Page 4 of Kept
But apparently, it is not this day.
I stir the beans and begin the prep work on the taco fillings. The boarding students are having a Mexican night tonight, which is right up Margarita’s street, but she is running late today – no doubt having spent a wild night with her new suitor.
As I slice the lettuce into thin little strips, I think about the book I found last night. I’d kind of hoped it was a journal, but seeing the first line I realised it was probably some student’s manuscript for a horror novel. It wasn’t written like any journal I’d ever seen. Not in the mood to read fiction after my long day of work and frenzied run through the park, I’d set it aside and flicked on the television for half an hour, before turning in for the night.
Lucky too, that I’d gone to bed early, because I’d decided to start a little earlier than usual today and only Margarita and I have keys to the cafeteria. I’d arrived just in time to let the other two staff and the cleaners in.
Hearing the cafeteria doors begin to open and shut, I peek out to see the students starting to make their way in for breakfast. Their giggles and high-pitched voices echo through the empty dining hall, and I know soon it will be a cacophony of noise, something akin to an intensive hen house.
I frown at the escalating noise and continue working on slicing the buckets of lettuce and tomato, before turning on the electric grater and preparing to grate a mountain of cheese. These ingredients wouldn’t be needed until tonight, but I’d already spent all morning setting up the continental breakfast for the boarders, so I was getting ahead.
“Muchas gracias, Senorita,” Margarita jokes as she sways in, her makeup clearly left over from the night before.
“God, didn’t you get any sleep at all?”
“Nope.”
“So you just walked in, pulled on your uniform and caught the bus over?”
“Pretty much.”
“Gross.”
“Hey, I gave myself a quick commando wash on the important parts.”
“Too much information. Just grab some more jugs and fill up the girls’ milk; I’m getting dinner prepped, and I can’t keep my eye on the breakfast bar as well.”
“As you wish, Master,” she laughs, rolling her eyes and picking up the jugs.
I smile despite myself and turn on the giant grater which has lived in this kitchen since the 1950’s. It sounds like a cross between a blender and a tractor.
As Margarita returns, I switch off the motor for a second to get the goss.
“Soooo? What’s the new man like?”
“Oh, my God!” Margarita’s eyes widen as she prepares to tell me all about it, “he isgorgeous, took me to the Gee-Gees.”
“Horse racing?” I screw up my nose, “that is hardly my idea of a romantic first date.”
“Oh yeah,” she continues in a breathless voice, “but we were not cattle class. We went straight through to the members’ bar and booths; all the food you can eat, anything you want to drink, all free – and ooh la la, you should have seen some of the clothes the hoity-toity bitches were wearing.”
“What did you wear?”
“My blue dress, you know the one with the plunging neckline? And my skin-coloured Manolo’s, of course.”
“Of course,” I say dryly. Those shoes had cost more than a month’s rent for our tiny apartment, but kudos to Margarita, when she wanted something, she got it.
“Anyway, we watched the races, and then he took me out to dinner at Le Boufantania,” she shrieks the last two words, and my eyes widen.
“No way!”
“Yes way.”
“Christ, what did you order?”
“I’ll get to that, I’ll get to that,” she waves her hands in the air as though she has far more important information. But she should know me better than that by now.
“No way, tell me what you ordered before anything else.”
