to break down into floods of tears. Within a moment of her emotional outburst he agreed to take a look, preferring it, Casey supposed, to female hysterics on the phone so early in the morning.
After the call, Casey hurriedly went through her packed bag of clothes and discovered that apart from two pairs of lilac lace knickers, her only other clean item of clothing was a low-cut grey mini dress more appropriate for a night out than an overcast Thursday morning or a pair of jeans with a stubborn red wine stain on them.
After fifteen minutes of trying to get the stain out, Casey decided it wasn’t going to shift, no matter how hard she scrubbed. She felt faint and realised she needed to eat something other than chocolate; she had a busy day ahead.
Pulling on her jeans and putting on the least crumpled top she could find in her bag, she left the flat and wandered the short distance down Dean Street, doing a right into Bateman Street and walking into the first cafe she came across.
The runny egg on the chipped white plate and the overdone piece of fatty bacon were just two of the culinary delights of Lola’s Night Cafe. Casey stared at what was in front of her, feeling her stomach turning over once again.
‘Not hungry love? Never mind.’
Casey tried to smile at the woman who was speaking to her in between breaking out into short bursts of
‘
Fly Me to the Moon’, which was being played on the radio. Contrary to the toothless woman’s belief, Casey was very hungry, just not for what was on offer on her plate.
Getting up to pay, Casey saw the scrawled sign behind the counter:
‘Waitress wanted’.
‘Are you still looking?’
‘For what? My prince in shining armour? Bleedin’ hell, he’s already been in; took one look around and fucked right off again on his white charger.’
The woman opened her mouth wide and cackled loudly, causing Casey to draw back from her rancid breath.
‘I meant the waitressing job.’
‘I know what you meant, love. You’ll be no good to me if you can’t crack a smile.’
‘Sorry, I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’
The woman stared hard at Casey, looking her up and down and pausing at the top of her head; as if the job depended on Casey’s height.
‘You’ll do. I’m Lola by the way. Now take off that fancy jacket of yours and grab an apron.’
By the time four thirty had arrived, Casey’s feet were killing her and she was certain there were much easier ways to earn minimum wage. The stifling heat of the cafe, with its smells of old cooking oil, greasy fry-ups and countless bowls of watery tomato soup, combined with the lack of food in her stomach meant Casey needed to step outside on occasion into the busy street to get some fresh air.
‘I’ll dock your wages for that.’ Lola had glared at Casey for a moment but almost immediately had broken out into a smile. ‘You won’t have to mind me, Casey love; you’ll get used to me jokes. Keep smiling is what I say; helps your heart keep beating.’
Casey had warmed to Lola and found the woman’s open honesty about her past life refreshing but startling at the same time.
‘I was a brass for nearly twenty-five years. Don’t look so surprised! I didn’t always look like this. I use to have to put ear plugs in from all the wolf whistles I got.’
Lola laughed again and then her face went serious. ‘I would’ve carried on being a tom if it wasn’t for my last husband; been married five times and all of them were a waste of bog paper; but the last one, he was something else. You’ll probably see him in here from time to time, but take my advice, love – don’t be drawn in by his gift of the gab. Do yourself a favour and stay clean away.’
Casey nodded, taking in all the information.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Oscar Harding.’
Old Compton Street was packed with tourists with London guide maps in their hands and puzzled looks on their faces. It was nearly six o’clock and Casey wanted to sleep, but
After the call, Casey hurriedly went through her packed bag of clothes and discovered that apart from two pairs of lilac lace knickers, her only other clean item of clothing was a low-cut grey mini dress more appropriate for a night out than an overcast Thursday morning or a pair of jeans with a stubborn red wine stain on them.
After fifteen minutes of trying to get the stain out, Casey decided it wasn’t going to shift, no matter how hard she scrubbed. She felt faint and realised she needed to eat something other than chocolate; she had a busy day ahead.
Pulling on her jeans and putting on the least crumpled top she could find in her bag, she left the flat and wandered the short distance down Dean Street, doing a right into Bateman Street and walking into the first cafe she came across.
The runny egg on the chipped white plate and the overdone piece of fatty bacon were just two of the culinary delights of Lola’s Night Cafe. Casey stared at what was in front of her, feeling her stomach turning over once again.
‘Not hungry love? Never mind.’
Casey tried to smile at the woman who was speaking to her in between breaking out into short bursts of
‘
Fly Me to the Moon’, which was being played on the radio. Contrary to the toothless woman’s belief, Casey was very hungry, just not for what was on offer on her plate.
Getting up to pay, Casey saw the scrawled sign behind the counter:
‘Waitress wanted’.
‘Are you still looking?’
‘For what? My prince in shining armour? Bleedin’ hell, he’s already been in; took one look around and fucked right off again on his white charger.’
The woman opened her mouth wide and cackled loudly, causing Casey to draw back from her rancid breath.
‘I meant the waitressing job.’
‘I know what you meant, love. You’ll be no good to me if you can’t crack a smile.’
‘Sorry, I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’
The woman stared hard at Casey, looking her up and down and pausing at the top of her head; as if the job depended on Casey’s height.
‘You’ll do. I’m Lola by the way. Now take off that fancy jacket of yours and grab an apron.’
By the time four thirty had arrived, Casey’s feet were killing her and she was certain there were much easier ways to earn minimum wage. The stifling heat of the cafe, with its smells of old cooking oil, greasy fry-ups and countless bowls of watery tomato soup, combined with the lack of food in her stomach meant Casey needed to step outside on occasion into the busy street to get some fresh air.
‘I’ll dock your wages for that.’ Lola had glared at Casey for a moment but almost immediately had broken out into a smile. ‘You won’t have to mind me, Casey love; you’ll get used to me jokes. Keep smiling is what I say; helps your heart keep beating.’
Casey had warmed to Lola and found the woman’s open honesty about her past life refreshing but startling at the same time.
‘I was a brass for nearly twenty-five years. Don’t look so surprised! I didn’t always look like this. I use to have to put ear plugs in from all the wolf whistles I got.’
Lola laughed again and then her face went serious. ‘I would’ve carried on being a tom if it wasn’t for my last husband; been married five times and all of them were a waste of bog paper; but the last one, he was something else. You’ll probably see him in here from time to time, but take my advice, love – don’t be drawn in by his gift of the gab. Do yourself a favour and stay clean away.’
Casey nodded, taking in all the information.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Oscar Harding.’
Old Compton Street was packed with tourists with London guide maps in their hands and puzzled looks on their faces. It was nearly six o’clock and Casey wanted to sleep, but
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