Connections (3 page)

“No thanks,” Jess said.

“I've got a job, anyway,” Fleur said, and told her about it.

Jess's face fell. “Couldn't you find anything better than that?”

“I don't think I could handle anything better than that,” Fleur said. “Not at the moment. I'm even worried I'll mess this up …”

“Well,” said Jess, “let's face it, we're all on a bit of an edge here. That second series of Edmond's Charm is doing very, very badly and my name's on that one. Then there's that series about a North Country GP in the twenties which is being wiped out by something on Channel Four – Channel Four, I ask you. Well set up, Nicole Farhi-ed and ever-so-lightly tanned as we all are, none of us is any better than our last performance. I'm pissed off with it, I honestly am. How many women actually
own
the jobs we've got? Not too many. Most of us are so thrilled by the job and the glamour and slipping in and out of the Groucho that we forget, when the axe drops, the owners are nine-tenths fellows.”

“Debs is a woman,” Fleur pointed out. Debs Smith, nicknamed the ‘Wolverine', owned Camera Shake and was Jess's employer.

“One of the few,” Jess said.

“Well, then – go independent,” Fleur said.

Jess looked at her, raised an eyebrow. “On what?” she enquired.

Fleur said, “Don't spread it around, but Gerry's been sending money to Ben in Miami.”

“Miami – oh my,” Jess said. “I don't want to spoil your appetite, but have you heard anything from Helena?”

Helena was Ben's wife. She lived in the country with their two children and was not someone Fleur thought about unless she had to.

“I haven't, no. Why would I?”

“She's pretty badly off, I hear. Ben hasn't been in touch since he disappeared.”

“I can't do anything about that. She'd better see Gerry.”

“Do you want a better job, though, Fleur? I could ask around.”

“No,” said Fleur. “Nothing like that. I'm stitched together with very light thread. I could fall apart at any moment. But cheer me up – tell me all the gossip.”

Jess fixed her with a wide-eyed gaze, leaned forward and said, “Don't tell
anyone
this, but…”

At four on the dot, Fleur, in jeans and a sweatshirt, crossed the road to McCarthy's.

The bar was empty except for a woman in a business suit sitting at a table doing the crossword and a man of about forty in a more casual suit who was sitting at one of the tables smoking a roll-up.

Fleur hesitated, went over and asked, “Are you the manager?”

He nodded. “You the new girl?”

When she nodded he stood up and said, “I'm Geoff – and you're …?”

“Fleur.”

“Follow me. You'd better get straight into the kitchen. Do what the chef says till five thirty. Then you do the waitressing while I'm behind the bar. Luckily today's a slow day so it'll give you a chance to work your way in.” Flinging open the kitchen door to reveal a steel kitchen counter at which a tall, thin young man with a black ponytail stood, cutting courgettes at speed, he added, “Let me fill you in on the ethic here – this isn't a happy ship and we don't all pull together. That right, Al?”

“Exactly right, Geoff,” the man responded colourlessly.

“So here's the new girl. She can give you a hand till five thirty, then I want her back. In good condition.”

“Right, Geoff,” Al said. When the door closed behind Geoff he looked up and said, “The storeroom's next door. There's some overalls on a shelf. Hopefully they're clean.”

In what she perceived to be a sparsely supplied and under-clean storeroom she found a pile of white aprons and put one on. She went back into the kitchen pondering, Wouldn't a restaurant's stores usually have catering packs of flour, sugar, rice and the like, and big tins of this and that?

The kitchen was in fact very clean. A big sink and a massive cooker stood against the back wall and there were a giant fridge and freezer. Fleur stood on the black and white tiled floor and asked, “What shall I do?”

“You'd better get these,” he said and pushed the huge chopping block covered with courgettes towards her. “Then do the rest of the veg. I've had to change the menu – the supplier's not delivered for two days. I'm having to improvise with what I can get at Tesco's.” Fleur had observed six bulging Tesco bags on the floor by the large stove. “When that's done get all the onions from one of the bags and put them through the food processor.”

