The retirement party for Walter Wellington is going okay, thinks Wazzer, taking a quick look in. Downstairs, it’s a pre-rugby zoo.
Her friend Winona sneaks to her station. “Wazzer, darling! Have my bubbles? I’m not drinking right now!”
Reluctantly, Wazzer takes the flute glass (she knows just how little those “bubbles” cost wholesale) and asks, “It’s all going good?”
“The family’s loving it. And all Daddy’s colleagues love the pie. Thank you so much. I think they’re ready for the cake to come in?”
“Choice, I’ll get it brought up.” Wazzer goes, pours the “bubbles” down a bar sink, and summons the new waitron, Chelsea.
Together, she and Nigel picked Chelsea out rather ruthlessly, not wanting a repeat of Rosie’s good-looking vagueness and mood swings. She and Nigel agreed: a good solid young bogan would be better value and less drama. Slim-hipped, bleach-blonde Chelsea is a little hatchet-faced, but she was eager to quit tending bar in Petone, and is handling the World Cup crowds with sensible authority.
It takes a while for Chelsea to plate up the cake; after she drops a piece, Winona kindly takes over. Wazzer goes to see what’s up.
Uncharacteristically, Chelsea is nearly in tears. “My mother who gave me up for adoption is out there!”
“What!” Riveted, Wazzer peers out at the crowd. “Which one is she?”
But Chelsea has dashed off to the ladies’ room. Just as Wazzer has glimpsed a profile, and thought to herself, “Oh, I know who…it’s got to be HER.”