coffee machine and Sukie got out of the way. “Can you hear me at the back?”

  The woman at the back of the queue made a soft guttural sound which Katie took as a yes.

  “Now, in case of emergencies,” she explained, “such as when Sukie or myself are suddenly struck by how tedious our jobs are and piss off to get a life—”

  “Or there’s a fire,” added Sukie, “and you lot need coffee to have the energy to run.”

  “Thank you, Sukie.” Sukie bowed. “Sukie Woodrow ladies and gentlemen…”

  The queue clapped.

  “You lot,” said Katie, pointing at the queue, “will have to know how to make your own.” She started making them their coffees. “Do Not Panic,” she said. “Rule Number One. It’s not that scary. It may look it, but you will soon learn that any fool can do it. Yes, even you sir.”

  The queue laughed as they were handed their cups.

  “Did you two come together?” asked Katie, to two commuters who were wearing similar coats. They shook their heads. “Did you phone ahead and work out what to wear so the other children wouldn’t laugh at you? ’Cos it hasn’t worked, has it? Here, have a coffee.”

  When Matt arrived at the end of their shift, all three of them ended up in the kitchen to help him as he started to sort out the backlog of washing-up.

  “Right,” said Sukie, rinsing the cups and saucers before passing them to Katie, relay-style. “How did the date go?”

  “Hell on earth,” said Katie, grabbing the stuff out of Sukie’s hands and filling the dishwasher as fast as possible. “I don’t want to discuss it.”

  “Oh dear,” said Matt, trying to be sorry for Katie and not just relieved that he wasn’t the only loser in the world.

  “What happened?” asked Sukie.

  “I abandoned him and went home,” said Katie, turning on the dishwasher. “I don’t want to discuss it.”

  “You what?”

  Katie wiped her hands on a tea-towel and looked at Sukie in mock surprise. “Oh don’t make out you haven’t done it a hundred times. I left him on his own in the restaurant.”