Page 36 of The Chef

Cliff, still ignoring me like a mopey teenager, pours a lager and sets it down on the bar for me to take. I carry it on a tray over to the table and place it in front of the egg-shaped man. He doesn’t thank me. He doesn’t acknowledge me at all.

I go back to behind the bar and let out a deep breath.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

I check on Cliff. He’s pouring drinks and still pretending like I don’t exist.

This is terrible.

I head out of the bar and rush into the bathroom, quickly locking the door behind me. I stare at myself in the mirror and will myself to not cry. I don’t need makeup streaming down my face in the middle of my shift.

I think about the horrible customer out there, and the way he clicked his fingers at me.

But, most of all, I think about Cliff. About that handsome man who’s ignoring me like I’m dirt. He makes me feel like dirt.

It’s like this man won’t stop until he tears my heart out.

Does he want revenge on how I threw water on him? Does he hold onto grudges that hard?

I don’t know what he’s thinking.

I sigh and wash my hands in the sink, staring at my reflection.

I want to quit. I want to rip off my apron right now and throw it into Cliff’s stupidly handsome face.

But I won’t. That’ll mean he wins this little weird passive-aggressive game going on between us.

And you still need the money, Bay. You need Rockpool. You won’t be hired anywhere else in this small town.

I’m right. I just need to suck this up and bear it.

* * *

The rest of the night slowly devolves worse and worse.

I take the food order from the egg-man’s table, asking around for each customer’s individual choice. Even though he’s on a table with his wife and four daughters, the Dad doesn’t do the gentlemanly and chivalrous thing and let them go first. No. He speaks over his wife and orders ahead of her. I raise my eyebrows at this, but cover my face with my notepad, maintaining my waitress professionalism. But it’s my real pet peeve as a server to see people, especially men, talk over others and order first.

It’s not like your food’s going to come any quicker because of it, pal. Just be nice.

I take their order and skip back to the bar so I can put their food choices through the computer system, happy to get away from that toxic table.

I head off to serve the other customers in the restaurant but always keeping a watchful eye on the troublesome table making sure that Dad isn’t up to any mischief.

I feel Cliff’s own eyes on me. Even though he’s still making an effort to purposely ignore me I feel him watching me as I work around the different tables. There aren’t many customers in the restaurant, it’s still so quiet in here, but busy enough that I’m always moving. Grabbing cutlery, or food, or a drinks order. I’m always on the move.

Dominika rings the bell as a calling for me to collect more plates from the kitchen.

This must be the Dad’s table. This must be their food.

But I can’t get the food right away. I’m currently holding a tray of drinks.

The alcohol I’m carrying is for a table near the kitchen, so what I can do is take these drinks to their table and head into the kitchen to collect the plates in one long trip.

Easy.

I rush towards the kitchen, past the egg-shaped Dad’s table. He is in the midst of a long rambling story, something about some big fish he caught on a boat in the ocean. He’s waving his arms around as he demonstrates how big this fish was, his teenage daughters looking bored at his exaggerated story. Judging from the expressions on their faces, I bet they’ve heard this particular fishing tale a billion times.

As I pass the back of his chair, the Dad’s energetic arm springs out in another demonstration of the size of the fish and slams into me.