An hour passed before I felt calm enough to call him with the news. Talking to Alex required preparation. Any hint of sadness or uneasiness resulted in a volley of questions that I usually had no answer for, followed by threats of jumping on a plane to come and get me.
Today I was given a reprieve. Gabrielle answered.
“Charli.” She punched out my name as if she’d been hanging by the phone, waiting for my call.
I tried to hold it together but failed dismally, blubbering to her as if my world was ending. And at that point, I was pretty sure it was. “I saw him,” I snivelled.
She sighed. “Oh, dear. Tell me what happened.”
I explained the whole sorry saga in six messy sentences.
There was a time when Gabrielle could have forewarned me that Adam had met someone else. They used to be extremely close; but Gabi and Adam no longer spoke at all. Years of exchanging long handwritten letters had ended. I’d never asked why, fearing it had something to do with me. Adam deserved a clean break. If cutting Gabrielle off was part of that break, then so be it.
“I want to come home,” I whimpered pathetically.
She groaned. “Why would you want to do that?”
“It’s my home, Gabrielle.” I snapped at her, totally distraught.
Going home would definitely cramp her style. Maybe that’s why she offered up her swank New York apartment.
“Charli, if things had worked out with Adam, would you even be considering coming home right now?” But it hadn’t worked out. Not one thing had worked out the way I’d planned and hoped it would. “Your adventure had nothing to do with Adam,” she continued. “You wanted to see the world. Open your eyes and look around. You’ve arrived.”
“I can’t stay.” My protest came out sounding like a growl. “I don’t know anyone, I don’t know my way around and I’m running out of money.”
“And what does any of that have to do with Adam? Do you like New York?”
I had to concede that my predicament did have nothing to do with Adam. He had no idea I was even in his city. I’d stood twenty metres away from him and he still didn’t know.
“I do like it here.”
“Très bien,” she soothed. “Calm yourself and look at the bigger picture.” She spoke in her best French teacher voice. I hadn’t missed it one bit. “You’re living in a gorgeous part of the city, in a perfectly secure building. Do you like the apartment?”
What wasn’t to like? It was a palace. I’d spent a year hopping from one hovel to another. I would’ve considered any abode with running water and a roof that didn’t leak palatial.
“It’s great. The apartment’s not the problem.”
“Look, give New York a chance. Go and get a job. Get out and meet people. You won’t regret it.”
Coming from anyone else it would have been difficult to believe, but Gabrielle was speaking from experience. She’d landed in New York at the same age as me, managed to make a go of it and stayed for four years. But there were differences. She had family here, a zillion dollars at her disposal and a green card allowing her to work legally. I had none of these things.
“Charli, if you come back here, you’re going to want to leave again in a few months. Leaving the second time is going to be much harder than it was the first time.”
I knew she was right but refused to tell her so. “I’ll give it a week and see what happens.”
“Good girl.” I could tell by her tone of voice that she was smiling. I wondered if she could tell that I was mocking her by pulling a face. “Is Alex there?”
“No, he’s still at the café.” It didn’t matter where in the world I was; I was always oblivious to the time difference. “I’ll get him to call you when he gets in.”
“No, leave it a few days,” I said. “I want to have better news to tell him.”
“You’ll be fine, Charli. I have every faith in you.”
4. Elvis
Finding a job was paramount. If I could secure a job, there was a fair chance I’d find a brand new life along the way. Chic restaurants and cafés were in abundance near my apartment so I decided to try my luck, approaching most of them in search of work.
I got knocked back every single time.
Perhaps I was approaching this job thing the wrong way. Everyone I’d spoken to that morning had been on the receiving end of my best sell ever. When asked about my qualifications, I pumped my experience up to stellar levels. According to my fake mental résumé, I’d worked everywhere from Michelin star restaurants to high-end boutiques – no mean feat considering I’d spent the past year in African countries. The closest I’d come to a high-end boutique was the market stall in Kaimte that sold bogus Prada handbags.
