Free The Woman Who Knew What She Wanted by William Coles Page B

better,’ I said.
    â€˜You said it!’
    We both laughed. Although her English was perfect, Annette had that delicious hurdy-gurdy accent that can only come from Scandinavia.
    â€˜Tough break,’ I said. ‘You come all the way over to England searching for fit guys, and all you find is—’
    â€˜That I have jumped straight out of the frying pan into the furnace,’ she said.
    â€˜Why aren’t you working in the dining room?’ I said.
    â€˜All the jobs had gone,’ she said. ‘But I like it with the maids.’
    â€˜Don’t have to mix with the men.’
    â€˜So ugly!’
    â€˜Particularly that guy who was asking you to the pub yesterday.’
    â€˜Yes!’ she said. ‘He was bad!’ She looked at me meaningfully. ‘But there are many men here who are much worse!’
    I laughed. I was so happy, swinging with her in the sun. I looked at her bare legs, and the way her dress clung to her thighs.
    An open-top Mercedes sports car, sky blue, was cruising past the playground. There were two women inside. The driver had brown hair and sunglasses, while her companion was a blonde with a red beret.
    â€˜Must be coming up to lunchtime,’ I said.
    Annette waved as I wandered out of the playground. By chance
I happened to leave just as the two women were getting out of their car. They were both about forty and chic. The driver, a brunette, was the more understated in a suede skirt and a light top. She had a warm, open face. She was laughing. Her blonde passenger was wearing a tight black skirt and a ruffled blouse in shocking pink. They were on the forecourt when Anthony bustled outside to greet them. He kissed them both before leading them in. His hand was cupped very lightly on the brunette’s back.
    In the dining room, there was an anticipatory hum as we waited for the first guests. Black shoes gleamed with new polish. Trousers were pressed, tunics pristine. I rubbed my hands together. They were wet with sweat. Oliver was standing by the windows looking out to the sea, his hands behind his back. His Adam’s apple bobbled in his throat.
    â€˜I have never done this before,’ he said. ‘My father would not allow it.’
    â€˜You’re going to be fantastic,’ I said.
    â€˜I am very clumsy. I smash things.’
    â€˜You’ll be fine. They’ll think it’s all part of the show.’
    The first diners were coming into the room. Anthony escorted them to their tables. A young family from Swanage was given a table by the windows. The children were on best behaviour.
    I gave them a minute to settle and then went over with some menus. I smiled, cheery, effusive. ‘Welcome to the Knoll House Hotel,’ I said. It was perhaps a little formal, but I stuck with that opening line for the rest of my time there.
    I fetched them bread and a jug of water, and milk for the children and a bottle of Sancerre for the parents. I poured the wine, giving the bottle a twist to stop the drips. The man tasted it. ‘Lovely,’ he said. I filled the two glasses.
    Anthony had been watching me from the central station. ‘Very nicely done, Kim,’ he said. ‘Let me introduce you to some diners.
I would like you to look after them.’
    They were the two women who I’d seen earlier in the sky-blue Mercedes. They were already sitting at Enid Blyton’s table. The brunette was sitting with her back to the wall. She had a light smile as we walked over; she was interested in everything and everyone.
    â€˜Ladies, this is Kim. He’ll be looking after you today. Kim, this is Greta.’ The woman with the blonde hair shook my hand. She had a tight, bird-like face, quite angular. ‘Hi Kim,’ she said.
    â€˜And this’ – was there a beat just then, or is it my imagination? – ‘is Cally.’
    Cally smiled at me. She looked playful, fun. Up close, I would have said she was in her late