Recipe for Disaster (17 page)

To distract herself and because she didn't feel sleepy at
all, she got up and crept into the living room. She could
read a book or watch television to pass the time.

Or you could have a good snoop, a voice in her head
suggested. After all, snoops often lead to scoops, it continued.
Ah, yes, but some people would consider that poking your
nose into someone else's business was more in the nature of
trespass than research, pointed out another voice. Shut up,
she said to this second 'holier than thou' voice.

She was struck forcibly by the fact that the flat seemed to
bear witness to a huge clash between two very different
personalities. There seemed to be no common ground here
at all. The glossy magazines in an untidy heap on a very
rickety sofa were Georgia's. The cookbooks were obviously
Jake's. They were neatly stacked, but their spines were bent
and the covers missing. When she picked one up it was
faintly scented with garlic and rosemary.

The television must be Georgia's since it was tuned in to
a channel that seemed to show nothing but soap operas.
One side of the bathroom cabinet had some bath oils and
expensive soap in it – the other side nothing but heavy-duty
painkillers and blue plasters.

Who had bought the book on managing stress, she wondered.
It was impossible to tell because it hadn't been opened.

The kitchen contained Illy espresso coffee beans and
some instant stuff. A brown loaf and white sliced. In the
fridge, two bags of Maltesers and a circle of Camembert in
a wooden box.

Jake was sprawled right across the bed now, dreaming.
He had made loads of money but the bank manager wanted
it all and it still wasn't enough. However many notes he
threw at him, the man kept shouting for more. Then the
bank manager turned into Harry, who said: 'This place is
mine now,' and put an apron on over his Armani suit.

'No, wait!' cried Kate in the dream. 'My novel will save
us!' But she seemed to have two faces, each blurring into the
other.

Kate woke up with a start and a stiff neck. It was light now
and Jake was standing in front of her, still pale, but sane. He
must be still shaky, because he sat down abruptly and put
his head in his hands.

'My head feels like it's returned to my body, just. Thank
you for looking after me.' He looked at her through his
hands. He seemed embarrassed. 'What I can remember of
last night doesn't seem to make much sense. I feel sure I was
talking complete nonsense.'

'Well, maybe a bit. You went on about some mysterious
but fascinating restaurant in France and then fell asleep.
The doctor said someone should stay with you, so I did,' she
said, trying to sound casual.

Was that all? He must have had some intensely vivid
dreams then, because he could have sworn they had been
lying in bed together, which had seemed very nice. He must
have imagined it, but even that shouldn't have happened in
the room he shared with Georgia. Or did he? Had she
fucked off and left him for good?

A couple of days later Kate arrived early for work. She was
doing that more often these days. It was as if she couldn't
bear to stay away. Also, a germ of an idea for a story had
sprouted in her head and it needed careful tending if it
were to sprout into a healthy young shoot. Though she had
to admit, it probably needed a greenhouse as well. The
paper was on her back and they were getting nasty.

What the hell's going on?' Jonathan had demanded
irritably that morning. 'You're not usually so shy about
sending copy.'

'This is going to take more time than I thought. What is it,
do you not trust me any more? When have I not delivered?

'OK, OK,' he said grudgingly.

She had never had such a conflict between what she knew
she should be writing and what she wanted to say. This was
going to be a bit of a tightrope walk.

She hadn't been in the kitchen for more than two
minutes when Jake walked in. He moved slowly, almost
painfully, and she realised with a jolt how much the
infection had wasted him. He had to tie his apron strings
twice round his waist before it would stay up.

'You're keen,' he said in surprise.

'Oh, I was going to copy out a few recipes for my mum –
she likes cooking,' Kate lied.

'Well, don't give her my signature dish. It's licensed only
to me.'

'What is it?'

'Can't remember,' he grinned. 'My brain is still a bit
woolly. I need sustenance.'

'You could do with fattening up a bit. There's some steak
in the fridge.'

'When isn't there? No, I think I need some Jewish
penicillin.' He laughed at the puzzled look on her face.
'Never had any? Then you haven't lived. It's brilliant but
you won't find it at a chemist. Its real name is matzo ball
soup – chicken soup with dumplings to a shiksa bird like
you.'

'Like your mother used to make.'

'Oh, no, my mother is a terrible cook. Oma, my grandmother,
would make this, gallons of it, to keep us going
while Mum was at work.'

'Were you brought up in an Orthodox household?' she
asked, thinking how cute he must have looked as a little boy
if he'd had to wear one of those skullcaps.
Jake laughed. 'Hardly. We celebrated every religious
festival going – Hanukkah, Christmas and – one January –
even Chinese New Year, because the weather was lousy and
Oma said we all needed cheering up. She used to say that
the best revenge on the Nazis for the Holocaust was for
those who survived to have as much fun as possible. She
reckoned that every time Hitler heard a Jew laughing, Hell
would get a bit hotter and she was sure God would understand
and approve of this. She always spoke about God as if
He was one of her favourite neighbours.'

