Service Girl
Copyright© 2026 by Han Jansz. van Meegeren
Chapter 1
AThe rain was coming down in sheets. That’s Scotland for ya, weather-wise. My regulars from Table 12 showed up drenched. They come to our restaurant every Saturday morning for breakfast. As soon as they entered our establishment, they made quite an impression. Initially, everyone mistook them for a grandmother with her grandson. That assumption was no longer valid after Ashleigh saw them kiss for the first time. By the time they were promoted from visitors to regulars, customers and servers had already formed their opinions about this couple. The age difference between them was a popular topic of discussion, but most of the attention focused on their behaviour in the restaurant.
In the summer, the peak tourist season, you didn’t see them. Most locals typically opted out of dining at restaurants like ours during the summer, so it was hardly surprising. In winter, they always sought a spot in the back of the restaurant. Ann, the owner, had built six booth seatings on the left side to give guests some privacy. A low glass wall separated the booths from the rest of the tables. The lounge sofas in those booths were very popular with both older and younger guests.
The young man was always super friendly and not bad-looking, by the way. They didn’t bother the other guests and only had eyes for each other. I thought that was really sweet. If the last booth was free, they always chose that one. It offered maximum privacy because it was partly behind a wall.
When they came in, dripping wet, I took their coats. “The back booth is yours,” I said, pointing to the reserved sign on the table.
“But we don’t have a reservation,” said the young man. “There must be a mistake.”
“No mistake, unless you’d rather sit somewhere else, then that’s fine too, of course.”
“That’s very thoughtful and kind of you, and we really appreciate you taking such good care of us,” said the young man.
The elderly woman must have a vast wardrobe because every time she came to our restaurant, she wore a different long skirt. This time, a beautiful, bright, clean, vibrant yellow ankle-length skirt with camel heels. That skirt wasn’t what most men, young or old, married or single, looked at. She wore a black lace blouse that was transparent. The shape of her feminine curves stood out clearly, and on colder days like today, her nipples were clearly visible through the thin black fabric. The woman’s elegant yet sexy appearance contrasted with the nonchalant young man’s outfit. He was wearing what all the young people here wore: a flashy T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers.
Ann insisted that we politely ask people who always order the same thing what they wanted today. And as always, the man answered for both of them. He didn’t ask what the woman wanted to eat or drink; he ordered a full breakfast for himself and a strong coffee; for his companion, a glass of water. His wife, or whatever it was, never reacted when he placed this seemingly selfish order. She hadn’t even said a word when Ashleigh insisted she place her own order.
“You’re welcome to order for yourself, ma’am. You don’t have to let this young man boss you around,” she’d told her. But the woman had simply stared at her in silence. Ashleigh certainly would have lost her job if the young man had filed a complaint against her. He hadn’t. He simply ignored her. Ashleigh was an active feminist, and the young man’s behaviour was a thorn in her side. It didn’t bother me much, so I offered to take these customers on myself from then on.
Another thing that made this couple unpopular with the servers was that the man never gave a penny tip. He paid the exact amount in cash. Ever since I’d been serving them, the woman had taken a card with an envelope from her purse. The money disappeared into the envelope.
The first card stated, ‘Thank you for your excellent service. You are such a sweetheart.’ Other cards had similarly uplifting content, such as, ‘We had another delicious meal today, thanks to the chef,’ or ‘We’ve been looking forward to your service all week.’ Such a personal, handwritten thank-you note was equivalent to a small sum of money for me. So I didn’t mind doing little things to please them, like reserving their favourite table.
I have not yet addressed the most controversial issue. It’s unclear if I deliberately put it off, but people certainly had opinions on their eating habits. I grew up with the ‘live and let live’ mentality, but many customers and some staff members found their eating habits offensive. As I mentioned, he ordered one breakfast. The reason so many locals came to our place for breakfast was that Ann, the owner, served a very good and extensive breakfast.
I set out the complete breakfast: a fried egg, a pancake with blueberries, hard rolls, soft rolls in white and brown, a selection of jams and marmalades, and a yoghurt in different flavours. I set that breakfast down for him, with only a glass of water for her. I’d done it the other way around before, but no sooner had I left than they’d moved the plates themselves. So now I took the path of least resistance. If it doesn’t seem so scandalous so far, it’s because it’s coming now.
He cut his bread and egg, speared a piece with his fork, and held it to the woman’s mouth. She kept her mouth closed until he said “eat,” at which point he fed the woman like a tourist feeding her toddler. If he hadn’t said “eat,” she wouldn’t have opened her mouth. Not even when the fork hovered invitingly in front of her mouth. They continued this until they divided the last piece of breakfast between themselves. Perhaps the most shocking thing about this was that, on the one hand, there seemed to be nothing wrong with the woman that prevented her from feeding herself — otherwise, we would have felt understanding and perhaps even sympathy for him — and, on the other hand, the age difference. If the older one had fed the younger one, it would have been somewhat normal; now, it was the complete opposite.
What those who had been watching the couple, mesmerised, couldn’t understand was the moment the man took a large sip of water, didn’t seem to swallow it, but leaned forward toward the woman. She leaned toward him, and they kissed open-mouthed. It took a while for us all to grasp that this wasn’t a French kiss at all, but his way of giving her a drink. She never took a sip from the glass. She drank from his mouth.
It’s not that the woman wasn’t talking at all; she just didn’t say a word to the staff. While they were eating, they weren’t staring at their phones, like most of our customers. They always seemed to have a lot to talk about. During their relaxed conversation, we heard them both laughing. There seemed to be no sign of coercion or abuse.
As on many occasions before, the woman took a postcard from her purse. From a distance, I could see her writing something on the back of the card. The young man placed the correct amount of money on the table in front of me. This time, the woman didn’t neatly tuck the card into an envelope; it lay open, face up.
‘Thank you for today. I’d just like to talk to you after work. What time are you free?’
Surprised, I said to her, “What should we talk about? I have a little time now.” The woman looked straight at me, but didn’t say a word. This couldn’t get any crazier.
The man said softly, “Feel free to meet her here. It’s a busy place, and you can always ask your colleagues to keep an eye on things. I won’t be here myself; we have a favour to ask, but she’d like to explain that to avoid any misunderstandings.”
“My work shift ends at half-past four.” I said against my better judgment.
Five minutes after my shift ended, the older woman came back in. Alone. We found ourselves at the last booth, occupying the very table she ate breakfast at this morning. She was wearing different clothes. A white lacy top, instead of a black one, this one even more revealing, and a black pleated long skirt.
“Thank you so much for wanting to hear me out. I really appreciate it. My name is Ugly Girl or simply Ugly. I have a different name on my passport, but I prefer Ugly if you don’t mind. What is your name?”
“Cheape.” She spoke good English, but with a really thick accent. Dutch or Belgian, I think. We get a lot of those here in the restaurant.
“Such a beautiful name. It suits you. I don’t blame you for looking at me like that, by the way. For many years I thought all these people in the lifestyle were lunatics myself.”
“Lifestyle?” I felt like an ignorant schoolgirl. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. The problem is, it’s complicated to explain.” She placed her hand over mine on the table. I think it was meant to be reassuring, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt ... controlling? The moment it was no longer impolite, I promptly removed my hand and rested it on my lap.
“Are you a member of a cult? I want nothing to do with cults.”