Beauty (6 page)

‘We deliver,’ the saleswoman said. ‘Twenty-four hours’ notice.’

‘See you tomorrow.’

‘You getting everything delivered?’

‘All except this.’ Dina held up a sleeping bag.

Next, she headed to the local grocery store. She bought bleach, roach traps, dust cloths, mops and several pairs of bright yellow rubber gloves.

Long into the night, Dina was on her knees, cleaning. The stench was so bad, she had to stop twice to throw up. Heaving, she managed to open a window; warm air floated up from the alley below, but at least there was some oxygen in it. The stale odour of booze and sweat and sex dissipated under her assault – washing, scrubbing, mopping, till the place smelled like a hospital.

She showered in her clean stall, clambered into her sleeping bag and lay down on the floor.

The filthy net curtain on the single window had already gone into the trash. The bright lights of Manhattan streamed into her apartment. But Dina was content.

She was in the big city now.

In the morning, Dina woke early. She had no choice – her curtainless window got her up with the sun.

She showered, dressed from her suitcase and raced to the nearest hardware store. A few more dollars for brushes and paint. White – that was all she needed.

Dina painted with rollers and brushes. She wasn’t her dad, and she had no practice, but the colour was basic, and forgiving enough that she did a reasonable job.

Besides, she was motivated. This was home. In a way, it was her first.

She was finished by eleven. Starving, she headed out to eat – anywhere, as long as it was cheap.

Dina had about two thousand dollars left in the account, and it had to last her. There was a Greek place across the street, the Olympia Café. She picked it because it was the closest, and she was so tired her legs could hardly hold her up.

She ordered a pork gyro. It would be hot, and she needed the iron. She waited and waited, but it didn’t come, so she meekly flagged down a waiter.

‘Jeez, baby, I’m sorry.’ His shirt was open and he looked stressed. ‘Girl’s off sick again. I’ll bring it right now.’

Dina ate the pita; it was nothing remarkable, but she was so hungry, and it tasted good. As she chewed, she thought hard.

‘Check, please.’

‘Nothing else? No coffee?’

Coffee was a dollar fifty. Dina shook her head. The tap water came free.

‘You got it.’

‘Your waitress often sick?’ she ventured.

‘Sick? No, honey; it’s a Sunday. Saturday night on the town.’ He looked fed up. ‘Rolls around every weekend.’

‘I can waitress. I don’t drink.’

He laughed.

‘I’m serious,’ Dina said.

‘Are you? Then turn up here at eight tonight. We’re an all-night operation. Minimum wage; no benefits. You keep the tips.’

‘Aren’t you a waiter too?’

‘I own the place. We don’t spend money we don’t have. Rents are high.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll try you out. Sandwich is on the house.’

Her furniture was delivered just after three. Dina got out a hammer, some nails and twenty whole dollars to tip the delivery guys, who cursed her as they set the heavy stuff down.

‘Eight goddamned flights. What a dump!’

‘Have a nice day,’ said Dina.

‘Whatever.’ He snatched the money.

Dina loved it – Manhattan attitude. She rolled out her new rug: chocolate brown, to hide any stains. The old bed and chair were gone; in their place was a neat, compact couch that unfolded to a queen-sized bed. She hung a plain cream blind over the window and a large mirror on the opposite wall, to catch the tiny amount of light and reflect it – that gave an illusion of space. Add a new fridge and a toaster oven to the cleaned-up hot plate, and the tiny studio was chic and respectable.

Dina added wire baskets to the single closet; she couldn’t magic up more room, but she could make it work. There wasn’t space for a lot of clothes. Good – that would mean she couldn’t make any mistakes.

When she was finished, it was six p.m. She napped for an hour, then got up, showered and put on flats and a simple black dress.

‘You’re back.’

‘Yes, sir.’

He grinned. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘It’s ten to eight,’ Dina pointed out.

‘What’s she doing here?’ A heavy-set girl, twenty-two or so, with thick black eyeliner and greasy hair swept back in a ponytail, had marched up to the man.

‘Working. What you should be doing.’

‘We don’t need you.’

‘Not your call, Aella. Get back in the kitchen.’

Dina hovered.

‘You done this before?’

‘No, sir. But I’m a quick learner.’

