The Woman Who Knew What She Wanted (7 page)

‘Animals,' she said. ‘Humans. Anything that moves. If you want a still life, take a photo.'

‘And the paintings sell well?'

‘They do, as it happens.' She smiled her secret smile. ‘One day I'll paint you.'

‘I don't think I'd be a very good model.'

‘I think you'd be perfect.'

Greta bustled up to the table. ‘More champagne!' she said. She had put on fresh scarlet lipstick and, I think, more mascara. ‘I'd love some.'

I poured her a glass. She nearly drank it in one. Her lipstick stuck to the glass.

‘Will you join us in a glass, Kim?' she said.

‘I don't think Anthony would approve of me drinking on the job.'

‘Go on, be a devil.'

Cally was again looking out of the window. ‘Ease up, Greta,' she said. ‘It's his first day.'

‘Yes, you're right,' Greta said. ‘Always too eager. Always have been, always will.' She took the champagne from the ice bucket and poured herself another glass. She was already drunk.

‘Could we have two espressos, please?' Cally said.

‘I want to come back here,' Greta said. ‘Can we come back here soon?'

There was no more time to talk. Cally paid the bill in cash and left a huge tip, though the money wouldn't be going to me. All tips were pooled. Greta was clutching onto Cally's arm as they walked out. They had left half a bottle of champagne. As they went out, Cally caught my eye and gave me a little wave. I raised a hand and smiled.

My other diners gradually drifted away. I marvelled at how small children would not touch a thing and then would suddenly come alive when they saw the puddings, pounding through mound upon mound of cream and chocolate. I was down to my last couple, an elderly pair, who were stolidly working their way through a vast lunch. The man had a large piece of Dover sole and was eating it in the daintiest mouthfuls. I watched him for a while. After every mouthful, he would meticulously place his knife and fork on the plate, and would either say something to his wife, or would sip some water or some wine; it was like watching a soldier ant chew its way through a fig leaf. There was a certain fascination in watching the whole laborious process.

Oliver was floundering. All his six tables were still seated. He was at a table of a family of five and was only just clearing away their starter plates. I winced as I saw him try to clear one of the plates at the table. A piece of potato flicked onto one of the children's laps.

‘Can I give you a hand?' I asked.

‘Please.' He looked hot and harassed.

‘I'll get stuck in.'

I left him to his family of five and started working the other tables.

‘How are we doing?' I asked a middle-aged couple. ‘Are you all right for drinks?'

‘We've been waiting for our main course for the past forty minutes,' the man said. I knew the type very well – tweedy jacket and bright yellow cords, set off by a check shirt and a regimental tie. It was staple fare for ex-army officers. I would have put him down as a major.

‘I'll see how they're getting on,' I said.

The man barely grunted a thank you when I returned with their two steak and kidney pies. He muttered to his wife, ‘About time.'

A more polite waiter might have left it at that. I've never been very good at being polite.

‘I'm very sorry,' I said. ‘Were you not aware that the hotel has only just opened today, and that this is the first meal that we've served this year? Were you not warned that many of the staff are virgins, and you, I'm afraid, are the guinea pigs.' I decided to take a shot in the dark. I'd seen the way that he'd tucked his napkin into his collar. He
had
to be a major. ‘Though I understand,
Major
, that it is rather good value.'

The man goggled at me. He had already picked up his knife and fork. A large piece of meat and pie was already hanging on his fork, poised a few inches from his toad-like lips.

‘Was I talking to you?' he asked.

‘If not, then my apologies, Major,' I said. ‘If there's anything more that you should require, just give me a wave and I shall scurry over.'

I'd nearly over-cooked it.

The major looked at me with pouchy wine-soaked eyes. He didn't know what to make of it. His wife was concentrating on her pie, like a little chicken pecking at corn on the ground. Her hair was big and blonde and immaculately coiffed, freshly blow-dried that morning.

I thought at first that the man was going to put his fork down and attempt to berate me. The forkful of pie hung there and then greed won out and he stuffed the fork into his mouth.

‘Bon appétit!' I said.

