The Soldier's Christmas Romance.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Three.

Safron yawned as her alarm woke her up. The sun was yet to rise in the sky, as she climbed out of bed, and padded towards the shower in the tiny apartment that she currently called home. She never stayed in one place for too long, preferring to keep moving, taking only temporary positions, in areas the rich and famous would never dream of frequenting. Although nobody was looking for her, the captors, her parents, had gifted her to, as payment for an investment into her adopted father’s political ambitions, believing the oriental prince with a kink for violence, had killed her. She never felt fully safe. She had worked at the low-class restaurant, a cash-in-hand deal, waiting tables for three months, and once the Christmas season was finally over, she would move once more. Probably head north, to one of the cities where work was easy to find, and areas of depravation were aplenty, the perfect place to hide. Safron avoided the countryside; there were too many large stately homes, owned by the gentry, or the famous, a lot of whom had used the services of Gusto Blinkoff, or rubbed shoulders with the man who had promised to protect her, the moment he and his wife had signed the adoption papers. What the disgusting, evil men had done to her body was nothing in comparison to the betrayal of those she stupidly believed held love in their hearts for her. Since that fateful Christmas Day three years previous, Safron had examined each of her life events growing up, and what she had once ignored, or believed to be her over reacting to a situation, she now understood they were huge red flags, and she felt a fool for not realising sooner what the true nature of the relationship between her and the people who adopted her had been.

She pulled on the maroon-coloured uniform of the restaurant, which was little more than a greasy spoon café, attaching her name tag above her left breast. Annie Smith, the non-descript name she had chosen for her employment at the restaurant, which was more akin to a greasy spoon cafe. The manager was not the most forthright with the tax man, and so, he asked no questions and paid her directly out of the day’s profits, cash from the till. Only four more days until Christmas Eve, when, after the last shift, Annie Smith would disappear and head northwards, spending the day she hated most alone, then on Boxing day, the 26th, she would be travelling to a new city, for a few weeks, maybe even months, beginning her life again, with a new name, and city.

As she walked into the restaurant, Safron noticed the Metro Newspapers had arrived, the owner setting them down at the tables for the early breakfast patrons to read. She froze slightly as she saw the front page, angry tears forming in her eyes, as she blinked repeatedly, determined to gain control over her sudden wave of emotion. The happy image of her father and mother, with her elder sister, walking behind them, waving to a crowd adorned the front page of the free newspaper.

Leonard and Adelle Truss, accompanied by their daughter Patricia, visit the homeless shelter in their Basingstoke constituency to spread Christmas cheer to those in need.

Safron swallowed the lump of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. She had determined a long time ago never to shed a tear over those people again. They did not deserve her tears, and so she refused to waste them. The emotion morphed into all-consuming anger; again, she felt as though that was a waste of her emotional peace. So, rather than cry or rage like a bull. Safron forced herself to only scoff at the headline and perfectly posed pictures of her adoptive family smiling at those who, behind closed doors, they despised and felt deserved their sorry existence. However, their true feelings would never get in the way of a good PR story, as they sought political power, and the advantages they would bring.

At least she knew that they were far away from where she was working, but not yet far enough. Safron grabbed her apron, pulling it over her head, as the manager/chef blasted out Christmas songs, much to her annoyance. She was sure he did it on purpose, especially as he let out a low chuckle, when she shot him a disgusted side eye.

“Ah, come on now, Scrouge. 'Tis the season to be jolly!” he laughed, as Safron shook her head, but despite herself found a small smile forming on her rosy, red lips, before her mask of indifference snapped back into place, as images of the Christmas three years previous began to haunt her thoughts once more.

The bell to the door sounded, as Safron watched a couple, who she had never seen before walk into the café. She did not like new people arriving. It set every nerve in her body on edge. She glanced over at Arty the manager, and chef who had worked in the place for at least a decade, probably closer to two, to see if there was any recognition on his face, and saw none, increasing her agitation.

She watched as the pair slid into a booth, her limbs becoming rigid, as she wondered who they might be. Part of her knew that she was having a negative reaction to the customers because of living in constant fight or flight mode. But another part, deep withing her stomach told her something felt off. She debated running out of the alleged restaurant, far away as fast as she could. However, that would only draw attention to herself, something she needed to avoid. After all, she was more than likely overreacting. Looking for a boogie man, where none existed.

Safron took her small note pad out of her top pocket and forced her legs to move in the direction of the customers. A loud booming voice, with a thick Glaswegian accent filled the air, as the black-haired man with salt and pepper strands at the temples, laughed. The dark-haired woman with him, had a sleave of tattoos on one arm. Safron was unsure if her accent was Scottish, or northeastern.

“Hey, could we have two full English breakfasts, double fried eggs, black pudding, bacon, sausage, with two rounds of toast, each, oh and baked beans, and don’t skip on the mushrooms, ” the woman requested, as the man looked at her as if she hung the moon and the stars. He did not even glance at Safron, and she felt a wave of relief wash over her. They were not here for her, they were simply tourists, probably coming to London to do some Christmas shopping.

Safron placed the order with Arty, her legs now like jelly as the adrenaline from earlier drained from her system. She served the couple their food, then went to greet one of the regulars, who always had a bacon sandwich every morning before heading to his work. When she turned around, she noticed the large Scottish man had egg down his black woollen top, but he did not seem embarrassed, by his spillage. His mouth was stuffed with toast, and once again she felt another wave of relief wash over her. Nobody who knew her parents, or the disgusting men and women who had frequented the Yacht, would be seen dead with egg spilt down the clothing. Also, they were far too refined to stuff their mouths full to the brim. However, they had no issue stuffing an innocent girl’s mouth to the point of choaking as she begged for mercy, desperate and confused as to why that was happening to her. But to those kinds of people, appearance was everything. Safron’s stomach churned at the memory that, once again, broke through her carful constructed wall, she had built inside her mind.

“Annie, thank you for your service,” the woman said, as she placed a wad of cash onto the table. Safron was grateful that she had not made an attempt to touch her, or place the money directly into her hand, glanced down at the wad of cash.

“Oh, I will get your change!” Safron said seeing she had put down a lot more than was required. It looked like it was a wad of 20-pound notes, and probably over two hundred pounds for a 50 quid breakfast!

“Nope, that is your tip,” the man stated, then gave her a smile, before, scraping back his chair, exiting the restaurant, whilst laughing and saying to the woman she presumed was his wife, that someone called Vicky was going to kill him.