Just Desserts

Amber tilted the teapot and poured perfectly-brewed English Breakfast tea into two pristine oversized white cups. She is careful to pour the liquid so that it doesn’t drip or slosh as it flows. The clients, especially this client, are particular in their standards and spilling tea would be a disaster for her. She needed this evening to go well. She’d planned for too long.

Placing the pot silently on the trolley beside her, Amber picked up a clear jug of milk and offered it to the diners. The man waved it away, but the woman across nodded and smiled, gesturing to her cup. Amber examines the woman as she adds the milk. Perhaps in her forties, she is attractive, if not classically beautiful. A faint line around her face and excessive eye shadow implies she is not used to such surroundings and has overdone her makeup to compensate. Similarly, Amber suspected a corset was providing support, judging by the unnatural cleavage. This was borne out by the way the woman had picked at her truffle butter scallop starter. She needed to leave space in a restricted stomach for the main course.

Amber swapped the milk for a pot of sugar cubes and tongs. This time, the woman refused, but the man accepted, holding up a single finger, still not looking Amber’s way. She placed a cube along the side of his cup, letting it slide into the tea as smoothly as an Olympic diver.

This close, the man seems perfectly normal. He is in his late sixties, with a full head of transplanted hair. Amber can see the implants from close range as if viewing an orchard from the air. His smart, alarming yellow suit is crisp and clean, maybe even brand new. Beneath is a blue shirt, open collar, no tie. Under the table, he is wearing a pair of Tom Ford suede Derby lace-up shoes, which are worth more than Amber’s first car. Everything about the man shouted money. His manicured hands held the gold-plated cutlery gently, all food entering his mouth without touching his lips.

She couldn’t believe she was this close.

She couldn’t believe it was finally him.

She hated him.

Retreating, suddenly hot and flushed, Amber wheeled her trolley quietly back to the kitchen, long black ponytail swinging behind her. It was unusual to serve a hot drink at the start of the meal, but whatever the client wants the client gets. She parked the trolley in its spot and took the tea things to the washing station. One of the chefs caught her eye and smiled.

“Alright, Amber?” Seeing something in her expression, he frowned. “Are you? Alright, I mean?”

She forced a smile onto her face and stepped up to Hank, the pastry chef. “I’m fine, just tired.”

Hank grabbed her shoulders gently. He was two decades her senior and had taken her under his wing since she had joined just over six months ago. “You work too many hours. I’ve told you that.”

“I know. It’s just—”

“Yeah, yeah. Saving for your own place. Heard it before.” He bent down to put his face close to Amber’s. “Why don’t you go home?” He saw her look of horror. “No, hear me out. We only have six covers in, and Steven can look after your table as well.”

Amber shook her head. “No. Not tonight.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why? What’s so special about tonight?”

“Nothing,” she shrugged, attempting to pass it off as so. “I’m here now. I’ll do my shift and then perhaps take tomorrow off.”

Hank held onto her for a few seconds before a shout came across the kitchen.

“Two crème brûlée.”

Hank straightened. “That’s my song. You’re lucky. I’m gonna hold you to that, though.” He backed toward his station. “Don’t want to see you here tomorrow.”

She forced another smile and a weak laugh. “I promise. No tomorrow.”

That was the truth.

She straightened her long-sleeved black silk shirt, subconsciously rubbing the inside of her wrist. Her mind wandered back through everything that had brought her here. The years of research, tracking, and planning finally brought her to the right place at the right time. Her mother’s face glowed in front of her so intensely that she could almost reach out and gently stroke her cheek, just like she had at the end. Maybe after tonight, she could finally let her rest.

A nudge to her elbow brought her back to the present. Steven mumbled an apology as he continued his journey, four plates of steaming food in his arms. Amber refocused on her job and followed Steven back out.

Returning to the table, Amber smiled at the couple. “May I take these?”. Both diners answered by lifting their hands from the table. As they did so, the woman’s left sleeve fell back, revealing a small tattoo of a toy bear. Amber nearly dropped the plate she had picked up but quickly recovered. The man appeared to notice her for the first time, and his gaze locked on her.

The same brown eyes that haunted Amber’s dreams looked back at her. ‘No way he knows me,’ she thought, breathing hard. Breaking eye contact with another forced smile, she quickly collected the plates and cutlery and returned to the kitchen. She was glad her shirt was black to conceal the running sweat from beneath her arms. She swapped the dirty plates for the waiting lobster main course without stopping. In haste, she grabbed the plates without a cloth, and their heat immediately burned her fingers. Cursing under her breath, she rushed to the sink and held her hands under cold water. Standing there, she closed her eyes and took a few calming breaths. When she could no longer feel her fingers, she shut off the water and collected the meals—this time with a cloth.

The couple were deep in conversation when she returned to the table. Amber’s stomach turned when she saw the man’s hand resting on the woman’s. Both seemed relaxed and happy, but she knew it was an illusion. The woman was not there for pleasure. She was there because he wanted her to be. She was always where he wanted her to be. Amber waited for them to notice her before placing the hot food between them. She was about to walk off when the man reached out and grabbed her wrist.

“Excuse me,” he said.

Amber felt the warmth of the man’s hand through her shirt and stared down at it. Momentarily frozen, her jaw locked, holding back the scream that clawed at her throat to escape.

The man frowned as he saw Amber tense. He looked down at his hand and let go, holding it up. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to make you jump. Can we have some more bread, please?”

