Promised

I nod thoughtfully to myself. ‘Doesn’t the hotel provide a catering service?’

‘Oh yes, but the type of people you’re about to feed and water call the shots, and if they want Del, they’ll have Del. He’s notorious in this game. You have to try his canapés.’ She kisses her fingertips, making me laugh.

My boss shows us around the room where the function is being held and introduces us to the many other waiters and waitresses, all looking bored and inconvenienced. This is obviously a regular thing for them, but not me. I’m looking forward to it.

‘Ready?’ Sylvie places a final glass of champagne onto my tray. ‘Now, the trick is to hold it on your palm.’ She picks up her own tray, her palm underneath in the centre. ‘Then swing it up onto your shoulder, like this.’ In one fluid movement, the tray glides through the air and lands on her shoulder, without even a chink from glasses touching. I’m fascinated. ‘See?’ The tray glides back down from her shoulder until it’s at waist level again. ‘When offering, hold it here, and when you’re moving around, keep it up here.’ The tray swishes through the air, landing on her shoulder perfectly again. ‘Remember to relax when you’re on the move. Don’t be stiff. You try.’

I slide my full tray from the counter and position my palm in the centre. ‘It’s not heavy,’ I muse, surprised.

‘Yes, but remember when empty glasses start replacing full glasses it’ll get even lighter, so bear that in mind when you’re transferring it up and down.’

‘Okay.’ I swivel my wrist, taking the tray up to my shoulder with ease. I smile brightly, taking it back down again.

‘You’re a natural.’ Sylvie laughs. ‘Let’s go.’

Transferring the tray back to my shoulder, I swivel on my Converse and head towards the increasing sound of chatting and laughing that’s coming from the function room.

On entering, my navy eyes widen, taking in the wealth, the gowns and the dinner jackets. But I don’t feel nervous. I feel stupidly excited. This is people-watching at its best.

Without waiting for any prompt from Sylvie, I lose myself in the growing crowds, presenting my tray to groups of people and smiling, whether they thank me or not. Most don’t, but it doesn’t dampen my mood. I’m in my element, and I’m surprised by it. The tray glides up and down with ease, my body shifts effortlessly through the masses of wealth, and I dance back and forth to the kitchen time and time again to restock and redeliver.

‘You’re doing good, Livy,’ Del tells me, just as I’m leaving with another trayload of champagne flutes.

‘Thank you!’ I sing, keen to get myself back to my thirsty crowd. I catch Sylvie across the room, and she smiles, encouraging a further beam from me. ‘Champagne?’ I ask, presenting my tray to a group of six middle-aged men, all kitted out in dinner jackets and bow ties.

‘Ah! Bloody marvellous!’ a stout man gushes, taking a glass and handing it to one of his companions. He does this a further four times before taking one for himself. ‘You’re doing a fine job, young lady.’ His free hand moves toward me and slips into my pocket as he winks. ‘Treat yourself.’

‘Oh no!’ I shake my head. I won’t take money from a man. ‘Sir, I get paid by my boss. You really mustn’t.’ I try to retrieve the note from my pocket while holding the tray steady on my palm. ‘We don’t expect tips.’

‘I won’t hear of it,’ he insists, pulling my hand from my pocket. ‘And it’s not a tip. It’s for the pleasure of seeing such beautiful eyes.’

I immediately blush bright red, stumped for anything to say. He must be sixty, if a day! ‘Sir, really, I can’t accept it.’

‘Nonsense!’ He dismisses me with a snort and a wave of his chubby hand, before returning to the chatter of his group, leaving me wondering what the hell to do.

I scan the room but I can’t see Sylvie to ask and Del is nowhere in sight, so I quickly offload the remaining glasses before heading back to the kitchens, finding Del tweaking canapés.

‘Del, someone gave me this.’ I slap the note on the counter, feeling better already for confessing, but my eyes bug when I see it’s a fifty. A fifty? What’s he thinking?

I’m even more stunned when Del starts laughing. ‘Livy, you star. Keep it.’

‘I can’t!’

‘Yes you can. These people have more money than sense. Take it as a compliment.’ He pushes the fifty towards me and continues arranging the tiny flatbreads.

I don’t feel any better. ‘I’ve only served him a glass of champagne,’ I say quietly. ‘It hardly justifies a fifty-pound tip.’

‘No, it doesn’t, but like I said, take it as a compliment. Put it back in your pocket and get serving.’ He nods at my empty tray, reminding me that it is, in fact, empty.

‘Oh! Yes, sure.’ I fly into action, stuffing the obscene tip in my pocket, ready to dispose of it later, and reload my tray before quickly making my way back into the crowd. I avoid the gent who’s just thrown away fifty pounds and circle in the other direction, halting at the back of a red satin gown. ‘Champagne, madam?’ I ask, flicking a gaze across to Sylvie. She nods her reassurance once more, smiling, but I don’t need it. I’m nailing this.

I turn my attention back to the satin-adorned woman, who has glossy black poker-straight hair falling to her pert bum. I smile as she turns towards me, revealing her companion.

A man.

Him.

M.

I don’t know how I prevent the tray of freshly filled champagne glasses from falling to the floor, but I do. I don’t, however, prevent my smile from falling. His lips are parted again, his eyes stabbing at my flesh, but there’s no emotion on his exquisite face. His dark stubble is absent, leaving nothing but perfect tanned skin beneath, and his dark hair is a little less tousled, instead falling in perfect waves to the tops of his ears.

