A girl who grew up in an orphanage landed a job as a waitress at a posh London restaurant. But everything changed when she accidentally spilled soup on a wealthy customer.
“Emily, do you have any idea what you’ve done?” shouted Simon, waving a ladle. “Soup all over the floor, the customer drenched, and you just stand there like a statue!”
Emily stared at the dark stain on the man’s designer suit, her stomach twisting. This was ither job was over. Six months of hard work, gone in an instant. Now this posh bloke would kick up a fuss, demand compensation, and shed be sacked without a reference.
“Please, Im so sorry Ill clean it up right away,” she stammered, grabbing napkins from the table.
The man raised a hand to stop her.
“Wait. Its my fault. I turned too quickly and got distracted by my phone.”
Emily froze. In two years of waitressing, shed heard it allbut a customer apologising to *her*? That had never happened.
“No, it was my clumsiness” she muttered.
“Dont worry. The suit can be cleaned. But are *you* alright? Did you burn yourself?”
She shook her head, still not believing this. The man was in his late forties, greying at the temples, glasses perched on his nose. His voice was calm, no hint of the fake politeness rich customers usually put on.
“Let me nip to the loo and change, then you bring me a fresh soup. Just mind your step this time,” he said with a slight smile.
Nigel, the floor manager, appeared out of nowhere.
“Mr. Whitmore, terribly sorry about the mess! Well cover the dry cleaning, of course”
“Its fine, Nigel. No need.”
Emily brought a fresh bowl, her hands still shaking. Whitmore ate slowly, watching her thoughtfully between bites.
“Whats your name?”
“Emily.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Six months.”
“Do you like it?”
She shrugged. What was there to say? A job was a job. The pay was decent, and the staff got on alrightmost days.
“Where did you work before?”
An easy question, but Emily tensed. Rich men didnt just ask waitresses about their pasts for no reason.
“Another café,” she said shortly.
Whitmore nodded and let it drop. He paid, left a generous tip, and left.
“You got lucky,” Simon grumbled. “If Id had a bloke like that in my day, Id be retired by now.”
A week later, Whitmore returned. He took the same table and asked for Emily.
“Howve you been?” he asked when she handed him the menu.
“Fine.”
“Where do you live?”
“A rented flat.”
“On your own?”
Emily set down the menu a little too sharply.
“And?”
Whitmore held up his hands. “Sorry, didnt mean to pry. You just remind me of someone.”
“Who?”
“My sister. She was just as independent at your age.”
Emily felt something tighten inside. *Was*meaning she wasnt around anymore.
“Does she work somewhere?”
“No,” Whitmore paused. “Shes been gone a long time.”
Another customer interrupted, asking for the bill. When Emily returned, Whitmore was finishing his salad.
“Mind if I pop in regularly?” he asked. “I like it here.”
“Course notits a public place.”
“What if I always ask for you?”
Emily shrugged. The customer was always rightespecially when they tipped well.
Whitmore started coming twice a week. Always the same order: soup, salad, main. Ate slowly, sometimes took quiet calls. The perfect regular.
Gradually, he opened up. Owned a chain of DIY shops, lived with his wife in a countryside house. No kids.
“Where are you from?” he asked once.
“London,” Emily said vaguely.
“Parents alive?”
“No.”
“Gone long?”
“Dont remember them. Grew up in care.”
Whitmores spoon hovered over his plate.
“Which home?”
“St. Marys in Camden.”
“I see. How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“When did you leave?”
“At eighteen. Got a hostel first, then scraped together rent.”
Whitmore stopped eating. He looked at her strangely, like he was really *seeing* her for the first time.
“Something wrong?” Emily asked.
“No, just my sister was in care too.”
“Rough.”
“Yeah. I was at uni thencouldnt take her in. Barely had two pennies to rub together.”
“Then what?”
“Then it was too late.”
The pain in his voice made Emily drop it. Not her place to dig up old wounds.
Next visit, Whitmore brought her a small velvet box.
“Whats this?”
“Open it.”
Inside were gold studssimple but classy.
“I cant take these.”
“Why not?”
“We barely know each other.”
“Emily, its just a gift. No strings.”
“For what?”
He hesitated.
“Any plans for the future?”
“What plans? Work, save up for a flat.”
“Fancy a change? Theres a manager spot at one of my shops. Pays triple what you make here.”
Emily leaned back.
“And what do I have to do for that?”
“Work. Manage stock, oversee staff, do reports. Ill train you.”
“Why me?”
“Youre sharp. Six months here with no complaints, always polite. And Id like to help.”
“Why?”
Whitmore took off his glasses, wiped them with a napkin.
“My sister went into care at twelveparents died in a crash. I was at uni. Thought Id tough it out, graduate, then take her in.”
“What happened?”
“Pneumonia. Died a year before I finished. Didnt even know till after the funeral.”
Emily stayed quiet. Sad story, but what did it have to do with her?
“Spent my life thinkingif Id dropped out, got a job sooner”
“So what? Youd both have starved instead of just you?”
“Maybe. But shed be alive.”
“You dont know that.”
“I do. That place was rough. If shed been with me”
“Listen, Im sorry about your sister. But Im *not* her.”
“I know. Just let me try to fix something.”
Emily pushed the box back.
“Ill think about the job. But keep these.”
“Emily, come onjust a gift!”
“Exactly why I wont take it.”
Back in her flat, she told Sarah, her mate from the care home.
“Rich blokes dont do nice things for free,” Sarah said, crunching an apple. “They always want something.”
“Acts like a dad, almost.”
“Worse. Means hes got weird ideas.”
“Dont be daft.”
“Emily, how many times did we hear it growing up? Dont trust adults who are too nice. Remember what happened to Lucy?”
She did. Lucy left with some bloke promising the world. Came back pregnant and bruised.
“But the pays proper good”
“Talk to Nigel. Hes got sense.”
Nigel was wary.
“Emily, rich folk dont give owt for nowt. Hes after something.”
“Like what?”
“Dunno. Maybe cheating on his wife. Maybe playing daddy. Maybe worse.”
“Says hes making up for his sister.”
“And you believe him?”
“Why not? Story checks out.”
“Youre clever, Em. But you trust too easy.”
A week later, she took the job. Not just for the moneythough that helped. She was sick of trays and rude customers.
The shop was in Croydon, selling hardware. Three staff, a stock boy, an accountant, and her.
Whitmore trained her for a week. Patient, never snapped when she messed up.
“Youve got a good head,” he said. “And you handle people well. Youll do fine.”
First month was rough. The staff resented heryoung, new, bosss pet. But Emily wasnt one to quit. Worked dawn till dusk, learned stock, prices, suppliers.
Things got better. Whitmore came weeklychecked books, chatted with staff. Kind but professional.
“Hows it going?” hed ask.
“Alright. Getting there.”
“Stuck? Ring me. Any time.”
“Ta.”
“Hows the flat? Still renting?”
“For now. Flat-huntings a nightmare.”
“Know a few estate agents if you”
“Cheers, Ill manage.”
He nodded, didnt push.
Two months in, Whitmore invited her to dinner.
“At a restaurant?” Emily asked.
“No
