CLOSE-UP & PERSONAL

#CHAPTER 14#

Late as ever I wrestle into my Kingley's uniform. The black and white waitress outfit was bought out of my own wages and is the cheapest I could get away with.

My friend Jerome has already clocked in for me and is waiting outside with the other milling staff when I emerge form the dressing room.

Jerome is my kind-of-ex-boyfriend. He took a course in theatre production in the same college as me, and we became good friends in the first year. He's blonde, good-looking, always smells great and gives the world's best hugs.

He's usually employed to put up lighting rigs in London theatres, but he also waiters with me on the side. A choice I often fear, due to him wanting us to get together again, rather than a real need for spare cash.

"Hey Issy," he says, "there's been a change of plan for tonight. We're being taken by coach to another part of the city."

I stare back at him in confusion. "A change of plan?"

"Maybe someone messed up," he says. "In any case, our shift are being driven over to Claridges to fill in for some private party there. Perhaps some other agency let them down," he adds. "In any case, we get a shift at London's fanciest hotel. Probably they'll feed us well at the end of it."

We clamber into the coach and Jerome as usual, sits a little too close. My fault, really. A long time ago at college I decided I had waited long enough for Mr Right. So on my mother's advice I tried dating a good friend – Jerome. We had fun going out, and kissing him wasn't bad. Nice, really. But no feelings came with it.

After a few drinks at a party I even got brave enough to try and lose my ity to him. And then I got freaked and confessed that I only saw him as a friend.

Poor Jerome has been hoping ever since that I'll give him another chance.

"You been to Claridges before Issy?"

I think for a moment. "Yeah. I think one of my first shifts was at Claridges. They don't let you too near the guests. They have their own trained staff for that."

"Just put the food down and get out of there?"

"Yep."

"Great. If we're lucky and their in-house team has shined all the silverware we might get out early."



We filter off the coach into the car-park that Claridges reserve for their staff. Guests come in the front and the ambassadors and royalty have a red carpet rolled out. Round the back it's plain, functional and decidedly unglamorous.

We move into the kitchen and the general manager comes down to brief us. It's a straight-forward private party, serving canapés, topping up drinks. There's no food for us at the end, but as Jerome predicted we might get out early if the guests don't stay late.



I load up with my first tray of canapés – quails eggs topped with an artful smear of caviar – and follow the rest of the team into the room. Jerome is ahead carrying two trays. He's always been a show-off.

Claridges wide ballroom swings into view, and as always I'm struck by the contrast between the incredible gold and blue décor with the plain staff quarters below stairs.

My eyes sweep the room, searching for a route where other waiters have not yet been. And then I nearly drop my tray.

James Berkeley is standing talking with another female guest.

My legs almost propel me straight back out of the room. But I'm at work. I'm holding a tray of food. Somehow I have to get through this without him seeing me. It's not just the embarrassment of serving him. Waitress-chic I am not. My thoughts flick to my hair, scraped back into a functional bun, and my face, completely devoid of make-up. I look terrible.

Why should I care if I look terrible?

But I know the truth. I'm falling for him. And it's important he doesn't see me looking plain and awful. I'll analyse that later. Right not I need to keep out of his way. Keeping my eyes front I head for the opposite side of the room.

My tray lightens as I whirl through the guests, waiting for them to take food from the tray. And I turn to head back to the kitchen.

Maybe I can get away with this after all. He might not stay long.

"Isabella."

I turn. It's him, looking immaculate in a grey suit and tie.

"Oh," I swallow. "Hello Mr Berkeley."

He smiles. "Back to Mr Berkeley?"

"James," I correct myself. The weight of the tray in my hand suddenly feels unbearable, and I realise the heat of serving the room has left a sheen of sweat on my face.

He lowers his voice. "I like the way you look in your waitress's uniform."

Oh.

"I obviously chose the right catering company."

The penny drops.

"You?" I say, "You booked my catering company for this event?"

"I assumed since you worked for them they must be the best."

I look down at the tray in my hand. A real part of me wants to hit him over the head with it.

My voice comes out as a hiss. "You hired my catering company? So I would come and wait on you? What kind of twisted thing is that to pull?"

His face shows hurt, but I'm far beyond sympathy.

I look left and right to check no-one can see us.

"I cannot believe you would do this!"