If I could just find an employer needing the services of a slightly scattered would-be photographer with a degree in fairyology and a penchant for magic moments, I’d be a shoo-in. So far, that particular employer had eluded me and the minute I walked into Nellie’s Restaurant, I knew I wasn’t going to find him there either.
The restaurant was bigger than most, boasting a split-level dining area and a mezzanine level above to cater for large functions. It was busy. Hectic to the point of bedlam. Servers rushed around carrying huge plates of food and a long line of people stood waiting to be seated.
A very frazzled woman flicked through the reservations book, making promises I was fairly sure she couldn’t keep. “We should have a table for you in another ten minutes, sir,” she told the man who was first in line.
“We’ll wait,” he replied gruffly.
The food must have been really good. Either that or I’d stumbled into another Manhattan restaurant where you qualified as awesome just because you were seen there. Seizing the first opportunity I had, I excused myself and pushed my way to the head of the line. The frazzled girl behind the podium frowned at me.
I frowned back.
“You’re going to be waiting at least an hour,” she warned, furiously thumbing through pages again.
“No, no. I’m here about the job.”
“What job?”
“Err, the waitressing job,” I lied.
“Is Paolo expecting you?”
I quickly glanced at my watch. “Yes, ten minutes ago.”
She smirked, and I sensed she knew something I didn’t. “Be my guest,” she said, pointing toward the door to the kitchen.
I was still trying to psyche myself into entering the kitchen when the door violently swung open. I stepped aside quickly, making way for a waiter precariously balancing three plates of food in his arms. I jumped into the kitchen before the door swung shut – straight in to the sights of the restaurateur from hell, Paolo.
“You!” He pointed straight at me.
“Me?” I asked in a tiny voice, turning my head to see if anyone was standing behind me.
“What do you want?”
For such a short man, Paolo was terrifying. He wasn’t much taller than me. If it had come to blows between us, I was fairly certain I could take him – unless he sat on me. He was as wide as he was tall.
I was about to answer when his attention switched to a girl who’d just leaned across him to pick up a plate of food.
“Gretchen!” he yelled, making the girl jump. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“This is the order for table six,” she uttered, recoiling as if he’d just slapped her.
“Not unless there’s a rabbit seated at table six. Do you see any meat on that plate?”
I studied the plate as closely as Gretchen did, hoping to see a fillet mignon hiding under the mass of salad, just to prove him wrong.
“Get out of my sight,” he hissed, waving his arms like he was shooing a fly. Gretchen sprang to life. She reached behind her back, whipped off her little apron and threw it at him.
“You can stick your job, Paolo! I’ve put up with this for months. I don’t need your stupid job.”
She’d made it almost to the door by the time her angry rant was over. Pao
lo liked to get the last word in. “Gretchen,” he snarled.
I expected to hear him tell her she’d never work in this town again. New York seemed like the perfect place to hear someone scream those words.
“I want your name badge.”
The look she gave him while she unpinned it from her blouse was blistering. He held out his hand and she slapped the badge in his open palm.
Quickly glancing around the kitchen, I noticed that not one person had paused to watch the fireworks. Perhaps it was an everyday occurrence they were all used to. Did I really want to work in a place like this? Of course I did. I was desperate.
“What do you want?” he asked, turning back to me. It was as if the last minute had happened only in my head. He didn’t miss a beat.
“I wanted to talk to you about a job.”
“There are no vacancies. We’re not hiring.”
“Yes, you are,” I insisted, following him as he walked through the kitchen to a small adjoining office. Paolo sat at the desk. I went no further than the doorway.
“You’re pushy. I like that.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
“You’re also annoying. I don’t like that.”
“Please, Paolo. I really need this job,” I begged. “I’ll work just for tips.”
Paolo leaned back in his chair, so far that I thought it might tip backwards, and wondered if I’d laugh if it did.
