‘Great, thanks so much.’
The crab starter is tasty if a tad pretentious. Served in a glass pot, shreds of rocket and chunks of avocado line the bottom along with the tiniest amount of crabmeat. If I had a microscope, I’d still struggle to find it. There is also a pinky-sized crab claw placed on top beside a lime wedge. It’s finished in thirty seconds. I’m starting to regret not getting the bucket.
Lola brings my main, which is thankfully a much larger portion. The seafood platter consists of a lobster tail, langoustines, more crab claws and black mussels. I also have some bread, various sauces and garlic butter. I tuck my napkin into my dress. I don’t care how stupid I look, I’m not spending the rest of the evening wearing a dress that looks like a Jackson Pollock painting.
Lola appears, just as I’m finishing. ‘How was everything?’
‘It was great,’ I reply, pulling off my napkin. ‘My dress also survived unscathed.’
‘Would you like to see the dessert menu?’
‘Sure, thanks.’
She leaves to get the menu when I see a head waitress with a pointy chin approach Lola, hands on her hips, like every other miserable middle manager I’ve ever known. She has almost mastered the art of smiling while she’s berating someone, but not quite. It takes me about three seconds to know that hay fever at sea probably isn’t the cause of Lola’s red eyes.
I suddenly decide I need the bathroom. As I leave my table and walk past them, I hear Miss pointy chin snarl, ‘I don’t care. I told you that you couldn’t go. Who do you think you are? Every other woman here manages just fine, you’re not special.’
I speed pee in the bathroom before heading back to my table. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’d never let anyone speak to me like that.
Lola returns and hands me the menu, doing her best to compose herself. She can’t be any older than twenty. I never thought I had a maternal bone in my body until now.
‘Do you need a second?’ she asks.
‘No, I think I’ll have the gelato,’ I reply. ‘And can I ask a question?’
‘Of course.’
‘The head waitress. Is she like that with everyone?’
Lola looks startled, her eyes quickly darting towards the walking scowl, who’s now hovering beside the lobster display.
‘Um, I’m not sure what. . .’ She takes a second and exhales. ‘It’s just me. For now anyway. The last girl Anne abused, up and quit during service.’ She’s getting visibly nervous.
‘Just lean in like you’re explaining the menu to me,’ I tell her. ‘Take a deep breath.’
‘I try my best,’ she says, her voice almost a whisper. ‘But nothing I do is good enough. My hair isn’t right, I’m not fast enough. . . I messed up one drink order yesterday and she yelled at me in the kitchen. I’ve been in food service since I was sixteen, I know what I’m doing.’
‘And tonight? I overheard some of her little tirade.’
‘It’s embarrassing.’
‘I’m a grown woman who just ate my meal with a napkin tucked into my cleavage. I think you’re good.’
As she smiles, I see her relax. ‘She wouldn’t let me go to the bathroom to change my pad, but I went anyway because, you know, I had to. She was just reminding me that I’m still on probation and easily replaceable.’
My blood begins to boil. I remember the nightmare of having heavy periods. The number of times I’d flood after doing something as simple as standing up and the pain that followed. How teachers at school wouldn’t let me out of class, so I’d bleed onto my skirt, forced to spend the rest of the day with my jumper tied around my waist. My mum used to tell me she could ‘smell the iron’ and that I should just double up and get on with it. Not an ounce of empathy for me back then and it seems that some things haven’t changed.
Lola sniffs again and straightens up, taking my menu.
‘So, Anne. She’s your boss?’
Lola nods.
‘And who is her boss?’
‘Owen,’ she replies, ‘the maître. . .’ She pauses and purses her lips.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I reassure her. ‘This discussion never happened. But I can’t control the things I overhear on my way to the bathroom, can I?’
