Читать книгу Christmas at the Log Fire Cabin: A heart-warming and feel-good read - Catherine Ferguson, Catherine Ferguson - Страница 11

‘Problem customer!’ murmurs my colleague, Maxine, halfway through our Friday-lunchtime shift.

‘Really?’ My heart sinks. I’m so tired. This afternoon, I’ll find out who will be the new restaurant manager, and I’ve been up half the night feeling anxious about it. I’ve been trying to throw myself into my work, as if it’s just another shift, but as my meeting with Mr Hastings at three-thirty creeps nearer, my stomach is growing more and more jittery by the minute.

The last thing I need is a tricky diner using up my last reserves of strength.

Maxine flicks her eyes across the room and I peer over, pretending that I’m checking to make sure everything is looking as it should.

‘She’s complained about everything from the temperature in the room to the flowers on her table not being entirely fresh – and that’s even before she’s started eating!’

As we look on surreptitiously, the woman summons eighteen-year-old Ellie with one imperious finger raised in the air. It’s Ellie’s first week in the job and she’s quite shy and terrified of making mistakes. (I can so empathise with her. I was just like her when I started.)

Ellie darts forward helpfully.

It’s clear that something else is wrong. The woman is frowning and speaking rapidly, and as we watch, Ellie’s face falls.

I catch her in the kitchen and it’s obvious from the tension in her face, she’s desperately trying to hold it together.

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

Ellie swallows and looks down. ‘She said I must be stupid because I didn’t bother to find out the soup of the day before I came on shift.’

‘Right. I’ll handle her.’ I walk calmly back into the restaurant, only to be immediately summoned by our difficult diner. Pasting on my best polite and helpful smile, I walk over to her table. ‘Can I help?’

She looks at me frostily. ‘I certainly hope so. This fish is staring at me.’

‘I beg your pardon, madam?’ Feeling slightly wrong-footed, I glance at the contents of her plate.

‘The mackerel. It’s staring at me. I don’t like it. It’s putting me off my lunch.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ Carefully, I turn the plate a half-circle. ‘Is that better?’

‘Are you being funny?’ She peers at me suspiciously.

‘No. Definitely not. I just thought if the fish wasn’t facing you …’

‘Yes, but I’ll still know they’re there, won’t I?’ she snaps. ‘The eyes.’

‘Of course, madam. Would you like me to take it away and remove the head for you?’

‘But then it won’t be a “whole mackerel”. It’ll be a “headless mackerel”, which isn’t quite the same thing, is it?’

‘Um … no, I suppose it isn’t.’ It’s an effort to keep my tone upbeat. What on earth is she talking about?

‘I want a “whole mackerel”, like it states on the menu.’

I clear my throat, stalling for time. I’ve had tricky customers to deal with before, but this one takes the biscuit. I get the sneaky feeling she’s being deliberately awkward just to see how I’ll react. I don’t mind her leading me a dance, but upsetting Ellie by calling her stupid has made me really annoyed. But I persevere with the polite and attentive manner. ‘What would you like me to do, madam?’

‘Sort it out!’ she snaps. ‘Stop that fish staring at me!’

A wave of disbelief and exhaustion washes over me and I almost laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Nothing I do for this diner will be right. Suddenly, tiredness takes over and I do what I never, ever do with customers as a rule.

I resort to sarcasm.

My smile is bright and cheery. ‘Right, well, if you don’t want me to take the rude little chap away, perhaps we could make him a teeny-tiny little blindfold? Out of a basil leaf? Or maybe two slices of lemon tied together with a sliver of anchovy?’

If looks could kill, there’d be two corpses on her plate. She looks as if steam is about to rush out of her ears as she comes to the boil. I take a deep breath.

Remember, the customer is king.

‘Sorry, madam. What I meant to say is, do please choose another dish. There’ll be no charge, obviously.’ I keep my tone polite and respectful. Although what I’d really like to do is pick up the mackerel, wave its glassy eyes in her face and make ghostly ‘Woooo!’ noises. But that would be silly.

She rises to her feet, glaring at me as if I’m something nasty sticking to the bottom of her shoe. ‘No, thank you. I’ve lost my appetite.’ And with that, she picks up her bag and walks out.

Maxine is making what was that all about? faces at me. I shrug, just grateful that the woman’s gone. (I was only half-joking with the blindfold suggestion. How on earth do you stop a fish staring at you?)

At last, my shift comes to an end. I keep glancing at my watch, waiting for three-thirty, and as Maxine passes me, she presses my shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Everyone knows you’ll make a great restaurant manager.’

