“What the hell was Cormac O’Connell doing in your section?”
I gave her the one-shouldered shrug. “I have no friggin’ clue, and you’re welcome to serve him next time,” would be my response of choice, but I kept my mouth shut. Katrina was the last person that I needed to start an argument with.
“You have absolutely no idea who he is, do you?”
She obviously deduced this for herself, given the vacant look on my face. Without waiting for an answer, she flounced off in a cloud of cheap perfume. Rhona, having heard the whole exchange, shoulder bumped me on her way back to the kitchen.
“Go on, girl. ’Bout time that madam had a bit of competition, and once upon a time, I wouldn’t have minded a piece of that boy, myself. I wouldn’t be turning a blind eye if I was twenty years younger.”
“Need some help?” I motioned to the dishes in her hand, trying to change the subject. It had completely escaped her notice that I was neither flirting, nor being flirted with. I was no expert, but I was sure that you actually needed to talk to someone to start a relationship.
“No thanks, love, I’ve got it. Your section is getting pretty full.”
She nodded back toward the cafe. Seeing she was right, I hurried back to take orders. People were pretty slow about coming into my section to begin with, but once they saw me waiting on Danny every day, they slowly started drifting over. The breakfast and lunch shifts flew by, punctuated by evil looks from Katrina. I guessed from her attitude that O’Connell was on her hit list and she hadn’t scored with him yet. Which would put him in the minority, from what I heard.
When Katrina wanted a guy, he usually didn’t offer much resistance. She had nothing to worry about from me, though. If O’Connell came in here again, she was welcome to him. However good-looking the package, I didn’t need that kind of trouble in my life. It wasn’t as if he’d ever give me a second look anyway.
By the time my shift ended, I was glad to be heading to class. Waitressing was okay, and it was nice to have some company, but school was where I really lost myself. Getting a place at UCL had been the scariest and most exhilarating thing that had ever happened to me. None of it would have been possible without my former teacher Mrs. Wallis. I had been wriggling around in my seat, trying not to let the chair touch any of the fresh bruises hidden under my sweater when she had approached me. With tears in her eyes, she had told me she knew I had a difficult home life, and as I was nearly eighteen, there was a way of escaping. If I wanted her help, I would have it.
That was the nearest that I ever came to breaking down. Part of me wanted to scream at her that, if she knew, then why didn’t she tell social services so they could get me? I think we both knew that would only have made things worse though.
I didn’t scream at her or cry, but actually setting out the bare bones of a plan was terrifying. The fear of being caught, and of my stepfather, Frank, discovering what I was doing, had me feeling sick every minute of every day. Using Mrs. Wallis’s address, I had applied for university places and identification. When I turned eighteen, I changed my surname legally. I accepted a place studying applied mathematics at University College London, and now, eighteen months later, the only person who could ever connect Emily Thomas from Cardiff, South Wales, with me was Mrs. Wallis, an elderly home economics teacher who was the only person I’d ever trusted.
I’d breezed an access course in accounting over the summer, but my heart was in math. It was clean and pure, and in my world of gray, it was black and white. If I had any chance at building a future, then I needed qualifications.
The dread of being caught was always ever present though. I guessed that Frank was looking for me but getting my degree was worth the risk. If I committed to staying in one place long enough to finish university, I had to keep a low profile. It was my best chance of evading him. So I did what I’d always done. I made no eye contact and never initiated conversation.
It had worked in high school, but university was a completely different kettle of fish. The guys here were relentless. Politely turning down unwanted advances, without causing offense, had become an art form that I’d perfected. It was the safest way to live, but I was lonely. There were days that I desperately wanted someone, anyone, to call a friend. In lecture room three, on that frosty Tuesday afternoon, I got just that.
“This seat taken?”