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‘Thank you so much Margot, but I’m not sure it would pay enough to cover my bills.’
She shrugged again. ‘Have a think. I pay £15 an hour in cash and the tips are good. See it as a little extra to tide you over while you look for something else?’
George had been horrified.
‘But you’ve got a degree? Why would you take a job as a waitress? It doesn’t make sense.’ he said, shaking his head.
‘I haven’t taken a job as a waitress, George; I’m going to help run the restaurant. Putting my degree to use at last and learning a craft.’
‘A craft? You’ve got a first-class business degree and speak fluent French and Italian; you should be using it to get into a proper company to better yourself. You’ll never earn the big bucks chopping lettuce and polishing forks.’
‘Stop panicking, it’s only a couple of days a week and I’ll still be out looking for other jobs. It’ll be fun learning how to make Margot’s dishes– her desserts are to die for. Sous-chef by day and hostess by night. Getting under the skin of the business.’
‘Drowning in a pile of potato skins more like. Come on Holly, you’re better than that. Where is your ambition? You used to be so hungry for success.’
‘I still am. I’m just not interested in reaching the dizzy heights of Chief Procurement Officer in a faceless concrete tower. I’m tired of Zorbing my life away on the corporate hamster wheel.’
The nit-picking went on for weeks, but I took the job anyway. It was never going to make me rich, but it was something completely different and I knew I’d be happy working with Margot. Two days a week turned into five and with tips on top, I could just about afford my half of the bills. But most importantly, I was learning again. Learning about Michelin-star food and serving terrifyingly expensive wine under Margot’s watchful eye.
*
The bistro looked especially beautiful tonight. Marylebone was abuzz with tourists and families making the most of the long, summer evenings, and happy couples sat at tables with cold pints and Aperol Spritz after a long day shopping. The distant whine of traffic from Oxford Street was almost entirely absorbed by laughter and chatter and the searing heat meant we could open all the windows, inviting in a soft, warm breeze. The silverware sparkled against the polished, mahogany tables and white chrysanthemums stood strong in wonky, turquoise vases, as Freya Ridings gently crooned over the speakers. It had been a year since that conversation with Margot and I hadn’t looked back. I felt more at home in Chez Margot than I did in my own home. Chez Holly. Well, Chez George and Holly now, or as our wedding hashtag would have it #Geolly. With the wedding only a month away, the hashtag was one thing on our never-ending to-do list that wehadagreed on.
‘How’s everything going with the wedding planning?’ Margot asked as she violently whisked the Cointreau and cream together to accompany dessert. ‘Are you all set?’
‘Erm… not exactly. There are still a few things left to sort. My dress for one,’ I said, with a nervous flutter. I’d left the dress shopping to the last minute and didn’t technically have one, as such, just yet. I had three different dresses on hold, but I wasn’tcompletely in lovewith any of them. I was building my outfit piece by piece and so far had a veil, silk underwear and a pair of Louboutins sitting next to an empty coat hanger that laughed at me from the wardrobe each morning.
‘You haven’t got a dress?’ Margot gasped. ‘But what do you mean? The wedding is only a few weeks away!’ My stomach dropped. Oh God, she was right; what the hell was I playing at?
‘Whaaat? No, no, yes, of course I’ve got a dress,’ I lied, and Margot looked visibly relieved. ‘I’ve got a few options; I just need to decide which one I’m going with.’
‘Ah, well that is a different thing altogether,’ she said with a little shrug. ‘Wear them all. A quick costume change every couple of hours will keep everyone guessing.’
Margot sliced and diced three large oranges, layering the pieces with the Cointreau cream to build a mini stack on each plate. With one chef’s table and a maximum of forty covers each night, we could take our time and give the customers our undivided attention. The oven was crammed full of lemon and pistachio tarts, which were baking to perfection, each one slightly cracked with a glossy, golden crust. I polished six crystal glasses onto a silver tray, sloshing a large shot of Tawny Port into each and adding a plump black cherry.
‘Well at least your venue is sorted,’ Margot said with a smile. ‘The church is beautiful, and we will make the food extra special for you both.’
‘I know you will and thank you again for letting us have the reception here. Chez Margot has such a special place in my heart. It will be so cosy and romantic.’
‘The ninth of the ninth is a magical date, I think. With a new moon, if I’m not mistaken. A good day for a new start.’
‘George has always said he wants to be married and in his own house by the time he’s thirty, so we’re well ahead of schedule. Then two kids by the time we’re thirty-five.’
Margot effortlessly transferred the tarts from the oven to a cooling tray and sprinkled them with brown sugar.
‘And is that what you want?’ she asked, as she concentrated. ‘Your fiancé loves a milestone, but these expectations are imaginary. Time is a human invention, Holly; age is meaningless. Why pressure yourselves?’
‘We’ve been together eight years,’ I replied with a chuckle. ‘I don’t think anyone can accuse us of rushing into things.’
‘Of course not. But life is not a template to complete. It’s important to follow your own path.’
Margot disappeared into the larder, her words hanging in the air. She had a point, but it wasn’t quite as simple as that. George and I were a team and our lives were so entwined that it was difficult to remember which part was my path and which part was his. I was trying to pinpoint the last time I’d made a decision entirely on my own, when a gentle but insistent tapping started on the back door. I pulled back the curtain to find George’s face squished against the glass in a pig snout and quickly opened the door.
‘George! What are you doing?’ I whispered frantically.
‘Been to the pub,’ he said, swaying from side to side and giving off a beery waft.
‘Well, that’s obvious. Are you OK? Why are you here?’ I glanced over my shoulder as Margot was summoned into the restaurant by the man in the half-moon specs.
