The Name I Call Myself by Beth Moran Page A

stepped back out from behind the tree and gave her a small wave.
    Speechless, she hung up the phone and handed Nancy to James, swapping her for a glass of champagne. Downing it in one, without taking her eyes off me she handed the glass to a waiter and headed to the side of the manor house, where a back entrance offered some shelter.
    I joined her moments later.
    â€œWell this is a fine crock of pickle,” she said.
    â€œYep,” I nodded.
    â€œWhat the Jiminy Cricket are you going to do?”
    â€œIf I disappear from work, I’ll not be hired again and this company provide over half my bookings. Plus, one of the other waiters is bound to notice when they serve me my smoked venison.”
    â€œLook around you, Faith. Champagne, swanky dinner, semi-famous swing band. This party probably cost five figures. If you don’t turn up, you’ll bring shame on the Uppertons. People will gossip about it for years. They’ll be a laughing stock.” She waved her hands in the direction of the marquee.
    â€œI can tell them I had an accident and had to go to A&E.”
    â€œWithout telling Perry? He’d be straight over there. You can’t pretend to them all you had an accident when you didn’t. And areyou really going to be able to hide from them all evening?”
    I checked my phone. “My break’s nearly over. I need to figure out what to do. Whose house is this, anyway?”
    â€œPerry’s aunt. Eleanor Upperton. The whole family are here to meet the woman who finally snagged golden boy.” She grimaced.
    I tucked my phone back in my pocket and folded my arms. “What if I told them the truth? I’m not ashamed of being a waitress.”
    â€œAre you sure? Are you brave enough? And if you did, you can hardly expect them to let you keep on waiting on them all at your party. You’ll have to be introduced to everyone, in your uniform. That’ll be it for getting any work done. And, no offence, but you stink of fish and could really do with five minutes in front of a mirror.”
    I shrugged. “Then I’ll explain to the manager. No one could expect me to keep working at my own party. I’ll tell her while you race home and grab me a change of clothes. I can call Perry and tell him I’m at work, but on my way.”
    At that moment, the catering manager opened the door, bursting out with a tray of salmon entrées. “There you are! Your break ended five minutes ago. We’ve been given the go-ahead.” She rammed the tray into my chest, forcing me to grab hold of it.
    â€œWhat are you waiting for? We’re twenty minutes behind schedule, I’m half blind with a stress migraine, and Richard just sliced his hand open on a broken glass. We’re already one man down thanks to that loser Karen not turning up. Do I give a filet mignon if her daughter’s fallen out of a window? Get those on the tables and be back here in two minutes. I want to see you harassed, pressured, in crisis mode. Go!”
    â€œErrr…”
    â€œGO!” She whipped out an inhaler and started puffing on it furiously.
    I glanced at Marilyn. “Will you call Perry?”
    She nodded. “Keep your head down, and serve the back tables. You won’t be recognized there.”
    The manager took a break from her wheezing. “If I catch youengaging the guests in a conversation I’m docking your pay. NOW WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING HERE?”
    Adrenaline pumping, I hurried over to the marquee as fast as I dared, the plates slipping back and forth across the tray. Ducking into the side entrance, I whipped each starter onto the table, trying to keep within the boundaries of professionalism so as not to draw attention from the guests.
    One of them leaned back as I plonked the plate down in front of her. “She’s not even turned up!” she drawled. “Gone AWOL . How utterly ungrateful.”
    â€œIt’s Larissa and Milton I feel