Recipe for Disaster (14 page)

'Lucky Jake, that's all I can say. He's a brilliant chef and
he's got a gorgeous girlfriend, even if she does shout a lot,'
said Godfrey.

Yeah, thanks for reminding me, thought Kate.

Kate was right about the Environmental Health people.
They were celebrating someone's birthday and, after
fourteen bottles of wine, wouldn't have cared if they'd
found a small mammal in their salad. They finished off with
an alarming number of liqueur coffees and produced their
own birthday cake, the shape of an enormous pair of
breasts.

The men kept asking if Kate was a strippergram and she
had great difficulty swallowing the pithy putdowns she
would normally have responded with. What was perfectly
acceptable language in a reporters' room would not go
down well from a waitress. She was coming to have more
and more admiration for Kirsty, who, as well as being
efficient and organised, could put up with all sorts of stupid
comments from punters without it denting her coolness or
her self-confidence. Kate was starting to feel that this job
required her to be metaphorically gagged and she wasn't
used to it.

It was also her turn to be on late. She and Kirsty had a
private agreement that they would take it turns to finish off
if only one of them was needed. Jake came down just as she
was relaying the last table. 'Do you want a nightcap?' he
asked, pouring himself a whisky. Kate hesitated, but he
didn't seem in any great hurry to go back upstairs.

'Georgia's asleep. Jet lag.'

'But she was only in Italy, wasn't she?'

'Yeah, but she's got this idea you get jet lag every time
you set foot on a jet,' he grinned.

What was he doing with someone so dim, she wondered.
No. Silly Kate. He was a man and Georgia's attractions were
obvious.

Her back ached and she was acutely aware that her
clothes and hair smelled of all the food she had served that
night, which was delicious on a plate but no substitute for a
shower and a splash of something by Chanel. Still, she was
a journalist, one of a breed who had never been known to
refuse a drink.

Jake gave an enormous yawn and tried to find a position
that didn't remind him of his numerous aches and pains.
People who had desk jobs and complained of repetitive
strain injuries didn't know how lucky they were.

'Well, here's to your two-week anniversary.' He raised his
glass.

'Have I been here that long? It feels like a year,' she said
wryly.

'I didn't think you'd last this long, to be honest.'

Kate was slightly affronted. She never gave up on a job,
especially if there was a story at the end of it. 'It's been
harder than I thought it would be,' she admitted.

'It's certainly hard on your feet,' he agreed.

'Well, yes, but it isn't just that. To be honest, it's been a
real pain being nice to people all the time, especially when
– sorry, Jake, I know they are customers and we need them
but – some of them are really stupid.'

'That's why you need the sanity of the kitchen to escape
to. OK, I know it doesn't seem a very sane place in the
middle of service, but you are part of a team, you know.'

She was touched by his thoughtfulness, but wished he
hadn't said it. It made her feel guilty.

'So, are you getting enough free time for your novel?'

She was getting heartily sick of this mythical work of
fiction she was supposed to be toiling away at. 'Oh, you
know, late at night, early mornings, a notebook in the bath
– that sort of thing. Isn't it part of the tradition that writers
are supposed to struggle?'

'I wouldn't know. The only things I ever write are
shopping lists. Even my job applications were terse. Any
good chef would know that it's what you do, not what you
say that counts.'

'So, has it lived up to expectations? I mean, people
change careers quite regularly these days.'

He looked at her in surprise. 'It's the only thing I want to
do. It's the only thing I've ever wanted to do.'

'But surely you must get bored, doing the same thing day
after day?'

'Never. There are always new dishes to try and old ones
to perfect. There are some things I feel I've never got quite
right, but I know I can.'

'So you are happy then?'

He considered this. 'We are always chasing after it, aren't
we? Well, we're always chasing something we think will
make us happy, or imagining a future with things in it that
we haven't got now. I don't think about the future much –
I haven't got a pension plan worked out. Financially, I'm
lucky if I can see the way into the next few weeks. But when
I'm cooking, when my hands and my head and the
ingredients are all working together to create a moment of
perfection, well, I don't want anything else.'