'She sounds like a great woman. Here, I'll take that – I
don't think you've got the strength to carry it. What is it?'

'She was the best woman I've ever known. It's called
matzo meal – it sort of absorbs all the other ingredients. You
shape it into little dumplings, like so, and then you put it in
this soup I am making, which should really be made with a
boiled chicken, but I can't wait so we'll have to use some of
Godfrey's stock, which is actually not bad.'

Kate put an apron on and helped, enjoying watching him
work. He did everything with such grace and confidence.

Because she seemed so interested, he carried on talking.
'It also used to be called "golden broth" because it was like
amber, with golden globules of fat floating on top. Of
course, many people skim the fat off now – we're all so
health-conscious. But I was brought up on the stuff.' Now
he was slicing some of Sally's bread. 'Are you going to have
some?'

'Oh, yes, please. It smells delicious.' Who cared if she had
to buy a bigger skirt?

Jake spooned soup into two bowls and they ate in an
oddly companionable silence. He was so effortlessly
generous, she thought. There was no way she could betray
him, not after they had broken bread together. Oh dear, it
was all starting to sound a bit biblical. She swallowed a large
chunk of bread and choked. Jake patted her on the back
and when this didn't work fetched a glass of water.

'Maybe this soup doesn't work on gentiles.'

This made her laugh and cough even more. She was still
spluttering, with tears streaming down her face when
Godfrey arrived. 'What have you done to her?' he
demanded of Jake sternly.

'Don't be silly. Let's get straight to the point. What have
you
been doing to my kitchen while I've been absent?'

Godfrey's disastrous school career wasn't long gone, and
he still looked guilty when anyone asked him a question. He
cast his mind back feverishly over the last couple of days
and glanced round the kitchen in case there was a heinous
crime he had committed. All was clean and tidy; he hadn't
left the oven on and nothing looked like it was falling apart.
'Er, I did undercook a steak.'

'Well, it's better than overcooking it, I suppose,' said Jake
grudgingly. Secretly, he was delighted that everything
seemed to be in perfect order, though of course slightly
miffed that they'd done so well without him.

'How many times have I told you that you're to test it by
touching it?'

'About a million, I suppose. I did remember, but I was
stressed.'

'So? It's like that all the time in a kitchen – get used to it.'
He was feeling better by the minute. 'You should know by
now that a kitchen is no place to indulge in a hissy fit. It's
not backstage at the opera, for God's sake.'

Godfrey stuck his bottom lip out mutinously. He seemed
to recall Jake taking time off to hurl a wooden spoon out of
the window the other week. He also entertained a brief but
delightful fantasy of Jake bound and gagged somewhere,
leaving him in sole charge of the kitchen. Then he
remembered he needed Jake's advice on béchamel sauce.

I should just tell him the truth, thought Kate. It's obvious
we like each other. It's clear where we both want this to
lead. It's real and it's good – or it will be when I've stopped
lying to him. I have to sort this out now, before it gets any
worse.

She followed him through to the office.

'Er . . . can I have a word?'

'Sure.'

They stood looking at each other. They were about the
same height so she could look straight into his eyes. Good.
Then he would know she was now telling the truth. How
beautiful the bones of his face were, lying just under the too
pale skin . . . Get to the point, you coward! No, I can't hit him
with this just now. It might give him a relapse. I know I've
got to come clean, but I've got to pick the right moment!

'I . . . I just wanted to say thank you for telling me about
your family. I found it really interesting. It means a lot to
me.'

'I don't tell everyone – I don't want it to sound like a sob
story. But I knew you would understand. Um . . . is that it?'

'Yeah. Thanks. Great.' She fled. Well, that wasn't very
well played, you silly woman!

'You're awfully red in the face, you know. What have you
done?' asked Godfrey.

Slowly the staff filtered in to work, some pleased to see
their boss back on his feet, some less so, particularly Tom,
the part-time washer-upper, who had spent the previous
shift reading the
Sun
and desultorily swishing water around
pans. He had hidden a whole stash of dirty cutlery in a
cupboard and now wondered how he was going to get it out
and in the dishwasher, where it should have gone last night,
without Jake spotting it.

At ten past six, Jake looked up from his chopping board
and frowned. Sally was late. This was unheard of. She was
genetically programmed to arrive early for everything. She
would probably be the only bride hanging around outside
the church and tapping her watch, waiting for the groom to
arrive.

At twenty past six Jake was worried. Even if she was dying
of the bubonic plague she would have got a message to him
to let him know, surely? He went into the office and rang
her. She still lived with her mum.

'Hello, Mrs Smith. Can I speak to Sally?'

'She's not here,' said Sally's mum.

'Well, where is she?' asked Jake briskly.

'I'm afraid I can't tell you that.' She sounded cagey.

'Why ever not? I'm her boss and I have a right to know
why she hasn't turned up for work,' said Jake coldly. There
was a click. He looked at the phone in disbelief. She had
hung up on him! He dialled again and was asked to leave a
message. He stomped back to the kitchen in a furious
temper. 'OK, one of you must know where Sally is. Spill –
now!'

