Friends Forever!

by Grace Dent

  Fleur wrinkles her nose, then stays remarkably silent.

  “It’s like a palace!” Claude says, seeming a little shocked.

  “The hall was erected in 1732 by Edmund, Duke of Harbinger,” drones Scrumble, switching into History Channel mode. “It’s been the scene of many regal gatherings, war committees and bloody executions. In 1886, Harbinger became a hospice for fever sufferers, then eventually in 1901 a mental institution. In 1978, the Hall was bought and renovated by local hoteliers, the Vanderloos.”

  “It’s really, er, posh,” mutters Fleur.

  “Harbinger Hall is the area’s most exclusive hotel,” announces Scrumble officiously. “We attract a mature, affluent clientele who visit for the breathtaking coastal views, the golf and our top-of-the-range spa facilities.”

  “But what about pop stars?” blurts out Fleur. “Didn’t MTV hire most of this place last year? For the Big Beach Boo . . . , erm, party?”

  Scrumble wrinkles her nose in discomfort. “Hmmmpgh! Don’t remind me! They’ve just rebooked for August too. The Scandal whatnots are playing, and some Bicycle Killer character is flying in from Los Angeles.”

  “Psycho Killa the rapper!” gasps Fleur, her eyes becoming glassy. “And the Scandal Children!”

  “Not that you’ll be fraternizing with any of them,” growls Scrumble, “aside from serving them their breakfasts. Now, are we clear on that?”

  “Mmm . . . yes, we’re clear,” we all groan.

  “Good,” says Scrumble, waddling off.

  Suddenly, Misty Beach, with its chilled-out sunny surf vibe, seems rather a long way away indeed. And as for Mum, Dad, Seth and the Fantastic Voyage? Well, they seem like another cosmiverse entirely.

  you’ve gotta smile (no really, you’ve got to)

  “Rules,” announces Scrumble, waddling around her office dispensing waitressing uniforms. Fleur has already been given a long frumpy bry-nylon pinafore that I can see her mentally customizing with scissors and glitter. The pinafore I’ve been handed is so shapeless I can only imagine that my predecessor was a pregnant Shetland pony.

  “I’m a great advocator of rules,” Scrumble drones.

  “Yet obviously not the Highway Code, you complete freak,” Claude mutters under her breath.

  “I beg your pardon?” says Scrumble.

  “I said, it’s good to have a moral code,” Claude smiles. “It gets one through the week.”

  “Precisely, Claudette,” says Scrumble, opening a file and thrusting three sheets under our noses. “So, read these and learn them by heart.”

  We begin to read. Fleur is the first to let out a whimper.

  HARBINGER HALL EMPLOYEE BEHAVIORAL CODE

  1. Punctuality is paramount.

  2. A waitress’s personal appearance must be immaculate. No jewelry. Neutral makeup only.

  3. The customer is always right.

  4. Waitresses behaving in a sarcastic, rude or surly manner to guests or management will be punished.

  5. While visiting the resort of Destiny Bay, Harbinger Hall waitresses are ambassadors of the hotel. Bringing the hotel into disrepute is unacceptable.

  6. Dismissal from Harbinger Hall will result in loss of hotel accommodation with immediate effect.

  7. Waitresses will NOT canoodle with the guests.

  8. Waitresses will NOT entertain members of the opposite sex in their accommodation. Spot checks will be made.

  9. Waitresses must provide their own meals and NOT eat from the kitchen.

  10. A happy disposition is compulsory! All waitresses must look cheerful and jubilant while in view of the guests. For appropriate width of smile see affixed Diagram A.

  “These seem . . . er, reasonable,” says Claude.

  “Neutral makeup!” shudders Fleur. “How old am I, thirty?”

  “I’m sure I’ll be just fine with this no-sarcasm rule,” I say dryly.

  “Accommodation,” says Scrumble, ignoring us all. “Now, collect your belongings, girls, and follow me to the West Turret. And remember, we’re heading out into Harbinger Hall now, so everybody smile.”

  In a flash, Scrumble is through her office door, pulling a weird “happy-happy-joy-joy” face so unnatural she just looks like she is wrestling a trapped fart. We march through Harbinger Hall’s rather ostentatious gold-and-marble reception, chaotic with check-ins and check-outs plus dozens of bellboys carrying luggage, turning right down a sumptuous pastel-colored main thoroughfare, which is bedecked with chandeliers, past Lady Tattershall’s Ballroom, then past Captain Morgan’s Dining Room, where dinner is in full swing and a small orchestra is playing.

