Page 109 of A Dead Man's B-Side
Lily didn’t particularly enjoy catering to the wealthy and infamous. In fact, she would rather be somewhere near Leith in a dingy pub thinking up a movie concept at the bottom of a beer bottle. Not that she was an alcoholic.
Quite the opposite; she wouldn’t be able to snag a job at The Gallery with such a track record.
She liked the idea of a small-town girl in a big city with even bigger dreams. Though she didn’t think anyone found Chicago to be described as small, she liked her story.
“Look over there.” Frankie sounded from next to her in the dark side-alley after he came out to throw the trash and found her on her break.
It was a dark and damp night, so nothing out of the ordinary in Edinburgh. The rain was unrelenting up until a few hours ago, but the soft shower was still there, tickling against her cheeks.
She watched from the edge of the alley, a cigarette burning on between her fingers, eyes narrowing to where Frankie had pointed. “They come every Friday night, like clockwork.”
Lily kissed her teeth. “I really don’t know what we’re meant to be talking about, Frankie.”
“Overthere. Those two cars.” His thick Scottish accent almost made her giggle.
And then she spotted it. Though she still didn’t know what she was really seeing.
Two fancy looking cars were parked in front of The Galley’s main entrance, the one Lily wouldn’t ever dare walk through, not that she was bitter or anything. But the clear separation of class couldn’t help but sting.
One by one, seven people, three girls and four boys, stepped out from the cars and huddled near the front. They seemed to be speaking for a few moments before a girl and a boy separated from the group and walked down the street, while the rest continued inside.
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to take from that.”
Frankie shook his head at her, almost disappointed, but she didn’t take it to heart. The old man was nice enough, but he was hard to please. Not anything work related, of course. Just Lily’s life trajectory, among other things. He might be the only person she could think of who would care if she gave up on any of her dreams.
“The usual clients?”
She didn’t find anything particularly different from the same old frequenters.
He sighed, a sigh that just about summed up his old age. She never did understand why he insisted on working such a position with the way his brittle bones cracked at every motion. “You need to be more observant. You work at an establishment that dines only the best in everything. If you want anything in this life, work with what you’ve got.”
She thought of it, briefly. But she couldn’t very well march up to the table of six and demand their attention because a director she admired for quite some time happened to be seated there. Though she could learn to have a little tact and go about it differently, she didn’t know how.
“That group of seven come in every Friday night with a private room reserved at the back.”
She shrugged, remembering their young age. “So, they’ve got rich parents. Doesn’t almost everyone in there?”
Frankie shook his head, something passing over his eyes too quickly for Lily to decipher. “I’ve been here a long time now, Lily. I’m fifty-seven and The Gallery is my only place of employment since I aged out. I’m only saying that if you want a foot in the door, you’ve got to open your eyes first.”
She wanted to scoff at his words.
Her eyes were wide open, very wide, thank you very much. But she knew Frankie enough to know he was implying something else entirely.
What, she would have to wait to figure out because a voice sounded from farther in the alley, a head poking out from the open back door. “Hey, Lily! Lizzie’s out sick and Albert’s asking you to cover for her. It’s just one table.”
She stubbed out her cigarette and straightened with a tired sigh. “Yeah… yeah, I’ll take it. Tell him I’ll be right there.”
“You’re the best!” And the door shut with a click.
Lily didn’t know how to drift back inside without at least something said, so she mustered up as much energy her tired body would allow and smiled. “I’ll get my foot in, Frankie. And when I’m a famous movie writer, you’ll be the first I’ll take to the red carpet.”
He watched her, his soft grandfatherly whiskers slowly lifting in a grin. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Lily laughed and walked away, “I know you will.”
She didn’t look back down the street as Frankie had. She didn’t see the pair returning from where they’d disappeared down the street, now holding a plastic store bag, its contents unknown.
Chapter Eighteen