I smile at her, a lovely feeling of belonging rippling through me, taking the edge off my anxiety. I’m part of a team here and it’s good to know my colleagues like and value me. That’s why I can’t imagine ever working anywhere else.

It’s true that when Erin was trying to persuade me to cook for Mrs Morelli, a little spark of excitement kept firing off within me. Even while I was telling her that she was mad to think I could carry it off, a part of my brain was racing away, imagining what I’d cook and even thinking that I’d need a name for my business. Just for a moment, I knew how it would feel to spend my days dreaming up menus, earning a living from something I really loved doing.

But I’d never have the confidence to do it. Far better to stick to what I know, rising to the challenge of filling Mr Hastings’ shoes.

The butterflies in my stomach take flight as I walk upstairs to Mr Hastings’ office.

‘Ah, Poppy. Come in, come in.’ He sits down at his desk and ushers me to the chair opposite. He’s a tall, elegant man with stylish glasses and rather beautiful hands. I watch him as he plays with his pen, turning it over and over in his fingers. He seems distracted. I suppose that after so many years of loyal service here, retiring must feel a little bittersweet.

‘I can’t believe this is my last day,’ he says, looking up. ‘And now I must reveal my successor.’

‘It’s the start of an exciting new chapter in your life,’ I murmur. ‘Time for that cruise!’ He and his wife have been planning a round-the-world trip on his retirement for ages.

‘Yes!’ The smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. My heart goes out to him. Perhaps he’s having second thoughts about leaving. ‘So, Poppy, you’re senior waitress here, and I have to say, you’re liked and respected by absolutely everyone here, including the owners who, as you know, gave me the job of supplying them with candidates for the post I’m vacating. And you were at the top of my list, Poppy. Make no mistake about that.’ He gives me a brief but warm smile. ‘You’ve made yourself indispensable here with your brilliant way with people, your calm manner and your endless loyalty and hard work.’

My heart is beating really fast at his praise. ‘Thank you, Mr Hastings. That means such a lot to me. I’ll make sure I do you proud and prove your faith in me was justified.’ I smile broadly at him, as I feel around in my bag for the box of muffins I baked last night to celebrate the appointment and thank him for his support.

He doesn’t smile back. If anything, he looks a touch awkward. To my surprise, he suddenly rakes both hands through his normally immaculate hair, leaving it sticking up comically on one side. Then he starts playing with his pen again.

Feeling faintly alarmed, I wait for him to acknowledge my little speech. I practised it last night when I couldn’t sleep. It seemed to go okay, I thought, except I forgot to add the last bit, about being honoured and delighted …

There’s a knock on the door and Mr Hastings looks about to call for whoever it is to come in, but then he changes his mind, rises and goes to open the door himself, so I quickly take the opportunity to say what I was going to say.

‘Mr Hastings, I would just like to thank you for believing in me. And I’d like you to know that I’d be absolutely delighted and very honoured to—’

A familiar figure walks into the room, stopping me in my tracks.

What’s she doing here? It’s the fish-eye-hating customer from earlier. Don’t say she’s actually bringing her complaints to Mr Hastings?

She glances at me in surprise. ‘So sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’m Mimi Blenkinsop, the new restaurant manager.’

I glance wide-eyed at Mr Hastings, who’s standing there, frozen to the spot, looking extremely uncomfortable. He nods at me in a resigned way. ‘Mimi, this is Poppy, our senior waitress.’

Mimi Blenkinsop says brightly, ‘Ah, yes. You were saying something, Poppy, just as I came in and interrupted you?’

I shake my head, feigning bemusement. ‘Was I? I really don’t remember.’

‘Don’t you?’ She cocks her head to the side and quotes me word for word: ‘I’d be absolutely delighted and very honoured to – ?’

My face is the colour of a humiliated tomato. She’s not going to let up until I say something.

‘Ah, yes, of course. I remember now,’ I say, stalling for time. ‘I’d be absolutely delighted and very honoured to – ’ The aroma of cake drifts up from my lap and tickles my nose. ‘I’d be very honoured to – um – offer you both a muffin to celebrate!’

I open the plastic container and plonk two cakes on the desk, leaving a trail of crumbs over a pile of papers in my clumsiness. Hurriedly attempting to brush them off, I manage to dislodge the top sheet, which drifts to the floor. Bending down to retrieve it, my own name leaps out at me. The sheet contains a list of possible candidates, and loopy handwriting alongside my name says: Obliging girl but far too timid. We need someone with spunk!

I try to get the lid back on the cake box, but my fingers are trembling so much, it takes ages, and all the time, I can feel Mimi Blenkinsop’s eyes boring holes in me. Much like the mackerel eyes terrorised her. At last, the lid on, I force a desperate smile and flee from the room, clutching the rest of the muffins to my chest.

