We swung into the drive leading to the golf club, Mum and me. There were trees on either side, and then the drive turned and led down the side of the long, low building where the car park was. I got a good view of the surrounding land. I noticed that the car park was large and sloped down on the right to a border of shrubs and bushes. On the left I could see the dim outline of what I imagined was the golf course, adjoining the clubhouse. There was a van parked next to the kitchen with men unloading things.

“I wish you’d have changed before you left home,” Mum said. “I’d have liked to have seen you in your waitress uniform.”

“Looking such a dork,” I finished. “There is no way I’m going to risk having any of my mates see me dressed up like a French maid.”

“I’d think you look rather sweet.”

I just laughed. At my feet was my sports bag, with a black skirt, white shirt, my black school shoes and black tights. And room in it for whatever I could find on the premises.

I gave my mum a peck on the cheek and said I’d give her a bell when I knew what time I was finishing. Then I made my way to the kitchen.

You know, it’s funny. They say that crime doesn’t pay and yet one thing I’d got from Ritchie’s and my exploits, was increased confidence. A few months ago I would have been nervous, having to be a waitress. Now I knew how to act, how to put on a front. I could do anything. My nerves were reserved for hoping our plans would go without a hitch.

I entered the kitchen and made myself known to the people there and they introduced me to Donna, the head waitress. She seemed nice. She was a big, rather lumpy woman, her hair in a bun, and glasses perched on her nose. She told me she couldn’t wear her contact lenses as they were making her eyes sore. I explained I needed to get changed and so she pointed to the ladies.

To get there I needed to cross the room where the dinner was being held. It was a smallish hall. There were ten or so round tables which were in the process of being prepared by a group of waiters and waitresses, most looking a little older than me. In one corner was a raised platform with some musical equipment. There was a space around it. When I came out of the hall I found myself in the lobby. There were a number of doors but the ladies was clearly marked. And immediately I saw what I was looking for. Between the ladies and the gents was a small room with the door ajar. In it were two moveable units for hanging coats on. Already there were some jackets there. I filled with exultation. Our plan was going to work. Because the room didn’t have space for an assistant, the coats would just be left there and, best of all, there was a window at the far end, a dirty-looking window, big enough for someone to climb through. I walked over to it to check it wasn’t locked. As far as I could see, it was just an ordinary sash window. I darted back to the cloakroom door, pushed it almost shut, ran back to the window and lifted it a couple of inches. That was our sign. Now they would know which one was the cloakroom window, and they would also know it would be OK to follow our plan.

Then I went next door to the ladies, took my bag into a cubicle and texted Ritchie. I told him about the window and reminded him of our signal for the all clear. I got changed, and just as I was wriggling into my skirt, he texted back. All of them were in the Micra round the corner. It was looking good. Ritchie reckoned they needed the car. He said they’d look more suspicious approaching the clubhouse on foot, and they needed to make a quick getaway.

Outside the cubicles there was a mirror and I checked my appearance. I redid my hair, scraping it right back in a ponytail. I was wearing just a little bit of makeup, because I wanted to look slightly older and responsible. And there was another reason too. Because of Ritchie. I know that was so stupid of me as he’d seen me loads of times without make-up, but now it was different. Now it was important that he kept on fancying me. I didn’t want to lose what I valued so highly.

I could feel my stomach knotting. That familiar feeling was kicking in – the mixture of dread and excitement. I reviewed our plans. I had to find out where the trophies were kept. If it was possible, I was going to lift one and put it in my sports bag. Ritchie would turn up and I’d give him the bag. Since his arrival would create a diversion, that would be the moment when one of the lads would get in through the window and go through the coats. We’d decided to assume that one of the coats would belong to that Mr Singh. Of course, there was a chance he wouldn’t be there, but somehow I knew he would. Things always worked out for me and Ritchie.

This was the first time, though, we’d planned to steal from real people – I mean, as opposed to shops. The way I thought about it was, these people could afford it. I didn’t know much about golf or golf clubs, but I did know you have to be reasonably rich to join one. Anyway, they were all probably insured. When they got home and realised their credit cards or whatever were gone, they’d ring their banks and stop them. All they’d lose was some cash and a few bits and pieces. It was no big deal. Most of it would find its way to Oxfam. I had a guilty pang then about the toys that were still lying in the office, but I thought maybe it was better they should stay there, until the heat was off.

When you think about it, why should some people be rich, and others poor? I remembered the way Ritchie’s mum lived and what she said about Ritchie’s dad having a BMW. Where was the justice in that? And by the sound of it, this Mr Singh exploited people. I thought about all those celebrities who earn millions of pounds for just prancing about on the stage or on a catwalk, and how they get so up themselves. I smiled. Maybe it was doing rich people a favour to relieve them of their money. You could have too much, couldn’t you?

