Free The Movie by Louise Bagshawe

out. She had no savings. She needed this job. ‘Great. Like a piece of corn with that?’
    ‘No, but I’d sure like a piece of your sweet ass,’ cracked Oscar Wilde with the facial hair. His companions roared with laughter.
    Megan felt the anger bubble up inside her throat, but forced it back down. ‘Not on the menu today. Sorry.’
    ‘Mebbe tomorrow.’ Oscar wasn’t giving up when he was on a roll. He leant forward and jabbed a grimy finger into the cellulite on Megan’s upper thigh. ‘Mebbe you’d like to drop a couple pounds. I could help ya with that. Sweat it off. Get it?’
    Jesus. She felt even hotter, her clammy skin prickling with rage and humiliation. Had it come to this? Being propositioned by a bunch of slobs who were tellingher she was fat?
    ‘I’ll get the order,’ she.mumbled, and broke away from the table, her face the colour of the ketchup bodes.
    ‘Don’t mind them.’ Stacey, one of the other waitresses, put a soothing hand on her arm. Stacey was a petite redhead from Indiana who’d started two weeks before Megan; and the only girl in the place who’d given her the time of day. ‘They’re just assholes. Standard issue.’
    ‘Stacey, am I fat?’ She was transfixed by the sight of her friend’s slender legs, looking so cute in the itsybitsy yellow frilled uniform. And her clear skin, with no gathering pudginess under the chin. Green eyes and nea
     
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    red hair. Stacey could even look good in canary, a colour Mr Chicken might have chosen on purpose to make its waitresses look sallow.
    ‘No way.’ Stacey wasn’t looking at her. ‘This society’s
    all hung up on weight, anyway. It’s natural for a woman to have curves.’
    ‘I am fat,’ Megan said, horrified.
    ‘No you’re not. You might think about losing just a touch. But only if you wanted to,’ Stacey added hastily.
    Both of them glanced involuntarily down at Megan’s soft thighs spreading out under the raffled hem, orange peel dimples just beginning to form across them.
    ‘Hov’s the script going?’ Stacey asked hastily, changing the subject. ‘Got an agent yet?’ , Megan laughed bitterly. ‘Of course. Mike Ovitz rang
    yesterday. Which is why I’m still here, schlepping for standard-issue assholes.’ She broke off at the fight of Stacey’s hurt face. The younger girl wasn’t exactly Simone de Beauvoir, and she wounded easily. ‘Oh, Stace, I’m sorry,’ she sighed. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I guess it’s just getting to me today. I got rejections through from William Morris and Sam Kendrick this morning.’
    ‘Oh, Megan, I’m real sorry. That’s too bad.’
    ‘Ľeah,’ Megan said shortly. She glanced at her watch. Half-ten. Thank God. ‘At least I get offin fifteen minutes.’
    ‘You go on home. I’ll cover for you,’ Stacey offered, thinking how low Megan looked this evening, like a puppy with all the fight kicked out of it.
    ‘Would you? Oh God, thanks, Stacey. I’ll come in early tomorrow,’ Megan promised, rushing through the dirty double doors of the kitchen to get changed. She knew she shouldn’t have accepted, shouldn’t have taken advantage of Stacey’s soft heart. It only meant Stacey would be stuck with the jerks on table four instead of her. But God help me, she thought, tonight I just can’t make it through another minute. She felt so exhausted she could lie down
     
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    here and just sleep through all the racket and shouting without any problem at all. At least, she told herself grimly as she struggled out of the horrible uniform and pulled on her loose jeans, I could if the floor were cleaner.
    ‘See you tomorrow, Megan. Quarter of nine. Sharp,’ Mr Jenkins, the supervisor, said pointedly to her, nodding at the clock on the wall. ‘You don’t keeping mucking about with your shift times like this. OK? Shifts are set for a reason.’
    Megan mumbled something placatory, hating herself. ‘Want your Mr Crispy Special?’ Jenkins demanded, proffering her a small