  As news spreads of Scrumble approaching, you can literally see the expressions of Harbinger Hall’s staff strain into weird variations of the requisite cheerful face. People are pulling weird forced smiley faces everywhere!

  “Good evening, Miss Scrumble!” says one waiter as we pass by, pulling what is quite frankly a Count Dracula face. “What a lovely evening we’re having.”

  “Good evening, Jeremy,” Scrumble bristles as she turns to us. “See, girls? Everybody has a smile at Harbinger Hall.”

  “Make them stop,” mutters Fleur. “They’re frightening me.”

  “This way for the West Turret!” points Scrumble, taking a swift right. “Come on, girls, don’t dilly-dally.”

  Suddenly a rather cute bellboy appears walking toward us, with blond hair and a smart green jacket.

  “Well, look here,” smirks the lad. “More West Turret inmates?”

  “That will be all, Joseph,” grumps Scrumble, shooting him a filthy look.

  “Good luck up there!” he quips.

  “Eh?” I shout after him. “What do you mean?” But Joseph just wanders away, chuckling to himself.

  “Ignore him,” commands Scrumble, ushering us onto a dark, rather eerie spiral staircase labeled STAFF ONLY.

  “How many steps is it to the West Turret?” asks Claude, gazing upward.

  “One hundred and eighty-eight,” announces Scrumble, ushering us up the dark stairwell. “They’ll keep you fit.”

  After much huffing and panting, we finally reach a large white door. Scrumble turns a large black key in the lock, and with a creak and a crash our entire world suddenly seems brighter.

  The LBD has a new headquarters! And it’s really rather fabulous!

  Our new apartment consists of a plain white living room with a threadbare sofa, a creaky armchair and an antique TV. In the kitchen in the corner, there’s a tiny oven, a fridge and an eighties-style microwave. The adjoining bedroom has three single beds with an en suite bathroom, which is little more than a cupboard with a toilet and a shower. Okay, it’s not much to write home about—it’s even a tiny bit depressing—but it’s clean, it’s all ours and now it’s home!

  “Here’s a set of keys,” says Scrumble. “The other set is missing, so you’ll have to share them. Now, is this all to your liking?”

  “It’s amazing,” whispers Claude, staring around the apartment, getting a little glassy eyed. “Thank you.”

  “It’s just . . . wow!” says Fleur, running into the bedroom and throwing her suitcase on the comfiest-looking bed near the window.

  “We can see the sea!” I shout, throwing open the large living room window, letting in a blast of salty air. Our apartment overlooks a garden that reaches right to the cliff’s edge. To the left, we can see the lights of Destiny Bay twinkling a mile away along the coast. Ahead lies the ocean, stretching as far as the eye can see. Far in the distance, a lighthouse shines out, warning ships away from the rocks.

  I stand there for a second, gazing out to sea at the regular, revolving beam, remembering a daft song that I used to sing for Nan when I was a little girl called “You Can’t Keep a Horse in a Lighthouse.” I learned it at school in Year 3, and whenever I went to Nan’s, she used to make me stand on a dining chair and sing it for her and Granddad.

  A small lump forms in my throat. I’d never have done any of this without Nan. Made friends a
gain with Fleur and Claude. Gone to Destiny Bay.

  I can’t stop replaying the last time I ever saw her. Standing there in her doorway at 11 Dewers Drive, waving me good-bye. I wish I’d run back and given her one last hug. And told her thank you.

  I was an idiot. I really thought she’d be around forever.

  “Hey, Miss Scrumble, can you get down to the beach from here?” asks Fleur, pointing at the cliff path.

  “Pardon?” barks Scrumble. “Beach? Oh, well, there is a cove down that path, but it’s just, erm, spiky rocks, algae and, er, dead seagulls. Your nearest sandy beach is in Destiny Bay . . . Now, anyway,” Scrumble looks at her clipboard, “your first breakfast shifts are tomorrow morning. You’re scheduled for the lunch shifts too. Assemble at 5:45 A.M. in the dining room and introduce yourselves to Siegmund, the general manager. Good evening to you.”

  “Five forty-five . . . ,” gasps Fleur.

  But Scrumble has already vanished.

