New York City, USA
May 2011
And the waitress is practicing politics
"Rilla! Thank God you could make it!" Maureen, my boss, looks close to weeping with relief.
Truth is, I almost didn't come. I had an exam today that, objectively speaking, didn't go as well as I would have liked, and my original plan was to spend the evening eating copious amounts of comfort food and start cramming for the next exam. But then Maureen phoned to ask me to help out with a catering event tonight. Noticing my reluctance, she promised a significant bonus and that, in combination with my rather depleted bank account, sealed the deal.
"Tracy called in sick this morning and you were the only other waitress they would accept at such short notice," continues Maureen as she shoves me into the staff changing room, quite as if I didn't know the way.
She looks pretty frenzied, and I idly consider whether I should have held out for more money, but before I can make a comment to that effect, Maureen has already turned and hurried out of the room.
Raising both eyebrows, I look over towards Carolina, who answers with a shrug and a grin. "Big night," she remarks by way of explanation, shutting the door to her locker with a clank and slipping past me to follow Maureen out.
I remain behind, taking a moment to send a quick message to Tracy, telling her I hope she isn't very sick and that she'll be alright soon (it's all I dare, knowing that her bastard husband likely checks her phone), before I turn towards my locker and begin changing into my discreet black uniform for tonight's event.
I don't usually know Maureen to be this nervous before an event, but NYU has a host of famous alumni and though some of the most accomplished are recognised only by insiders, there are also a couple of Hollywood stars among them. From what I gather, it seems to be fashionable among them to drop out, rather than finish their degree, but some can still be convinced to attend the odd university-sponsored event for publicity.
Having changed, I leave the room as well, but before I can even make it to the kitchen, I have a platter of hors d'oeuvres pressed into my hands and am directed to the main dining room. When I enter, I find it to be already reasonably well-filled with mingling people in fancy evening wear.
A good waitress's principal talent is to remain invisible until called upon, so I spend the next couple of minutes moving silently between guests, offering them my platter of hors d'oeuvres and making sure to be gone before they can think of some individual request they'd like fulfilled. With events as big as these, we don't have time to carter to everyone's specific tastes.
I make quite good headway until someone suddenly grabs my arm and pulls me to the side. Feeling irritated, I turn (preparing to fend off some over-eager guest as I do), but feel my shoulders ease up when I see who it is.
"I didn't know you'd be waitressing here tonight!" exclaims Seraphina and smiles widely. She is wearing a heavily patterned cocktail dress with swirls of oranges and pinks and blues. Upon closer inspection, the print looks vaguely galaxy-like (galaxy as in outer space, I mean) and I'm sure Di would be able to identify the designer just by that alone, but to me, it just looks colourful and vaguely expensive.
Allowing my professionally pleasant smile to relax into a real one, I answer, "Neither did I. I'm replacing a colleague who called in sick."
"Exciting, isn't it?" asks Seraphina, but before I have a chance to ask what, exactly, is exciting about an evening of waitressing, she's already moved on to eyeing the food on my platter. "What do you have here?"
"Devilled egg with truffle shavings, Bloody Mary prawn cocktail on a cracker, and mini chicken Kiev with a walnut and vintage cheese-filling" I rattle off.
Seraphina laughs brightly. "Go figure! Have the eighties already called to ask for their food back?"
Wrinkling my nose slightly at the food on my platter, I can't help agreeing with her. I'm really no expert on fancy food, but even I know prawn cocktails to be passé.
"Ah, but we should have expected it, putting old Mabel at the helm of choosing the menu," adds Seraphina as she picks up a mini chicken. "And your chef did try his best to update her choices into something edible, I must give him that."
"He's good," I nod.
Because sometimes, when there's still food left at the end of a night, all of us staff meet up in the kitchen and make short shrift of it. Not that I would ever admit it to either Joy or Grandmother Marilla, but it's easily the best food I ever tasted. And since, judging from Seraphina's expression as she chews her mini chicken, today's offering is apparently nothing to sniff at, I send a quick wish to the heavens that this won't prove to be a hungry crowd either.
"How come you're here?" I ask Seraphina while watching her choose a prawn cracker. "Is this a DAR event?"