'I know what you mean,' she said, picking her words
carefully. 'I feel the same way when I've captured the
essence of someone's personality on paper – when I've got
someone right.'

She had a feeling he would completely understand her
driving need to get a story before anyone else had because,
like cooking, there was always the thought that, next time,
the words would be even better. It was a very great pity she
couldn't tell him any of this. He most certainly wouldn't
want to speak to her ever again when he found out her story
was about him.

The launch of the Café Anglais was an example of what you
can do when money is no object, when you have no
scruples, and when your rivals lack the financial resources
to sue you.

The words 'first', 'best' and 'only' were bandied about
with great freedom, much to the consternation of the girl
from the posh PR firm Harry had employed.

'You can't use words like that. They imply that . . . well,
you are the best, and of course you are,' she added
hurriedly, not liking the look on Harry's face. 'It's just that
it is potentially litigious,' she wailed.

Lisa had been so enthusiastic about this project at the
beginning. A weekend in the country with a glamorous chef
was the perfect excuse to escape London and a minor heatwave.
She was pleased with her resemblance to Gwyneth
Paltrow in the film
Sliding Doors
, though five-inch heels
turned out to be a definite mistake. She had had no idea she
would be expected to trot around after Harry all day and
most of the night while he barked out confusing and
sometimes contradictory orders.

He looked at her coldly now. 'But I
am
the best. What on
earth is the point of spending thousands of pounds with
your firm if all you can come up with is "very nice"?'

This was unkind. She had worked hard to produce a
guest list that included a respectable number of celebrities.
She had got him publicity in several national newspapers
and a number of glossy magazines. She had diligently
researched a fifty-mile radius for local people with
influence and money, and had spent nearly a week looking
for exactly the right shade of balloons for the launch party.
Until now she didn't know so many different sorts of
balloons existed or how many shops sold balloons and
nothing else. Or how far apart they were. Or that she had
to personally go into every one. Or how much she now
actually hated balloons. She was sick of the whole thing and
couldn't wait to get home and book a session with her
therapist. Harry had seemed such a charmer at first – until
she actually had to work for him.

'I hope you are going to change your clothes before
people arrive,' he added, eyeing her Donna Karan dress as
if it were something Matalan had failed to shift in their
January sale.

It was perfectly acceptable this morning, before I had to
do twelve hours' hard labour, she wanted to scream at him;
but she had learned it was not a good idea to answer back.

'Also . . .' he looked at the list in his hand, 'who is this Billy
Martin you have foisted on me? I specifically said that only
real celebs were to be invited to stay with my parents. The
rest can stay in hotels.'

'He has just won that
Make Me a Star
programme on
television. He is hot,' protested Lisa, who had been chuffed
to get him.

'Here today, gone tomorrow. Probably thinks he knows
about good food because he uses mayonnaise instead of
salad cream,' sneered Harry, and went down to the kitchen
to check on the progress of his canapés.

The menu at the Café Anglais was French, with an
English twist – the black pudding in a cream and apple
sauce was made with the best English apples and the
venison steaks had been gambolling about on the local fells
only a short while ago.

The local mayor and his wife were coming, both happily
under the entirely false impression that they were the
guests of honour, as indeed was everyone else. There was
going to be so much jockeying for position, Lisa would need
crampons just to stay upright.

Having bollocked his staff, who were also under the
impression that they were working as hard as they could
and doing everything exactly the way he wanted, Harry
fired off a quick email to Jake. Gordon Ramsay was doing a
television series in which he tried to help restaurants that
were in trouble. Maybe Jake should apply to go on it, he
suggested. He chuckled. This would make Jake absolutely
livid and possibly cause him to become terminally careless
with a carving knife. That he should have grown out of this
sort of schoolboy jape long ago didn't occur to Harry. Even
if it had, he wouldn't have cared.

Jake tried very hard not to get annoyed by this puerile
missive, but eventually gave up and shouted 'Fuck you' so
many times he was glad Angelica wasn't there or he would
have owed a small fortune in fines.

He wasn't in a terribly good mood anyway, because
Georgia, home for the weekend, had been nagging him all
morning to take her shopping. Why she wanted to do this
when she had been in Milan, Paris and then London over
the last few weeks was completely beyond him.

