Just Desserts

Helen stood near the entrance of the restaurant, hands behind her back, eyes forward, scanning the street outside for prospective customers. "La Puissance" had only just opened and already the place was crawling with tacky hen nights and loved-up teenagers, not entirely appropriate for an establishment serving up classic French cuisine and bills reaching towards four digits.

The maitre d' was hovering nearby, as was custom for the maitre d' to do and Helen could sense his distaste for their current clientele. As someone who was used to serving the upper class and accepting the lavish tips that came with them, Henry had already told her that if he was presented with another order for chicken nuggets and chips, he would walk out the door.

For the time being though, those worries would have to wait. Two businessmen had just strolled out of the doors of the multi-million pound offices across the road and were approaching the restaurant with a look in their eyes that said they had their boss' credit card and weren't afraid to use it. They were men that Helen, unfortunately, recognized. Both were dressed in sharp, designer, pin-stripe suits that didn't have quite the same impact when worn by overweight, fifty year olds with beady little eyes and red faces that would have rivaled stop signs for color, the unavoidable consequences of too much alcohol and too little exercise.

Helen hated business lunches. No, wait, Helen detested business lunches. It was always the same thing. A couple of colleagues with huge pay checks coming in to spend and eat as much as they could but all were fussy and impatient and most were rude and obnoxious. Helen had a feeling this two were going to be all four. She sighed. Only four hours and forty-two minutes to go until she could clock off.

"Good afternoon, sir."

"We have a reservation. David Hill and Robert Sanders."

The speaker, David Hill, was the shorter of the two and also the fattest, if there was any difference at all. His hair, the little that remained, was ginger and Helen could vaguely see freckles hidden under his Tango tan and crimson complexion. His tie, a Homer Simpson edition, was knotted around his tree trunk of a neck and his stomach had the unhappy problem of hanging out over his belt. He was probably the ugliest man Helen had laid eyes on, until she registered his companion.

Robert Sanders, unlike Hill, had lots of hair, although it didn't do him any favors. The grey locks clumped around his haggard face, lank and greasy from all the Brill cream he had attempted to use while his nose was so long it hooked over his thin top lip until Helen could have sworn he was eating it. His ears were, as you'd expect, great, big flaps of skin that sprouted more grey hair all over them. His eyes, if Helen could have seen them, hidden as they were behind a pair of thick glasses covered in a layer of gunk, were a washed-out grey and severely bloodshot.

Both men were snobbish and pig-headed, their oversized egos radiating arrogance.

Helen, dressed in a smart skirt and blouse, her blonde hair tied back smoothly and little make-up, was their intellectual opposite, with a modest personality and a good work ethic. Yet it would only take one wrong move by this couple to push her off the edge, a very short edge in fact.

"Your table is ready if you would like to follow me."

Robert Sanders didn't look at her. Instead, he just replied sharply, "Yes but we should have one by the window. Can't stand the smell of the kitchen. All the fat and burnt embers that you put in this rubbish just make me want to vomit."

Helen was more surprised that he knew what the word embers meant.

"I'm sorry, sir, but the table by the window is reserved."

He sneered. "It wasn't a question, little girl. Either we have a view of our office or we take our money to your competitor down the street."

The art of patronizing: how to make someone feel stupid in one easy step. It looked as though threats were on the menu today as well. Helen would have liked to point out that both restaurants were in fact owned by the same person but she bit her tongue and refused to give them the satisfaction of knowing that they'd got to her already. If Helen could cope with giving birth, she was sure these two would be no problem. She grabbed a chair from the nearby table and hauled herself up.

"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen sitting by the window. Anyone who is prepared to move to this table over here," she called out, pointing to a section of the restaurant with a two-seater table and a plastic carnation, "will receive a free bottle of wine on the house."

Surprisingly or not, only one couple looked up. The elderly pair in the corner were either too deaf or too busy fishing Grandpa's false teeth out of his coq au vin to notice her, while the post-honeymooners had only just made up after his uncomfortable revelation over two hours ago. Her eyes focused on the young boy frantically trying to catch her attention and pitied his poor girlfriend opposite, desperately wishing to disappear.

