“Ingen! Table 4 has been waiting fifteen minutes to be served!” a voice bellowed from an out of sight location; Saturday’s were always Hannah’s least favourite day, 9 hours of life moving in fast forward, and her moving at half speed.

“R…right!” she stammered to the voice, unsure of who said it, probably one of the managers. In the restaurant, she saw no people, only shapes and blurs weaving in and out of her path, with a constant ringing from a hundred conversations going on at once. Sighing to herself, she approached table 4- it looked to be a young couple, too hell-bent on gazing at each other to notice that they were being served. Hannah, thoroughly frustrated with the day so far, forced a smile and waited for a reaction from the couple. When it did not come, in a light hearted tone, but with an undeniable sense of frustration buried deep within, she inquired “What can I get you today?”

That finally got the couples attention, but not in the way she so desperately wanted. The gentleman turned to her with a surprised gin on his face, and brashly inquired “Oh, you’re English?”

The novelty of being asked her nationality had long since warn off, and she likely wasn’t going to be charmed by it on a day as hectic as this. Eager to get their order, she gave a simple nod and an approving grunt, matched with a forced smile. “So, what can I get you?” she said, attempting to move the encounter onwards.

“Me and my girlfriend were just trying to remember actually… does England use the pound or the euro?” he asked, oblivious to Hannah’s obvious desire to get going. Hannah felt like slapping him for his stupidity- how could he not know that? Good naturedly, she replied, with a twitching eyelid, “The pound.”

“Right! That’s right. I always get that mixed up with the weight. Do you?” babbled the well-dressed gentleman, clearly occupying a different plane of reality to Hannah.

“Who cares? Just order something!” Hannah wanted to shout. The only reason she refrained was because she cared about her pay check. “Not really… what can I get you?” she stated once more. And finally, they ordered (over the course of five minutes). Hannah struggled to hear the couple over the deafening sounds of chatter in the restaurant, and she didn’t seem overly bothered about whether she got the right order or not, she just wanted to get the encounter over with, and come a step closer to the days end.

“Thank you” she forced out, as she walked away from the table, and towards the kitchen. Within the space of a few hours, her lengthy, blond hair had become dishevelled and untidy, a result of the stress that working in a Hollywood restaurant brought. She took a deep breath as she entered the wildly swinging doors to the smoky, thick-aired kitchen, complete with several ear-splitting sizzling sounds. “Two couscous salads for table 4!” she called out in an unenthusiastic tone, though her voice was probably lost in the frenzy of kitchen sounds.  Slamming the note the order was written on in the chef’s area, she marched out again, only to have more orders yelled at her by another seemingly invisible individual. “Ingen! Get this to table 19! It’s been sitting here for five minutes, get it there now or you’re fired!” The tone was coarse and booming; that would be the head chef.

Dexterously, she balanced both bowls of soup on the small tray they were arbitrarily obliged to carry meals on. Once again dancing round customers and fellow employees, she weaved her way to her destination. A snag on her foot almost caused her to go tumbling onto her face, but two years of working a high stress waitressing job in Hollywood had taught her a thing or two about balance; she shrugged it off with relative ease, and continued the long walk to her destination. “Gazpacho soup for two!” she announced when she arrived.

“Took you long enough- we ordered this twenty minutes ago! Do you want us to…” Hannah had also grown used to ungrateful customers who seemed unaware that the restaurant was packed to bursting point. She had developed a method of tuning out and nodding that allowed her an unusual moment of quiet contemplation in the buzzing street that was the restaurant. Comments about the amount of money she made came up a lot from these customers, usually followed by a snide comment about Hannah’s nationality, followed by a brash announcement that they refused to pay for it, which was of course a totally empty threat.

“What am I doing with my life…?” Hannah thought to herself. I’m not going to get the part… that Spanish woman had tits as big as mountains… she’ll make the movie far more money… God, I hate this job… she thought in a contrastingly calm tone. Having deduced that the customer was done whining, she gave a nod and a stern expression, followed by an “I’ll consult my manager” with no intention of doing it.

This was Hannah Ingen’s life; waiting tables for people making far more money than herself, hoping to make it big in the movies. She told herself to aim high, thinking that even if she missed, she would still be among the stars, but it felt much more like she was just drifting aimlessly though space.

The clock dinged ten o’clock; the day was over, and an audible sigh rang from the employees. Hannah darted for the locker room, removing the black T-shirt and suit trousers that made up her uniform and into the red hoodie, jeans and white converses that made up her standard getup. At last, an opportunity to run a brush through her knotted hair! As she was doing up her tattered shoes, a brunet haired woman in an orange tank top sat next to her, a welcomingly warm grin across her face. Hannah looked up, and saw one of the few friends she had in America. “Tammy?” she inquired, in a surprised tone “I thought you didn’t work Saturdays!”