Jaw still shut hard enough to ache, Amber nodded and commanded her legs to walk away. She made it to the kitchen with rigid arms by her side. She didn’t stop moving until she got to the storeroom. After a quick check to ensure she was alone, she frantically found an empty cardboard box and stuck her head in it.

She screamed.

She threw the box to the side and sat heavily on a stack of plastic-wrapped soup cans. Her breathing was fast and shallow. He’d touched her. How dare he. Never again, she’d promised herself. She gripped the sides of her bowed head, elbows on her knees. It wasn’t her fault. She rocked a little, back and forth. It wasn’t her fault. Nothing she could have done.

For a long moment, she sat there, rocking. Eventually, she brought her breathing under control and sat back against the wall. She had to see this through.

He knew nothing.

She knew everything.

A noise in the corridor warned of someone approaching. Amber tousled her hair, checking everything was in place, before standing and heading back to the kitchen. She dodged the kitchen assistant without a word. Quickly collecting a couple of the artisan rolls and a small pot of soft butter, she headed out to the table. The couple were fully engaged in eating; they barely acknowledged Amber’s coming and going, and she was back in the bustle of the kitchen in under a minute. Standing to one side, she watched Hank begin preparations for the couple’s desserts. 

She put her hand in the pocket of her trousers to feel what she concealed there. The memory of the man’s grip on her wrist still burned like a glowing bracelet. She gripped the small object tightly.

Soon.

After the longest ten minutes of Amber’s life, she approached the table. She politely asked if they were finished and then began clearing away the main course plates. The man looked at her this time, breaking off his conversation with the woman. She stumbled to a halt, looking worried and confused as to why she had been so bluntly ignored. The man tilted his head to one side.

“Do we know each other?” he asked.

Amber avoided direct eye contact, continuing her work. “I don’t think so, sir.”

He was clearly curious. Something about her had triggered a memory, but Amber didn’t give him a chance to ask anything else. She cleared the table and walked slowly away, completely against everything her body was telling her.

Run! Don’t stop. Run!

She’d run for too many years.

No more.

She emptied the plates into the dishwasher slowly and carefully. Her mind knew the steps she needed to follow; it had practised them over and over again. Years of planning had brought her to this place at this time. She just needed to stay the course for the next five minutes.

She moved to the serving counter and waited patiently for the desserts to be completed. Hank was carefully dusting a crème brûlée with cocoa powder and laying a rectangle of lavender shortbread to the side. She waited another minute while gold leaf was added to a small chocolate fondant. Thirty more seconds passed as Hank fiddled with this and that until he was happy with his presentation. He pushed the plates across the counter. “All yours,” he said with a smile.

“Thanks.”

“Hey. Remember what we agreed. Last course before you have at least tomorrow off.”

Amber smiled a genuine smile. “I promise I won’t be in tomorrow.”

She pulled her hand out of her pocket, picked up both plates and headed for the table. As she walked, her right thumb, now covered with a skin-coloured thimble, gently stroked the top of the shortbread. Barely a touch, but just enough for prolonged contact. As she reached the table, she placed that plate in front of the man and the fondant in front of the woman. She looked the man straight in the eyes. “Enjoy.”

The man frowned at the sudden connection but didn’t have time to respond before Amber was off again. She headed for the kitchen but stopped short of the swing door, turning and facing the diners. She backed against the wall, half hidden in shadow.

She waited as the couple continued whatever they were discussing.

She waited some more as they pointed at each other’s desserts, and for a heart-stopping moment, Amber thought they were going to swap. She chastised herself immediately. She’d planned for that. There is no way this man shared anything.

They started eating.

He cracked through the crystalised sugar and into the custard, downing several spoonfuls. With his other hand, he picked up the shortbread.

Everything slowed.

Years of memories flickered in front of Amber as clearly as if they were projected into the room. A childhood in darkness. Years alone. A decade of servitude. Two seconds stretched to two hours as the food slowly rose to the man’s mouth.

Then it was done.

Time resumed flowing.

Smiling without effort, Amber felt something leave her body. A tension she had not realised she had been carrying melted out of her muscles. Her neck and back relaxed and lightened as if she had grown a pair of wings.

She almost floated back to the table, rolling up her sleeves as she did so. When she arrived, she placed each hand on a corner, turning her forearms to the couple. “Everything alright?” she asked sweetly. The woman nodded with her mouth full. The man turned to answer but caught sight of the tattoo on Amber’s left wrist.

A toy bear.

Amber waited till she was sure he had registered the mark, then leant forward, close to the man’s face. She watched surprise flow across his features. “I hope,” she whispered, “that this tastes as sweet as you always said we were.”

His eyes went wide as Amber’s words hit home. He opened his mouth to speak, but a short cough fell out.

Then another.

And another.

Amber rolled down her sleeves as she walked confidently back to the kitchen. She didn’t look back as the man clutched his throat, pointing half at himself and half at Amber. The woman began screaming.

Amber passed through the kitchen like it didn’t exist. She stripped off her shirt and unbuttoned her trousers as she walked. Ducking into the locker room, she swiftly opened hers, kicking off her shoes and stepping out of her clothes. She retrieved a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved cardigan, a pair of trainers and a scarf. In less than thirty seconds, she was heading out the fire exit, barely pausing to throw her long black wig into the waste bin as she passed.

Stepping outside into the cool winter air, she wrapped her scarf around her neck and ran a hand through her short, spiky blonde hair.

Amber exhaled for the last time. After five long years, she passed into memory.

Chloe took the first deep breath of her new life.

A life filled with hope.