"Would you like to step this way, please?" Helen sat the young pair down and made her way back to the suits, who were by now tapping their feet in a theatrical manner while a whole host of other waitresses scurried over to quickly remove the mess left by the young couple. One of the chefs brought over the bottle of wine for the adolescents after a quick signal from Helen to replace the contents with apple juice and lemonade. The boyfriend pronounced it as "Perfect."

"Your table is ready now." Helen led the way through the plush sofas and crystal chandeliers, passed the modern art works on the immaculate walls and weaved her way in between tables covered with brilliant white cloths and solid silver cutlery. Yet, even though the price tag might have read Laura Ashley, the MDF and emulsion paint screamed Ikea. What they didn't know couldn't hurt them and Helen had carried this motto into every aspect of the business, including the food preparation.

"Is this it?" Mr Sanders had barely sat down before pointing out that the table was too small, there wasn't enough light and that the service was too slow.

"Unfortunately, sir," Helen retorted through gritted teeth, "it is. Have you decided what you'd like to order yet?"

Both men stared at her with looks of horror on their faces.

"You mean to say, that only two minutes after you have seated us, you want us to rush our order just so you can fit as many customers into one hour as is possible?"

His colleague nodded furiously in agreement, "The service in this place is appalling. I've got a good mind to contact the manager."

"Certainly sir, but are you ready to order?"

Mr Hill sniffed. "Well if you would stop talking maybe we can actually get something done around here. I'll have the scallops to start, followed by the steak, rare. Make sure it's fillet, I know you and your cheap tricks. Then I'll finish with the cheesecake and a black coffee. What are you having, Rob?"

"The soup of the day, then the lobster and maybe the fruit compote, no, make that the profiteroles, actually the fudge cake. Yes, the fudge cake."

Helen was still pulling a leather-bound notebook out of her pocket, one of those pointless little accessories that are supposed to make a restaurant seem more expensive but actually do no good at all, like the mints that come with the bill to make size 6 models shiver or the candle in the middle of the table which only gets in the way and is just a magnet for young children. Still trying to remember Mr Hill's order, she scribbled like mad before thanking God at not having to ask them to repeat their order.

"And would you like any wine with that?"

"We'll have the 1987 Chateau Lafitte Reserve."

Helen smirked sarcastically. "The 1987? My, you have expensive taste. You're obviously experts in this field."

The smug looks on both their faces soon turned to looks of confusion but it was Hill who questioned her. "And? Is there a problem? They probably don't have it, Rob. I told you we should have gone for Italian."

"Well, it was probably just a slip of the tongue but it is the 1787 that is the preferred vintage among connoisseurs." Helen looked amused and this time it was the turn of the gentlemen to be humiliated.

"Yes, that's right, the 1787. And quick."

Helen strolled off in the direction of the kitchen, deliberately stopping to check that all her other customers were okay before placing their order with the chef.

"Alright Helen? See you having a bit of trouble with those morons over there. You know, I could make their sauces a bit… juicier, if you want." He winked at her but Helen grimaced. Good food was good food and Helen wasn't going to let Ben's saliva ruin it just to get her own back on a couple of jerks.

"No, don't worry. But thanks anyway."

She scanned the restaurant; everyone seemed to be happy. The music wasn't helping though. Helen hit the CD player by her side and the cheap French CD, produced by some pretentious English band, stopped skipping. Her customers were still on the same record though.

"Is there a problem, sir?" She bent over towards Mr Sanders, who had summoned her over after finishing his soup.

"Do you know how long we've been waiting for our main course? Over ten minutes. I've known snails that work faster than this!"

"Well, personally, I prefer to work at tortoise pace, but I get your point."

Bad move. Mr Sanders erupted with anger and slammed his serviette on the table, although the intended effect was somewhat lacking. "Either you hurry up and take these dishes away," he yelled. "Or we'll walk out without paying!"

