4. Elvis
Finding a job was paramount. If I could secure a job, there was a fair chance I’d find a brand new life along the way. Chic restaurants and cafés were in abundance near my apartment so I decided to try my luck, approaching most of them in search of work.
I got knocked back every single time.
Perhaps I was approaching this job thing the wrong way. Everyone I’d spoken to that morning had been on the receiving end of my best sell ever. When asked about my qualifications, I pumped my experience up to stellar levels. According to my fake mental résumé, I’d worked everywhere from Michelin star restaurants to high-end boutiques – no mean feat considering I’d spent the past year in African countries. The closest I’d come to a high-end boutique was the market stall in Kaimte that sold bogus Prada handbags.
If I could just find an employer needing the services of a slightly scattered would-be photographer with a degree in fairyology and a penchant for magic moments, I’d be a shoo-in. So far, that particular employer had eluded me and the minute I walked into Nellie’s Restaurant, I knew I wasn’t going to find him there either.
The restaurant was bigger than most, boasting a split-level dining area and a mezzanine level above to cater for large functions. It was busy. Hectic to the point of bedlam. Servers rushed around carrying huge plates of food and a long line of people stood waiting to be seated.
A very frazzled woman flicked through the reservations book, making promises I was fairly sure she couldn’t keep. “We should have a table for you in another ten minutes, sir,” she told the man who was first in line.
“We’ll wait,” he replied gruffly.
The food must have been really good. Either that or I’d stumbled into another Manhattan restaurant where you qualified as awesome just because you were seen there. Seizing the first opportunity I had, I excused myself and pushed my way to the head of the line. The frazzled girl behind the podium frowned at me.
I frowned back.
“You’re going to be waiting at least an hour,” she warned, furiously thumbing through pages again.
“No, no. I’m here about the job.”
“What job?”
“Err, the waitressing job,” I lied.
“Is Paolo expecting you?”
I quickly glanced at my watch. “Yes, ten minutes ago.”
She smirked, and I sensed she knew something I didn’t. “Be my guest,” she said, pointing toward the door to the kitchen.
I was still trying to psyche myself into entering the kitchen when the door violently swung open. I stepped aside quickly, making way for a waiter precariously balancing three plates of food in his arms. I jumped into the kitchen before the door swung shut – straight in to the sights of the restaurateur from hell, Paolo.
“You!” He pointed straight at me.
“Me?” I asked in a tiny voice, turning my head to see if anyone was standing behind me.
“What do you want?”
For such a short man, Paolo was terrifying. He wasn’t much taller than me. If it had come to blows between us, I was fairly certain I could take him – unless he sat on me. He was as wide as he was tall.
I was about to answer when his attention switched to a girl who’d just leaned across him to pick up a plate of food.
“Gretchen!” he yelled, making the girl jump. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“This is the order for table six,” she uttered, recoiling as if he’d just slapped her.
“Not unless there’s a rabbit seated at table six. Do you see any meat on that plate?”
I studied the plate as closely as Gretchen did, hoping to see a fillet mignon hiding under the mass of salad, just to prove him wrong.
“Get out of my sight,” he hissed, waving his arms like he was shooing a fly. Gretchen sprang to life. She reached behind her back, whipped off her little apron and threw it at him.
“You can stick your job, Paolo! I’ve put up with this for months. I don’t need your stupid job.”
She’d made it almost to the door by the time her angry rant was over. Paolo liked to get the last word in. “Gretchen,” he snarled.
I expected to hear him tell her she’d never work in this town again. New York seemed like the perfect place to hear someone scream those words.
“I want your name badge.”
The look she gave him while she unpinned it from her blouse was blistering. He held out his hand and she slapped the badge in his open palm.
Quickly glancing around the kitchen, I noticed that not one person had paused to watch the fireworks. Perhaps it was an everyday occurrence they were all used to. Did I really want to work in a place like this? Of course I did. I was desperate.
“What do you want?” he asked, turning back to me. It was as if the last minute had happened only in my head. He didn’t miss a beat.
“I wanted to talk to you about a job.”
“There are no vacancies. We’re not hiring.”
“Yes, you are,” I insisted, following him as he walked through the kitchen to a small adjoining office. Paolo sat at the desk. I went no further than the doorway.
“You’re pushy. I like that.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
“You’re also annoying. I don’t like that.”
“Please, Paolo. I really need this job,” I begged. “I’ll work just for tips.”
Paolo leaned back in his chair, so far that I thought it might tip backwards, and wondered if I’d laugh if it did.
“There is no job.”
“I want Gretchen’s job,” I replied, thinking on my feet. “In case you misunderstood her intentions, she just quit.”
He leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the desk. “Do you think you’re going to enjoy working for me?”
I shook my head. “No. I think I’m going to absolutely hate it.”
He laughed, a light chuckle at first before throwing his head back in a roar of guffaws straight out of a horror movie. “Fine,” he said finally composing himself enough to speak. “You start tomorrow. You’ve got the breakfast shift.”
I grinned. “Thank you. My name is Charli, by the way.”
“Not anymore, it’s not.”
“Excuse me?” As much as I hated my name, I wasn’t planning on changing it any time soon.
Paolo pulled open a drawer, took out a container filled to the brim with name badges and thumped it on the desk, dropping Gretchen’s badge into the mix. No wonder the kitchen staff hadn’t reacted to her meltdown. They’d seen it many times before. My mouth fell open as I watched him rifling through the pile.
