As I headed to the door, I punched a Breakfast Club-style arm up in the air, and with a loud shout of, “She shoots, she scores!” ran to my Smart car, eager to tell all to the other Oink Fairy.
Chapter 6
The beginning of the Tudor reign
Les Miserables was shaping up to be the best production I had ever put on, and I couldn’t have been happier, but the stupidly long hours and huge pressure made me look forward to the October break like I’d never looked forward to a holiday before.
With only getting a week off school, I had decided not to go home for a visit – it took me four bloomin’ days to beat the jet-lag anyhow – so I planned to have a nice chill-out week in Calgary, all kicked off with a night on the razz with Tink.
I arrived home at five o’clock after finishing some paperwork, and I was excited as hell for a good night of drinking. Tink was at the restaurant and wouldn’t finish until ten that night, and I was to meet him there, prepped and ready to go.
In true Geordie style, the beauty regime had started the previous night with a soak in the bath for about an hour, using a good exfoliating brush to get my skin as smooth as Bruce Willis’ head. I’d then applied fake tan, a Natasha Munro-trademark three times, to make sure I was totally tan-tastic, although the outside observer may say that I resembled a recently creosoted fence. Yes, my sheets were completely ruined, but vanity costs, people!
So, the perfect night-out colour achieved and a large glass of pinot grigio in hand, I concentrated on meticulously curling both my hair and my 18-inch clip-in hair extensions; applying lots of helpings of bronzer; gluing two layers of fabulous strip lashes firmly in place (anymore and your eyelids will struggle to function, believe me); sticking on nails like talons; adding a thick coat of scarlet red lipstick; and finally, whacking on the shortest dress I owned and the highest sky-scraper heels you can imagine! I was good to go.
Looking at the clock and feeling a little bit tipsy from the wine and obligatory few cheeky sips of sambuca I had consumed, I realised that it was only just eight in the evening and that I was two hours early. After twiddling my thumbs and searching for something to do, I decided I’d go to the restaurant early and hang out in the back with the staff. I quickly called a cab, and fifteen minutes later arrived at a very busy Ristorante Girasoli.
In the months that we had been in Calgary, I had been to the restaurant more times than I could count. I always used the staff entrance, as they all hung out there when things were quiet or when the wait staff were on their scheduled breaks. There was always someone to talk to and always music playing, with each staff member rotating their iPhone playlists – although the back room was always a lot quieter on Tink’s playlist night – funny, hmm?
The best thing was that you could have a laugh and talk without the patrons seeing you. Tink had truly landed on his feet working there, and he knew it too. The Italian contingent of Calgary were some of the nicest people we had met since we had moved. I had become a bit of a permanent fixture on weekend nights, always showing up to neck a grappa or two just before closing, and grabbing Tink for a night on the tiles.
I swung open the back door and saw all the staff huddled together. Now, I was a lil’ tipsy from my getting-ready wine and so didn’t register that this was a bit odd. I heard Carly Rae Jepsen’s ‘Call Me Maybe’ coming through the speaker and let the music take hold of me. I began bopping in time to the beat and made my way towards the mob of servers.
As the chorus kicked in I threw in some comedy phone shapes and headed in Tink’s direction, who was looking at me in a mixture of both amusement and horror. In hindsight, I should have realised something was up as he would usually have imitated my actions as I made my way towards him. However, tonight Tink was making cutting gestures with his hand over his throat. Mmm, strange. But in my alcohol-addled brain, I thought it was a new move, and I successfully, with superb fluidity and grace, incorporated the action into my already-outstanding routine.
When I made it to the group, I screamed, “slut drop!” at the top of my voice and began dropping to the floor in a squat position, over and over, in-sync with Carly letting her boy know that before he came into her life she missed him ‘so, so bad’.
When I looked up, I saw several sets of wide eyes focused on me, and Tink’s head facing down on the tile counter, mumbling something about “Why tonight, Lord?” and groaning like he was in pain.
I put my hands on my hips and a massively confused frown on my face. “What? Why is everyone acting so weir-,”
“Ms. Munro? Ms. Munro! Mom, it’s Ms. Munro!”
It was that moment that every teacher dreads while a little bit intoxicated, dancing like a stripper working for tips and frankly making an absolute tit out of themselves, the call that has you running for the hills.
Shit, a student.
I plastered a fake smile on my face and turned around, flashing the pearly whites at a table of about six people all staring at me. They were in a very dark corner with only a red table-candle illuminating the area, meaning I couldn’t initially make out individual faces. I cast a quick glance at Tink who was looking a bit pale and clammy.
What the heck is going on? Why are people eating in the back room? And what is up with Tink, he couldn’t have known one of my students is here?
At the table, someone second-to-right was waving their arms around like a jacked-up air traffic controller, and was frantically gesturing for me to come over. Ah, recognition hit like a smack to the face. It was Boleyn Jones.
Fuck.
Sucking in a breath, I began to make my way over to the table. Bloody hell, it was like walking the Green Mile. I searched for any holes along the way to throw myself into, but tonight, it seemed, was not my night. Only smooth and polished floors led me to my doom.
“Ms. Munro! Oh my God, I can’t believe it’s you, you look so different,” squealed Boleyn excitedly.
Looking down at myself I nodded, taking in my micro-mini LBD that tied in a cle**age-enhancing structured-cup halter and flared out with a net tutu skirt that just about covered my more-than-ample arse. I realised I looked absolutely nothing like a teacher, but like a bad extra on the set of Moulin Rouge.
This is just awesome.
“Hey,” I said weakly, feeling like an utter knob. “Hope you’re all having a nice meal.”
I briefly surveyed the dimly-lit table, noting that there seemed to be near-equal numbers of men and women, all around my age or older.