So I left the ladies just as another girl dressed in waitress uniform was coming in. She smiled shyly at me and introduced herself as Kelly. I was glad people were being friendly.

Back in the kitchen Donna explained what was expected of us. We had to help lay the tables. Then we had to go back to the kitchen and we would be given trays of hors d’oeuvres to pass round, once people had started to arrive. Then we just had to bring out the food to the tables, and clear away the old plates. Finally we had to serve coffee. And then we were free to go. I was going to earn thirty quid doing that. I decided I might give some of it to Ritchie.

* * *

My tray had little mushroom vol-au-vents, cocktail sausages on sticks and tiny pastries that Donna said had a cheesy filling. I walked out of the kitchen and into the dining hall, where quite a few people had congregated. There was a string quartet now, playing something or other. All the women wore long, flashy dresses. The men were in suits. I saw Mr Singh straightaway. He was the only Sikh there. Sikh men always wear turbans because they’re not allowed to cut their hair. He was a tall, fat man, wearing an expensive-looking suit and a scarlet tie. He was in the centre of a knot of people all talking and laughing. I took my tray in his direction.

When the people saw me they all began to help themselves. I had a grin plastered to my face. Mr Singh’s eyes met mine and he smiled. It was a friendly smile and for a moment I felt a bit bad. But I remembered what Woodsy had said. This man had sacked his dad. I mustn’t be led astray by appearances. Mr Singh was probably ruthless in his business life.

My tray was soon empty and I returned to the kitchen to get another. Some people helped themselves without acknowledging me at all, others smiled and even said thank you. When Julia recognised me she squealed and waved. I felt myself blush. I prayed she wouldn’t come over and kiss me or anything. Partly because that would be so embarrassing and partly because it was vital I didn’t draw attention to myself. Complete anonymity was the best cover. Luckily Julia was all over some man, flirting like crazy. Walking to and from the kitchen I began to wonder when I would get a chance to find out where the trophies were.

Donna said they were ready now to sit down for the first course, and a few of us stood by the kitchen door watching the guests go to their tables. I kept my eye on Mr Singh. Accompanied by a petite Indian lady, he made his way to a table in the centre of the room – then I went white with horror. Sitting there already was someone I recognised – it was the manager from the toy shop, Bromley and Bromley, the one who had questioned us. He would be bound to recognise me. I couldn’t possibly serve that table. For a second I just wanted to run and abandon the whole thing.

Then I pulled myself together. Anna, I said, think of Ritchie. He likes you for your nerve. Stay calm. I looked over at Mr Singh’s table again. I stared hard. The chances were that I could arrange to be attached to another table. Everything was going to be fine.

We were told to get back in the kitchen and wait for the signal from Donna to fetch the empties from the first course. Then someone told me I was table number seven. There was no time, or reason, to raise an objection. I prayed that seven was not Mr Singh’s table. But as I went into the hall with the other waiters and waitresses, my eyes locked on to him, and in the middle of his table was a card with the figure seven. It partly obscured the face of the manager from Bromley’s. I walked out into the hall and took a deep breath. I made my feet take me in that direction. I reached the table. I couldn’t help but sneak a glance at the toy-shop manager. I looked again. It wasn’t him! It was another man – a shorter one, with a faint, thin moustache. I had been imagining things. I couldn’t understand how I could have possibly mistaken this man for the guy from Bromley’s. I filled with relief which expressed itself in a radiant smile.

“Good evening,” Mr Singh said to me. “Are you our waitress for the evening?”

“I think so,” I said.

He grinned, and nodded at me. “Now, remember, young lady,” he said. “I’ve got quite an appetite!” His wife laughed at him. There was a friendly atmosphere on the table, and it seemed to emanate from Mr Singh. Appearances can be deceptive.

For the next fifteen minutes or so I was frantically busy, going to and from the kitchen, bringing plates, vegetarian alternatives, potatoes, vegetables, refilling jugs of water, and quite enjoying being so busy. It was so much easier to be doing things rather than waiting around, thinking about what was going to happen later.

And it was to be sooner rather than later, as once I’d returned with an empty jug of water, Donna said we could have a twenty-minute break before the next course. There was some food for us if we wanted it.

Food was the last thing on my mind. I realised this was the moment. While all the guests were eating, it was unlikely there would be anyone around near the cloakroom. So I excused myself and went out to the ladies. The game was beginning.