  “Come here, girls,” mutters Claude, dragging me and Fleur into an impromptu tearful LBD group hug. “We’re here! We’ve finally made it!”

  bigger than God

  “Who in Mary’s name are you three?” sighs Siegmund Brewster as we amble into the vast dining room promptly at 5:45 A.M. Siegmund, with his neatly coiffed dark hair, fabulously expensive black suit and beguilingly shiny shoes, is peering at us oddly. I’d swear his eyebrows have been pruned into perfect arches. They’re just too perfect.

  The LBD, needless to say, don’t look so glossy. Having sat up till after 1 A.M. last night gossiping about Baz Kauffman’s halitosis, my eyes are sliding down my face.

  “Hello, Siegmund. I’m Claude, that’s Fleur and that’s Ronnie,” Claude announces. “We’re your, er, new waitresses.”

  “My new . . . what? Where’s Saul, Clem and that other boy gone to? Did they quit?” gasps Siegmund, putting his hand to his mouth in amazement. “Ha! Oh well, never mind. Three more lambs to the slaughter! Where does Scrumble find you people?”

  “You . . . you didn’t know we were coming?” stutters Claude.

  “Hmmm . . . ,” says Siegmund, scanning his memory theatrically. “Now, I do remember a ghastly memo of some description crossing my peripheral vision.”

  “Great,” sighs Claude, relieved.

  “But I didn’t read it,” frowns Siegmund. “Scrumble should know by now, I don’t do memos.”

  “Oh,” we groan. This is a highly auspicious beginning.

  “Mais, ça ne fait rien, you’re here now,” smiles Siegmund, clapping his hands. “Huzzah for that! Willing waitresses are always welcome around here . . . Now, I’m taking it that you girls all know how to wait tables?”

  “That’s right,” says Claude. Fleur examines her shoes.

  “Wunderbar!” Siegmund nods. “All right, so follow me. I suppose I should introduce you to the rest of the cast.”

  As the LBD stand, mouths open, catching flies, Siegmund turns on his heel and flounces off to the end of the dining hall, crashing through the white double doors into the kitchen.

  “Oh and incidentally,” yells Siegmund, turning again. “My official title is general manager. But I’m like God around here. Honestly. The ‘powers that be’ just won’t let me put it on my name badge.”

  By the small derisive snort he gives before chivvying us into the kitchen, I’m guessing he means Miss Scrumble.

  “Actually,” he adds, “I’m bigger than God.”

  Inside Harbinger Hall’s kitchen, a bulky man wearing chef’s whites with a ruddy face and eyes like pieces of coal is whisking a bowl of yellow gunk furiously, while beside him two younger lads are chopping herbs and kneading dough.

  “Rosco,” Siegmund shouts to the older man, “attention, s’il vous plait. Let me introduce, er, Fanny, Claire and Maud, our new waitresses.”

  I was about to correct him, but then I figured we may well be fired before anyone learned our real names. Best not complicate matters.

  “Ladies, this is Rosco Flanders, your head chef. Oh, and those are Gene and Leon, his two assistants.”

  While Rosco gives us a quirky military-style salute, his two deputy chefs wave hello. Leon is rather small and ferrety, age about twenty, with a silly mustache, and Gene is the same age, rugged with sandy hair and big friendly blue eyes.

  “Hey! Are you living here?” Gene pipes up rather mischievously, directing his question to Fleur.

  “Yes, we’re in the West Turret,” Fleur says.

  Leon and Gene look at each other in mock horror, then begin laughing. Quickly Leon is prancing about in a spooky zombie manner, while Gene cracks up.

  “What?” the LBD howl.

  “Rather you than us!” chuckles Leon.

  “Boys! Boys! Less of the nonsense,” barks Siegmund, rolling his eyes. “Girls, ignore them, they’re just excited to see beautiful women. I’ve had them locked in here making eggs Benedict since February.”

  The LBD decide to ignore them.

  “Now,” continues Siegmund, “before you begin, I need to warn you about Rosco. You may find he shouts a lot.”

  Rosco nods in agreement.

  “He’s allowed to do that,” says Siegmund. “We think he had an unhappy childhood. But if he throws anything at you, like, say, a shoe or an espresso machine, just tell me and we’ll review the situation. Right?”

  “Throws anything?” Claude and Fleur gasp. I just chuckle. It’ll take more than a shouting chef to scare me—I’ve lived with one for sixteen years.

  “Any customers out there yet, Sieg?” asks Rosco.

  “Not yet,” replies Siegmund, checking his Rolex. “Give them five minutes, though, and they’ll start to flock.”

