Short Story

Client: Pacific Publications Pty, Sydney, Australia - "For Me" magazine

Audience: Middle-income females, aged 18 - 35

A TOUGH ACT TO FOLLOW

So there I was in the big city, fresh out of drama school. Bright lights in my eyes, life savings in my pockets and the sort of confidence that stayed until I'd called all the agencies, the money started running out and I didn't know where my next meal was coming from.

By then, I wasn't just flicking through the "heIp wanted" ads - I was going through them with a fine-toothed comb. Yes, I had acting skills, and yes, I was going to use them, but once I'd gone to all the auditions I could, it was time to earn myself some real money so I could stay alive long enough to see my name in lights. Or at least get myself a bit part. Perhaps in a television commercial, even if that wasn't what I called acting.

I circled the final phone number that morning, counted out the last of my loose change and, taking a deep breath, popped the coins into the payphone in the hallway.

"Cafe de Paris, bonjour?"

"Hello," I said. "I'm calling about the waitress job in today's paper."

"You are? Fantastic! Get yourself down here, quick! Oh, you do have experience in a high-class restaurant like ours, don't you?"

I'd come to the big city to act, so now seemed like the right time to start.

"Of course" I replied. Well, I'd worked in a cafe for three hours, hadn't I? It wasn't what I called acting, but it paid the rent. Well, some of it.

"Good. Most of our lunchtime waitresses have the 'flu. When can you get here?"

"An hour?"

"Fine, see you then. Just ask for the manager."

Making a mental note not to mention anything about the first and last customer I'd ever served - and the dry-cleaning bill for his suit - I hung up, changed into something respectable and started walking.

The Cafe de Paris was, indeed, high-class: clean white linen tablecloths, spare waiters ostentatiously polishing the silverware - the works. The manager was obviously impressed with my restaurant experience. So was I - I'd made it up on the way there.

"Actress?" he asked. "Splendid. Be as French as you can."

That wasn't quite what I called acting, but l was handed my uniform and pointed towards the changing-room.

Fifteen minutes of squeezing into a French maid's outfit three sizes too small for me later, and ... voila! I smiled. I preened. I admired myself in the mirror. I was nodded towards table three.

"Bonjour," I said, handing the couple there a menu each. They were obviously in love. "My name ees Emmanuelle, and I am your waitress for zis lunchtime. Would you like a dreenk, per'aps?"

"Thank you, Emmanuelle," the gentleman replied, slowly, as if he thought I really was fresh from Paris, and could hardly understand him. "The lady will have a Campari and lemonade and I would like a whisky and soda, please."

"Pas de probleme, monsieur", I smiled, walking away. If that wasn't an award-winning performance, I didn't know what was. And when I remembered where the bar was, I asked for a whisky and lemonade and a Campari and soda.

I whispered a quiet thank you to old Mrs. Bateman at the drama school, once I'd convinced the couple that it was the barman who'd made the mistake and not me, and made extra sure I took their food order properly.

Trying to ignore the businessmen on table two, who were frantically clicking their fingers at me, I peered round the restaurant looking for the serving-hatch, until I glimpsed the manager watching me. I smiled, putting on the air of confidence I wished I had inside, and walked purposefully towards the exit.

He shook his head. I grinned back at him and kept marching towards the door, where I re-arranged somebody's coat so the arms hung straight down and neat and tidy. Now that was a good bit of improvisation, I thought, as visions of Academy Awards danced around my head. The manager seemed to fall for it, because he nodded, and then glanced across the restaurant towards the serving-hatch. Ah. So that's where it was.

The businessmen on table two were a piece of cake to deal with - just a smile and a flash of thigh and everything was forgiven, but by that time the food for the couple on table three was getting cold. I had to fix a grin on my face as I dropped broccoli onto their tablecloth, but it wasn't as fixed a grin as the one on the gentleman's face. I picked the trout out of his lap and placed it carefully on his plate, but his expression didn't change. He seemed to be shrinking, inch by inch, while his companion winced at the gravy I was spilling too close to her jacket by now.

At first I thought I'd overdone the double whisky I'd asked the barman for - this time with soda - to make up for my earlier mistake, but even in my days at drama school, I'd only seen anyone slide under the table like that after they'd emptied most of a tequila bottle.

"Excusez-moi, madame," I finally managed to say, "But I theenk your 'usband might not be feeling so good? 'E 'as just sleeped under ze table."

"No he hasn't, my dear", she replied, calmly. "He's just walked into the restaurant. Harry, darling!" she shouted, standing up and waving. "So glad to see you here!"

He smiled, and waved back.

"Emma's just had the most dreadful news and had to leave. Come over and join me. No point in wasting a meal, is there?"

While her previous companion crawled between the businessmen's legs under table two, her husband kissed her and sat down, listening with rapt attention to the story of whoever Emma was, and the call she'd just received on her mobile phone.

I slunk back to the serving-hatch, mentally handing the woman on table three the Oscar she so richly deserved ...

… because that really was what I called acting.

END