Read Eat My Heart Out for Free Online

above the door, but later Michel told me that no, William had applied for the job as manager because someone with the same name had owned the restaurant back in the 50s, when Muriel Belcher’s The Colony Room was at its height just around the corner and Soho was a place . William desperately wanted Soho to be a place again. The real owner was a man called Bob who never appeared, but oversaw the accounts. He oversaw the renovation of the upstairs into a private members club, complete with a pianist and a team of mixologists, a billiard room, and something called The Snatch, a cushioned cell where everyone was encouraged to lie down. The iPod nailed to the wall only played songs that encouraged sexual healing.
    Everything was going downhill in any case. William’s attempt to source reliable foragers in rural areas of the West Country proved bogus; there was a bad write-up in the Guardian that used the word ‘gimmick’ three times. But the single most powerful factor that impeded the restaurant’s success was William’s coke habit, which had soured his soul. He would have been a nice person without it. He was damaged. And damaged people constantly damage everyone else around them, as Madeline the Australian head waitress had told me often and sadly.
    Madeline had left a copy of Eat, Pray, Love in the reception drawer. I read it, checking my phone every thirty seconds, then every twenty seconds, then every ten seconds, in the hope that Vic had texted me.
    Nothing.
    â€˜He’s just not that into you,’ came Madeline’s sing-song voice, as she counted the number of covers for the evening. She reeked of a celebrity-endorsed perfume. She was square like a tank but she had a smiley face. She told me about Cirque de Soleil, which she had gone to see the night before with her sister. I told her that I hated musical theatre. She said she was amazed that I didn’t want to take advantage of all the wonderful entertainment here in London. I said I didn’t have the time or money or inclination. She laughed and told me that sarcasm was the lowest form of wit. I said that I wasn’t being sarcastic, that I really hated musical theatre. I didn’t see anything good about it at all. She went to give the waiters their briefing.
    My job was to be nice at all times, to stand up when a guest appeared, to not merely point him or her in the direction of the toilet, but to accompany him or her all the way into the toilet if necessary and even wipe his or her arse for him or her if he or she should so request it because he or she is paying a fuck load of money to be here and I can get another girl who looks fucking grateful to be working, William had told me. I was paid a lucky £7 an hour, which was why I took this job as opposed to the door bitch job at Ronnie Scott’s, which paid an unlucky £8 an hour.
    William appeared just before the first guests were due to arrive and informed me that I was going to get slammed hard from all directions tonight so I better fucking enjoy it.
    Paparazzi on motorbikes arrived just before the pop star, her tall, bald, much older boyfriend, and his parents. The paps seemed to balance like a circus pyramid. Their flashes dazzled me through the glass. The pop star was going for the Patti Smith look but without the courage to be truly haggard like Patti. Her hair was dyed black with a blunt fringe. She tried to hide behind it, but I could see her drugged eyes. Her movements were languid and paranoid. William ushered her to table twenty.
    The first sitting was nearly full and there was a lull at reception. The cloakroom was stuffed with mink. Umbrella tickets were scattered on the floor. I never would be able to figure it out. William emerged from the toilet looking jaundiced and told me to wipe the mirrored surface of the coffee-table and straighten the orchids. Instead, I read about Elizabeth Gilbert falling to her knees in the middle of the night while her soon