“Hello to you too, Dame Ingen” she responded- “Dame” was a favourite of hers, Hannah being British. “I usually don’t, but Imogen has flu or something, so here I am!”

Hannah looked confused as she finished tying her shoes “But I spoke with her on the phone today- she sounded fine…”

“Oh, she is. But when you’re the manager’s daughter in law, you seem to get flu a lot more, and I end up picking up the slack for it.” She explained with an irritated tone. “And you have to work in these conditions every Saturday?” she asked, with a sense of admiration in her high pitched voice.

“Every single one” Hannah confirmed. “This is positively average.” She stood up, and headed for the door with Tammy to the side of her. Swinging open the door, she turned the corner and headed for the bus stop with her hands imbedded in the fleece lined pocket of her hoodie. The chill of the winter air could be felt through it, however. It was astounding that Tammy could wear something so insubstantial and not feel the cold. As they walked and discussed the woes of Saturday shifts, Tammy enthusiastically asked “Oh, how did the audition go?” to which Hannah replied, in a melancholy tone, “Mhm… I haven’t gotten a reply yet, but I don’t think it went that great…”

“Why?” Tammy pressed on, curious as to her downbeat attitude on the subject “There was a woman there with…” suddenly, Hannah’s voice was choired “tits as big as mountains”. Now, only Tammy’s voice remained, sounding motivational. “Their tits are always big as mountains! All that’s important is this; did you act better than them?”

Hannah’s tone was cautious, like she thought she was being tricked in some way. “Yeah…” she answered, confident that she did, but cautious as to what she was being asked. “Then you’ll get the part!” Tammy’s hopeful, squeaky voice replied

“But I always act better than them!”

“Then go to auditions for indie movies!”

“I do”

Hesitantly, Tammy responded “Then… get bigger tits?” in a clearly sarcastic tone. They both laughed, though Hannah’s was more forced than Tammy’s; to her, this was all she had to go on. She had made the choice to move out from south east England to Hollywood at the age of 22, and she vowed to herself that she was going to be a star by 23. She was 24; the naivetés of her early 20’s were staring to come around on her.

The bus stop approached after several minutes of walking. Giving a friendly hug farewell, the two parted ways, and Hannah stood static, watching her own breath in the winter air. She swiped her hand through her hair to try and alleviate the crushing feeling that the next day was going to be more of the same. “At least Sundays aren’t as bad…” she said to herself. “And I get Mondays off…” she held onto that thought to keep her going. The bus slowly slid into view, and slowed down for her to get on.

Hannah boarded with her eyes facing downwards, which turned up to look at the bus driver. In a moment of panic, her stomach filled with the sensation of squirming butterflies; she left her bus pass at work. Frantically rummaging around in her pocket, she sighed a breath of relief when she felt ten dollars; just enough for the ride. The bus driver, a middle aged man with a thick, black moustache and a cigarette drooping out of his naturally frowning mouth, gave a lingering, judgmental stare as Hannah passed over the five dollars. A ticket printed out of a machine, which Hannah snatched and stuffed into her pocket.

Wandering down the isle of the bus, she picked one of the few unoccupied seats to collapse onto.  Resting her legs on the back of the seat in front of her, she sighed and fought the urge to drift to sleep on the worn and torn, garishly coloured seat. After a half hour of contemplation and denials of regret, the bus pulled up to Hannah’s apartment block, a rundown looking structure, made of visibly aged bricks; hardly the classiest part of town, but certainly one of the most affordable, at least affordable by LA standards; it was still horrendously expensive for a person of Hannah’s wage. Clambering off the bus, almost missing her stop, she thanked the bus driver as she darted off it, to the sound of a nonchalant grunt from the driver, his barely lit cigarette still held up by his puffed lips.

The bus disappeared beyond the dim, orange lit horizon. As Hannah turned the key to her place of residence, a ginger cat found itself around her ankle, its face rubbing up and down her leg. Hannah looked down, feeling the tickling sensation, and smiled. She might not have had the money to own an animal, but she did find comfort in seeing Frankie every time she opened the apartment door. When she opened the door, the cat dashed in like ginger lightning, a stark contrast to Hannah’s slow, tired movements.

She walked her way up the seemingly millions of stairs, up to floor 8, her floor. She shoved the key in there, while wiping her hand down her face. All she wanted to do was curl up in bed and have no obligations or responsibilities, but she knew the same day awaited her tomorrow.