“You are looking after table eight. Yes?”
It was not a request and the gap between his eyebrows furrowed. Jack glanced at her, the mystery woman from last week… that woman.. and back again, alone. We worked together for two months, and I thought I had seen every nuance of his personality in those deep hazel eyes. Every facet was as unique as the blue-brown mood stones I lost myself in. This was different and instinctive… primal. My insides fizzed at the possibilities.
Heat prickled my cheeks, “Yes, Jack? Table eight?”
His smile bared those flawless white teeth, “Of course, Madame.”
A cheeky grin followed; God, he was good at riling me.
“It’s Mademoiselle. I’m not married.”
Too late, he was a blur of sleek lines, making a beeline for the brunette with endless legs in a slinky black dress. The same day of the week, the same time, nine o’clock. I hoped for his sake… and mine, that history would repeat itself.
“Maitre D’,” I muttered, and my shoulders slumped, only for a moment.
There were easier ways to earn money, and I returned to my admiration of table eight.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
I did lend the restaurant some authenticity. My training was in France, this was a French restaurant, but the location was wrong. Located between two commuter towns that served London, they threatened to swallow up this ancient village enclave. We attracted its well-heeled residents and those looking for a special occasion.
It was little more than a bistro that served Provençale cuisine, nothing to frighten most palates or expectations. Situated in a rambling Georgian house, it was a hotch-potch of architectural styles, added to during the centuries of its long life. It had a certain charm that could not be manufactured or imitated. Inside, it was welcoming and tasteful. Subdued lighting and candles on tables provided an intimate ambience with muted fabrics and oak parquet floors. The scent of food cooking and soothing French chanteurs helped define our sense of style.
Tonight was our usual midweek clientele, couples and not the larger bookings we endured at the weekend. We gave our guests space to breathe and be themselves. Our service was the same: friendly, warm, and never boastful; we let our food do that.
So far this year, we had four marriage proposals, three accepted… that one was awkward. There were the usual wedding anniversaries, dozens of those, and countless first, second, or third dates, some with champagne. A dead giveaway that he was getting lucky that night.
Jack was the youngest of our staff, perhaps the most capable, and he had a gift for this. Well, he might think so. Those bewitching eyes were attached to a handsome young man who understood the value of his scarcity, and he would make them crawl over broken glass for that. It was this arrogance that made me quiver inside for him.
And myself? I was always this way, petite, blonde with wavy hair, but now on the wrong side of twenty-five. I liked to wear them down with my expressive brown eyes. They were the windows to my corrupted soul, sirens to those I admired. Yet, I practised my expression of fay innocence to perfection. Enough men told me I was attractive; it did not go to my head. Yet finding love, and I would settle for less, was difficult when I worked such unsociable hours.
A black pencil skirt showed off my figure, and a slim-fitting blouse did the same. I made an effort, but only a little makeup – on the lips, not the eyes, never both. That was reserved for somewhere else, and no one had seen that for a while. Underneath, my secret was one of my very few creature comforts. Nothing felt better against my sex and breasts than silk.
I was not playing ball with Jack. But, if he made those moon eyes at me again, I had made my decision. He should have every exit memorised because I would eat him alive. Perhaps he liked to live dangerously; perhaps he had a death wish; maybe it was just a game hoping I would make the first move so he could turn me down. At the very least, he flirted with me, making me homesick. Worst, at home, I would fuck myself silly like last week.
Jack was born in the wrong country; he would love France. There, everyone flirted, even the chaste priests… and not-so-chaste ones. Do not ask me how I know. Hell… he would adore France so much, he would not see anything except a succession of bedroom ceilings and plenty of eager flesh.
Right now, on table eight, and the way she toyed with a loose lock of hair, he was going to add another bedroom ceiling to his collection. It was later now. Most of our guests were either finishing their main or onto dessert; a few were enjoying coffee. This was the time I loved the most. From my pedestal desk, I could watch the guests and wonder.
The young couple at table twelve were holding hands, which was sweet. This was the anniversary of their first date, he booked it, and I was hopeless for a true romantic. She looked at him and glanced away for a moment, a test to see if his eyes waited for her. They did, and she knew… I did, too. He was very much in love with her.
Some of our regulars were at table three, an older couple with little to say to each other. It was indecipherable until he looked up from his plate, and she smiled with a twinkle in her eyes; he reciprocated. They were content in silence. Again, they were still there, holding on, taking whatever life kept throwing at them. I wanted to be like them when I got to that age… with someone… as yet unknown.
Back to table eight, she was sun-kissed, slender, with brunette feathered hair down beyond her shoulders. Intensely feminine and easy to look at, I could imagine her with a striking man as her partner in crime. It was a crime that she was alone.
The other tables were ignored. I was admiring her as if my eyes were magnetised. Lithe limbed, very elegant in their movement, with a precision that matched her upright poise. She was too tall to be petite, too slender to be womanly. A slight tilt of her head signified her interest in my direction, and my throat hitched as the thought drowned my mind. She locked those ice-melting eyes onto Jack when he brought her dessert. Tarte Tatin, I had to give it to her, a delicious choice for a delectable woman.
Her dress revealed a generous honey-tinted decolletage and the cleft of her fulsome breasts. There was no way Jack could resist those, and his eyes would dip in admiration. Perhaps, he met his match. I hoped so. It was about time a woman, any woman, got their revenge on our fresh-out-of-university lothario. He turned tail, and she was checking out the buns of his behind. Our eyes met, a moment of fellowship as we smiled knowingly, and she returned to her dessert. My heart swelled; I knew something Jack did not.
Of course, his façade slipped before my eyes, too. I was an intruder to his thoughts and party to their conspiracy. It was not natural for his age; he should be blushing. No, he grinned as wide as the Cheshire Cat. He did not care that I knew it, too. The bastard made my insides tremble, and I thought he was walking up to me. Maybe he would gloat, and possibly he would torture me again. My eyes revealed my desires, stole my breath, and my heart skipped beats. At the last moment, he veered away at right angles around an imaginary corner. With a side glance, he chuckled. I was too young for hot flushes, yet, I was stewing in my juices.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Retrieving coats and jackets for our guests, with assistance if needed, this was the goodbye-and-come-again part of the evening. They left happy, with full tummies; some had more wine in them than needed. Gallant to the very end, the gentleman from table three helped his wife with her coat. That melted my insides. Thrusting twenty pounds into my hand, he thanked us for a beautiful evening as his wife beamed.
The couple from table twelve looked furtive, and I wondered if they had stolen some cutlery… it happens. No, I knew that look as she tugged on his hand. Hurrying him out of the door, I doubted they would make it home to consummate their evening. How passionate it was to be taken like that. In the back of a car, moonlit field, or in an alleyway, and risk being caught.
I scanned to see table eight, our last guest, drinking coffee with her half-eaten dessert untouched.
It was an early finish, just ten-thirty, and expected for a Wednesday. I counted the tips in the kitchen, and we had almost thirty pounds each. It was my house rule; we shared these with everyone. Thanking them for another excellent evening, Mindy, our other waitress, had her coat on. The chef, with his staff, headed out of the back door. Jack would present the bill to table eight; he was more than capable.