Page 81 of Disgrace

“Mr. Wilson, and no.” I mirror her pleasing smile.

“So then there is nothing to actually worry about, nothing material has changed here, so don’t worry. Nothing will come of this, I promise, other than me laughing at you for actually blushing over some ‘random hot guy’.” She moves to sit next to me and nudges my arm, not quite spilling my drink. I think about what she’s said.

“You are right, he’s not staff and not a student. I probably won’t even see him again.” I take a satisfying sip to drain my glass.

I wish I had a bath. I stand under the less than powerful staff shower at the rear of the kitchens and attempt to dodge the range of temperatures, which fluctuate from skin flaying hot to freeze-your-nipples-clean-off cold. In fact, I think I would sell my soul for the luxury of a roll top bath with deep hot water and endless silken bubbles; throw in some candles and I wouldn’t even put up a fight. I squeal as I’m blasted with a final spurt of ice water as I turn the tap off and step onto the slatted wooden tray, which in the winter prevents my feet from freezing directly onto the concrete floor. I wrap myself in my large fluffy towel, slowly open and peep around the door. The corridor is empty, and I’m pretty sure I am early enough to brave the mad dash upstairs without the other employees catching a flash of flesh. This fact alone is the reason I am always awake at five in the morning. A brutal and mortifying lesson learned the hard way, and even though I cringe at the recollection, I am ever thankful no phone camera was at hand at the time.

I have lived here for two years. My sister’s disappearance kind of left me homeless, and my temporary month-long stay at Sofia’s turned into two years until I was eighteen. Sofia’s family took me in. They have a large town house in a fabulous part of London, and although they clearly have money, they are really down to earth; so friendly and welcoming. The house was always full. Full with friends and family, of wonderful aromas and of love. I dated Sofia’s twin brother, Marco, for a short time, not my smartest move, but he was funny, smart and persistent. He didn’t cover himself in glory when I found out he had been bragging about me to some friends. He was a little shocked when I didn’t take the opportunity to shame him and deny it all when I had the chance. I had my reasons and laughed it off, even gave him a high score when pushed for details. Sofia was not so kind and tore into him in private. She was the only one I ever told about John and completely understood why I was the way I was, but she was protective of me all the same. This, in itself, could have made my move into the family home awkward, but I have a talent for turning fragile relationships into strong friendships. Next to Sofia, Marco is my best friend.

Marco works in the Knightsbridge restaurant with me while Sofia is studying a food and wine diploma at an exclusive private school in central London. She is happy to live at home, forgoing the student experience for the utter luxury her five star home offers. She also chose not to work in the family restaurants, opting instead to work at a private members club, learning the hospitality and event side of catering. As the only girl, she is spoiled and indulged, and could have so easily become a proper princess. She can spend money like there is no tomorrow, but she is generous, too, and she works really hard.

I knew I was welcome to stay as long as I needed, but the house was full and sharing a bed with the human starfish meant I never slept all that well. Even though Sofia’s father kept on about not leaving me to “wander the streets,” I started to look for a room as soon as I turned eighteen. Realistically, sleeping on the streets wasn’t going to happen, I could afford a room, it just wouldn’t be pretty, and it might be a little out toward the sticks. However, one Sunday I was wiping down at the end of my shift and getting ready to leave, when Sofia’s father took me upstairs. He wanted to show me what his boys had been working on. The confusion on my face must have been a picture as he laughed and led the way. Above the restaurant were two small box rooms, which were too inconvenient to use for extra storage for the restaurant so had been relegated to a dumping ground for dying furniture and dead kitchen equipment.

I stood on the threshold and was completely overwhelmed; I couldn’t take a step further when I saw what they had done for me. Sofia leapt from behind an armchair shouting, “Surprise!” That was the understatement of the year. I had no idea this was all happening above my head. The room had been cleared and painted a warm honey white. The threadbare patchy carpet had been removed and the wide wooden plank flooring had been stripped and polished. Two large chocolate and charcoal coloured rugs almost covered the entire floor, but you could still see the rich polished wood around the edge.

In the far corner below the window, a book lamp illuminated a small white desk with a high backed wooden chair tucked beneath it. In the centre of the room was a two-seater sofa with a huge, fluffy, cream-coloured throw, which was hiding a rather hideous seventies style geometric pattern. Next to that was a faded and battered leather armchair, which I recognised from Marco’s bedroom. It was a much loved piece of furniture and very comfortable. The permanent indent in the seat cushion was a testament to that. Sofia had obviously been raiding my storage boxes and sixth form art portfolio case, as the walls now held two of my abstract landscapes. She’d had them mounted and framed. There was also a silver framed picture of my mum when she was my age on the coffee table and a cork notice board above the desk declaring, ‘Welcome to Your New Home ’ in the form of a colourful homemade poster.