She shakes her head, while biting off the prawn's tail. "Not really. Some charity thing or another. But my mother knows Old Mabel and when she learned she was organising this event here, she bugged her until we got an invite."
Just as I want to ask what makes this particular event so special, there's a commotion at the entrance. Seraphina cranes her neck, her half-eaten prawn forgotten in her hand. "Looks like the main guest is finally here," she announces in a stage whisper.
"Who even is the main guest? Did Angelina Jolie remember she attended Tisch for five minutes back in the nineties? And if so, did she bring Brad?" I enquire, only half-way sarcastic. (Tisch, of course, being short for Tisch School of Arts, NYU's branch for media and performing arts.)
"Even better!" exclaims Seraphina, turning back to me with shining eyes. "It's –"
But before she can get the name out, my gaze falls upon a man I first saw dressed in a grumpy bumblebee costume all the way back on Halloween, and the pieces fall into place just like that.
Of course.
Seraphina is still talking, but her words wash over me. Instead, I'm staring towards the entrance, waiting for the crowd to shift. When it finally does, I see him immediately.
He's in full prince mode, shaking all hands offered to him, nodding and smiling at people, and looking like a consummate professional. In short, he couldn't be more different from the man who engaged in (and lost) a play fight with George just yesterday morning, having gotten his hand suitably mauled in the process.
As if through cotton wool, Seraphina's voice drifts over to my ear. "… why my mother couldn't rest until she got us an invite? There was no way she'd let an opportunity to parade me in front of a real prince slip through her fingers. I told her he wouldn't take any notice of me, but when does she ever listen?"
She says it with an easy laugh, popping the rest of her prawn into her mouth, but I feel my throat constrict. Because she has no idea.
Watching Ken out of the corner of my eye, even as Seraphina continues talking, I can't help noticing that he, too, isn't giving his conversational partners his full attention. Oh, he's friendly and attentive enough, but I know him too well not to notice the quick looks he throws into the room every once in a while. Almost as if he…
Almost as if he were looking for something. Or someone.
A second later, his eyes find mine and his face lights up into the kind of smile that, even after all these months, still turns my knees to water.
But a good waitress is invisible. And that smile is anything but.
Lowering my head, I quickly duck behind Seraphina, fussing with my platter until I hope he has looked away. When I dare raise my head again and steal a quick glance his way, he is, indeed, back to talking to a vaguely familiar looking woman in hot pink satin (which she really doesn't have the figure for), and I breathe a silent sigh of relief.
Turning to look at Seraphina, I see that her expression is one of puzzlement. "Did you just see that?" she asks with a frown.
Not trusting my voice to speak, I quickly shake my head, my fingers closing tighter around the platter in my hands.
"He looked over here and smiled. Almost as if he recognised someone," Seraphina relates slowly. It's apparent that her mind is going a mile a minute and I can feel myself panicking.
Thus, when I speak, I have to force the words around my heart beating in my throat. "Probably a misunderstanding. I bet someone like him meets lots of people all day. Maybe he thought you were someone he'd seen before?"
It's weak. I know it is. But it's the best I can come up with.
Seraphina doesn't look convinced. "Hmm… maybe…"
Scrambling for a better explanation and coming up with nothing, I find myself being rescued by a most unlikely saviour.
"Or maybe," drawls a voice, "he merely wondered why you were talking to the service staff?"
With an audible groan, Seraphina turns around to face Yseult. Yseult, who, apart from being Seraphina's cousin, is also twin sister to my ex-boyfriend Tristan and every bit as snobbish as her mother is.
"Do us a favour and go spread your poison elsewhere, will you?" Seraphina snaps back. I tighten my hold on my platter just a fraction more.
Yseult sniffs disdainfully. "I'm just saying. She isn't a very good waitress, is she? Hanging around here chatting with you instead of doing her job?"
And with a flash, I am reminded of how Yseult, even when I was dating her brother, never once addressed me directly. I was always 'she' or 'that girl', when she took note of me at all. If her mother is a piece of work, Yseult is nastiness personified.
Seraphina looks like she has some choice words sitting on the tip of her tongue, but really, the last thing I need is for them to start fighting and draw attention to us. So, I swivel to present my platter to Yseult and ask in my best waitress voice, "Would you like a devilled egg?"