“You’re now known as Priscilla,” he announced, sliding the badge toward me. “I want to see how you work out before I spend two dollars on a new name badge.”
I stepped forward and picked it up, studying it closely for bloodstains or other signs of trauma. “Priscilla? Really?”
“It’s Priscilla or Walter.” He waved the Walter badge at me. “You don’t look much like a Walter. Take it or leave it, kid.”
“Fine,” I grumbled. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Don’t be late,” he warned, shooing me out the door.
I didn’t care that he was a monster. He’d given me a job. There was a skip in my step as I walked back to my apartment. I was hopeful that Paolo was the gateway to my new brilliant life.
***
Working for Paolo was every bit as horrendous as I expected it to be. It was as if his sole purpose in life was to make his staff miserable. But his constant criticism, screaming and shouting bounced right off me. I just didn’t care. Slowly but surely, a whole new world was opening up to me and I was running with it.
It was easier to get to know the regular patrons than the people I worked with. Other than retrieving plates off the servery, the kitchen was a no-go zone. It was mayhem in there, and if Paolo was lurking, it was worse. The dining area had a much more pleasant atmosphere.
A lot of the patrons were regulars and I had my favourites. Merle and Betty Swanston were a sweet old couple who came in every morning for brunch. Betty loved regaling me with stories of their life together. They’d been married for over fifty years. I knew that because she’d made a point of telling me every day in the week since I’d first met them.
Phoebe was another interesting character. She was the most elegant woman I’d ever seen, easily capable of giving Gabrielle a run for her money. Her jet-black hair was always styled in victory rolls and her lips were ruby red, reminding me of a movie star from a bygone era. Phoebe had her quirks. She never cared which table she was seated at, but was pedantic about how it was set. From a distance I’d watch her rearrange the cutlery, refold her napkin and buff her glass with a cloth she kept in her handbag.
“Get back to work, kid. This is not a freak show,” Paolo would hiss, every time I slowed down to watch her.
“Oh, but it is, Paolo. I love this city.”
And I did. If I couldn’t put the pieces of my life back together and start afresh in New York, it couldn’t be done.
Not all the customers were sweet like the Swanstons or glamorous like Phoebe. Some were just jerks. A repeat offender was an investment banker called Bryce. When he dined alone he was tolerable. But when he was sharing a meal with a couple of work colleagues, he was a pig.
My heart sank when he walked through the door at the beginning of my shift that morning. It practically fell through the bottom of my feet when I saw two of his friends trailing behind him. Being polite to customers, regardless of how gross they were to you, was one of Paolo’s many rules. I doubt being chatted up was something he had to deal with very often.
“You’re so beautiful,” Bryce told me, leering as I approached his table to take their orders. “Let me take you out for a drink.”
“No,” I hissed, with forced restraint.
“Burned, Bryce,” quipped one of his friends, making the other laugh.
Bryce tried harder. “Okay, cutie, how about you ask me out?”
As repulsed as I was, I managed to look him straight in the eye as I pointed to the door. “Sure. Get out.”
The table erupted into laughter. I asked them one final time if they were ready to order.
“Not yet,” replied Bryce, leering at me.
I walked away muttering obscenities under my breath. Paolo was standing near the kitchen door as I approached, and by the look on his face I was almost certain he’d seen what had just gone down at table nine.
“Pay attention,” he grumbled, pointing to something behind me.
I turned around to see a man at table three trying to catch my eye by waving. I’d seen him a few times that week but hadn’t been the one to serve him. Tables for one were quick to turn, so other waitresses tended to claim them quickly.
I drew in a calming breath and walked toward him, smiling so artificially that my cheeks hurt. “May I help you?”
“I hope so, I’m hungry,” he replied.
I smiled more genuinely. “Would you like to hear the specials?”
“Why don’t you sit down and tell me? You look like you could take a load off.”
Here we go again, I thought. But I had to admit this guy was nowhere near as repulsive as Bryce and his chums. He was very good looking – in a snobby, holier-than-thou kind of way. He wasn’t boyishly handsome. He was kind of dark and broody, but his brown eyes were warm and bright.
“I don’t need to sit down. I’ve only been at work for half an hour,” I said, icily.
He stared blankly at me for a second, making me uncomfortable enough to look away. “You think I’m hitting on you,” he finally exclaimed, looking as if the notion was ridiculous. “Look, if it makes you feel any better, I’m waiting for my date to arrive.”
It didn’t make me feel any better. I was even more humiliated.
“Would you like to hear the specials?” I repeated.
He ignored me. “What’s your name?” He leaned forward, peering at the badge pinned to my chest.
“Priscilla,” I announced.
A bright grin swept his face. “Well that’s a huge coincidence, because my name is Elvis.”
Elvis was clearly lying.
“It’s nice to meet you, Elvis,” I said dryly.
He nodded politely. “You too, Priscilla.” I picked a menu off the table and thrust it at him. He pretended to read it for a moment, snapped it shut and hit me with his next question. “Where are you from?”
He didn’t recognise my accent. It was licence to give Priscilla a whole new ancestry. “Africa. I arrived two weeks ago.” It was only half a lie and I felt no unease in telling it.
Elvis didn’t get a chance to ask me anything else. His date arrived. A pretty blonde rushed over to the table, apologised for being late and crushed her lips to his the second he stood up.
I didn’t need an excuse to leave. Bryce whistled from across the room.
“We’re ready to order,” he yelled.
Fan-bloody-tastic.