**Diary Entry**
I never expected my life to change over spilled soup. Working as a waitress at The Royal Oak, a posh restaurant in London, had been my saving graceuntil that one clumsy moment.
“Are you completely daft?!” Clive bellowed, waving a spoon like a conductors baton. “Soup all over the floor, the customer drenched, and you just stand there gawping!”
I stared at the dark stain spreading across the mans tailored suit, my stomach twisting. Six months of hard work, gone in an instant. Any second now, hed demand compensation, and Id be sacked without a reference.
“Please, Im so sorryIll clean it straight away,” I stammered, snatching napkins from the table.
The man held up a hand. “Wait. My fault entirely. I turned too quickly while answering my phone.”
I froze. In two years of waitressing, Id heard it allbut never an apology from a customer.
“No, it was my clumsiness,” I muttered.
“Dont fret. The suit can be cleaned. But did you burn yourself?”
I shook my head, still stunned. He was in his late forties, salt-and-pepper hair, wire-rimmed glasses. His tone was calm, devoid of the condescending politeness rich patrons usually affected.
“Then let me change, and you bring a fresh bowl. Just mind your step this time,” he said with a faint smile.
Graham, the manager, materialised beside us. “Mr. Whitmore, my deepest apologies! Well cover the cleaning, of course”
“Graham, dont trouble yourself. Its fine.”
I brought a new serving, hands trembling. Whitmore ate slowly, watching me thoughtfully between bites.
“Your name?”
“Emily.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Six months.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
I shrugged. What was there to say? A jobs a job. The pays decent, and your coworkers are a toss-up.
“And before this?”
An easy question, but my shoulders tensed. Wealthy men dont ask waitresses about their pasts without reason.
“Another café,” I said briskly.
He nodded, leaving it at that. Paid, left a generous tip, and left.
“Lucky sod,” Clive grumbled. “Had a bloke like that fancied me back in the day, Id be retired in Cornwall by now.”
A week later, Whitmore returned. Same table, same request for me to serve him.
“How are you?” he asked when I handed him the menu.
“Well enough.”
“Where do you live?”
“A rented flat.”
“Alone?”
I set the menu down a tad too firmly. “And?”
He raised his hands. “Didnt mean to pry. You just remind me of someone.”
“Who?”
“My sister. She was just as independent at your age.”
Something tightened in my chest. *Was*. Meaning she wasnt here anymore.
“Did she work somewhere?”
“No,” he paused. “Shes been gone a long time.”
Another customer interrupted us, waving for the bill. When I returned, Whitmore was finishing his salad.
“Mind if I dine here often?” he asked. “I quite like the place.”
“Its a public restaurant.”
“And if I request you as my server each time?”
I shrugged. The customers always rightespecially when they tip well.
Whitmore started coming twice a week. Same order: soup, salad, main. Ate deliberately, spoke softly on calls. The ideal guest.
Gradually, he shared bits about himself. Owned a chain of hardware stores, lived with his wife in a Surrey manor. No children.
“Where are you from?” he asked once.
“London,” I said vaguely.
“Parents?”
“Gone.”
“Long ago?”
“I dont remember them. Grew up in care.”
His spoon hovered mid-air.
“Which home?”
“St. Marys in Camden.”
“I see. How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“When did you leave?”
“At eighteen. They gave me a bedsit first, then I rented on my own.”
Whitmore stopped eating. Stared at me like he was seeing me properly for the first time.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“No, its just my sister was in care too.”
“Poor thing.”
“Yes. I was at uni thencouldnt take her in. Barely scraped by on my grant.”
“And after?”
“After, it was too late.”
The grief in his voice silenced me. Some wounds arent meant to be prodded.
Next visit, he brought a gifta small velvet box.
“Whats this?”
“Open it.”
Gold stud earrings, simple but elegant.
“I cant accept these.”
“Why not?”
“Were practically strangers.”
“Emily, its just a kind gesture. No strings.”
“For what?”
He hesitated. “Any plans for the future?”
“Save enough for a flat, I suppose.”
“Fancy a career change?”
“To what?”
“Theres a manager opening at one of my stores. Salarys triple what you earn here.”
I leaned back. “And what would I owe for that?”
“Work. Manage stock, oversee staff, handle reports. Youd learn on the job.”
“Why me?”
“Youre diligent. No complaints in six months, always courteous. And Id like to help.”
“Why?”
He removed his glasses, polished them with a napkin.
“My sister went into care at twelveour parents died in a car crash. I was in my third year. Thought Id tough it out, graduate, land a proper job, then take her in.”
“What happened?”
“She died of meningitis a year before I finished. I didnt even know until weeks after the funeral.”
I said nothing. Heartbreaking, but what had it to do with me?
“Spent my life wondering: if Id left uni, taken any job”
“Then what? Youd both have starved instead of just you?”
“Perhaps. But shed be alive.”
“You cant know that.”
“I do. That place broke her. If shed been with me”
“Look, Im sorry about your sister. But Im not her.”
“I know. But let me try to set something right.”
I pushed the box back. “Ill think about the job. But keep these.”
“Emily, reallyits just a gift.”
“Exactly why I wont take it.”
That night, I told my flatmate Lucy, whod been in care with me.
“Rich blokes arent charitable without motives,” she said, crunching an apple. “They always want something.”
“He acts like a mentor. Almost fatherly.”
“Worse. Means hes got odd fixations.”
“Dont be vile, Luce.”
“Em, we learned young: adults dont hand out kindness for free. Remember what happened to Sophie?”
I did. Sophie left with a man promising the moon. Came back with a black eye and no shoes.
“But the salarys solid”
“Talk to Graham. Hes sharp.”
Graham was wary.
“Emily, the wealthy dont give without expecting. Hes after something.”
“Like what?”
“Could be anything. Midlife crisis. Guilt over his sister. Or worse.”
“He says hes atoning.”
“And you buy that?”
“Why not? Its plausible.”
“Youre bright, Em. But you trust too easily.”
Still, I accepted a week later. Not for the moneythough it helpedbut because I was sick of trays and tantrums.
The store sold DIY supplies in Croydon. Staff: three sales assistants, a stocker, an accountant, and me.
Whitmore trained me patiently. Never snapped when I messed up.
“Youve a good head for details,” he said. “And you handle people well. Youll do fine.”
The first month was brutal. The staff resented meyoung, green, the bosss pet. But Id faced worse. Worked dawn till dusk, memorised stock, learned suppliers tricks.
Slowly, it got easier. Whitmore visited weeklychecked books, chatted with staff. Kind but professional.
“Hows it going?” hed ask.
“Alright. Getting there.”
“Any questions, ring me. Day or night.”
“Cheers.”
“Still in that flat-share?”
“For now. Saving for my own place.”
“I know a few estate agents”
“Ta, but Ill manage.”
He never pushed.
Two months in, he invited me to dinner.
“At a restaurant?” I asked.
“No, ours. My wifes a cracking cook. Shed like to meet you.”
I hesitated. Refusing the boss felt rude, but dinner with strangers