‘Thank you,’ the woman says slowly, taking a glass and pulling my eyes away from the strange man. A huge, sparkling, diamond-encrusted cross is suspended from her delicate neck, the brilliant stones nestling just north of her br**sts. I’ve no doubt it’s real. ‘Would you like?’ She turns to him, holding up the glass.

He doesn’t say anything. He just takes the glass from her perfectly manicured hand, all the time keeping his shocking blue eyes on me.

He’s not at all receptive, and far from warm, but there’s something strange burning inside me as I gaze at his face. It’s something I’ve never experienced before – something that makes me feel uncomfortable and vulnerable . . . but not frightened.

The woman helps herself to another glass, and I know it’s time for me to leave, but I can’t move. I feel like I should smile, anything to break the staring deadlock, but what usually comes so naturally to me is completely failing me now. Nothing is working, except my eyes and they’re refusing to break from his.

‘That will be all,’ the woman prompts harshly, making me jump. Her delicate features are screwed up in annoyance and her dark eyes have darkened further. She has a stunning face, even if it’s scowling at me right now. ‘I said, that is all.’ She steps between me and M.

M? I decide right here and now that M is for mystery, because he really is. I say nothing as I finally swing my tray back onto my shoulder and slowly turn, walking away, feeling compelled to glance over my shoulder because I know he’s still staring at me and I’m wondering how that might be going down with his girlfriend. So I look, and it’s as I suspected – steely blues burning holes into my back.

‘Hey!’

I jump out of my skin, the tray tumbling from my hands, and I can do nothing to stop it. The glasses seem to float down to the marble, champagne trickling slowly from the flutes, the tray spinning in mid-air until it all comes together in a collective crash on the hard floor, silencing the room. I’m frozen on the spot as broken glass dances around my feet, seeming to take forever to settle, the piercing, drawn-out noise ringing through the quiet space around me. My eyes are cast downward, my body tense, and I know all attention is pointed at me.

Just me.

Everyone is looking at me.

And I don’t know what to do.

‘Livy!’ Sylvie’s panicked voice snaps my despairing head up, and I see her hurrying towards me, her brown eyes concerned. ‘Are you okay?’

I nod and kneel to start collecting the broken glass, wincing as a red-hot pain shoots through my knee, and the material of my trousers is sliced through. ‘Shit!’ I pull in a sharp breath, tears immediately pinching the backs of my eyes. They’re a combination of pain and pure embarrassment. I don’t like any attention on me, and I do a good job to avoid and repel it, but I can’t escape this. I’ve brought a room full of hundreds of people to an eerie quiet. I want to run away.

‘Don’t touch it, Livy!’ Sylvie pulls me up, giving me an all-over assessment. She must conclude that I look ready to break down because I’m quickly dragged to the kitchen, removing me from my audience. ‘Jump up.’ She pats the counter and I lift myself, still fighting back tears. She takes the hem of my trousers and lifts up until my wound is exposed. ‘Youch!’ She flinches at the clean slice and steps back, looking up at me. ‘I’m shit with blood, Livy. Was that the guy from the bistro?’

‘Yes,’ I whisper, shrinking when I see Del approaching, but he doesn’t look annoyed.

‘Livy, are you okay?’ He hunkers down and performs his own little grimace at my leaking kneecap.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I don’t know what happened.’ He’ll probably sack me on the spot for causing such a spectacle.

‘Hey, hey.’ He straightens his body, his narrow face softening completely. ‘Accidents happen, honey.’

‘I’ve caused such a drama.’

‘That’s enough,’ he says sternly, turning to the wall and unhooking the first-aid case. ‘It’s not the end of the world.’ He opens up the box and fishes around until he lays his hands on an antiseptic wipe and tears it open. My teeth grit as he gently swipes it across my knee, the stinging making me hiss and stiffen. ‘Sorry, but it needs cleaning.’

I hold my breath as he undertakes my clean-up operation, finishing by taping square gauze to my knee and lifting me down from the worktop. ‘Can you walk okay?’

‘Sure.’ I flex my knee and smile my thanks before collecting a new tray.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he asks, frowning.

‘I . . .’

‘Oh no,’ he laughs. ‘God bless you, Livy. Go to the loo and sort yourself out.’ He points to the exit across the kitchen.

‘But I’m fine,’ I insist, even though I don’t feel it, not because my knee’s sore but because I’m not looking forward to facing my spectators or M. I’ll just have to keep my head down, avoid a certain steel stare and see my shift through with no further mishaps.

‘Toilet!’ Del orders, taking the tray and placing it on the counter. ‘Now.’ He rests his hands on my shoulders and guides me to the door, not giving me the opportunity to protest further. ‘Go.’

I force a smile through my lingering embarrassment and leave behind the chaos of the kitchen, stepping into the huge room and striving to hurry through unnoticed. I know I’ve failed – the feeling of sharp blue eyes prickling my skin everywhere confirming it. I feel like a let-down. I feel incompetent, foolish and fragile. But most of all, I feel exposed.

I navigate the plush carpeted corridor until I push my way through two doors and land in the ridiculously extravagant washroom, kitted out in cream marble and shiny gold at every turn. I almost don’t want to use the facilities. The first thing I do is take the fifty from my pocket and gaze at it for a few moments. Then I screw it up and throw it in the bin. I’m not taking money from a man. I wash my hands before presenting myself to the gigantic gold-framed mirror to retie my hair, sighing when I’m confronted by haunted sapphire eyes. Curious eyes.