Helen scooped up the plates, accidentally spilling Sander's drink. "Oh, bad luck sir. That must have been £500 worth of alcohol in that glass alone." She returned to the kitchen, pouring half a bowl of soup and at least two scallops in the bin. What a waste. They might have appreciated it a bit more if it had hit their pockets.

She picked up the lobster and the steak and after having second thoughts about Ben's offer, she took over their food. Only just beginning to walk away, the next situation crept quickly up on the horizon. This time it was Hill's turn to hit Helen's migraine with a hammer. Not literally, of course, but he might as well have been whacking her with a mallet for how she felt right now.

"I asked for this steak rare!" he called after her.

"That is rare, sir. Unless you would like me to bring you the cow…"

"Don't cheek me. I'll make your life hell," he snarled, his bright red face turning a lovely maroon color.

"Of course sir. Certainly sir. Absolutely sir," Helen sang. She practically danced back to the till, not caring if they refused to pay, if they walked out, if they took their story to the paper. She was perfectly happy treating these two as they deserved to be treated.

By now, the wine had begun to take effect and the sight of Hill and Sanders trying out cheesy chat-up lines on each other was enough to revolt even the most desperate of women. Helen took over their desserts, the last course in this excruciatingly painful encounter. As she thrust the final challenge down in front of them, she breathed in nice and deeply, except she didn't let it out again. The realization that David

Hill's podgy hand was slowly making its way up her leg made her want to scream. The plates crashed on the floor and Helen sprinted away, embarrassed and angry. There was no way she was putting up with that behavior. She picked up the phone.

Helen wandered around the restaurant. It was only a few minutes after the "incident" but the dinner rush had long finished. Only a few stragglers remained, including the suits and the geriatrics. Outside, another man left the offices and strode majestically towards the building. Unlike the other two, his black suit was more Marks and Spencers than Dolce and Gabbana but it was more impressive for this reason alone. His dark brown hair was sleeked back trendily and there weren't many other forty-six years olds in the world that had looks to make George Clooney shake in his boots, his brown eyes and slim waist the epitome of perfection.

He walked up to Helen, took her in his arms and kissed her in a way that made all other married couples green with envy. Keeping his arm around Helen, he inspected the restaurant. On seeing his two employees, Sanders and Hill, staring at him with horrified faces, he pulled Helen towards him and marched towards them.

"Gentlemen, how the devil are we? Didn't know you appreciated our fine chain of restaurants.

"Your…your restaurants, boss?"

"Yes, absolutely. Been running them for over three years now, haven't we Helen? This one's only just opened though." He looked proudly at the scene around him before arriving back to reality. "Hope my wife's been treating you well?" he added.

"Couldn't have asked for better service, to be honest." Sanders was having a panic attack by this time. Hill, on the other hand, remained speechless.

"Ah, David, how was the leg? Oh, you had the steak. My mistake. Is this my credit card? Do you know, I was wondering where this had gone." Jason picked the card up off the receipt and tucked it smoothly into his pocket. "Now all you have to do is find the…" He glanced down to check the total. "…£795 to pay my wife, with a tip, I'm sure, and then you can come back to work."

Hill briefly found his tongue. "And...and if we don't?" he stammered.

"Then I think you'll find the next doors you walk into won't be your office doors." Helen's husband looked down at the two men in his most authoritative manner. "They'll probably be the doors of your lawyer's office. After all, not only would you be accused of sexual harassment, there'd be a theft issue," he declared condescendingly. "Wouldn't there?"

The terrible thought that they might lose their cushy jobs was too much to bear and both men felt for their cheque books. As the two colleagues fished around in their pockets desperately for any loose change they had, Helen left them to it and walked her husband to the door, a satisfied look on her face. As much advice as she had got from watching chat shows, she had a feeling that even Jerry Springer couldn't have come up with a better solution.

She took a final, satisfied peek at the two businessmen pulling off their Rolex watches and diamond cufflinks before quietly replacing the phone on the hook.