But everyone looked at him in genuine puzzlement.

'Honestly, Chef, she was here yesterday just like usual –
worked away – never said anything – well, she never does,
much, does she?' Tess looked around and they all nodded
in confirmation.

'Was she sick at all? Upset?'

'Hard to tell. I mean, she seemed perfectly fit and she
always looks like a neurotic mouse.'

'Right.' He thought for a minute. 'Kirsty, does your sister
still want some waitressing work?'

She nodded.

'Well, ring her. Kate, stop drying all that cutlery – why
wasn't it done yesterday? – and put this apron on.'

'Oh, no. Definitely no. I am a waitress, not a cook.'

'I'm not asking you to cook,' said Jake irritably. 'Most of
the stuff for dessert is already made. All I need is someone
to put it together. Perfectly simple. An idiot could do it, but
Godfrey is busy.'

Kate backed away nervously. She had got used to being
on the serving side of the pass; beyond it was foreign and
hideous territory. It would be like stepping into no-man's land.

Jake's tone softened. 'Honestly, Kate, it will be fine and it
will only be for tonight. It will be a doddle, I promise you.
We'll all look after you, won't we, guys?'

It was liked being lured by a snake-charmer. Entirely
against her will she walked forward and took the apron he
was holding out. He had a gentle, friendly smile.

'Good. Now the chocolate and tiramisu parfaits are
already made and just need to come out of the moulds; the
pan-roasted, cold plum soup just needs to be served with a
swirl of yoghurt on the top; the passion fruit and orange
tart just needs cutting into wedges; the ravioli of pineapple
just has to be sandwiched together with strawberry cream;
ditto the puff pastry slice, and we'll forget about the crêpes
Suzette tonight.'

Kate noticed he was using the word 'just' a lot. He made
it sound so simple and reasonable a blind man with the
tremors could do it. So why was Godfrey rolling his eyes in
horror and sympathy as she crossed the great divide? Tess
had her lips clamped together and refused to meet her
gaze. It was going to be a long night.

Kate knew the constituents of the puddings by heart,
having given lyrical descriptions of them to customers all
week. A quick survey of the fridge showed her that Jake was
right. Everything was there in all its different parts, beautifully
made up. All it required was a steady hand and a steel
nerve. Surely it couldn't be more difficult than laboriously
uncovering a Roman artefact with a toothbrush, which she
had been allowed to do on the dig, to her enormous pride?
It was now behind glass in the museum at Keswick, with her
name next to it. It was probably a good thing cooks were an
uncultured lot and never visited museums.

Jake couldn't have been nicer at the start. With infinite
patience and good humour he went through a trial run
with her, showing her how to pipe cream onto a layer of
puff pastry so delicate she hardly dared breathe in case it
floated away.

'You have to arrange the fruit so it hangs down as if it's
still on the bush – no, don't pull the stems of the blueberries
and take care not to crush the raspberries. If you run a hot
cloth round the moulds, the parfaits will slide out as easily
as – well, I'll leave that to your imagination. Excellent –
you're doing brilliantly!

'I'm really grateful you're doing this and I know you are
probably a bit nervous,' he continued, in an encouraging
manner.

A bit? She couldn't remember the last time she had heard
such a ridiculous understatement.

'I do know how you feel. I felt the same way at the start
of every shift when I was training. I felt even worse the
night the restaurant opened. I know you can do it.
Tomorrow we'll look back at this and laugh.'

'Yes, but we'll probably be in strait-jackets by then,' put
in Godfrey, and received such a scowl from Jake he said no
more.

Between them, they got everything as ready as it could
be. Being orderly and meticulous herself, Kate enjoyed this
and started to relax. Surely it wouldn't be that difficult to
put it all together when someone actually ordered
something?

This is easy – I can do this! Don't know what they all
make such a fuss about. People get so anal about their jobs
– think they are the only ones who can do it. All that
running around and shouting is just for show . . .

'Shit, first order. Only for two, no problem.' She picked
up a mould and promptly dropped it.

'Not to worry,' said Jake, rather too heartily, she thought.

He hovered over her like an anxious father in a delivery
room. 'Don't poke at it, woman. It's not something nasty
you've just found on the bottom of your shoe. Don't shake
it about like that either! And people generally like the sauce
in the middle of the plate, not dripping off the edge. There,
that's better. What's the point of it tasting nice if it looks like
shit? OK, take it away, Kirsty. What the hell are you waiting
for – the Second Coming?

'You see, that went quite well, didn't it?'

Overcome by such praise she turned and tripped over
Godfrey's enormous feet.

If only the orders would come in like the animals on
Noah's Ark, neatly in pairs. But they didn't. How could
people be so inconsiderate as to go out and eat in groups of
eight? She only had one pair of hands, didn't she? Kate felt
as if her face had frozen in a rictus of fear and her nose was
so shiny they could probably use it as an emergency light
should the power fail. Her thoughts began to flutter around
crazily in her head like a flock of startled birds.