As he spoke he was walking to the kitchen door. He pushed it open and shouted, “Geoff! I want the money for the shopping
now!
”

Geoff called back, “When I've looked in the till.”

“Geoff – I'm a cook, not a fucking investor! Ring fucking Housman again.”

He came back into the kitchen where he knelt down and began to go through the bags. “Don't ask what's happening here,” he said from the floor.

Fleur did not comment. “Where shall I put these?” she asked, pointing at the sliced courgettes.

He responded, “In a bowl, dear, where else? Get the bloody onions done, love. I need a lot.”

For an hour and a half Fleur chopped, sliced, mixed the ingredients for pastry in the mixer, stirred and minded the frying pan
when Al went out into the yard for a cigarette. During this time he kept up a running monologue, chiefly about politics. His views were much like her dedicated-carpenter-and-Guardian-reading stepfather's, only a lot less mild.

Finally, when Fleur's feet were beginning to ache from standing in the same spot, Al sent her into the dark yard for a cigarette which he kindly gave her. The light from the open doorway fell on weeds and straggling grass and piled-up boxes.

“What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” he called out to her.

“I used to work in films but it went wrong,” she called back. “What about you?”

“I can't deal with normal life,” he explained unhelpfully, “or what passes for it.” Evidently he then looked at his watch. “Oi, you'd better run now – Geoff said he wanted you in the bar.”

“I'd better go home and change,” she said, alarmed, coming back into the kitchen.

“You'll have to look sharp,” he said. “Thing is, after the bar opens at six Geoff disappears. I don't know where he goes. So you'll be on your own until he ambles in again about eight.”

“I only live opposite,” Fleur said, taking off her apron. “Where shall I put this?”

“Take it with you – wash it yourself. The laundry never calls these days.”

“All right,” Fleur said, thinking that all the evidence was pointing to a job loss in the near future. She should know.

Having told Geoff she was coming back shortly she went across to Adelaide House and ran up the concrete steps to the floor she lived on. Outside the Morgans' flat next door to hers she saw Mrs Morgan and Mrs Simmons in grave conversation.

They all nodded at each other and, as Fleur let herself in to her flat, she heard the two women continue their conversation.

“So it's Christmas at the latest,” Mrs Morgan was saying, regret in her voice.

“Well, it'll be nice for you,” came Mrs Simmons' voice, no less upset.

Fleur had a quick shower, put on a black skirt and top, combed
her hair, put on minimal eye make-up and lip gloss and dashed back to McCarthy's. To her horror, Geoff was gone. There were two men in business suits sitting at a table, though, and as she came in, took off her coat and bundled it under the bar, one said to the other, “That's a relief – I thought we'd have to go to the Findhorn Star.”

Fleur didn't know where anything was and after serving one of the men with a beer and the other with a gin and tonic she realised she had no idea how to work the till. However, the bar prices were pinned up near it and, pleading for exact change, she began a mini-till in a cardboard box below the bar and hoped she could last out until Geoff returned.

Three young women from a nearby office arrived and bought glasses of wine, and an elderly man came in and took what she assumed was his normal seat on a stool at the bar. “New here?” he asked.

Fleur smiled and nodded, trying to memorise the bar prices.

“You'll get used to me,” he told her. “Are you married?”

“That's right,” said Fleur, “to a professional wrestler.”

A man and woman came in with a small child and sat down. Though Fleur evaded their eyes they started looking at her expectantly.

The elderly man told her helpfully, “The menus ought to be under the bar.”

“Thanks,” said Fleur. The family ordered and she left the bar for the kitchen. She put her head round the door and said, “Three burgers, two baked potatoes, one fries, one salad and where's the red wine?”

“In a box on the stairs,” Al told her. “How do they want the burgers?”

Fleur hadn't asked. “All medium,” she told him firmly. She found the wine in the box on the stairs. There were only five bottles left. She raced back to the bar.

“All right,” said one of the men in business suits to the other. “You've twisted my arm – I'll have a whisky.”

Go home to your wives and families, Fleur silently urged them. The place was filling up.