Sofia came toward me and grabbed my hand, excited to show me all the improvements. There was a corner unit, which acted like a kitchenette with a single ring hob, kettle, and toaster. To be fair, there was a much larger kitchen downstairs if I was ever feeling more adventurous than tea and toast. Behind that was a separate toilet and sink; next to those, two smaller store cupboards had been knocked into one to provide a perfect sized bedroom. The queen sized futon bed dominated the tiny space and Sofia had hung white fairy lights all along the headboard. It looked magical. It was perfect. My new home was perfect! I was speechless and about to turn, when I noticed a tiny framed picture beside the bed. It is the follow on picture of the one I always keep in my purse. It is the photo of me and John, my soul mate and best friend since I was five years old. It was taken on my sixteenth birthday. It was my fault he never made it to seventeen. It was my fault he was murdered.

I couldn’t stop the tears that had been building since I stood on the threshold. I let out a sob and was quickly muffled to silence by tight embraces from Sofia and her father. I had decided a long time ago that crying accomplished little other than huge, puffy, red eyes and a snotty nose. So I reigned in the breath-stealing sobs I could feel bubbling under the surface, which I knew I was capable of in private, and gave a light laugh to lift the mood. After all, I was genuinely over the moon with my new pad. I thanked them again and again. The grand tour took no more than five minutes and after seeing how truly happy they had made me, Sofia and her father left for the evening. I was able to wallow in the solitude of my new home, because although I am often lonely, I am rarely alone. It was bliss.

I work a split shift on Mondays, so having confirmed my timetable amendments with a quick email to Mr. Wilson, I head down to the kitchen. I am capable of turning my hand to most jobs in and around the restaurant, and Sofia’s eldest brother Anthony, Jr., who runs this restaurant, is pretty flexible where I work. He prefers me front of house, and I don’t flatter myself that I would ever be let loose cooking, but I can prepare vegetables and wash up like a pro. Besides, I am happiest in the kitchen. The pressure can be intense, and the language can be blue, but I like the banter and buzz that comes from working in a predominately dominant male environment. The guys never make any concessions for me being there, and they certainly don’t censure their language or the topics up for discussion. Frankly, what I didn’t learn in biology, I more than made up for in that kitchen. They would happily enlighten me, giving me tips and tricks, which would make a hardened professional blush but just made me laugh.

I prepped vegetables all morning; one of the specials today was zucchini fritters, which meant mountains of shredded courgettes. It’s the only way to eat such a dull vegetable and the way Joe cooks them; they are light, crisp, and melt in your mouth. I had a taster as I finished work and headed upstairs to change. I planned to go to the library to make a start on my reading. I can’t afford to buy all the course books, but reading them in the library is no hardship. As I put my jacket on, I dig in the pocket and pull out a crumpled piece of paper with the contact details I took from the job board, the one with the very vague but intriguing information. I decide to give the number a call, It was worth that to at least establish some details. I sit on the arm of my chair and punch the numbers.

The call is answered, “Late Night Calls…let me help you?” The voice is slow and sultry, and the question threw me. I couldn’t speak.

“Come on sweetie, don’t be shy,” The voice encouraged. I’m pretty sure it was a female voice, but it was low, so I couldn’t be hundred percent certain.

“Right, sorry.” I stumbled, “I got your details form the jobs board at my University, you know about flexible hours, extra cash… um, could I speak to someone about that?” I definitely sounded like I have the wrong number and am just about to hang up.

“Oh, sure thing, sweetie, I’ll just put you through to Mags, she’ll sort you out. Bye!” Her bright voice is cut off abruptly, and my call is clicked over and put through before I could thank her. This gives me enough time to compose myself, maybe not sound like such a moron.

“Hello?” I ventured tentatively as the line goes silent.

“Hello, my darling, what can I do for you today?” Her voice was equally low, and I wonder if that is a job requirement or maybe just something in the water.

“I was calling about the job, but to be honest I don’t really know what the job is, where it is, or, well, any of the details, really, so that would be a good place to start?” I try to come across as professional as possible, my voice a little lower than normal.

“Don’t you just have the sexiest voice?” Mags says, ignoring my actual question.

“Urgg?” She can’t see my confusion, but my eloquent noise must make that clear.

“Well, not when you grunt like that, you don’t.” She laughs a deep throaty sound, which still sounds inviting but not mean.

“Oh!” I am shocked, and given I work in the kitchen below, that is saying something.

“Yes ‘Oh’. NowthatI can work with.” She laughs lightly this time. “I am going to say right off, I will be able to offer you something, but I think we should meet, despite my type of business, I really prefer to do this sort of thing face to face. Can you come by at three this afternoon? We are quiet then, and we can go over everything and start your training.” She is super friendly and can’t hide her enthusiasm.

“Training?” Pretty sure my ‘sexy’ tone had been replaced with pure panic.

“I know I’m getting ahead of myself, but I know people, and I have a good feeling about you. What is your name darling?” she encourages.

“My real name?” I ask, and she laughs out.

“Yes, darling, your real name.” She is still laughing but I can’t take offense. She makes me smile.

“Bethany.” I tell her.

---