An orphan raised in a childrens home found work as a waitress in a posh London restaurant. But when she accidentally spilled soup on a wealthy diner, her life took an unexpected turn.
“Good Lord, girl, do you have any idea what youve done?” Simon barked, brandishing a ladle. “Soup all over the floor, the customer drenched, and you just stand there like a marble statue!”
Emily stared at the dark stain spreading across the mans tailored suit and felt her stomach twist. This was ither job was over. Six months of hard work, down the drain. Now this posh bloke would make a scene, demand compensation, and shed be sacked without a penny.
“Im so sorryIll clean it straight away,” she stammered, snatching napkins from the table.
The man held up a hand. “Wait. Its my fault. I turned too quicklywas distracted by a call.”
Emily froze. In two years of waitressing, shed heard every insult imaginable, but a customer apologising to her? That was a first.
“No, it was my clumsiness,” she muttered.
“Dont fret. The suit can be cleaned. But are you hurt?”
She shook her head, still baffled. The man was in his mid-forties, with greying hair and wire-framed glasses. His voice was calm, without the stiff politeness wealthy patrons usually affected.
“Then let me change, and you bring another bowl. Just mind your step this time,” he said with a faint smile.
James, the floor manager, materialised from nowhere.
“Mr. Whitmore, my deepest apologies! Well cover the cost of the suit, of course”
“James, dont trouble yourself. Its fine.”
Emily delivered the fresh soup, hands still unsteady. Whitmore ate slowly, occasionally glancing at her with an odd thoughtfulness.
“Whats your name?”
“Emily.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Six months.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
She shrugged. What was there to say? A job was a job. The pay was decent, and the staff could be worse.
“Where were you before this?”
An easy question, yet Emily tensed. Wealthy men didnt make idle chatter with waitresses about their pasts.
“Another café,” she replied shortly.
Whitmore nodded and pressed no further. He paid the bill, left a generous tip, and left.
“Youve lucked out,” Simon grumbled. “If Id had a customer like that in my day, Id be retired in the Bahamas by now.”
A week later, Whitmore returned. He took the same table and requested Emily.
“How are you?” he asked as she handed him the menu.
“Fine.”
“Where do you live?”
“A rented flat.”
“Alone?”
Emily set the menu down a little too firmly. “And?”
Whitmore raised his hands. “Forgive meI didnt mean to pry. You just remind me of someone.”
“Who?”
“My sister. She was just as independent at your age.”
Emily felt a pang. “Was”meaning she was gone.
“Does she work somewhere?”
“No,” Whitmore paused. “She passed a long time ago.”
Another customer interrupted, asking for the bill. When Emily returned, Whitmore was finishing his salad.
“May I dine here often?” he asked. “I rather like the place.”
“Its a public restaurant.”
“And if I request you as my server each time?”
Emily shrugged. The customer was always rightespecially when they tipped well.
Whitmore began visiting twice a week. He ordered the same meal: soup, salad, a main course. Ate unhurriedly, sometimes murmuring into his phone. The ideal guest.
Gradually, he shared bits about himself. Owned a chain of home improvement stores, lived with his wife in a country house. No children.
“Where are you from?” he asked once.
“London,” Emily said vaguely.
“Are your parents alive?”
“No.”
“Gone long?”
“I dont remember them. Grew up in care.”
Whitmores spoon hovered mid-air.
“Which home?”
“St. Marys, near Kensington.”
“I see. How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“When did you leave?”
“At eighteen. First a hostel, then my own place.”
Whitmore stopped eating. He studied her as if seeing her properly for the first time.
“Is something wrong?” Emily asked.
“No, its just my sister was in care too.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“Yes. I was at university thencouldnt take her in. Barely scraped by on my grant.”
“And then?”
“Then it was too late.”
The raw grief in his voice silenced her. Some wounds werent hers to poke.
The following week, Whitmore brought a small velvet box.
“Whats this?”
“Open it.”
Inside lay a pair of gold earringssimple but elegant.
“I cant accept these.”
“Why ever not?”
“We hardly know each other.”
“Emily, its merely a gesture. No strings.”
“For what?”
He hesitated.
“Do you have plans for the future?”
“Save up, buy a flat someday.”
“Would you consider a different job?”
“Such as?”
“Theres a manager position at one of my stores. Salarys triple what you earn here.”
Emily leaned back.
“And what would I have to do for that?”
“Work. Oversee stock, staff, reports. Youd be trained.”
“Why me?”
“Because youre diligent. Six months here without a single complaint. And because Id like to help.”
“Why?”
Whitmore removed his glasses, polished them with a napkin.
“My sister was sent to care at twelveour parents died in a fire. I was at uni. Thought Id finish my degree, land a decent job, then bring her home.”
“What happened?”
“She died of pneumonia a year before I graduated. I only learned of the funeral weeks after.”
Emily stayed quiet. A sad tale, but what had it to do with her?
“Ive spent years thinking: if Id acted sooner, dropped out, taken any job”
“So what? Youd both have starved instead of just you?”
“Perhaps. But shed be alive.”
“You cant know that.”
“I do. They mistreated her there. Had she been with me”
“Listen, Im truly sorry about your sister. But Im not her.”
“I know. But let me try to make amends.”
Emily took the box.
“Ill think on the job. But keep these.”
“Emily, please. Theyre just a gift.”
“Which is why I wont take them.”
Back in her bedsit, Emily told her childhood friend Charlotte.
“Rich blokes arent charitable,” Charlotte said through a mouthful of crisps. “They always want something.”
“He acts like an uncle. Almost fatherly.”
“Worse. Means hes got odd intentions.”
“Dont be vile.”
“Em, how many times were we warned? Dont trust adults who are too nice. Remember what happened to Lucy?”
She did. Lucy left with a man full of promises. Came back with a black eye and a baby.
“But the pays good”
“Ask James. Hes sharp.”
James was wary.
“Emily, the wealthy dont give without reason. Hes after something.”
“Like what?”
“Could be cheating on his wife. Could want a surrogate daughter. Could be worse.”
“He says its guilt over his sister.”
“And you buy that?”
“Why not? It fits.”
“Youre clever, Em. But too trusting. Expect too much.”
Yet a week later, Emily accepted. Not for the moneythough that helped. She was just sick of trays and tantrums.
The store sold DIY supplies in Croydon. Staff: three sales assistants, a stockman, an accountant, and her.
Whitmore trained her patiently, never snapping at mistakes.
“Youve a good memory,” he said. “And you handle people well. Youll do fine.”
The first month was rough. The staff resented heryoung, green, and favoured. But Emily wasnt one to quit. She worked dawn till dusk, learned stock, prices, suppliers.
Gradually, things smoothed. Whitmore visited weeklychecked books, chatted with staff. Warm but professional.
“Hows it going?” hed ask.
“Alright. Getting there.”
“Ring if youre stuck.”
“Will do.”
“And the flat? Still renting?”
“For now. Flat-huntings a nightmare.”
“May I help? Know a few agents.”
“Thanks, Ill manage.”
He nodded, didnt push.
Two months in, Whitmore invited her to dinner.
“At a restaurant?” Emily asked.
“No, at ours. My wife
