From the small office jutting off from the kitchen my boss called wearily, “Delaney, how many times have I told you? If I can hear you, the customers can hear you.”
I glared at the closed office door and then silently mimicked my boss with exaggerated gestures, making Bridget laugh as she ran her pinkie along the side of bowl to scoop up the last traces of vinaigrette. I sighed and dragged my fingers through my long dark hair as I stared up at the ceiling. “Maybe I’ll just go be a hooker.”
Bridget pulled her pinkie from her mouth and laughed.
I frowned at her and crossed my arms over my chest. “What?”
Bridget shook her head. “I can see it now,” she said and then put on a terrible Texan accent, “‘Ah, what’s wrong with your penis? It’s more crooked than a cactus after a sandstorm.’”
“That sounds nothing like me.”
“‘Are you sure your balls are normal, mister? They smell like barbecued armadillo.’”
I tapped my fingers along my arms. “Are you done? Have you had your fun?”
Bridget gasped with laughter. “‘I’m not touching cock. I’d rather die at the Amallo than touch that.’”
“The Alamo?”
Bridget shrugged. “Close enough.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “How dare you.”
I tried to take her last slice of cucumber, but she swatted away my hand. “Eh, eh, that’s my dessert.”
The door to the dining room swung open and Bridget and I pressed against either side of the narrow hallway to make room for the passing waitress. I caught sight of the asshole who tipped me ten lousy euros still sipping his wine across from his “wife”. At the rate he was going he’d be there for hours.
“Bad tipping is one thing, but the least he could do is clear the hell out so I can get another table in before the end of the night,” I grumbled, staring down at the bill. “These rich people are all the same. How’s a girl supposed to survive?”
Bridget fidgeted with her empty salad bowl as I pouted.
“I don’t know, Delaney,” she said after hesitating for a moment. “I can’t remember getting a bad tip, and I’ve been working here for years now. Most of the time the patrons here are overly generous.”
I stared at her as she adjusted her black silk vest and pushed up her bra so her cleavage pressed against the buttons of the white button-down. A plate shattered in the kitchen and there was a long string of curses from the chef.
“What are you trying to say?” I asked her.
Bridget pulled a small compact and a tube of red lipstick from her pocket. She flipped it open, and I had a feeling that she was purposefully using it to hide from me.
“It’s just that, well…” Bridget paused. “Well, Delaney, you’re a tad blunt.”
I held open the door for another girl and resisted the urge to pluck a golden, glistening fry that still popped and snapped with hot oil from a plate of steak frites.
“Yeah,” I said. “So?”
“And you sometimes struggle just a teeny-tiny bit with being polite,” Bridget added.
“Bullshit.”
Bridget dragged her fingers through her cropped white-blonde hair. “Then there’s all the cursing.”
“Bullshit isn’t cursing,” I said with an amused burst of laughter.
Bridget’s dark painted lips didn’t crack a smile as she crossed her arms.
My eyes widened. “What, are you going to tell me ‘dickwad’ is cursing, too?”
Bridget’s mouth dropped open in shock. “You call our patrons ‘dickwad’?”
“Of course not,” I protested before adding, “I only call the dickwads ‘dickwad’.”
Bridget whispered some sort of plea up toward the ceiling as pots and pans clanged nosily in the kitchen. She moved to my side of the hallway and grabbed my hands.
“Delaney,” she said earnestly, which made me squirm uncomfortably. “Have you considered that perhaps your… colourful behaviour is, perhaps, just maybe, negatively impacting the size of your tips?”
Bridget’s fingers clasping mine was the only thing that prevented me from digging into a half-eaten chocolate mousse cake a girl brought back from the dining room. My stomach grumbled in disappointment.
“Delaney, are you listening to me?” Bridget asked.
I focused my eyes on hers and nodded. “Yes, yes, I’m listening.”
Bridget nodded. “Okay,” she said and sighed. “This is what you’re going to do.”
I loved Bridget to death. She was the reason I even got this job here at The White Room; hell, she was the reason I wasn’t homeless and wandering the streets at night (at least so far). But the thing was, I really didn’t do too well with being told what to do. Never had. Never would.
“You’re going to go back out to that table and calmly and quietly and respectfully express how grateful you are to have had him and his guest at The White Room this evening.”
My eyes drifted toward a passing plate of sea scallops practically drowning in butter.
“Delaney!” Bridget snapped.
“I heard you,” I assured her. “Express gratitude and shit.”
Bridget gave me a look.
I rolled my eyes. “Okay. Express gratitude and stuff.”
Bridget squeezed my hands. “Alright, then you’re going to ask if there is anything else you can get them and—”
“They already have the check.”
“And offer them a complimentary dessert.”
I raised an eyebrow. “A complimentary dessert? What, as a reward for shafting me with not so much as a trace of lube?”
Bridget nodded. “Trust me,” she insisted patiently. “You bring them a slice of lemon cake, two espressos, say you hope to serve them again some time very soon and I guarantee you’ll leave tonight with your wallet a little fuller.”
I huffed irritably. “Is this the part where I bend over and hold my ass cheeks open? Or does that come later in the night?”
“Delaney, just try it, please,” Bridget basically begged.
I sighed. Bridget’s eyes searched mine.
She hesitated as she watched me again before saying, “Do you need me to go over it again?”
I waved her off. “No, no, I’ve got it.”
Bridget adjusted my black vest and popped open one more button on my blouse. She grinned sheepishly as she shrugged. “Hey, it doesn’t hurt. Besides, you’ve got a nice rack.”
I snapped my fingers. “Goddammit, that’s the smartest thing you’ve said all night, B.”
Bridget rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless. She laid her hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to go talk to him?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said, tugging my hair into a quick pony. “Yay…”
“Go get ’em, tiger,” Bridget said as I started to push open the door into the dining room.
I nearly yelped in surprise when she slapped my ass. I looked over my shoulder with a raised eyebrow. She shrugged, leaning against the cinder block wall.
“What? You’ve got a nice tush, too.”
I blew her a kiss and stepped back into the hushed tones and dim light of The White Room. I tried to relax my fingers, but they instantly curled into tense fists at the sight of the dude. Gratitude. Lemon cake. Money. Gratitude. Lemon cake. Money. I could do this. I could do this.