“There is no job.”
“I want Gretchen’s job,” I replied, thinking on my feet. “In case you misunderstood her intentions, she just quit.”
He leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the desk. “Do you think you’re going to enjoy working for me?”
I shook my head. “No. I think I’m going to absolutely hate it.”
He laughed, a light chuckle at first before throwing his head back in a roar of guffaws straight out of a horror movie. “Fine,” he said finally composing himself enough to speak. “You start tomorrow. You’ve got the breakfast shift.”
I grinned. “Thank you. My name is Charli, by the way.”
“Not anymore, it’s not.”
“Excuse me?” As much as I hated my name, I wasn’t planning on changing it any time soon.
Paolo pulled open a drawer, took out a container filled to the brim with name badges and thumped it on the desk, dropping Gretchen’s badge into the mix. No wonder the kitchen staff hadn’t reacted to her meltdown. They’d seen it many times before. My mouth fell open as I watched him rifling through the pile.
“You’re now known as Priscilla,” he announced, sliding the badge toward me. “I want to see how you work out before I spend two dollars on a new name badge.”
I stepped forward and picked it up, studying it closely for bloodstains or other signs of trauma. “Priscilla? Really?”
“It’s Priscilla or Walter.” He waved the Walter badge at me. “You don’t look much like a Walter. Take it or leave it, kid.”
“Fine,” I grumbled. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Don’t be late,” he warned, shooing me out the door.
I didn’t care that he was a monster. He’d given me a job. There was a skip in my step as I walked back to my apartment. I was hopeful that Paolo was the gateway to my new brilliant life.
***
Working for Paolo was every bit as horrendous as I expected it to be. It was as if his sole purpose in life was to make his staff miserable. But his constant criticism, screaming and shouting bounced right off me. I just didn’t care. Slowly but surely, a whole new world was opening up to me and I was running with it.
It was easier to get to know the regular patrons than the people I worked with. Other than retrieving plates off the servery, the kitchen was a no-go zone. It was mayhem in there, and if Paolo was lurking, it was worse. The dining area had a much more pleasant atmosphere.
A lot of the patrons were regulars and I had my favourites. Merle and Betty Swanston were a sweet old couple who came in every morning for brunch. Betty loved regaling me with stories of their life together. They’d been married for over fifty years. I knew that because she’d made a point of telling me every day in the week since I’d first met them.
Phoebe was another interesting character. She was the most elegant woman I’d ever seen, easily capable of giving Gabrielle a run for her money. Her jet-black hair was always styled in victory rolls and her lips were ruby red, reminding me of a movie star from a bygone era. Phoebe had her quirks. She never cared which table she was seated at, but was pedantic about how it was set. From a distance I’d watch her rearrange the cutlery, refold her napkin and buff her glass with a cloth she kept in her handbag.
“Get back to work, kid. This is not a freak show,” Paolo would hiss, every time I slowed down to watch her.
“Oh, but it is, Paolo. I love this city.”
And I did. If I couldn’t put the pieces of my life back together and start afresh in New York, it couldn’t be done.
Not all the customers were sweet like the Swanstons or glamorous like Phoebe. Some were just jerks. A repeat offender was an investment banker called Bryce. When he dined alone he was tolerable. But when he was sharing a meal with a couple of work colleagues, he was a pig.
My heart sank when he walked through the door at the beginning of my shift that morning. It practically fell through the bottom of my feet when I saw two of his friends trailing behind him. Being polite to customers, regardless of how gross they were to you, was one of Paolo’s many rules. I doubt being chatted up was something he had to deal with very often.
“You’re so beautiful,” Bryce told me, leering as I approached his table to take their orders. “Let me take you out for a drink.”
“No,” I hissed, with forced restraint.
“Burned, Bryce,” quipped one of his friends, making the other laugh.
Bryce tried harder. “Okay, cutie, how about you ask me out?”