Once in the lobby, I decided to try all the doors. One said “Office”. It was locked. The next I tried opened easily. It looked like some kind of conference room. There was a long table in the middle with chairs all around. And there, against the wall, was the trophy cabinet. I stood there, summoning my resolve. I knew it might be locked, but there was a chance it wasn’t. As quickly as possible, I had to open it, remove one or two items, dart into the cloakroom where my sports bag was, and put them in.

But what seemed so easy when I was planning it with Ritchie seemed almost impossible now. Wrong, even. I desperately wished he was with me. Then it wouldn’t have even mattered if we were caught. I wanted to be doing the same thing as him. Then I told myself he’d be with me in a few minutes. I thought about how pleased he’d be if I’d managed to lift a trophy or two.

I had enough presence of mind not to switch the light on. But I knew if I closed the door it would be so dark I wouldn’t be able to see what I was doing. So I risked leaving the door slightly open. I walked over to the cabinet.

“Hello, young lady! What are you doing in here?”

I recognised the voice. It was Mr Singh. I froze in terror. My mind raced – how was I going to get out of this? I prayed for inspiration and it came.

“I wasn’t feeling too good,” I lied.

“What’s wrong?” He sounded concerned.

“I’ve got a migraine. I suffer from them. I just thought if I could sit in a dark room for a few minutes, while my pills take effect …”

“Can I do anything for you? Would you like me to fetch you a glass of water? Shall I let someone know you’re not feeling well?

“No – it’s all right.” I forced a smile. “I want to last out the evening. I need the money.”

“Oh, no! Don’t let that stop you going home. I’ll square it with the caterers and make sure you get full wages. You’ve worked hard enough already.”

“No – I want to stay. I will feel better, when the pills take effect. I’m used to this, honestly.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, really.”

“Well, have a word with my wife later. She’s a medical lady.”

He left me then. I had to sit down because my legs couldn’t carry me a moment longer. I had never been so near being discovered. But it was OK. I was safe. I knew I couldn’t possibly break open the trophy cabinet now, but it wasn’t the end of the world. I would ring Ritchie and tell him to come anyway. The second part of our plan would still work.

My fear was now affecting my stomach and I had to go to the ladies for real. The room was empty, apart from the whiff of mingled perfumes from the female guests. I went into the same end cubicle I was in before. Sitting there, something caught my eye. An earring. A gold drop earring. When I had finished, I picked it up. That would be worth a bob or two. I cheered up instantly. I would have something to give Ritchie. I’d had a close shave. Luck was still with us. I rang Ritchie’s mobile.

Within a few moments the buzzer was ringing at the front door that led into the lobby. I was there so I opened it. There was Ritchie. As soon as I saw his face, I felt better. I was about to explain what had happened when I heard the sound of people behind me. But that wasn’t a problem. We had this all worked out. I turned, and it was Kelly and another girl.

“Oh, hi. This is my brother, Craig.”

“Hi, Craig,” Kelly said. I didn’t like that flirty edge to her voice. But I could hardly challenge it, now I’d said he was my brother.

“Yeah,” Ritchie drawled. “I need the house keys. I called in, in case you’ve got them. I’ll take your bag back if you like, as I’ve got the car.”

“Do you drive?” asked Kelly. “What do you drive?”

“An Audi TT.”

“Ooh!” she replied.

“Craig – I need to speak to you,” I said. He heard the urgency in my voice and followed me into the trophy room. I explained very quickly what had happened, then passed him the earring. He said it was probably nine-carat gold and I was pleased. He said never mind about the trophy. I could tell he was edgy, not his usual self, but I guess it was the pressure of the job. I didn’t feel too great myself. Both of us knew that at this moment in time Woodsy or Tanner was going through the coats.

We emerged back into the lobby and – guess what? – Kelly was still there. She spoke directly to Ritchie.

“Are you older than Anna, then, to be able to drive?”

“Yeah, I’m eighteen.”

“Cool. Do you work or what?”

“I’m a cocktail waiter,” Ritchie said, slick as anything. I was a bit annoyed at Kelly, but enjoying Ritchie’s lies, too.

“Where? In town?”

I knew what she was up to. She wanted to find out where he worked, and then she’d be round there, chatting him up. So I waited with amusement to hear what Ritchie would say. That was when Julia materialised.

“Anna darling! You’ve been working so hard – I shall tell your mother what a treasure you are. Hello – who’s this?”

Oh my God. I couldn’t pretend that Ritchie was my brother any longer. Panic gripped me.

“My boyfriend,” I said in a small voice. Julia’s eyes lit with interest.

