Recipe for Disaster (16 page)

Georgia did hesitate. Wasn't this flirting with the enemy?
Then she recalled how vile and insensitive Jake had been.
And hadn't Dr Ko Lon said she had to bask like a frolicking
dolphin in other people's love and admiration? Or something
like that, anyway. Certainly she didn't want to bask
anywhere near Jake at the moment.

What perfect timing, Harry thought. All his important
guests had gone, Lisa could deal with the others, and there
was always a chilled bottle or two in his fridge. He didn't
quite know where this was leading, but he was sure it was
somewhere to his advantage.

'What a gorgeous flat,' said Georgia when she saw the
light airy rooms and deceptively simple furniture.

'It's pretty basic, but comfortable, I think,' said Harry,
who thought nothing of the sort. 'How odd – I've had these
walls painted exactly the same colour as your eyes,' he
continued.

'These are tinted contact lenses,' said Georgia. He
laughed as if she had made a good joke, and produced the
most gorgeous bottle of bubbly, covered in little handpainted
flowers.

She sat down and instantly sank back into the soft
cushions of a sofa expressly designed to make one unwind,
uncurl and chill out. This was more like how she should be
treated. She took a delicate sip of champagne.

'There, I can tell by your face you've cheered up already.
I won't ask why you've been crying – I wouldn't dream of
prying.' There was no need: he was more than capable of
softening a woman up and making her talk. 'I know it's
tough living with a chef.' And Harry sighed, as if he was the
innocent victim of many failed relationships.

'It's not that Jake is a chef; it's that he doesn't understand
me,' wailed Georgia, who had never heard of holding back.
Her eyes filled with tears, which only made her look more
beautiful. 'I have tried and tried – you have absolutely no
idea what he has put me through in the last few months.
And do you know what? He just throws it all back at me!'

The next moment she found a crisp white handkerchief
pressed into her hand, which Harry was now holding in a
totally unthreatening, but sympathetic way. He said
nothing, but his gentle smile simply begged for confidences.

'I shouldn't be sitting here,' said Georgia. 'Jake
absolutely hates you.'

'I know, and I have tried on many occasions to rectify this
situation. How ridiculous our petty quarrel seems now! I told
him the last time we met that we were both now old enough
and wise enough to put it behind us. But – and I am sorry to
say this – he does find it rather hard to let go of a grudge.'

'Oh, you are so right! He just goes on and on!' said
Georgia, thinking about their argument.

'That sort of attitude is very unhealthy,' said Harry
sanctimoniously. 'I bet he told you I was a bit of a bastard,
didn't he?' Harry shrugged, a picture of sincerity. 'Well, to
be honest I am when I am working, but I am also a firm
believer in not taking your job home with you.'

'Jake takes his to bed,' said Georgia bitterly. It was such a
relief to talk to someone with such a high degree of
empathy.

'Maybe he's bitten off more than he can chew.' With a bit
of luck. 'There's a high burn-out rate in this business.'

'There is in mine too. Often I spend whole days under
immense stress and anxiety, while all he does is potter
round his little kitchen. Honestly, he's got such a simple,
easy life. Gosh! Listen to me! I shouldn't be saying any of
this and especially to you.'

'But you obviously need to get things off your chest,' said
Harry, admiring it. He leaned forward, oozing empathy.
'That is a very profound thing you have just said.'

'Have I?'

'I think – and I say this as a purely disinterested observer
of human nature – I think at heart Jake is quite simple – no,
sorry – uncomplicated in his outlook. Whereas you, well, I
think you have a very deep, multi-layered personality.'

'But that's exactly what Dr Ko Lon said!'

After three glasses of champagne on an empty stomach
this made perfect sense. She carried on talking because
Harry was really so nice and such a good listener. Honestly,
she couldn't see why Jake disliked him so much. Then she
realised she was having exactly the sort of evening she
should have been having with Jake.

