So theres this girl, Emily, who grew up in a childrens home in Birmingham. She landed a job as a waitress at this posh restaurant in London, proper fancy place. But then she accidentally spilled soup all over some wealthy bloke, and her life took a complete turn.
“Emily, do you have any idea what youve done?” shouted Simon, waving a ladle about. “Soup everywhere, the customers soaked, and youre just standing there like a statue!”
Emily looked at the dark stain on the mans designer suit and felt her stomach drop. This was itshe was definitely getting sacked. Six months of hard work, all down the drain. Now this posh bloke would kick up a fuss, demand compensation, and shed be out without so much as a reference.
“Please, Im so sorry Ill clean it up right away,” she stammered, grabbing a handful of napkins.
The man held up a hand to stop her. “Wait. Its my fault. I turned too quickly and got distracted by a phone call.”
Emily froze. In two years of waitressing, shed heard it allbut a customer apologising to *her*? That was a first.
“No, it was my fault,” she muttered.
“Dont worry about it. The suit can be cleaned. But are you all right? Did you burn yourself?”
She shook her head, still not believing what was happening. The man was in his late forties, salt-and-pepper hair, glasses. He spoke calmly, none of that fake polite tone rich customers usually put on.
“Right then, Ill nip off and change, and you bring me another bowl of soup. Just be careful this time, yeah?” He gave her a small smile.
Out of nowhere, the manager, Ian, appeared. “Mr. Harrington, Im so sorry about this! Well cover the dry cleaning, of course”
“Ian, really, its fine. No harm done.”
Emily brought a fresh bowl of soup, her hands still shaking. Harrington ate slowly, glancing at her now and then like he was deep in thought.
“Whats your name?”
“Emily.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Six months.”
“Do you like it?”
She shrugged. What was there to say? A jobs a job. The pays decent, and the teams all rightmost of the time.
“Where did you work before?”
Easy question, but Emily tensed up. Rich blokes dont just casually ask waitresses about their pasts.
“Another café,” she said shortly.
Harrington nodded and didnt push it. He paid, left a generous tip, and left.
“You got lucky,” Simon grumbled. “If Id had a customer like that back in my day, Id be retired by now.”
A week later, Harrington came back. Same table, asked for Emily to serve him.
“Howve you been?” he asked when she brought the menu.
“Fine.”
“Where do you live?”
“I rent a room.”
“On your own?”
Emily put the menu down a bit too sharply. “And?”
Harrington held up his hands. “Sorry, didnt mean to pry. You just remind me of someone.”
“Who?”
“My sister. She was independent at your age too.”
Something twisted inside Emily. *Was*. Past tense.
“She worked somewhere?”
“No,” Harrington paused. “Shes been gone a long time.”
Their chat was cut short by another customer needing the bill. When Emily came back, Harrington was finishing his salad.
“Mind if I come here often?” he asked. “I like the place.”
“Course not. Its a public restaurant.”
“And if I ask to always be served by you?”
Emily shrugged. The customers always rightespecially when they tip well.
Harrington started coming twice a week. Always the same order: soup, salad, main. Ate slow, sometimes took quiet phone calls. The perfect customer.
Over time, he opened up a bit. Owns a chain of DIY shops, lives with his wife in a big house in Surrey. No kids.
“Where are you from?” he asked one day.
“London,” Emily said vaguely.
“Parents around?”
“No.”
“Gone long?”
“Dont remember them. Grew up in care.”
Harringtons spoon hovered over his plate.
“Which home?”
“St. Marys in Croydon.”
“Right. How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“When did you leave?”
“At eighteen. First got a council flat, then moved out on my own.”
Harrington stopped eating. Looked at her like he was seeing her properly for the first time.
“Something wrong?” Emily asked.
“No, its just my sister was in care too.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah. I was at uni then, barely scraping by on my student loan. Couldnt take her in.”
“And after?”
“By then, it was too late.”
The pain in his voice was so raw, Emily didnt ask more. Some wounds dont need poking.
Next week, Harrington brought her a gifta little velvet box.
“Whats this?”
“Open it.”
Inside were gold stud earringssimple, classy.
“I cant take these.”
“Why not?”
“We barely know each other.”
“Emily, its just a gift. No strings.”
“For what?”
He hesitated.
“Got any plans for the future?”
“What, like a five-year plan? I 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. Youll learn.”
“Why me?”
“Because youre reliable. No complaints in six months, always polite. And Id like to help.”
“Why?”
Harrington took off his glasses, wiped them with a napkin.
“My sister went into care at twelveour parents died in a car crash. I was in my third year at uni. Thought Id tough it out, graduate, get a proper job, then bring her home.”
“What happened?”
“She died of meningitis. A year before I finished my degree. Didnt even know about the funeral till weeks after.”
Emily stayed quiet. Sad story, surebut whats it got to do with her?
“Ive spent my whole life thinking: if Id dropped out, got a job sooner”
“So what? Youd both have struggled instead of just you?”
“Maybe. But shed be alive.”
“You dont know that.”
“I do. That place was rough. If shed been with me”
“Look, Im sorry about your sister. But Im *not* her.”
“I know. But let me at least try to make things right.”
Emily pushed the earrings back.
“Ill think about the job. But keep these.”
“Emily, come on. Its just a gift.”
“Exactly. So I shouldnt take it.”
That night, in her tiny flat, she told her mate Sophiesame childrens home, grew up together.
“Rich blokes dont do nice things for nothing,” Sophie said, crunching on a crisp. “They always want something.”
“He acts like a dad or something.”
“Worse. Means hes got weird ideas.”
“Dont be daft.”
“Em, we heard it enough growing up: dont trust adults who are *too* nice. Remember what happened to Jess?”
She did. Jess left with some bloke promising the world. Came back pregnant and bruised.
“But the moneys good”
“Talk to Ian. Hes been around.”
Ian was wary.
“Emily, rich people dont give owt for nowt. Hes got his reasons.”
“Like what?”
“Dunno. Maybe cheating on his wife. Maybe wants a replacement daughter. Maybe worse.”
“He says its about his sister.”
“And you believe him?”
“Why not? Story checks out.”
“Youre smart, Em. But you trust too easy.”
A week later, Emily took the job. Not just for the moneythough that helpedbut because she was sick of trays and rude customers.
The shop was out in Enfield, selling hardware. Three staff, a stock boy, an accountant, and her.
Harrington trained her for a week. Patient, never snapped when she messed up.
“Youve got a good head on you,” he said. “And youre good with people. Youll do fine.”
First month was rough. The staff didnt warm to heryoung, inexperienced, bosss pet. But Emily wasnt one to quit. Worked her arse off, learned the stock, prices, suppliers.
Slowly, it got better. Harrington came weeklychecked books, chatted