Geoff strolled in at eight fifteen, a quarter of an hour after Fleur had decided that if any more customers arrived, she'd go home. Only one bottle of red wine and two of white were left.

Geoff nodded approvingly at Fleur and said, “Well done.” He opened the till.

“I didn't know how to work it,” Fleur said. “The money's all under here. There's hardly any wine.”

“Got it in the boot outside,” he said. “It's unlocked. Can you nip out and fetch it in? White Merc. You can see it from here. Do it now, or they'll have me.”

Swearing under her breath, as Geoff put the profits in the till and served some drinks, Fleur carried six boxes of wine into the bar.

“Couple over there waiting for dessert,” Geoff pointed out. “Hold the fort while I move the car.” He was gone again.

By the time he came back she'd taken the order for dessert and delivered it, dealt with a proposition and served the last bottles of white wine.

Geoff showed her how the till worked and sat down heavily in front of the bar. His eyes were very red and his face pasty. Fleur wondered what he'd been up to during the last few hours. She also asked him if he'd pay her cash at the end of every shift. She wasn't sure if, one way or another, the job would last even a week – it might collapse, or she might. Reluctantly, he agreed.

Around ten Al emerged from the kitchen. “You're on your own now,” he said to Fleur. He held his hand out to Geoff who handed him his pay from the till. “And the shopping,” Al said firmly. “Sixty-eight pounds nineteen.”

Geoff produced the cash and Al said, “Cheers, Fleur. See you tomorrow?”

Fleur found herself grinning. She said, “I can't wait.”

Fleur was still mourning her lost life but, with the feeling she was at least ticking over in neutral, began to get used to her job. It was obvious that McCarthy's was running on a cash-only basis. Each day the previous day's takings, left overnight in the till, provided the money for the next day's purchases and Fleur became accustomed to going to Tesco and coming back with huge carrier bags of food. Sometimes Al went with her if the load was expected to be exceptionally heavy. Each night Geoff brought along supplies for the bar in the boot of his car and Fleur was expected to unload. At least, she reflected, all this was keeping her fit and at least this time the cash flow where she worked was not her responsibility, though she knew what the probable outcome would be. Good, she thought – when the bailiffs hit McCarthy's she'd walk away and find another job.

She got her telephone connected and late one evening called up the answering machine at the old office. Mysteriously, it was still on and, as if in a dream, she heard voices asking for Ben.

A few days after the installation of the phone, the silent calls began, two or three a day sometimes. Was it Ben, wanting to speak but unable to do so? At the memory of their time together, she drooped, remembering the laughter, the champagne poured out in the club after they'd concluded a successful deal or finished filming. After one silent call she looked round her simple flat; thought about spending ten hours at a time on her feet, dashing in and out of the kitchen; compared her new associates – unhealthy, deceitful-looking Geoff and stringy, pale, drop-out Al – with the well-set-up, smart, successful people among whom she'd previously lived. Oh well, she thought – oh well, and went to bed.

The wind started blustering the leaves off the young trees outside Adelaide House. It rained a lot. The clientele at McCarthy's began to come in soaked, shaking themselves like wet dogs. Damp macs clogged the coat rack. Fleur borrowed some tools from Mr Simmons and put up a few bookshelves in her room. She unpacked some items, though without much enthusiasm.

Then crisis came. It began with the departure of the Morgans, who were retiring to the Caribbean island they had come from forty years earlier. Children and grandchildren arrived early one day, helped to pack, bore off useful items. Fleur left for work in the middle of the morning as usual and by the time she returned, late, the flat next door was empty and the couple on their long journey back to the home they'd left long ago, young and hopeful.

It was the next day when, taking her rubbish to the chute, she came across Mrs Simmons, her face pale and set, gallantly wheeling her shopper along the landing to the stairs. Fleur said, “I was sorry to see the Morgans moving,” and Mrs Simmons responded, with a sigh, “We were neighbours for over twenty years. They lived upstairs at first, then got transferred to the smaller flat when their kids moved out. Our kids went to school with theirs, you know.” She added, “I've tried to find out who's moving in, but the council say they can't tell me. Won't, more likely.”