Always solicitous, Harry offered to drive her home,
promising to park out of sight of Jake. He was so
considerate.

The lovely warm feeling induced by the champagne and
Harry himself wafted away as she walked up the stairs to
Jake's flat. They had a distinct smell of damp about them.
She felt like she had been evicted from heaven.

He was sitting on the sofa, gazing at the television screen,
which wasn't even on, and jumped up when she came in.

'I was thinking about calling out mountain rescue,' he
said, trying to smile.

'I needed time to think,' she said with dignity, hoping he
wouldn't ask where she had been doing the thinking.

He walked over to her. 'I'm sorry I've been such a bear,'
he said, wondering why she smelled of alcohol.

He looked terribly tired and there were huge shadows
under his eyes. She wondered if Harry was right and he
really was burning out. 'I accept your apology. Let's go to
bed – I'll give you a massage, that will make you feel better.'

Jake tried not to wince. Georgia's massages were not for
the faint-hearted.

In the bedroom she fussed over him, picking up the shirt
he had dropped on the floor. A piece of paper fell out of the
pocket as she was putting it away. It was a receipt for an
order for some awesomely expensive chef's knives. Even by
her standards, this was a lot of money. She stood staring
at it.

'Leave that and come to bed,' yawned Jake.

'You spent all this money just on knives,' she said slowly.

Jake sighed. His head was throbbing violently, probably
because, apart from tasting, he couldn't remember having
eaten all day.

'When were you going to tell me?'

'I wasn't. I didn't think you'd understand why I needed
them.'

'I don't!' Georgia's voice rose to a shriek, which went
through his head like a knife.

'I cannot work without decent knives and Godfrey
mangled my best one in the dishwasher last week. It won't
cut through a banana now, let alone fillet a steak,' he said,
trying to make a joke of it.

But Georgia wasn't laughing. 'All you do is work and
when you aren't working you think it's all right for us to
spend time in this . . . dump! But I'm not allowed to spend
a few pounds on trying to make it look just a bit better! But
when you want to buy something? What does this knife look
like, Jake? Is it gold-plated and diamond-encrusted?'

'Don't be silly! Look, you don't understand –'

'Oh, I understand you perfectly well! It's one rule for you
and another for me, obviously!'

'I'm sorry,' he said tiredly. Why did it feel as if someone
was playing a set of drums inside his head? 'I know
you think that I'm being hypocritical, but I'm not. Come
here, Georgy, and stop glaring at me. I will make this up
to you.'

'I don't see how.' She left the bedroom but came back a
minute later. 'When you buy stuff for your horrible
restaurant – it's like it's your mistress!'

She was right. He was more concerned about what the
restaurant needed than he was about her. He would
nurture it with every ounce of energy that he had. With a
surge of shame he realised he couldn't be bothered about
nurturing Georgia. He just wanted her to exist on her own,
without any help from him, and that was never going to
happen because she was very high-maintenance.

'What are you doing?' he asked, as she opened the
wardrobe door and pulled a bag out.

'Packing. I'm going back to London.'

'Don't be silly. How will you get there at this time of
night?'

'By taxi. I've just rung up for one. I can't bear to stay a
minute longer with someone who can't put me first.' She
was sobbing now and couldn't see that she was stuffing his
boxer shorts instead of her knickers in the bag.

'Er, you're in the wrong drawer, Georgy.'

'Oh! I hate you!' She picked up the bedside lamp and
threw it at him. It missed and went straight through the
window. Christ, all the neighbours would be awake now.

'There! You can stay in the bloody dark from now on. It
will be cheaper for you!' she added viciously, and clattered
downstairs.

Godfrey came out to greet Kate the next morning, waving
his arms as if there was danger ahead. 'There's a lunatic in
the kitchen – very scary – wish I was on holiday, in gaol or
anywhere else but here,' he hissed, and scuttled off to hide
in the fridge.

She poked her head warily round the door and stepped
nervously inside.