I cleared away some plates from another family's table. The rest of the dining room was almost empty. Oliver was ponderously returning into the dining room with another batch of main meals. Very sensibly he had decided only to carry two plates at a time; the more efficient waiters were like a circus act and could carry plates and bowls all the way up their arms.

I was fetching some water for another of Oliver's couples when I heard a small detonation going on at the central station. It was Anthony.

‘What are you doing here?' He was speaking to Darren and Janeen and a few other waiters. His voice was tight and clipped. ‘Can't you see that Oliver needs a hand?'

‘We thought he needed the practice,' Darren said.

‘Don't be ridiculous. You've been here for over a year; Oliver's only just started. Both of you should know better.'

Anthony clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Good stuff.'

Oliver's tables were suddenly inundated with waiters. Oliver was still chugging away, but now it seemed as if there were two waiters to every guest. Plates were whisked away as soon as the last scrap had been eaten.

There was one table, however, which I was keen to keep for myself.

‘And how was your Cake and Sidney pie?' I asked the major.

He removed the linen napkin from his collar and patted at his lips.

‘What did you say?' he asked.

I beamed at him. ‘How was your pie?' I asked. ‘Was it nice and tasty?'

He was not at all sure how to deal with this bouncing irreverence. He continued to pat at his lips, wondering what he could say to put me in my place. I squared my shoulders, leaning back slightly, hands behind my back. Give me your best shot.

‘Take these plates away,' he said.

‘Of course,' I said. ‘That would be my absolute pleasure. Will you try some pudding?' The woman was staring at me. Had anyone ever tweaked her husband's tail like this before? ‘I hear the sweets are…' I paused and glanced at the woman, winking at her, ‘absolutely yummy.'

The man looked at me. I could practically see the steam venting from his ears, but what could he do? Call over the manager and complain about my language when, to all intents and purposes, I had been nothing other than a model of cheesy deportment.

He threw his napkin on the table. ‘Come on,' he said to his wife, stalking off to the pudding table. She smiled at me nervously, as if uncertain what to make of this bizarre creature who had come to torment her husband.

Later, I presented the couple with their bill. I think that after three courses, plus two bottles of wine, plus coffee and mints, the entire meal came to around £15. It was an absolute steal.

The man left a tenner and a fiver on the table. No tip.

I beamed at the major as he tugged his Burberry scarf tight around his neck. ‘No tip for naughty Kim?'

He stood there by the table, still adjusting his scarf. ‘Once upon a time, I'd have had you thrashed.'

‘I thought “once upon a time” was only for fairy tales, Major.'

The major's wife stared at me. ‘You are naughty,' she said. Did I detect a hint of a smile?

The major put on his hat, a brown trilby. ‘He is an impertinent young jackanapes.'

‘I wish you joy of the day, Major.' I gave him my most beatific smile. ‘I do so hope that you'll be able to come back soon.'

I watched the pair as they tramped out of the dining room. The major's wife was trying to take his arm, but he was having none of it.

They were almost the last guests to leave. Anthony sidled up to me.

‘What was all that about?' he asked.

‘What was all what about?' I gazed at Anthony with innocent eyes.

‘You haven't already started upsetting the natives?'

‘Me?' I said. ‘On my first day in the hotel?'

‘Oh God,' he said. A tone of amused resignation. ‘They're regulars in here, you know. They come in every Thursday.'

‘After madam has had her blow-dry in Swanage?'

‘That's right,' Anthony said.

‘And who are they?'

‘Major Steven Loveridge,' he said, ‘formerly of the Blues and Royals, and his long-suffering wife, Jemma.'

‘So he is a major!' I was delighted. ‘It would be a very great pleasure if, in future, I could wait at their table.'

‘You?' Anthony said.

‘Thank you,' I said.

Not a bad afternoon's work for my first day at the Knoll House; but the major was, of course, only the hors d'oeuvres.

I spent the afternoon serving cold potatoes and cold vegetables to Oliver.

