Free The Way Out by Vicki Jarrett Page B

sounds.
    A key in a lock.

10 Types of Mustard
    The mustard is the worst part. Having to wear this Victorian chambermaid pinafore and not getting to sit down for hours – those things are fairly shit. But the mustard is the worst.
    My heart always takes a dip when one of my tables orders steak. The mustard tray is silver-plated. So are the ten little pots and the ten little spoons. The whole lot must weigh about a stone and it has to be held one-handed because the other is needed to spoon out gobs of gunk next to the steaks. I can’t put the tray down on the table because there isn’t enough room and anyway, it’s not allowed. I stand with the tray balanced on my arm, fingers curled upwards gripping the opposite edge to keep it all steady. It has to be held low, so the customers get a good view inside the pots. The longer they look, the heavier the tray feels. It’s like their looking collects inside the pots, fills them up with something heavier than mustard.
    Table five is taking the piss. I’ve been standing here for five minutes and my bicep is rigid and burning. The guy’s steak leaks a thin pink fluid. His girlfriend’s lipsticked mouth is losing the shape of a smile.
    â€˜And what’s that one again?’
    â€˜Black mustard seeds you say? How intriguing.’
    â€˜Amanda, you simply must try the Bavarian!’
    He knows what he’s doing and he knows that I know. I see his type in here a lot. They’re not here to enjoy the food for its own sake. They’d turn their noses up at the exact same dinner if just anyone could afford it. What they’re savouring is the tasteof their own money. But for some, that’s not enough. They want a little side order of toying with the waitress to really bring out the flavour.
    He’s faking a connoisseur’s interest. Enquiring into each mustard’s finer points, licking his lips, smiling slyly at his companion as he asks me to talk him through it one more time. Amanda avoids his glance. He’s trying to impress her but he’s failing. One of the perks of this job, possibly the only one, is that I’ve become adept at reading body language. Amanda clearly thinks he’s a dick. He doesn’t realise this yet.
    This secret knowledge gives me a glowing nugget of power. I swallow it down and, instantly, it spreads its warmth out and soothes the ache in my arm. Let him have his fun. That lipsticked mouth will not be going where he’d like it to go tonight. It’ll be pecking him politely on the cheek at best.
    Deep breath. Smile. From the top. There’s – English, Dijon, Course French with black mustard seeds, Honey, Wholegrain, Arran with single malt, Irish wholegrain with Guinness, with Drambuie, Bavarian sweetened with applesauce, and Apricot with Ginger.
    â€˜Marvellous!’ He leans forward nostrils twitching, waggles a finger over the tray and eventually settles on one. ‘Wholegrain with honey?’ he says, deliberately getting it wrong. Again.
    The way Amanda sits back in her chair, repositions her napkin, still avoiding eye contact. She’s distancing herself from him. She meets my eye for a fraction of a second then looks down to her lap again.
    Sorry. I know he’s a dick .
    â€˜That’s the Irish Wholegrain, sir. With Guinness,’ I explain. I give Amanda a raised eyebrow. What are you doing with him then?
    She sighs and brushes invisible crumbs from the dark bluesilk of her skirt. It’s complicated .
    I flick a look towards the bottle of wine nestled in a bucket of ice on their table. It costs more than I’ll earn in a week. I give her both eyebrows. Yeah, I see that .
    â€˜Splendid! Yes, I’ll have a little smidge of that. And… Let me see…’ He goes back to eeny meeny as I drop a yellow-brown speckled spot of the Irish next to his Sirloin.
    Amanda huffily repositions her cutlery. It’s not like that .
    We both know she’s