In hindsight, offering her a prawn cocktail might have been a choice less laden with potential hidden messages, but I only realise it when Yseult throws me a most withering glance. With a huff – and without a devilled egg – she storms off in direction of the restrooms.
Grimacing, Seraphina looks after her. "God, she's awful!"
No argument there.
"Please tell me her mother isn't around here somewhere as well?" I ask weakly, because really, the last thing I need tonight is to come face to face with that woman on top of everything else.
Thankfully, Seraphina shakes her head. "No, and thank heavens. Originally, Yseult wasn't supposed to come either, but my aunt offered my mother first dibs on our shared house on Martha's Vineyard for the next five years, if only we would take her along."
Thinking back on that Martha's Vineyard house, where Seraphina took me and Nia for a week during summer after first year, I remark, "A high price to pay."
"For that woman, no price is too high if it means having her daughter potentially thrown in the way of an honest to goodness prince," answers Seraphina with a shrug. "He's way out of her league, of course, but my aunt has long dreamed of a British aristocrat for Yseult, and he's the top price. Never mind that that didn't work out so well for those Gilded Age heiresses."
There's a hysterical giggle rising within me as I imagine what Seraphina would think of me dating Ken, considering she thinks herself and Yseult with their old family and fancy clothes and house on Martha's Vineyard not to be in his league, but I just about manage to swallow it down.
Instead, I offer up a weak smile and switch my platter from one hand to the other. "Be that as it may, she's right on one account: I'd better get back to work. If I don't, I might just drop dead from the glares my colleague is sending my way."
Because just because I was ignoring Bridget's increasingly irritated looks doesn't mean I didn't notice them.
Seraphina sighs heavily. "I wouldn't want that. But you're still the only sensible person I'm likely to speak to all evening."
"Likewise," I reply with a wry grin, drawing a laugh from her.
But despite the words, I make sure to steer clear of Seraphina for the rest of the evening (I am here to work, after all) and she, considerate by nature, also keeps the contact to the odd discrete grimace or eye-roll she directs my way whenever I pass her.
Her mother doesn't acknowledge me past a polite nod and Yseult makes a point not to look at me at all. Which is absolutely fine, for a variety of reasons. I can live just fine without Yseult's attention or approval.
What does sting, however, is that after that first smile, Ken doesn't once look my way either. It's sensible, of course, as I well know, but, well… It's just so strange, seeing him here, looking and acting every inch the prince, so close and yet as far removed as he's ever been. Because it's so obvious that he's the centre of the room, the axis, the one everyone revolves around. And I am, as Yseult so helpfully pointed out, just the waitress. The girl paid to hover by the side lines, platter of nibbles at the ready, but otherwise invisible.
It's not that I actually want him to get me noticed, which is why I, myself, make a point to stay far away from him. I can look at him all I want (because seriously, half the people in here are looking his way at any given time), but if he were to be caught looking my way too often, it could well get people thinking. Evidently, it does not do to have people thinking about why the Prince of Wales would be looking at a mere waitress.
Still, I can't help a weird pang as I watch Seraphina in her expensive outer space-dress get formally introduced to him. He moves on after less than a minute of small-talk and when she turns to grin at me excitedly behind his back, I muster my best encouraging smile, but I still feel my stomach clench.
It might be foolish. His earlier smile told me it's foolish. But as the evening wears on, with him laughing and socialising and me offering my platters and trying not to get noticed… well, Seraphina's words suddenly start to make sense in a way they haven't in a very long time.
If only he would…
"Miss?"
Quickly, I turn my head. Grumpy Bumblebee, who I know to be Ken's head of security, is standing next to me, though looking straight ahead. I mean to ask what he wants (maybe more chicken Kiev?), but then see him nod discreetly toward a door at the other side of the room that I know to hide a corridor leading to some offices. When I look, I just see Hanson disappear through it.
"He'll follow you there in ten minutes," Grumpy Bumblebee – or Beckett, as he's really called – mutters, achieving this feat without once looking my way or even visibly moving his lips.
"Okay," I whisper back.
It's apparently all the confirmation he needs, for without so much as acknowledging it, he moves off to re-take his place some steps behind Ken. Ever present, but invisible. Just like I am.