He sat at Enid Blyton's table with a starched white napkin on his lap. In front of him was a pot of Earl Grey with china cup and saucer, two slices of lemon, four slices of white bread, some butter and a pot of strawberry jam. He was always a very fastidious eater and I remember in particular the way that he would spread his butter so that every last square millimetre of bread had been equally covered. Only then would he put on the jam. It was his own pot of jam and expensive. The bread would then be quartered and he would eat it without a single crumb falling onto his lap; this fine dining was in such odd contrast to his general cack-handedness.

‘Would sir like some potatoes?' I asked.

Oliver looked up from his bread and jam. ‘Yes, I would, thank you, Kim,' he said. ‘I would like that crisp little one on top and then that big cold potato right at the bottom.'

‘Coming right up.'

I manoeuvred the fork and spoon like a pair of pincers and deftly scooped the small potato onto Oliver's plate. The large potato was more difficult. The technique of silver service is similar to using two rather unwieldy chopsticks. For a moment I thought I had the potato, but then it flicked onto the floor.

Oliver continued to sip his tea. ‘I think it is much easier than you are making it look,' he said.

I retrieved the potato and returned it to the bowl. ‘Would you like to have a go?'

‘Not for me, no,' said Oliver. ‘I like putting the vegetables on the table. And the guests, they like to help themselves.'

‘Some do; some don't,' I said. ‘But if any of our classier guests want Kim's silver service, then I'll be able to provide it.'

Oliver looked at his watch. It was past five. ‘You have already given it an hour,' he said. ‘And so far you have had eight potatoes on the carpet, as well as the entire bowl of carrots—'

‘I'm lucky to have you to practise on.'

‘Who was that girl you were talking to in the playground before lunch?'

‘What big eyes you have.' I was trying to pick up baby carrots one at a time with the fork and spoon. It had never occurred to me that silver service would be quite so difficult.

‘Who was she?'

‘Her name's Annette. She's from Sweden.'

‘Annette!' he said with satisfaction. ‘I like that name. She is very pretty. She is exactly the sort of girl that I would like to date.'

‘Don't want to crush your hopes, Oliver, but she said she only came to Britain because she's fed up with dating ugly men.'

‘No,' Oliver said. He screwed the top tight onto the jam pot.
‘A beautiful woman like that is not interested in a man's looks. She will be attracted to a man's character, to his soul.'

‘I hope so.' Another potato tumbled to the floor. The problem came in exerting just the right amount of pressure. Too soft, and the potato would just drop to the floor; too much, and it would ping across the table. It required not just dexterity but very soft hands. As it turned out, it would take me another fortnight to master silver service. It has stood me in good stead ever since; women do like to see the occasional display of proficiency in a man.

Just like the previous night, we all had an early supper of pasta. At seven, Anthony was giving us our final pep talk before we were unleashed onto real paying punters. He had us huddled in the middle of the dining room. We watched longingly as the sous-chefs wheeled out the puddings.

‘We're a team,' Anthony said. He was in full dinner jacket and bowtie, quite the captain of the ship. ‘That means that we share all the tips, that we start in the dining room together and that we leave it together. So if you can see that another waiter is under pressure, then you go over and give them a hand, rather than just standing here gossiping with each other.' He gave a theatrical roll of his eyes, gazing at each of us in turn. ‘And if it's you who's under pressure, then ask for some help. That's what you do when you're on a team.' By chance, he happened to be looking at Oliver.

‘So go to, my friends; let's have some fun.'

The waiters and waitresses started to disperse. ‘Oh Kim,' said Anthony. He crooked a finger towards me. ‘A word in your shell-like?'

Hand on my shoulder, he led me off to a quiet corner of the dining room. I wondered if the major had already issued a formal complaint.

‘How are you enjoying yourself, Kim?' he asked.

‘Very much, thank you.'

‘Now, tonight,' he said. ‘A little bit of a star will be joining us for the weekend. He is a ladies' man. I am hoping you will be able to handle him.'

‘I'll do my best,' I said. ‘Who is he?'

‘He is a rock star.' And then he told me the name. Of course, I knew all about Ed McKenny. He was a household name. I even liked a couple of his songs. He had been married at least twice and had several children.