‘You don’t have to call me sir. My name’s Gil Barberis. I own the restaurant with my brother Dimitri. You’ll see him in the kitchen. He cooks.’

‘OK.’

‘There’s a changing room behind there with an apron you can put on. Dimitri will tell you what to do. If he’s busy, ask Aella.’

‘Got it.’

‘Any questions?’ Gil asked, but she had already disappeared, walking into the back.

He realised he didn’t even know her name.

Dina set her back to it. Dimitri, the brother, was fat, made good food and cooked it fast. He shouted out orders and she tried to get the hang of it. Aella cursed her and jostled her and tried to make her spill platters, but Dina was quick and focused. She dropped two plates and served three customers the wrong orders.

‘I guess it didn’t work out,’ she said, at the end of the shift.

‘Are you kidding? You were great. Can you work tomorrow?’

By the end of the first week, Gil was really pleased. This girl was something else. She showed up on time and learned quick. Plus, she actually smiled at the customers, passed the time of day.

And, goddamn, she was pretty.

Women gave her tips. Men gave her even bigger tips. Plus, they started showing up on off-times, just to catch a glimpse of her.

Dina Kane was a real gorgeous girl. More than that, she had a certain way about her. She wore form-fitting, minimal black clothes under the diner apron, just a little make-up, so that she always looked smooth, but not a drop more. She wore her hair high, in a clean bun. It made her look out of place. It made her look expensive.

He knew she needed money. She was grateful for every tip – thanked the customers personally. Gil was afraid to lose her. He offered her more work, the pick of the sessions. Aella and Katrina bitched, but bad waitresses were a dime a dozen.

‘I can’t. I have to look for a job,’ Dina said.

‘You have one.’

‘I mean a real job. I need to make rent. So I have to take time out for that.’

Gil sighed, but he couldn’t push things. He didn’t want Dina Kane to leave completely.

Dina worked her shifts diligently, collected her money, went home and slept. In her off hours, she tied on her trainers and her cheap running clothes and worked out every day, following the streets down to the Hudson River and racing alongside the water. Men whistled at her, stared; she ignored them all.

She was running – from her mother, from her heartbreak, from a tiny life.

The waitress job paid enough to feed her, buy her make-up and clothes. It couldn’t touch the rent, and Dina was scared. She had assumed the money from her mother would buy space and time, and that she’d get a real career, a foot on the ladder.

School had been easy; work – not so much.

‘I’m sorry; you need experience to be a paralegal.’

‘Our internships are unpaid.’

‘Assistants at our company all have college degrees.’

‘When did you graduate college, Miss Kane?’

‘Nanny? Do you have referrals? A child-related qualification of some kind?’

‘Babysitter? Our agency only takes girls currently at university. Which is yours?’

Great jobs all had something in common – Dina wasn’t qualified to do any of them.

Some men at the diner had advice for her.

‘Get a boyfriend – he’ll look after you.’

‘Baby, if you’re nice to me, I can do you favours.’

‘Lots of girls who can’t afford college go dance in the clubs. I know a guy—’

‘I’m not a stripper,’ Dina said. She smiled at the customer, but her eyes were ice.

‘Who’s talking stripper? This is exotic dancing – like, artistic shit. They make the real money over there.’

I hate you, Momma
, Dina thought.

Desperately, she tried to make something more of the job she had.

‘Dimitri, maybe you could experiment. Cook some more authentic dishes.’

‘What?’ Her boss stared at her blankly. ‘People come for diner food.’

‘There are lots of diners. Lots of delis. Not too many Greek restaurants, not proper ones. I reckon, if you made some real stuff, people would come. You could try adding a few items to the menu. And a promotion.’

Dimitri looked at Gil. They’d already learned to listen to Dina Kane. Her simple suggestion of photocopying colouring pages and bringing in a stack of crayons in plastic cups had led to a real surge in moms with kids. Now the dead times between lunch and dinner covers had a healthy number of tables occupied with spaghetti and meatballs, coffees and cookie plates. Even better, Dina had sectioned off a corner of the diner, and they sat all the happy families there. Working men went the other side, away from the coffee klatches, where they could ogle the waitresses.

‘What kind of promotion?’

‘Get it grandma tested. Do a one-day promotion. Seniors eat free if they bring one younger paying adult.’