  The chefs smirk as Siegmund cranes his neck to peer through the serving hatch. “They’re on holiday, for crying out loud!” Siegmund continues. “Can’t they just have a lie-in?”

  “Weirdos,” grumbles Rosco, opening the fridge and producing a ginormous tray of duck eggs. “I’d ban them. Ban the lot of them.”

  “You’d ban all of the customers?” says Claude, looking rather shocked.

  “Hmmpgh, yes . . . make my job a lot easier,” grumps Rosco before wandering off muttering something profound about Cumberland sausage.

  “Oooh! Spoke too soon,” tuts Siegmund. “Here’s one now! It’s Colonel Three-Minute Egg! Right, you, Fanny? You take him. Grab a menu and go give it to the old man with the navy blazer and the military tie. Take his order . . . believe me, it’ll be a three-minute soft-boiled egg with wholemeal toast. Well, it has been at 5:57 A.M. for the last four weeks.”

  “Who, me?” I shudder.

  “Well, you’ve got to start somewhere,” laughs Siegmund, throwing a large red leather menu at me.

  “Er, oooh, okay,” I stutter, my stomach doing double somersaults. I thought I’d at least get a training session.

  “Oh, and a word of advice,” yells Siegmund. “Don’t let him start talking about the Second World War. I’ve sat through the Siege of Monte Cassino with him twice this week already.”

  “Okay,” I nod, biting my lip.

  “Oh, and Fanny . . . one other thing,” adds Siegmund, as I waltz into the dining hall. “Smile!”

  at your service

  The LBD’s inaugural breakfast shift passes by in a blur.

  It’s a cacophony of kippers, eggs, bacon, croissants, extra spoons, missing forks and Highland marmalade, as legions of hungry, impatient and exceedingly snooty guests pour into the dining room, requiring greeting, seating and their orders taken. As soon as their bums are perched upon the scarlet velour seats, their moans commence for racks of toast, jugs of milk, organic butter and oceans of coffee. Chucked in at the deep end, the LBD, accompanied by a rather spiky Russian waitress called Svetlana, have no choice but to get to work, scampering all over the room, carrying plates, scribbling orders and attempting to keep the guests happy.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen Fleur Swan being so quietly focused and polite in my entire life! She does
n’t even throw a hissy fit when Gene and Leon put a comedy dog poo on a piece of toast and send her off to Table 5. It turns out our deputy chefs are big customers at Destiny Bay’s joke shop, Joe’s Jokes, and love nothing more than winding newbie waitresses up with severed fingers, plastic flies and fake blood. Horrid boys!

  “Ignore them. You’re doing just wonderfully,” winks Siegmund as I spin past carrying three plates of eggs Florentine, before pirouetting back toward the kitchen to shout some new breakfast orders to Rosco.

  “Cheers, Siegmund!” I grin.

  Of course, Claude, who’s only ever waitressed once before at a local wedding, takes to the job like an absolute pro, finding the time to smile and make small talk with every one of her customers. Claude’s guests appear to be leaving the breakfast hall with a spring in their step and joy in their heart, ready to embrace the day, commenting on Claude’s wonderful service. How does she do it?

  “That’s bizarre,” muses Siegmund as I pass his podium around 10 A.M., wincing as my toe pokes through my tights inside my shoe. “Room 205 has just left your colleague Miss Cassiera a fat twenty-five-pound tip.”

  “Wow!” I say. “That’s, like, good, right?”

  “For the breakfast shift, dear heart, it’s a miracle,” announces Siegmund, observing Claude as she helps a customer put on her mink stole. “It seems we may have a star in the making.”

  “What a surprise,” I laugh, rolling my eyes. But then I notice Svetlana, with her sleek black bob and horn-rimmed specs, shooting Claude the filthiest of looks. I put my head down and get back to work.

  Officially breakfast is served until half past ten, which means that at exactly twenty-nine minutes past ten, virtually half of Harbinger Hall deluges the dining room, sheepishly begging for eggs. And by the time the breakfast guests have cleared out, it’s time for the lunch crowd, and they’re more demanding than ever.

  Just after 1 P.M., I have my first meeting with a Harbinger Hall resident whom Siegmund affectionately terms Carbzilla, a.k.a. Mrs. Blaire Fontague, a huge woman-mountain with a dyed-black beehive and an ass as big as a TV set. I can see Fleur visibly blanching as Carbzilla crashes into the room. Very wobbly people give Fleur the heebies. I’m concerned she’s going to trot over and start making Carbzilla do squat thrusts and ab blasts right then!