"That gentleman is being fresh," Jean whispered to the other waitress.
Annie glanced across the Colonists' Club dining room. "Oh, that one. He's all hands."
Knowing they were talking about him, the man smirked, flashing his dimples. Jean turned her back.
To save for next term's school clothes, she would take shifts when there were parties on, but it was more work than she'd expected. Not the labor, but dodging the Ballarat's toffs, who seemed to think that these rough-edged farmgirls welcomed their attentions.
"I'll go clean up tables on the balcony." She hurried from the dining room.
He followed. When he leaned against the doorjamb and lit a cigarette, she was trapped.
She asked, "Can I help you, sir?" but started to pick up glasses, avoiding his gaze.
He flashed her a grin and smoothed his glistening golden hair. "I think that I can help you, girlie."
"I don't need anything." She stepped forward with her tray.
He didn't move. "Toll is a kiss," he insisted.
She raised her chin. "Sir-"
"Leave her alone, Patrick," came from the shadows. Jean jumped, nearly dropping the glassware. Another man stepped into the light, also blond and in evening dress. He flicked his cigarette over the railing and folded his arms.
"Pushing in, Lucien?"
"Where's your lovely bride Susan?"
Sneering as a reply, Patrick turned on his heel.
Lucien must be Doctor Blake's son, Jean thought, who came down from Melbourne on his university holidays.
"Thank you," she said uncertainly. Did he want to push in? Would that be a bother? His eyes warmed and she gripped the tray tighter.
"Lucien!" A redhead at the doorway, sounding cross.
"Coming, Monica," he said, quirking a smile as he brushed past Jean.
She cleared the last table. She was just the waitress, after all.