Silence, apart from the sound of Jake, chopping. He
looked deathly pale and was blasting peppers into
shreds.

What was Godfrey on about? It was all quite normal so
far. She ventured further in for a closer look and saw that
Jake was shaking so hard it was a miracle he hadn't
chopped a hand off. He wasn't prone to Sally-like bouts of
nerves so he must be ill, she thought.

Jake had eventually fallen into an uneasy sleep last night,
but when he woke up, his head and throat were on fire. It
had taken him fifteen minutes just to get dressed. Now he
felt as if he was floating about six inches off the kitchen
floor. It was strange, but not unpleasant. He carried on
working, deliriously unaware of the effect he was having on
the rest of the kitchen.

'Um, would you like a cup of coffee?' asked kate,
thinking he might be better off sitting down.

Jake shook his head and winced. 'Water, please, with lots
of ice,' he said hoarsely.

After she'd brought him some she said: 'Are you sure
you're feeling all right? You look, well, you look bloody
terrible.' She reached across and put her hand on his
forehead. He was burning up and had the glassy-eyed look
of someone with a high fever.

Jake wished people wouldn't keep asking him questions
and making him shake his head because it hurt. His throat
now felt like someone was attacking it with a rusty knife. 'I'll
be fine,' he said irritably, then admitted: 'Could do with a
couple of aspirin, though.'

The next few hours were hell. He absolutely refused to
give up and go to bed, which meant they all had to spend
the morning making sure he didn't hurt himself. Kirsty
supplied glasses of water to cool him down, and Godfrey
pretended total incompetence, so that Jake had to keep
stopping his own work to tell him what to do, which he did
in a husky, cracked voice. The incompetence bit was never
difficult and it kept Jake away from sharp knives, which you
should never use when your hands are shaking.

At first Kate was touched by his evident suffering. The
last time Jonathan had flu, he seemed to expect her to
instantly metamorphose into a qualified staff nurse in order
to provide an endless supply of tissues, sympathy and
disgusting paracetamol drinks flavoured with artificial
lemon. Jake was different – he suffered in silence, adopting
a stoical air – but he was still a complete pain in the arse.

An hour later, when he suddenly stopped what he was
doing to rest his burning forehead on the cool surface of the
work bench, Kate decided to cease pussyfooting around.
'Jake, you are behaving like a complete prick. You are
absolutely no use here. In fact you are a liability. For
goodness' sake, fuck off to bed before you do any real
damage.'

Then, when he didn't move, because he didn't think he
could, she took him firmly by the arm and steered him
upstairs to the flat. He sank like a stone onto the unmade
bed and only protested weakly as she undid the buttons of
his chef's jacket.

'But I'm so cold.'

'That's because you've got a temperature of about 110
degrees. You'll feel better when you cool down,' she said
briskly.

He tried to pull the duvet over his head but she whipped
it off smartly. He curled up into the foetal position and
groaned quietly. Kate covered him with a sheet, opened the
windows, closed the curtains and brought him a glass of
water. Beyond that, unfortunately, her medical knowledge
ran dry.

The place looked like a shabby bedroom in a seedy hotel,
from which the occupants had departed in a hurry. The
wardrobe door was hanging open and looked empty; there
were dirty tissues on the floor and nothing on the dressing
table, apart from a dried-up bottle of nail varnish. The
mirror was old and cracked and crooked.

Jake opened one eye and squinted at her. 'Georgia and I
had a bit of a row.'

Kate sat down and mopped his brow with a damp cloth.
'I'm sorry,' she said awkwardly. Maybe he was sick with
heartbreak, not the flu.

'I've got more fences to mend than after the Grand
National. I'll manage somehow, I expect. Can't think
properly, though. Must concentrate on work.'

'You're delirious. Shut up and get some sleep.' She stood
up to go, but he grabbed her hand.

'Talk to me.'

'Well, I'm not going to talk about work. It will only make
you want to get up and go back there.'