The only shopping he was prepared to do was in cook
shops, but he had no spare cash.

'I'm really far too busy,' he said, which was a complete lie,
because they had hardly any lunchtime bookings at all,
everyone having deserted him (only temporarily, please,
God) for the Café Anglais.

He had the sort of headache that would inevitably turn
into a migraine if it found itself in Harvey Nicks in Leeds,
which was where she wanted to go. Plus, he was desperate
to spend some training time with Sally and some choux
pastry, which she was trying to fill with a rum and chocolate
cream but which didn't seem to want to stay there.

Not for the first time, he said: 'How I wish you would
learn to drive.'

She glared at him. 'Have you forgotten, my last instructor
said some people were just too sensitive to cope with cars?'

'Yeah, but your problem is that you are too stupid,' said
Kate, but very quietly, her head in a box of vegetables.

'You can get there by bus. You take the number twenty-four
to Windermere, oh, except there isn't another one
until after lunch. No, take the six up to Carlisle – they go
every ten minutes past the hour. Then if you knew your
way round Carlisle you'd be able to get a train, except I'm
not precisely sure if there is one that goes direct, so you
would have to change. Really you would be better to –'

'Is this person serious?' said Georgia.

'What would Georgia be better doing, Kirsty?' asked Jake
gently.

'Going to Manchester instead.'

'Thank you for your help. Godfrey?'

'Sorry, Boss, but I had to drive the tractor to work this
morning.'

'No, that wouldn't do,' said Jake gravely, trying not to
laugh at the picture this induced.

'Well, why can't she take me?'

Kate emerged from the vegetable box, furious. Who the
hell was she calling 'she'?

'It's true that I won't need two waitresses for the miserably
small amount of meals we will probably do today.'

'So, are you saying you will actually pay me to go
shopping?' said Kate.

'Ah, but you've never had the shopping experience with
Georgia, have you? You'll need stout shoes, oxygen tanks
and a bar of Kendal Mint Cake to stand a chance of
returning in one piece.'

'Jake,
I
am not laughing,' reminded Georgia, in a voice
that would have frozen hot tamales.

Georgia's perfect brow furrowed when she saw Kate's car
and she would only get in after Jake had lined the
passenger seat with kitchen towel. 'I know you think I'm
being fussy but this coat was rather expensive.'

Kate grinned. 'It probably cost more than the car did,'
she agreed, without rancour. She didn't think there was any
need to add that in her line of work, something shabby but
fast was essential. She had had to leave places in a bit of a
hurry sometimes. Also, being tatty, it didn't matter if it got
pelted with things, as it had been once when she was doing
a story about a councillor who was bonking his daughter's
under-age school friends.

As they sped off towards the motorway, Kate giving
absolutely no quarter to tourists who wanted to amble along
in the middle of the road at twenty miles an hour, she
shamelessly asked questions about Georgia's life as a model.

'My parents would have had a fit if I'd said I wanted to
take up modelling as a career. Not that they would have
had me,' she laughed.

'No,' agreed Georgia. 'Luckily, of course, I have the looks
and Mummy was behind me all the way.'

'It's a tough job, though,' said Kate, thinking of young
girls, predatory men and drugs.

'It is. People are so bitchy, which is so unfair. I mean it's
not my fault I look the way I do. Mummy had to take me to
a counsellor after one of the girls told me I was a pound
overweight.'

'How shocking!'

'So, what size are you? You're a size twelve, aren't you?'

She said this accusingly, as if she was expecting Kate to lie.

'Yeah, pretty much, most of the time.'

'Doesn't it bother you?'

'Not as much as it should, apparently,' said Kate drily.
'Really, I don't think about it much, as long as I can fit into
my clothes.'

'Of course, some of the girls I know are completely
obsessive about their weight. Luckily I've never been like
that. I only have to weigh myself twice a day.'

God, I'd hate to see what you're like with an obsession!
'Anyway, I had to throw my scales away.'

'Why?'

