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Freya
“Excuse me,” the woman said loudly, as I turned to leave the table.
That tone usually only meant one thing. I’d messed up. With a sinking stomach, I turned back and faced her.
She was using her knife to dig around the rocket leaves and cherry tomatoes on her plate. “Didn’t I specifically say I didn’t want parmesan shavings on my salad?”
I showed her my apologetic face. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ll take it back and get you another one.”
“What kind of waitress are you? It was just a simple salad and you couldn’t even get that right.”
“I’m really sorry. I was sure I made a note of it. There could have been a mix-up in the kitchen. I’ll just get another one for you. It won’t be a minute, I promise.” I picked up her plate and turned away.
“Er … excuse me,” she calls, her voice now not only loud, but sarcastic as well.
Keeping my expression polite and solicitous, I turned to face her.
“Shouldn’t you take my husband’s meal away too and put it under one of those hot lights to keep it warm?”
The man opposite her spoke up for the first time, “No, it’s not necessary to take my lasagna back. It looks so hot it will probably burn my mouth if I eat it right away, anyway.”
She threw him a death glare before looking up at me and snapping, “Take his meal away, and keep it hot.”
“Yes, of course.” I flashed her husband an apologetic smile, picked up his plate, and carried both plates back to the serving station.
“What’s up?” Alfredo the Second Chef asks as I put the two plates down.
“Table twenty-one. She asked for no parmesan. It might have been my mistake. I can’t remember if I wrote it down.”
He glanced at table twenty-one then completely lost his cool. “It is that fucking bitch again. Every time she comes here, there’s always something wrong with her order.” He crossed his arms over his chest, and demanded, “What about the other dish then? What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. She just wants us to keep it hot while we make her another salad.”
“What a stupid bitch,” he cursed. Muttering ferociously to himself as he shoved the lasagna under the warmer, he walked away with the salad.
Taking out my pad, I flipped back to the order and saw from my carbon copy that it was my fault. I didn’t note it down. That was the third mistake I’d made today.
Maya, one of the other waitresses stopped next to me. “What’s up? You look like someone stole your last dollar.”
I winced. She had no idea how right her observation was. “I messed up table twenty-one.”
“Don’t worry about it. She’s never happy, that one. I don’t know how her husband puts up with her nonsense. I would have divorced her on the wedding day itself, if I were him. He always looks so unhappy as well.”
“It was my fault, Maya,” I admitted. “She told me and I didn’t write it down.”
Maya touched my hand. “Hey, it’s okay. Don’t beat yourself about it. We all make mistakes.”
Yeah, but three mistakes in one shift. I took a deep breath. I needed this job. I needed to concentrate.
Alberto came back with the salad, his face still black with rage. “Here you go. Santini salad without its most important ingredient.”
“Thanks, Alberto.”
I carry the two plates back to the table. “Santini salad without parmesan and meat lasagna. Sorry again, for the mix-up.”
“Sorry, is no cure,” the woman muttered under her breath, as if she was a kid in a playground.
When I came back to the serving station Maya said, “Look, I only have five tables left and the guys on table seven look like they’re going to be here forever finishing that bottle of wine, so if you want to leave, I don’t mind taking over your two tables.”
I really could do with leaving early. An hour and a half ago, the university called to say my mother’s check to pay for my fees had bounced. I needed to go through my mother’s financial records and find out why. “Are you sure?” I asked her hopefully.
She grinned. “Sure. You’ve done it for me before.”
“Thanks, Maya. You’re a star.”
She patted me on the back. “Don’t worry so much. It will be alright, you’ll see.”
I took off my apron, grabbed my bag, and ran all the way to the bus stop.
Freya
Twenty minutes later, I arrived at King’s Road, jumped off the bus, and walked briskly towards my mother’s boutique.
Martin, the bald-headed, spectacled man ? who had been my mom’s loyal assistant during her socialite days when we had lots of money ? had morphed into her new retail assistant. He was peering through the display window with a frown on his forehead. “What are you doing here, Missy?” he asked as I walked into the store.
“I need to check out something that’s in Mom’s office,” I said, and hurried towards the back of the store.
Closing the door, I almost tripped over a stack of samples in my rush to get to my mom’s messy desk of receipts and letters. I sat in her swivel chair and pulled open her drawer. I was actually looking for Mom’s bank statement, but as I opened the second drawer, my eyes connected with a strange document. Curiously, I picked it up, and I thought my heart had come to a stop in my chest.
