One Blue Moon by Catrin Collier

to cater for tea and snacks, and behind those there’ll be an archway that will lead into the main restaurant. More upmarket than this. It’ll specialise in cooked dinners and set teas. The second floor is big enough to house a function room. You wait until you see it, it’s as big as the silver and blue ballroom in the New Inn. Not that we’ll be anywhere near as pricey, because all our profit will be made on the food. I think we’ll aim for the club dinners. The Tennis Club, the Golliwog club. The store do’s like Rivelin’s ...’
    ‘And where exactly do I fit into all this?’ she asked icily, moving as far away from him as the small bed would allow.
    ‘I’ll need a head waitress.’
    ‘What about your sisters?’
    ‘Too young, too inexperienced. They haven’t the staying power. I need to put someone who’s hard-working and knows what they’re about in charge, to set them a good example. It’ll be worth ...’ he thought carefully for a moment, weighing up all of Alma’s pluses. She certainly knew how to work, and there was no shirking of unpleasant tasks with her. The first thing she did when she started a shift was to look around and set about what needed to be done, whether it was scrubbing the floor or serving one of the town councillors. On the minus side, he realised that once he set her wages he’d have to pitch everyone else’s to them, including the cook’s, and that could prove expensive.
    ‘How does twelve shillings a week plus tips sound to you?’ he asked, running his fingers through her red curls.
    ‘Sounds like more than I’m getting now.’ She struggled to feign gratitude. After all, a job and a pay rise had to be worth something, even if it wasn’t the engagement ring she’d hoped for.
    ‘Then you’ll give it a try.’ He fumbled in the bedclothes at the bottom of the bed for the underpants he’d kicked off earlier.
    ‘I’ll give it a try.’
    ‘Good, that’s settled then. Come on girl,’ he threw back the sheet. ‘If you make a move, we’ll go through the back door of the Horse and Groom for a quick one.’
    ‘Looking like this?’
    He jumped out of bed.
    ‘You don’t need to dress, not on my account, but your lipstick has wandered up as far as your nose, and your hair needs a good combing.’
    ‘Why you –’ she threw the pillow at him.
    ‘Come on, woman. It’s good drinking time you’re wasting,’ he grumbled irritably as he pulled on his trousers.
    ‘Here’s to the next town, and the next audience.’ Ambrose, the producer-cum-comic of the revue shouted as he held up a bottle of champagne. ‘May they be as kind, welcoming and, God willing, a little more forthcoming and richer than the audiences here.’ He looked around, gauging the reaction to his poor joke. ‘Is everyone’s glass full?’ he asked abruptly.
    ‘Not mine,’ Tessie giggled.
    ‘Yours is never full, Tessie,’ he reprimanded humourlessly.
    ‘Never,’ she simpered in a voice that squeaked from too much cheap sherry.
    ‘And here’s to the best callboy in the business.’ Ambrose touched his glass to Haydn’s and winked.
    Haydn pretended not to see the wink. He’d been careful to leave Ambrose’s dressing-room door open all week when he’d delivered the evening Echo.
    ‘If the oldest,’ Tessie sniped.
    ‘Leave it off, Tess,’ Patsy the head chorus girl muttered through clenched teeth.
    ‘Right then, where are we going to carry on?’ Ambrose slurred.
    ‘Depends on what you mean by “carry on”,’ Tessie giggled archly.
    ‘Two foot nine I think,’ the manager suggested, pointedly ignoring Tessie. ‘They’re not too particular there about closing hours.’ He had the urge to add, ‘or clientele’. Some of the girls had a disconcerting habit of dressing for the stage, off it. Half a dozen looked modest enough. They could have sat in the New Inn and passed unnoticed, but a few, Tessie included, could have lost themselves amongst the ladies of the town who were touting