The woman was somewhere in her early thirties. She had black hair pulled into a fashionable bun, and wore the same uniform as Emily. “I’m Rhonda, the floor manager tonight.”
“Hiya,” Emily said, extending a hand. “Ewan just asked me to fill in.”
“Great. We’re really stuck. Grab a tray and start circulating.”
“A tray?”
Rhonda nodded. “Over here.” She walked brusquely across the floor. “You won’t cross this line unless the chefs ask you to. Come and collect a tray and walk around the room slowly, allowing people to take what you’ve got on offer. When it’s near enough to empty, begin to make your way back to the kitchen.” Rhonda caught Emily’s eye. “Always make sure you know what’s on the trays. Nothing is more infuriating to our guests than wait staff who can’t remember which hors d’oeuvre they’re serving.”
“Right, sure, of course.”
“These are scallops in pancetta,” A middle age chef with a French accent clarified, passing a beautifully presented platter of food up onto the counter.
“You’re up, Agnes.”
“It’s Emily,” she responded under her breath, but Rhonda had already click-clacked off, to check on the milling guests.
When Emily emerged into the busy ballroom seconds later, she was momentarily wowed by the elaborate setting. It was her first time in the formal entertaining space, and she’d never fathomed just how grand and elegant a room it was. Chandeliers hung sparklingly from the ceiling, and two of the walls were solid glass, displaying a stunning view of London. Of course, it was reasonably obstructed by the hundreds of beautiful people partying in front of her.
Nerves made her fingers tingle, but she concentrated on the tray in her hands. It was just one shift. She could do this.
God, but these people were beautiful.
She moved from group to group, a smile firmly in place. In the end, she needn’t have known what food she was offering. No one really acknowledged her, except to ease her burden piece by piece. It took about an hour, but Emily eventually realised she was enjoying herself.
She liked her housekeeping job because it was anonymous. She spoke to no one. She was seen by no one. And waitressing, despite the hundreds of people in her vicinity, was similar. On the edges of their conversations, she was still invisible. People didn’t make an effort to check what they were discussing, meaning she was able to listen without compunction.
“Oh, Ella, you know big eyebrows are back. You should fire your stylist. What are you? A Friends character circa nineteen ninety seven?”
“That’s harsh,” the painfully thin brunette responded. “I think they enhance my bone structure.”
The curvaceous blonde rolled her eyes. “By being bone-like themselves?”
Emily suppressed the twitch of her lips with great difficulty and moved onto the next group.
“No, idiot. It’s European Universal. E.U. What else would it stand for?”
Now Emily did have to cover her smile with a small clearing of her throat. “Prawn toast?” She asked sweetly, not quite able to meet the eyes of the very young, very glamorous woman espousing her rather wrong understanding of foreign policy.
Emily weaved her way back to the kitchen and replaced the tray. “How you going, kiddo?” The French chef asked, smiling for the first time all evening.
“Fine,” she said with a shrug. And she was. It was certainly not as horrifying as she’d imagined it might be, in any event.
“Good. They’re happy? With the food?”
“Oh, yes, absolutely..”
“Good.” He winked at her and loaded up another tray. “Crab cakes now with a spring onion dip.”
“Oh, yum, they smell so good.”
“You want to try one?”
Emily shook her head. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop at just one. Now that she thought about it, she wasn’t sure when she’d last eaten. She’d been busy all day, run off her feet in fact. She’d only had an hour at home to get ready for work, and that hadn’t included dinner.
“Go on, I won’t tell.”
She grinned. “I don’t want to get green stuff in my teeth.”