‘That will cost.’

Dina wasn’t listening. ‘See, you print a flyer – but you only print it
in Greek
. Put it up in the Orthodox churches, the community clubs. You want to get the community in to talk up your place. Like – it’s a small market, but not much competition. What do you think?’

They tried it. It worked like a dream.

‘I want a rise,’ Dina said.

Gil sucked it up and gave her another fifty per cent. It still wasn’t enough.

One evening, about a month later, when Dina was looking at another three weeks before she defaulted on her rent, an older man came into the restaurant. His suit was beautifully cut, and it was clear he didn’t want to be there.

Dina ran over to seat his party. She knew the lady he was with – Olga Markos, one of their first senior customers. Olga loved Dimitri’s
gavros marintos
, small, spiky fish fried with spices and served with ouzo.

‘Wonderful to see you again. Your usual table?’

The man snorted, and Dina returned his contempt with a smile.

‘Oh, sir, this lady prefers to sit right by the window.’

‘I do.’ Olga nodded emphatically. ‘So I can see the world, Alexander. Young Dina remembers.’

‘First name terms,’ the man said, dryly.

‘Oh, it’s Dina – everybody knows Dina round here.’

‘Do they indeed?’ he said.

Dina showed them to their table. It was clean, with a fresh white rosebud in a jar on the table. Those got changed twice a week. Another Dina innovation. The restaurant stood out.

As she worked her covers, Dina noticed the man watching her. She was used to that. All the men liked to stare, but she couldn’t let it get in her way. Saturday night was their busiest, the ouzo and retsina flowed, and the tips were fantastic.

At the end of the meal, she brought them their check. Olga tipped her normal ten per cent. Dina smiled brightly, to hide her disappointment. The man seemed rich; she’d hoped for a couple of extra bucks from him.

But he caught her glance at the dollars on the change tray.

‘You wanted a tip?’ he said.

She flushed, embarrassed to be caught out.

‘Oh, no, sir. The lady already gave me a tip, thank you, ma’am.’ Dina scooped it up. ‘You have a great day.’

‘Here’s your tip.’ He took a business card out of his wallet and handed it to Dina. ‘Call me tomorrow.’

‘I certainly will. Thank you.’ She slipped it into her apron pocket, without looking at it. She got a hundred of those come-ons a night.

‘I mean it,’ he said shortly. Then he stood up, ignoring her, and helped Olga from the restaurant.

That night, just as she was about to clear the paper waste into the recycling, Dina paused. She fished the small card out of the recycling bag and read it again.

Alexander Markos
, it said.
Mount Java
.

She started. Mount Java was the newest, hottest chain of coffee shops to hit Manhattan. They sold their coffee like Baskin-Robbins sold ice cream – forty-five flavours, all lined up in urns, freshly brewed every two hours. And tiny pastries, from every country in Europe: French macaroons, Italian biscotti, Greek baklava, German strudel, jam tarts from England.

The company was founded and run by an American – Alex Markos.

New York was lapping it up. A coffee there cost eight dollars – not one – and New Yorkers couldn’t get enough of it. The city was rich, and it paid for quality.

Dina clutched the card to her chest. Her heart was pounding.

‘New boyfriend?’ Gil said, hopefully, although he knew what the answer would be.

‘New job,’ Dina said, tears in her eyes, like any other girl would have when she announced her marriage. Gil didn’t understand the kid at times. She worked like a machine; she just wasn’t normal. Jesus! The boys died for her – so did the men. She could have had her pick.

She passed the card over. Gil studied it for a second, then made the connection. He whistled. ‘Goddamn. Guess he wants you for more than a waitress.’

‘I hope you don’t mind.’

Gil knew when he was beaten.

‘Go with God.’

Chapter Four

The office was located on the thirty-fourth floor, and Dina had to pass through four sets of security guards just to reach the executive elevator.

The lobby had marble floors and high ceilings. The guards wore designer suits. The reception desk appeared to be carved from solid ebony. Dina’s heartbeat quickened as she walked. The scent of money was in the air.

The elevator was brass, with velvet carpet, a mirror and a padded bench – bigger than her little bathroom at home – and it went straight to Alex Markos’s office.

She breathed raggedly. This was her big chance to get exactly where she wanted to be.