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‘And hair,’ she added, smirking at my puffy, unbrushed hair.
‘Haha,’ I replied, grimacing as I ran my fingers through the tangled mop on top of my head. Rapunzel hair had its perks at times, but I sure wasn’t looking forward to raking through those curls this morning.
In the shower, I thought of the night ahead. This was the first time I’d be serving food at an event as a waitress. I was a behind-the-scenes kind of girl, happy to not interact with customers and just focus on the task at hand. Deb had talked Daniel into letting me join her; she had a knack for talking herself up and dragging me into things. She said it would be a great experience.We’ll see about that.
The dress code was very specific: black halter-neck dress just above the knee (Patrick had mailed them to us Express Post last week wrapped in rose-scented tissue paper), black wedges, hair in a high bun.
After my shower, I did my skincare and makeup (natural with a sheer crimson lip), brushed my hair, and twirled it into a high bun. Then I got dressed in my usual work clothes and placed my folded dress into a duffle bag along with my wedges, a spare black bra, underwear, and a cosmetic bag for touch-ups.I want to look damn good tonight.
We arrived to work at 11:45am, and I smiled warily at Daniel as I walked into the kitchen to place my things under the sink.
‘You girls are here, finally,’ Daniel said with an unusually warm smile. ‘So, normal lunch service today, then you both have to be ready and be at Patrick’s house by five. Okay?’
‘Yep, got it,’ I said.
‘No, worries, chief,’ Debra added with a huge smile.
‘Good stuff, ladies.’ He rubbed his hands together and grinned again.
***
Lunch service was surprisingly quiet for a Friday, but I wasn’t complaining – it gave me time to finish the pre-made pastry cups for the salmon filos and weigh and divide the pizza dough (which I’d made during last night’s shift). Tyren, our apprentice, would fill in for me and take over pizzas that night.
Four o’clock hit, which meant time to make the pizzas for the function. Five Moroccan chicken, five pulled pork, five Moroccan lamb, and two eggplant. The task was more daunting than ever. As the pressure began to mount, I tried to shake off the stress – it was just pizza I had made hundreds of times before – but my inner voice kept repeating his name:Patrick Vitello.I was making pizza for Patrick frickin’ Vitello.Oh my God, they have to be perfect.
I drew in a deep breath and covered the pizza bases in their sauces, applied the toppings evenly, then sprinkled the herbs. It was all about balance. Too much sauce equalled a soggy pizza, and not enough toppings equalled a bland pizza.
While I waited for the pizzas to cook, I began filling the crispy filo cups with the mixture of cream cheese, chives, dill, capers, red onion, and salmon curls.
After preparing the salmon filo cups and cutting and packaging the pizzas, the final task was to cook the eggplant pizzas. Once I had assembled them and placed them in the oven, my forehead perspired from the heat as I waited for them to bake. I took a sip of water from my cup and noticed all the ice had melted.Of course, it has. It’s a frickin’ sauna in here.
When it was time to take the pizzas out, I grabbed the lifter, slid the pizza onto it, and carefully walked over to the boxes. I tilted the lifter and waited for the pizza to slide into the box, but it missed and landed upside-down on the ground. Sauce and stringy cheese smeared over the floor. My heart raced, andI looked around to see if Daniel had witnessed this catastrophe. He wasn’t in sight. Thank God. After I cleaned the pizza murder scene off the floor, I slid the other pizza from the oven and (even more carefully this time) placed it into the box. It didn’t slip.Phew.
Paul returned from his brief break. ‘You’re doing great, Naomi.’
‘Thanks, Paul. I am sooo nervous.’
‘You’ll be fine.’
Paul’s reassurance made me feel a little better as I moved on to the final pizza, and when I slid it out of the oven, sliced it, and placed it in the box, I felt nothing but victorious.
Once the food was packaged in heat bags and placed in Daniel’s car, Deb and I hurried to the bathrooms, touched up our makeup, and changed into our outfits. I wore everything besides my wedges because safety comes first when driving. Deb smelt under her arms and made a face before spraying deodorant and topping up her perfume. I did the same, then we ran to the car. Small stones jabbed my bare feet –ouch– while Deb did a small ankle twist in her wedge but carried on before opening the passenger door and climbing in. She gave her ankle a quick rub while I got ready to set off.
It was a short drive, just over five minutes, and my heart pounded the whole way as my phone GPS navigated us to our destination. As we entered the mansion-filled street, we could see it was already lined with fancy cars. Mercedes, Porsches, Bentleys, Audis – you name it.
‘The street is completely full. Where do I park?’ I asked Deb as my clammy palms clutched the steering wheel.
‘Over there.’ She pointed to the last vacant spot in front of a park layered with green springy grass and overlooking the sparkling river.
I sighed with relief and reverse-paralleled in between a Porsche and a Bentley, holding my breath as I did so.
Deb hopped out first, lit her cigarette, and waited for me to put on my wedges. I hadn’t worn high heels in forever and hoped I wouldn’t fall over while wearing them. Fortunately, I had practised strolling up and down the hallway in front of Deb while she cracked up laughing at my incompetent walking skills.
As Deb squished her cigarette with her wedge, I peered down at her apple-red painted toes that matched her fingers. My toes were painted a sparkly silver, but my fingernails were bare due to work regulations. She crouched and looked into my side mirror while she pulled her hair tie tighter. Bits of auburn hair stuck up and the hairstyle just wasn’t working, so she unravelled her thin hair and slicked it into a ponytail.
She straightened up and turned to me. ‘Come on, chicka. We got this.’
I gulped. ‘Yep. I’m ready.’