'Tell me about the novel you are writing. It will be like
listening to
Book at Bedtime
on Radio Four.'

Shit. Oh well, he probably wouldn't remember anything
anyway so she could say what she liked. 'It's about a man
who comes home from a long voyage to find his younger
brother has taken over the estate and married his fiancée.'
Wasn't that the plot of
Poldark
? She hoped Jake didn't read
a lot.

'He murders his brother, his fiancée goes mad and has to
be locked up' – seem to have strayed into
Jane Eyre
here, oh
well – 'the house burns down and he becomes a smuggler.'
She hoped she would never have to make a living writing
fiction.

'You might be waitressing for me for quite a long time,'
croaked Jake, with just a suspicion of a laugh in his voice.

'It's a first draft and it's going to be very poetic,' she said
crossly.

'What's the hero like?'

'He's called Edward and he's tall and dark. His face is
brown and rugged from weeks spent at sea. His younger
brother was always the favourite so he has grown up bitter
and tormented. His fiancée was always a bit of a flighty
piece and never really loved him but the sea captain's
daughter is a feisty woman who understands him and helps
him rebuild his life.'

Jake seemed to have fallen asleep, which was a good
thing and probably what any literary agent worth their salt
would do if they had to read this imitative and slightly
Freudian rubbish. She stood up and tiptoed out.

They managed perfectly well without Jake during lunch
because there were hardly any customers. Kate prayed this
was just a temporary blip. She thought of Jake upstairs. She
had been around long enough to know that he had put
everything he had in this venture, and felt slightly sick at
the thought that it might fail.

Everyone had cleared up and was sloping off home. Kate
was reluctant to go. What would happen to Jake if he was
left on his own and had a terrible relapse? She went back
up, but he seemed fast asleep, though he was still shivering
violently, like a thoroughbred horse after a gruelling race.
Maybe he would sleep it off.

It was warm enough to sit outside so she took a cup of
coffee and a notebook out with her. But the story she had
wanted to write just wasn't there any more. It had been
blown away by the scorching heat and stress of a real
kitchen and by a group of people who weren't a bunch of
lazy, good-for-nothings. She liked them, for God's sake!
Tess was admirable at juggling motherhood and a
demanding job; Godfrey was funny and had real talent; and
Kirsty was better at the job than Kate herself would ever be.

And then there was Jake. He wasn't ruthless and money-grabbing,
cooking crap and making a vast profit on the
backs of unsuspecting customers. He was committed and
passionate and driven. He was just like herself. He had also
turned into the hero of her imaginary novel, which was very
worrying. He would be furious when he found out what she
was really doing. He would probably be more cutting than
one of his own knives and most certainly would never want
to see her again. She didn't want that.

The coffee went cold while she was trying to work out
how she could do her real job without jeopardising the
second one. Somehow, she had to write the sort of story
Jonathan was expecting but without losing Jake's respect,
which had become important to her, very important. It was
tricky. No – it was downright impossible. She was screwed.

It was almost a relief to shut the notebook and go back to
check on Jake. If anything, he was worse. He was so hoarse
he could barely speak, but managed a ferocious scowl when
she insisted on ringing the doctor.

'There's nothing wrong with me,' he said in a whisper,
trying to sit up and failing. 'It's just a cold – no need to waste
the doctor's time.'

'The doctor will probably point out that I am a waitress,
not bloody Florence Nightingale, and will want to know
why I didn't ring earlier.'

'You should have rung me earlier,' said the doctor, later,
after telling Jake that he had a nasty bacterial infection with
a very long Latin name. 'Another couple of hours and he
would have collapsed. He's exhausted, dehydrated and
probably hasn't been eating properly. Brought it on
himself, of course – typical man. He should take at least a
week off work, but he won't. Luckily it's not infectious. To
be honest, if he were on his own, I would have thought
about admitting him to hospital, but I am sure you can
carry on looking after him.'