“Now I remember your mother saying something about a new man in your life. Aha! So you can’t keep away, can you?” she said to Ritchie, giving him a good once-over. Then she disappeared into the ladies.

“What?” Kelly said. “You said he was your brother? Which are you?”

Ritchie looked at me quizzically. I shot him a look as if to say, leave me to handle this.

“He’s my boyfriend. We were just kidding.”

She wasn’t too pleased. “You’re weird, you,” she said, and went into the ladies too. That gave Ritchie and me another moment alone together. He said he reckoned Woodsy should have been in and out by now. The cloakroom door had been closed throughout. I’d made sure of that. I realised I hadn’t given Ritchie my bag, but now I didn’t need to, and I couldn’t have anyway, as it was in the cloakroom. Everything was getting awkward and complicated and I could hardly keep everything in my mind at the same time. It flashed across my mind that more than anything I wanted to be out of here and somewhere with Ritchie – back in the country again, anywhere. He kissed me briefly on the lips and went. He said he’d stay in close touch.

After he’d gone, first Julia and then Kelly and her friend had emerged from the ladies and gone back to the dinner. I was on my own again. Curiosity overpowered me. I opened the cloakroom door to see what damage Woodsy had done. He had been very clever. The room and coats looked untouched. The window had been replaced exactly as I’d left it. In fact it looked as if no one had been in. I paused. Had he been in? Had something else gone wrong?

I knew I couldn’t loiter, so I closed the door again and went back to the kitchen to help serve dessert. There was a choice – fruit salad or chocolate bombes. I made my way to Table Seven carrying two bombes.

“Ah! Our waitress!” said Mr Singh. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes – much,” I lied.

“Allow me to introduce my wife. She’s a doctor. Our waitress suffers from migraines. What would you suggest?”

His wife laughed. “I’m not a GP,” she explained to me. “I specialise in pain relief.”

“She works at the hospice,” said Mr Singh proudly, digging into his bombe.

“Mmm. Delicious. I hope they save one for you,” he grinned at me. “Although chocolate can trigger migraines. I was going to ask you – can you ask the other waiters if anyone has seen a gold earring. Mrs Hartley –” he gestured to a lady across the table “– has lost one. It was a gift from her mother. She’ll be so glad if it turns up.”

“OK, I will,” I said, returning to the kitchen.

Well. It was too late, I thought. Ritchie already has the earring. It won’t appear now. I told myself there was no point being upset about it. But – I’ll admit this now – I was upset. It was different, knowing who you’ve taxed. I felt mean. And, Mr Singh was being so nice to me. I began to wonder if maybe Woodsy’s dad had deserved the sack for some reason. There are two sides to every story. I was more confused than ever, and the headache I’d lied about earlier was becoming a reality. Then I remembered that it was OK. Apart from the earring, we’d taken nothing. By all appearances Woodsy had not been in the cloakroom, and we could write the whole evening off as a bad experience, no harm done. And I could even suggest to Ritchie that we could post the earring back to the golf club – it couldn’t possibly be worth that much by itself. Then we could just go back to taxing shopkeepers.

All this was going through my mind as I was pouring coffee. Table Seven had relaxed now and they were asking me about myself. They’d learned I was still at school and what GCSEs I was taking, and that I knew Julia. Mrs Singh offered me a petit four, and I declined, but liked the way they were drawing me in to their world. Now I was positively grateful that Woodsy had failed.

We cleared away the coffee things, and as we were doing that some people began to move the tables to one side for the dancing. I knew that I’d be free to go then. I thought I’d text Ritchie before I rang my mum. I hoped we could snatch some time together. It might even be possible for him to run me home instead – it would save Mum a journey. The idea of having some time alone with him blotted out all the mishaps of the evening.

So I wasn’t one of the first to leave. I stayed in the kitchen to send that text to Ritchie. Other waiters and waitresses got their coats and went out the door that led directly to the car park. I started to press the letters on my phone. Then one of the waiters came back in.

“Some idiot’s broken into my car!” he was shouting. Everyone looked over at him. Then another woman came back. “I can’t get into my car,” she said. “The lock’s been ruined.”

I don’t remember the sequence of what happened next, sorry. But other people went to check the car park, and nearly every car had been interfered with. Radios were gone, locks damaged, stuff taken. Someone was ringing for the police. The news filtered through to the guests who were dancing, and the festivities stopped. Everyone was outside checking their cars. Then Mr Singh came back in, and announced, his face creased in puzzlement, “My car’s gone.”

I read in the newspapers they found it the next day, smashed up, abandoned in a ditch, with Paki bastard spray-painted across the windscreen.