Perspective- Chapter 4

Saturday:

Chris’s Perspective

It was my Dad’s idea to go into Thame. He wanted to visit a man he knew when he was in secondary school who’s friendship he’d recently rekindled via facebook,

“Isn’t the internet a truly wonderful thing” he enthused manically, “Who knew that all these years Rob and I lived a mere ten minute drive away from one another?”

“Mmmhmm, shocking…” I replied,

“Why don’t you come with me Christopher? We’ll go for lunch after.” Originally I declined the offer, for fear of running into Annabel, but he tempted me with the promise of Rob having a teenage daughter and that I could have ice cream after lunch.

So that was why on a Saturday afternoon, instead of playing Call of Duty with James and Jake, I was being driven through the drizzle by my Dad who was getting increasingly angrier at the Sat-Nav who, it seemed evident, had absolutely no clue where Rob’s post code was so had decided to take us round in ever more confusing circles of streets. Eventually, Rob called to say sorry but they were going to have to rearrange as he’d just been called into work. My Dad, polite as ever on the phone, hung up and hissed a list of unrepeatable swear words, a couple of which were knew to me,

“Forty five F-ing minutes I’ve been lost and now the blokes too F-ing busy.” He concluded,

“Don’t worry Dad,” I comforted him, “I’m sure your old boyfriend will be free to relight your flame sometime soon…” I teased. Words, it seemed, proved too much for him at this point. Instead, he put the key in the ignition, turned the car around and begun figuring out how to get out of the maze and into the town.

Somehow we did manage to escape the Minotaur and ended up parked outside a quaint little café near the school. The place was already teeming with people but we managed to find a table for two squashed into the back. I looked over the laminated menu, yellowy in colour like it’d been dyed to look aged, but packed with delicious (if overpriced) lunches. I’d decided to have the soup of the day just as Dad was beginning to get arsey about the wait for service, then I heard a familiar voice beside me asking,

“Hello, are you ready to order?” I turned around to take in long, slender legs in jeans so tight they made my pulse quicken, my eyes travelled up her body to see a black vest top tucked into a small green waitressing apron, her hair which usually cascaded messily across her shoulders was tied up in a high pony tail, with just a couple of neat bangs framing her face, her eyes were heavily surrounded by make up but that couldn’t mask that they, unmistakeably, belonged to Annabel. I met those sea blue eyes, feeling so shocked I thought I could hear my jaw hit the ground.

“What did you want, Christopher?” My Dad asked, but it was like I’d lost all ability to speak. Once the initial shock faded, I was just left with embarrassment; I’d meant to avoid her after all!

“I… Uhh… Errrmmm… Chips.” I said, thinking of the chip she’d stolen from my mouth that Wednesday, how her lips had brushed mine, sending ripples of excitement through my body that were much more satisfying than if I’d eaten the chip,

“Chips?” My Dad asked, “I thought you were having the soup?” then he addressed Annabel, “I’ll have the soup in any case darlin’” She scribbled in her notebook and I hastily say,

“Uh, yeah I meant soup too. Not chips.” She nodded, still writing,

“And to drink?”

“Two cans of coke please” My Dad answered for me this time. Annabel writes this down too,

“Okay, I’ll be back with your drinks in a few minutes.”

As she walked away I noticed that, despite the neat semi-formal black waitress outfit, her feet were still adorned with a scruffy pair of purple connies. I smiled, it was still my goofy Annabel under all that makeup, although it should be duly noted that I was totally in favour of those jeans!

Annabel’s Perspective

The alarm on my phone went off at 8am, shattering the illusion of a peaceful world that sleep so often brings. I groaned and rolled over, my hand groped the desk to try and find the phone, then, I hit the screen with growing frustration until the alarm abruptly stopped. Milly, my sister, banged on the all-too-thin wall that separates our bedrooms and shouted,

“Keep the noise down, some of us don’t have to be up until lunch time!” I stuck two fingers up in her general direction, pretending she could see me through the wall, satisfied that I woke her up.

I gingerly disentangled myself from Fat Bob, the lightly snoring cat, who was dozing lazily draped across my feet. Then, I rolled out of bed and began to line my eyes with thick black eyeliner, I next removed my glasses and poked in a pair of contacts, finally I added concealer to the blemishes on my pale skin. It wasn’t exactly my usually quirky look, but as my boss often said,

“Half of being a Waitress is looking the part.” What he meant by this is the café is located right near a school full of teenage boys and an old people’s home full of pensioners, so find the balance between looking attractive and looking presentable so that both customers are catered for. I slipped into a pair of black skinny jeans and a plain black vest top, grabbed an apple to eat on the way, and began walking.

I worked at a coffee shop inventively named ‘The Coffee Shop’. Judging by the outside you could be forgiven for believing it is a cosy, traditional shop run by a kind-hearted and family orientated man. That is the impression the stripy green and cream curtains give, and the tacky statue of a moustached waiter outside with a permanently painful smile on his face, holding up a list of specials that is so corroded it clearly hasn’t been changed since before 1950. However, this was all part of a scheme the constantly angry, borderline psychotic boss conceived in his profit obsessed mind. In reality, working at the shop was a nightmare. You couldn’t make a single cappuccino without being told off for using too much or too little coffee and god forbid you use skimmed milk for a latte when they didn’t order it skinny.

Anyway, this Saturday was no exception to the rule. I got to work two minutes late to be greeted by a wide eyed Megan warning me earnestly,

“Quickly run and put on your apron before he sees you’re late” I nodded, already half jogging to the back of the shop where they are kept, but was too busy concentrating on getting there that I didn’t notice I was half jogging straight into the bosses chest… Until I’d done it,

“Annabel, you’re late.” He informed me sternly, looking at me down his nose. More than slightly intimidated, I nodded,

“I know. I’m sorry, won’t happen again.” He walked away without another word, apparently too exasperated by my tardiness to hang around another second. I looked at Megan, biting my lip, she smirked at the brownies she was arranging for display.

It was a fairly busy day, customers flooded in just before my break was scheduled, meaning it was postponed an extra hour and two more tables were added to my section. Cole, a waiter who’d just come back from his break smiled at me encouragingly,

“Cheer up Annabel; don’t you know that customer anyway?” He nodded towards a boy who was sat with, presumably, his Dad who was the latest addition to my section. I took in the boys dark hair, cut shorter at the back, his chiselled, tanned face, strikingly good looking despite being speckled with acne, his blue-gray eyes usually sparking with humour and his sheer height (at least a foot taller than me, which is rare since I’m fairly tall).

“Yeah.” I answered, “That’s Chris. I know him a little too well.” Cole looked at me in confusion. I sighed and made my way over to the table.

I hadn’t spoken to Chris since the Incident, as it is now commonly known. Straight afterwards we’d sprinted back to school because we were running late. In the following days he’d avoided the group, and now he was in the café. He couldn’t have known that he was in the café I worked in; he was very rarely in Thame except to go to school or to hang out at the park with the group. Walking over I imagined I was in an over-dramatic slow motion movie were the world was about to end, I took out my notebook and pencil and feigned confidence,

“Hello, are you ready to order?” He looked up slowly, his surprised eyes meeting mine, his jaw falling agape at the hinges,

“I think so” replied his Dad, in a slightly gruffer version of Chris’s voice,

“What did you want Christopher?”