She wrote out a prescription that covered most of the
page. 'He's to take these right away, and keep an eye on that
temperature. Don't hesitate to ring me back if you are
worried. Feel free to knock him out with a rolling pin if he
even tries to get up. Men, eh! They are either the sort who
go to bed for a week with a bunion, or they just don't know
when to give in.' She smiled at Kate and left.

This was tricky. The doctor seemed under the impression
they lived together and Kate hadn't managed to
disabuse her. She didn't want to.

Jake was beyond speech when she came back with the
prescription. He managed a weak but grateful smile,
swallowed the pills with difficulty and sank into what she
hoped was a restorative sleep and not a coma. He must be
very bad – he hadn't even asked about the evening shift.

As second in command, Tess took charge. Luckily it was
a quiet night and although she got rather sweaty and
flustered, and there was even more bad language than
usual, they all managed. After it was all over, Kate realised
she had even quite enjoyed parts of it.

Even so, Godfrey had to sit down after the last order had
gone out because his knees were shaking so hard he kept
banging them against the oven.

'You did great and that guy really didn't mind that his
steak was rare instead of medium. He even said he was
always going to have it like that from now on,' Kirsty
reassured him. 'Of course I am going to tell on you when
Jake's better, unless you buy me a lager on the way home.'

'What are we going to do about him? Do you think he'll
be all right on his own?'

'I told the doctor I would sleep on the sofa,' said Kate.

Tess gave her a cool, appraising look, but said that was
probably the right thing to do.

The room was in darkness when she got upstairs and she
fell over one of Jake's shoes as she fumbled for the light
switch. He woke up and looked round with dark, glittering,
confused eyes.

'Why did you sleep with him, Jill? He might have a bigger
dick than me but his ego is so huge there isn't room for two
in his bed.'

'I'm not Jill, whoever she is – I'm Kate, and have some
more of these pills.' She decided it was perfectly legitimate
to stroke his forehead to check how hot he was. When she
got up to fetch some more water, he pulled her back down.

'I'm so cold. If you won't let me have the duvet, you'll
have to keep me warm.'

She tried to tell herself that lying down with a sick man
was not a turn-on. He was delirious – he didn't even
know who she was and this was definitely not part of her
remit.

'I think you are a liar, Kate, but I like you. Isn't that odd?'

Her mouth went dry but before she could reply he
pushed her away and sat up. 'My God! I must be demented!
What happened to my restaurant?'

'Nothing. They all managed perfectly well without you.
Everything's fine.'

He lay back down again and she stayed there, knowing
she should get up, but not wanting to.

Jake started rambling on about food. Did he ever think
of anything else? 'I read about this guy – he had three
Michelin stars. Bastards took one away from him and he
topped himself. This is a terrible business to be in; you can't
let up for a minute or they'll have you. Are you on the same
wavelength as me? Georgy and I aren't. It's like we are on
different sections of the motorway, speeding off in opposite
directions. All my relationships have been like that.

'There's this restaurant in France, you know. Georgia
would hate it. It's the only place the
Gault Millau Guide
gave
full marks to. It's in a converted farmhouse and it has glass
floors, so you can look down on the sheep and pigs in the
stable underneath you. The chef – can't remember his
name – anyway, he does a
menu symphonie
. He doesn't care
if people aren't smartly dressed. Food is food, even if you
are naked, he says. I'd like to eat a meal with you naked.'

So would I, thought Kate. But if you were naked, I'd
seriously consider skipping the meal.

He sighed and drifted off. She disengaged herself gently
and crept across the room to sit by the window where the
breeze might cool her down and blow some sense into her.
She would spend the night on this very uncomfortable and
prickly chair. She would not dwell on any of the things he'd
said to her while drugged and feverish. She would certainly
not think about the two of them in bed, feeding each other
fresh strawberries and drinking champagne from each
other's – she pinched herself very hard to stop this train of
thought before it got more X-rated and dangerous.