*

An hour after my humiliation in Mr Hastings’ office, I’m slumped in the corner of the window seat in the living room at home, staring bleakly out at the darkening sky. To say I feel sunk in gloom would be an understatement.

Obliging girl but far too timid.

The words keep running through my head, taunting me. So much for being nice, obliging and conscientious because, clearly, it doesn’t get you anywhere! My insides clench with despair. Martin was right. I’m never going to shine.

I’ve given the hotel fourteen years of loyal service, yet Mrs Nutter still decided to hire that horrible woman instead of me. The worst thing of all is, she’ll be my boss! I have a horrible feeling that Mimi Blenkinsop is going to go out of her way to make my life hell.

I should never have believed the people at work when they said my promotion was in the bag. What hurts most of all is that Mrs Nutter didn’t think I was up to the job. After all those years of working the entire festive season without a single complaint, I’m passed over for Mimi Bloody Blenkinsop!

After I left Mr Hastings’ office, Mimi caught up with me as I was hurrying through the reception area. ‘Poppy! I look forward to having you on my team!’ I was pretty sure she emphasised ‘my team’. She smirked and said something about testing out the staff in restaurants she visits, to see how helpful they are. ‘You did very well, up until the sarcasm about the blindfold.’

‘Gee, thanks.’ By then, I was so pissed off, I really didn’t care that I was being rude to my future boss. I just wanted to go home.

Now, slouched down in the window seat, I eat two of my sad, white-chocolate-and-raspberry muffins without really tasting them, the self-pitying thoughts coming thick and fast. I’m totally useless. What an idiot, imagining I was actually going to be promoted! And I can’t really blame the Nutters for not giving me the job because it’s probably obvious to anyone with half a brain that I just don’t have the leadership qualities required. I’m much too timid. Not like Mimi Blenkinsop, who’ll barge her way through any opposition to get to where she wants to be in life.

I don’t like Mimi. But I could probably learn a hell of a lot from her.

I could get some spunk, for a start!

This makes me smile wearily. I get up slowly and walk through to the kitchen. There’s nothing wrong with being just an ordinary waitress. Who needs promotion anyway? Harrison won’t be in the slightest bit bothered that I didn’t get the manager job – except perhaps to feel a bit indignant on my behalf.

The thought of Harrison warms my heart. He loves me unconditionally and I feel so safe and secure with him. I decide to get my recipe books out and cook something delicious for when he comes in later. Thankfully, it’s my night off, so I don’t have to go back to the restaurant tonight and cope with everyone’s sympathy. I couldn’t bear that. Not right now.

As always, thumbing through my books and planning a menu chills me out and the memory of Mimi Blenkinsop’s smirk begins to fade.

When the doorbell rings, I walk through to the hallway, still drooling over a full-colour photo of tagliatelle with pesto and courgettes.

When I open the door, Erin is standing there with a big grin, holding up a bottle of prosecco. ‘Surprise!’

‘Oh. What’s this for?’

‘Your promotion?’ From her expression – a half-frown – I can tell she’s already realising she’s got a bit ahead of herself. ‘Yes? No?’

I shake my head. ‘No. But who cares?’ I force a smile. ‘I’m cooking tagliatelle tonight!’

‘Yum. Can I come in?’

I grin at her. ‘Yes, as long as you bring that.’ I point to the bottle.

It’s open in a trice and we make short work of it, with Erin lounging at the table while I cook the pasta dish, make garlic bread, and bring her up to date on my horrendous day. Later, after we’ve eaten and I’ve kept some to heat up for Harrison later, I fetch another bottle from the fridge, sloshing more prosecco into our glasses as Erin spins the open Italian cookbook round to face her.

‘You know what? That witch, Mimi, has done you a big favour.’

‘Has she? How on earth do you make that out? She stole my job!’ I’m sounding loud, even to myself, and stabbing the air with my finger, having drunk far more than I’m used to. But I’m feeling a hundred times better!

‘Yes, but I bet she can’t cook like you can. I bet she can’t make the most amazing Italian food like we’ve just eaten. I bet she’d be sick as a chip if you did a dinner party for Mrs Morelli and it was so great everyone in the surrounding area wanted to hire you!’

‘Ha! Sick as a chip! You’re right! I’ll show her. Mimi Bloody Fish Eye Blenkinsop!’

‘You will?’

‘Why not?’ I fling my arms into a dramatic shrug and knock the prosecco bottle over, which makes me giggle uncontrollably. I’m all fired up. Ready to prove Martin and Mimi wrong. I have talent! I can cook amazing food! And I should stop being timid about it!