As inconspicuously as possible, I move through the room, towards the indicated door. I make a point to offer my platter to everyone I pass, making it look like it's chance directing me towards that part of the room, not design. Only when I reach the door, do I throw a quick glance over my shoulder, making sure that both Seraphina and Bridget have their backs turned. Anyone else looking would simply think I have a proper job-related reason to be in this part of the restaurant.
I slip through the door, making sure to close it firmly behind me. But it's only after taking several steps that I allow myself to relax, leaning my back against the wall and closing my eyes. This is surreal.
"Evening, Miss," comes a sudden voice, startling me, but when I look, it's just Hanson, strolling along the corridor from where he probably checked the offices. "All clear," he adds when he sees me looking past him at the doors.
"Good evening," I reply. My eyes fall on the still half-filled platter in my hands and, at a loss as to what else to do, I offer it to him. "Devilled egg?"
For the fraction of a second, he looks surprised, but then his mouth curves upwards in something that might, with goodwill, be called a smile. "Never been one for eggs," he admits. "I'd take one of those shrimp crackers though."
"Sure," I nod, swivelling the platter to present him the side with the prawn cocktails instead.
Taking one, he pops it into his mouth in one go. "My grandmother used to swear by them when it came to party food," he remarks conversationally. "Pigs in a blanket, too. Or angels on horseback, if she was feeling fancy."
I can't help a smile at the absurdity of it. "Sometimes I wonder what non-native speakers make of these weird food names. I mean, no-one could convincingly argue that toad in the hole makes any kind of sense – or that it sounds in any way enticing." And, like, don't even get me started on spotted dick…
Hanson considers this for a moment, before offering, "Bubble and squeak?" The not-quite-smile on his face has widened into a real one and I can't help note that it makes him look almost… human.
"None of you have ever truly baffled a foreigner until you have offered them stargazy pie," comments another voice and I turn to see Ken walking over to us, the door just closing behind him again as if by invisible hand (though it's probably really just Beckett from the other side).
Hanson immediately starts moving. Directing a "Sir" at Ken and a parting nod at me, he's through the door before I have time to blink. Ken comes to stand by my side much slower, casting a curious look at the platter I'm holding. With no other option, I set it down by my feet.
"What's stargazy pie?" I ask after having straightened again and wrinkle my nose in thought. It doesn't sound bad, but then, knowing the English…
Ken laughs, taking both my hands in his and swinging them leisurely from side to side. "One day, I'm going to take you to Cornwall and make them give you stargazy pie," he promises. "And you will hate me for it."
Cocking my head to the side, I raise both eyebrows at him, demanding an explanation. He laughs again, obviously amused by the very thought. "It involves fish heads sticking out of the pie. With eyes and everything."
"Now, that's just repulsing," I declare, my nose now wrinkling in disgust. Ken bends forward to drop a kiss to the tip of it.
"So, no stargazy pie for you, I take it," he remarks with a grin. Then, swinging out hands once more for good measure, he adds, "I'm getting a bit of a déjà vu feeling."
"No spilled wine involved this time," I point out, thinking back to our very first meeting. And how far we've come since then.
Ken looks down at my black waitressing uniform. "At least it wouldn't make such a mess this time. Though I think I liked the other dress better."
"Consider me absolutely devastated that my working clothes don't live up to whatever French maid fantasy you were entertaining just there," I tease playfully, tilting my chin forward as I speak.
He smiles at the comment, but shakes his head. "No. To have you start serving me anything would be strange. Even in jest."
Yes. It would be.
"Nothing for it but to have you dress up as a garçon instead," I remark with an elaborate shrug, drawing a laugh from him.
"As the lady wishes," he replies with a mock bow. Leaning forward, he tries to steal a kiss, but I quickly duck my head away.
There's puzzlement in his eyes, so I hurry to explain, "If I go out there with my hair mussed up and my lips all pink, someone is going to smell a rat. And that, after you almost gave us away earlier, smiling at me like that. I only just managed to convince Seraphina she was imagining things."
"Seraphina is one of your friends, isn't she? And she's here tonight?" he enquires curiously and I'd chide him for evading the subject at hand, but I'm also quite pleased that he remembers my friends' names.