As repulsed as I was, I managed to look him straight in the eye as I pointed to the door. “Sure. Get out.”
The table erupted into laughter. I asked them one final time if they were ready to order.
“Not yet,” replied Bryce, leering at me.
I walked away muttering obscenities under my breath. Paolo was standing near the kitchen door as I approached, and by the look on his face I was almost certain he’d seen what had just gone down at table nine.
“Pay attention,” he grumbled, pointing to something behind me.
I turned around to see a man at table three trying to catch my eye by waving. I’d seen him a few times that week but hadn’t been the one to serve him. Tables for one were quick to turn, so other waitresses tended to claim them quickly.
I drew in a calming breath and walked toward him, smiling so artificially that my cheeks hurt. “May I help you?”
“I hope so, I’m hungry,” he replied.
I smiled more genuinely. “Would you like to hear the specials?”
“Why don’t you sit down and tell me? You look like you could take a load off.”
Here we go again, I thought. But I had to admit this guy was nowhere near as repulsive as Bryce and his chums. He was very good looking – in a snobby, holier-than-thou kind of way. He wasn’t boyishly handsome. He was kind of dark and broody, but his brown eyes were warm and bright.
“I don’t need to sit down. I’ve only been at work for half an hour,” I said, icily.
He stared blankly at me for a second, making me uncomfortable enough to look away. “You think I’m hitting on you,” he finally exclaimed, looking as if the notion was ridiculous. “Look, if it makes you feel any better, I’m waiting for my date to arrive.”
It didn’t make me feel any better. I was even more humiliated.
“Would you like to hear the specials?” I repeated.
He ignored me. “What’s your name?” He leaned forward, peering at the badge pinned to my chest.
“Priscilla,” I announced.
A bright grin
swept his face. “Well that’s a huge coincidence, because my name is Elvis.”
Elvis was clearly lying.
“It’s nice to meet you, Elvis,” I said dryly.
He nodded politely. “You too, Priscilla.” I picked a menu off the table and thrust it at him. He pretended to read it for a moment, snapped it shut and hit me with his next question. “Where are you from?”
He didn’t recognise my accent. It was licence to give Priscilla a whole new ancestry. “Africa. I arrived two weeks ago.” It was only half a lie and I felt no unease in telling it.
Elvis didn’t get a chance to ask me anything else. His date arrived. A pretty blonde rushed over to the table, apologised for being late and crushed her lips to his the second he stood up.
I didn’t need an excuse to leave. Bryce whistled from across the room.
“We’re ready to order,” he yelled.
Fan-bloody-tastic.
5. Smash Cake
Winter was starting to get to me. I hated having to bundle up like an Eskimo just to go outside. It reminded me of being back in Pipers Cove. The weather was the only thing that reminded me of home. New York City was about as far removed as I could get from the tiny town I’d grown up in. It was fast paced, busy and exciting. I left my apartment every morning just to walk, making sure I ventured one street further than I had the day before. My confidence was building, my knowledge was expanding and most importantly, my grief was subsiding.
To say I never thought of Adam any more would be a lie. I thought of him all the time. Many things in New York reminded me of him. This was his place. But I was no glutton for punishment. Since my disastrous stakeout at his building, I’d never been back. New York was a huge city – plenty big enough for the both of us.
As hard a taskmaster as Paolo was, going to work was still the highlight of my day. I walked to the cloakroom, hung my coat and spent the next minute or so covertly scanning the dining room from the kitchen side of the mirrored window in the door.
Betty and Merle sat at their favourite table, all loved up and tucking in to their eggs. Phoebe was polishing her glass in preparation for her breakfast and thankfully, mercifully, Bryce was nowhere to be seen. The rest of the dining room was relatively quiet. All the tables near the windows were taken, but the centre section and mezzanine level were empty, lifting my mood instantly. I hated carrying food up the stairs. I had enough trouble doing it on level ground.