'Well, my friend and I got drunk one night and we were
trying to cook rice, only I'd misplaced the kitchen scales, so
Lydia got the other ones from the bathroom and for some
reason we decided it would be a good idea to stand on them
together, but I think I must have jumped on them too hard
and . . . anyway, they broke,' she finished lamely. It was
quite hard trying to tell a silly story to someone whose face
was about as expressive as a security fence. 'Anyway, I
refuse to starve myself just to conform to standards set by
anorexic American actresses,' she finished firmly.

'Yes, but what other sort of standards are there?'

'Well, it must be hard watching what you eat when you
live with such a fabulous chef.'

'Is he? I can't stand the stuff he cooks, myself, and
anyway I hardly ever think about food.' She went on to
explain how thoughtless Jake was, always wanting to watch
cookery programmes on television.

'I could really identify with poor Princess Diana. There
are three of us in our relationship, except that one of them
isn't even a person – it's that awful job of his. He just doesn't
understand how stressful my work is, and do you know' –
she lowered her voice as if imparting some deep secret – 'I
am a very sensitive person. Mummy always says I need a lot
of attention.'

'Oh, how awful for you,' said Kate, well aware that
sarcasm was a signal way out of Georgia's orbit.

'Yes, Mummy says I've got less layers of skin than
ordinary people. It's really hurtful that Jake is being so
selfish at the moment.'

'Well, he's certainly work-obsessed and ambitious.'

'But I wish he was. I mean, who is going to notice him up
here in the middle of nowhere? And of course he's lucky
that he's so insensitive to his surroundings, not like me; all
these horrible fields and puddles really fray my nerves.' She
gazed blankly out at a scene so lovely that John Ruskin had
described it in awe as the gateway to paradise.

Georgia went on to explain at length her extraordinary
sensitivity. 'If I have to spend much longer in that awful flat
of Jake's, I may get my depression back. It's really unlucky,
but I am one of those people who needs to be surrounded
with beautiful things before they can be happy. My doctor,
Win Ko Lon – oh, you must have heard of him – he was
extensively featured in the style section of the
Mail on
Sunday
recently – anyway, he says I have a very fragile
psyche. It is very rare, apparently. He's only ever treated
one other person with a psyche more fragile than mine. He
says that it is simply not strong enough,' her voice lowered,
'to deal with Jake's weirdness.'

Kate's mind whirled. Cross-dressing? Occult rituals?
Surely not?

'He gave me such a fright the other night, thrashing
about in this bizarre nightmare. He said it was about a food
critic who was laying into him because there was salt in the
butter! I mean, he knows I am the sort of person who
shouldn't have to hear weird things like that. I simply
daren't tell Mummy – she will be so worried about me.'

It was on the tip of Kate's tongue to offer to drive this
pathetic creature to Mummy's right now but they were
already in Leeds, and she was desperate to get out of the
car.

Georgia zoned in on Harvey Nicks like a heat-seeking
missile. Inside, she sighed, like a pilgrim who has reached
Mecca. Her shopping creed was simple: go straight to credit
card – do not stop at price.

Kate waited until she had gone. Then she got out her
phone.

'Lydia, hi, are you busy?'

'Weeell . . . that depends, doesn't it, on your definition of
busy.'

'OK . . . are you actually engaged in an activity that
qualifies you for a wage?'

'Don't be silly, of course not. It's lunchtime, but I've only
just got back from having my nails done and I really must
get through
Heat
magazine before the boss gets back. Why?'

''Cos I've completely screwed up. Somehow I have ended
up on the shopping trip from Hell with an insane woman
who eats half a Rice Krispie for breakfast. If she's treating
herself.'

She held the phone away from her ear so Lydia could get
the laughing over with. Kate's idea of a good shopping trip
was a tour of all the bookshops, followed by lunch.

'So where are you now?' said Lydia eventually.

'Outside Harvey Nicks.'

'I am surprised you've even heard of it.'

'Ha ha.'

'Well, you did your entire season's shopping at Primark
last year, didn't you?'

'And your point is? I think I looked rather good!'

'You did, but probably only you could carry it off.'

'That's because I've got chutzpah,' said Kate smugly.

'Pardon? Who told you that?'