‘Okay.' I can't say I was overly impressed. Perhaps intrigued at the prospect of waiting on a rock star for three or four days, but awestruck? Absolutely not.

‘Now I want you to treat him just like any other guest in the hotel,' Anthony said.

‘Fine.'

‘Except… be careful.'

‘Be careful?'

‘Exactly. Be careful.'

‘Okay, I'll be careful.' I had no idea what Anthony was alluding to, but I supposed that he was trying to tell me that Ed McKenny was, like most rock stars, as mad as a hatter.

‘Great,' Anthony said, rubbing his hands together. ‘By the way, watch McKenny with the waitresses. Don't let them anywhere near him. Oliver can work on his table. You can work on his table. But nobody else goes near him.'

‘Why's that?'

‘Because I know what he's like.'

‘Okay,' I said. ‘Just me working on the table, and Oliver if we want a bowl of boiled potatoes thrown into his lap.'

‘You've got it.'

The rest of the staff stared at me as I joined them in the middle of the dining room. ‘What was all that about?' Darren said.

‘Nothing,' I said. ‘He said my waiting skills had been exemplary.'

‘So what did he say?' Tracy asked.

‘Told me to stop flirting with all the waitresses. I said I just couldn't resist myself.'

Michelle looked at me. ‘Did he really say that?'

Darren rolled his eyes. And the first of our proper paying guests came into the dining room.

There was a nice edge to that evening. The guests were excited at coming down to the Knoll House for the first day of their Easter break and the staff were eager to be put through their paces. That first night, there was a lot of champagne being drunk.

I'd had about four of my tables in and was pouring out some house red when I sensed this frisson go round the room. There was a lull in the general hubbub. I noticed my guests' gaze drift towards the entrance of the dining room. I knew immediately that my rock star had arrived. I finished pouring the wine and left the bottle on the table.

Anthony was escorting Ed McKenny to his table. The star was with three other people and his every move was being covertly watched by at least half the room.

Anthony drifted towards me as he went off to welcome the next batch of guests. ‘Go to, Kim.'

I gathered up four menus and went over to the Enid Blyton table. ‘Good evening,' I said. ‘Welcome to the Knoll House Hotel.' I gave them a warm smile and looked at them all in turn. There were two teenagers, a boy and a girl, who I guessed were McKenny's children. They were quite trendily dressed and the girl was pretty. She was about eighteen and she smiled at me. There was also a toned young woman with a blonde bob, in her twenties. She wore a very short skirt and was dressed for a holiday in Barbados rather than a chilly Easter break in Dorset; she was gorgeous and moody and she took the menu without looking up. I looked at McKenny. It was the first time that I had ever seen a rock star up close. He was in his late forties, taller than I expected and quite trim. I remembered that in his time he'd been a martial arts fighter; he would periodically beat up any members of the paparazzi who had vexed him. McKenny had spent a lot of time on his hair, a thick thatch of black, which had been teased and tweaked until it looked as if he had been dragged through a hedge backwards. His face was lined, craggy – ravaged from too many drugs and drink and women and whatever other ways that McKenny had found to abuse his body. He was wearing yellow sunglasses. He looked at my name tag.

‘Hi Kim,' he said. ‘You're going to be looking after us?'

‘Certainly am, sir.'

He pulled out an expensive black leather wallet from his jacket and opened it. He proffered two £50 notes to me. ‘That's for taking good care of us,' he said.

I smiled. ‘There's really no need,' I said. ‘I'll look after you just fine, even without the tip.'

‘No, take the money.' Again, he thrust the notes at me.

‘Give it to the boss, if you like,' I said.

‘It's for you.'

‘It's fine, honestly.'

I was aware that we were going through a little power play. I did not want to immediately put myself in the position of being one of McKenny's lackeys.

He took back the notes and stuffed them into his pocket. ‘Do you know who I am?'

‘I do, Mr McKenny.'

‘Call me Ed, then.'

‘I'll call you Ed, then. Can I get you anything to drink?'

