Read Online A Brit on the Side (Castle Calder Book 1) by Brenda St John Brown - Free Book Online

faith. I think Bea will be fine.”
    I’m about to agree with her, but Jasper says, “The second the Fishers realize she’s never waitressed before, they’ll eat her alive.”
    “So we make sure they don’t realize,” Scarlett says.
    But three hours later when I’ve got three bowls of broccoli-stilton soup going cold on the counter and my hand is under the cold water because I’ve burned it, I’m not sure Scarlett, Jasper, and entire Royal Navy could protect me against the Fishers. Jasper was right; they are vile. Even the adults. I observed them from afar last night; since they’d prearranged a cold buffet with Mrs. St Julien to allow for varying arrival times, I’d helped Lou with the prep in the afternoon and then had a free pass the rest of the night, which I spent playing Fuck, Marry, Kill with Claire and Scarlett over a glass of wine in the cabin. Unlike the first night, we kept it to a single glass in anticipation of today and good thing. I can’t imagine dealing with these people hungover.
    I’d pay actual money to be back on that couch right now, even sans wine. Instead, I turn off the tap and dry my hand on my apron, going for attempt number two with the soup. If Angela Fisher says one thing about having to wait, I guarantee I’m going to tell her exactly where she can shove her waiting. The thought makes me smile, and I push past my mother’s voice in my head, though not before I hear it anyway. Nice girls don’t speak like that, Beatrice.
    I make a face and pick up the soup. Nice girls don’t break off their engagements to their perfectly nice fiancés either. “Are you okay, Bea?” Claire calls. She’s taken up residence by the stovetop--aka hob--where she’s stirring soup, sautéing vegetables, and making gravy while perched on a stool, leaning heavily on her left leg.
    “I’m good. Just trying not to end up wearing this,” I say.
    “Well, if you’re going to spill it…” Claire grins and I nod as I push the door.
    If I’m going to spill anything, I’ll aim right for Angela Fisher. She sits at the head of the table, swinging her long blonde hair and snapping her fingers at her kids, who are running amok through the dining room. She also snaps her fingers at any of the staff walking by who catch her eye and, unfortunately, it’s me who’s caught her eye most often.
    Now, when I bring over her soup and set it in front of her, she holds up her glass. “More Prosecco when you get a moment?”
    I nod and deliver the rest of the soup – one to ninety-year-old Mr. Fisher, whose birthday weekend it is, and one to a teenage girl who’s already declared it’s the only thing she’s eating tonight. Then I go back for Angela Fisher’s glass and head for the bar, setting it down a little too hard in front of Will, the barman from the pub down the street, who apparently works here when the St Julien’s have a lot of bookings.
    Will is the guy Scarlett told me about on the plane, the one Claire has had a hopeless crush on for years. I’ve tried to look at him objectively as I’ve waited for my drinks tonight, but I genuinely can’t see it. He’s nice looking enough, but wouldn’t turn any heads, although I’m not sure Jasper would either if I look at him like other people must. Will’s got a nice smile and seems laid back, but he doesn’t have a ton of charisma. Plus, his accent is odd. He sounds a bit like he’s talking out the side of his mouth, but I’ve watched his mouth as he’s talked, trying to understand him better and he’s definitely not.
    “What’ll you be having?” Will asks.
    “Angela Fisher would like another Prosecco. Do you think we could set up an IV drip?” I ask.
    “Take the bottle. Save you running your feet off a bit.” Will grabs a wine stand and brings it around the front of the bar, taking the bucket part back with him to fill with ice. Then he leans down for a bottle of Prosecco from a fridge underneath the bar and shoves it into the ice.