"Yes, she's here. You actually got introduced to her. The girl in the galaxy-print dress? Like, 'outer space but make it fashion'?" I prompt (though not really expecting him to get the reference).
Frowning in thought, Ken seems to mentally go back over the people he met tonight. "Yes, I think I remember her," he finally replies. "I didn't catch her name, but the dress stood out. Had I known she was your friend, I would have talked longer to her."
"Best that you didn't, then," I retort drily. "She was already wondering why you smiled our way in the first place. She's clever. If you had suddenly given her too much attention, she might have put two and two together."
Ken nods, looking suitably admonished. "Right you are. Better safe than sorry. And I am sorry for almost giving us away earlier. I was just very glad to see you and didn't think quickly enough."
He reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and I feel myself melt. I don't know how he does it, but I always find I've forgiven him long before making a conscious decision to do so.
"You could have warned me," I point out anyway. "About you being here."
"I didn't know you'd be here until I was already in the car," he clarifies. "I didn't particularly want to come and I think Beckett thought it might improve my mood to know I'd get to see you."
See what I mean about him always saying just what it takes to make me forgive him?
"Did it?" I ask, raising both eyebrows at him.
He smiles. "You bet it did." Then, before I can react, he brushes his lips against mine in the most fleeting of kisses – making me feel almost sorry for the boundaries I put up earlier, sensible though they might be.
I'm just trying to decide if we can't get away with one proper kiss at least (and judging from his smug expression, Ken has a pretty good idea what I'm thinking), when there's a discreet knock on the door.
"That's Beckett," sighs Ken, his pleased expression having given way to one of resignation. "I told them I had to make a phone call, but I reckon I've already been gone too long."
"Me, too," I agree, much as part of me would just like to stay here with him. "If I don't get back to work soon, I wouldn't put it past Bridget to stab me with a fork, just to teach me a lesson."
"Can't risk that," decrees Ken. He bends forward to kiss my forehead, before taking a step back. Then, hesitating, he adds, "I didn't think I'd ever ask this of you, but… could you stay as far away as possible from me tonight?"
Because me serving him is strange. Of course.
"I didn't think I'd ever agree to that request, but for tonight, I so will," I retort with a lopsided smile.
A laugh, a squeeze of my hand, and then he's gone, the door falling shut behind him. Knowing I have to wait at least another couple of minutes to follow him outside, I lean back against the wall, my eyes still fixed on the door he disappeared through. But I'm much calmer now than I was earlier tonight. Neither Yseult's poison nor Seraphina's inadvertent comments can pain me anymore.
Because I might be the girl on the side lines, perfectly invisible to the world, but I'm certainly not invisible to him. For now, that's quite enough.
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Piano Man' (written by Billy Joel, released by him in 1973).
To wow:
No, the protection officers have no idea about that app on Rilla's phone. The only way for them to find out would be for either her or Ken to tell them (which they won't do) or to temporarily steal her phone (which they would like to, but are expressively forbidden from doing). But since they don't know about it, it can't rob them off their sleep at night ;).
And I'm pleased that you are pleased! It's baby steps, but Rilla is moving in the right direction by actually saying "yes, this is what I want." Let's collectively hope that Ken's easy acquiescence makes her more courageous about doing it again in the future. (Though I can't promise you there won't also be steps back at some point. I can, however, promise that she'll get there in the end.)
Mrs Weisz is my eternal surprise character. I never had any plans for her to appear in this story at all, conceived her only while I was writing her for the first time, and ever since, she's insisted on sneaking into the story once in a while. She's fun to write though, so no complaints from me. Joy is another characters that I love writing, even though she can be a lot at times, in every sense of the word. (I'm a control freak younger sister, by the way. We come in all shapes and sizes.)
Thanks for explaining about your thoughts on Rilla and Carl :). You aren't entirely wrong about them, though I'd say they were equally passive about it. We'll learn more about that relationship at a later point, but the way I see them, they were childhood friends, who transitioned into teenage sweethearts after always being told they'd make a cute couple. It was fine at first and they did and do care about one another, but they were never head over heels in love, nor actually well-suited as a couple. They may have both had an inkling about that before, but truly realised it only when school came to an end and they were looking at very different futures. That's when they talked it out and both decided to go back to being friends, which suits them much better.