‘I want a bottle of vintage Krug, if you've got it.'

‘We certainly had it,' I said. ‘We may have had a run on the vintage Krug tonight. If we don't have any, I'll see what I can rustle up.'

McKenny took off his odd little glasses and looked at me. Sizing me up.

‘See what you can rustle up.'

The other staff, particularly the waitresses, were agog to know what Mr McKenny had said to me. ‘He's so gorgeous,' Janeen said.

‘I wish I was waiting on his table,' Tracy said.

‘You wouldn't like him up close,' I said. ‘Horribly lined. And he's wearing yellow sunglasses.'

‘That's because he's a rock star,' Tracy said, moony-eyed as she gazed over into the corner. ‘Rock stars can get away with any colour sunglasses they like.'

‘Even at night.'

‘I think he's got sensitive eyes,' Tracy said. ‘I used to have his poster up on my bedroom wall. They're lovely hazel eyes. I used to kiss him on the lips before I went to sleep.'

‘I don't want to spoil your fantasy, Tracy,' I said. ‘But I'm not sure Ed has aged that well.'

‘He's so sexy,' Michelle said.

Unlike the waitresses, the waiters were more circumspect. McKenny had what the rest of them all wanted: fame and glory and millions of pounds in the bank, as well as a sultry, brooding beauty of a girlfriend.

I'd found McKenny his bottle of vintage Krug and poured it without mishap. The next time we chatted was when I was clearing away their main courses. Like Oliver, I had decided to take away two plates at a time, rather than go through the messiness of stacking at the table. McKenny had hardly touched his fish; I don't think he'd even had a mouthful.

‘Was everything all right?' I asked.

McKenny flicked his hand dismissively.

‘What sort of music do you listen to?' he asked.

I stood there by the table with a plate in each hand. It was an unusual way to be holding a conversation. ‘I like Beethoven. I like Mozart. But most of all, I like Bach.'

‘Good old Johann Sebastian,' he said.

‘Do you listen to much classical music?'

The reaction of the three other diners was interesting. McKenny's children were intrigued at how their dad was having a perfectly normal conversation with, of all things, a waiter. His lover looked at me for the first time – she really was extraordinarily beautiful –
before staring out of the window. Her hands were exquisitely manicured and she wore a ring with a ruby that was the size of a hazelnut. How bored she seemed. What a waste: all that beauty, but no energy and not a spark of life to be seen. I wondered what they did for fun outside the bedroom.

‘I do listen to classical music,' McKenny said.

I smiled. ‘Wasn't one of your tunes based on a Beethoven sonata?'

‘That's right.' He laughed. ‘Didn't have to pay the bugger a penny in royalties!'

‘Must be the way forward,' I said. ‘If the tunes still hold up after two hundred years, then they're bound to be pretty catchy.'

McKenny poured himself another glass of Krug. They were already on their third bottle. I noticed that he ignored his lover's empty glass.

‘Okay,' he said. ‘Favourite tune of all time. Give me your top three.'

‘Well-Tempered Clavier,' I said promptly. ‘First book. Prelude Number 17.'

‘I don't know that one,' he said. ‘How does it go?'

I sang a little bit of the tune. McKenny's daughter smirked at her brother and then looked back at me. She was cute. I liked her.

McKenny nodded. ‘There must have been a woman involved.'

‘There's always a woman involved.'

‘And your two other tunes?'

It was the first time that evening that I had seen McKenny animated. It was like watching an old snake slither from out of its rocky lair and slowly come to life as it basked in the morning sun.

‘Mozart concerto for two pianos, Kirkel Number 448.'

‘Kirkel 448? Remember that, Katie.' He nodded at his daughter. ‘Another woman?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘And for my last choice… Beethoven's Pastoral.'

‘You didn't pick that just because you liked it?'

‘No,' I said. ‘It was my mother's favourite.'

‘Ah,' he said, discerning the great shadow in my life. He added with surprising delicacy, ‘Mums, God bless 'em.'

‘Will you try any of the puddings?' I asked.