'So, er, what did you have to do there?'
'Oh, I don't think you would be able to understand it. It's a very complex ritual,' she said importantly, eyeing Kate's notepad.
Kate generally didn't have any trouble understanding anything, but she gritted her teeth. 'Try me – but make it simple.'
'We were ushering in the spring by using a series of ancient and significant rites.'
'They took all their clothes off and ran round the stone, only they started a downpour and all their stuff got soaked, including their mobile phones so they couldn't ring for help,' put in the policeman, who obviously couldn't wait until he was off duty and at the pub to regale everyone with this tale.
'The rain will fertilise the barren land!'
'It's been doing that all bleeding winter! Couldn't you have ordered some sunshine instead?' said the constable in disgust.
The woman sighed in an irritating manner, which was a bit rich, Kate thought, considering they had just availed themselves of the considerable help of the fell rescue service, which they didn't have to pay for.
'So, you didn't complete the ritual successfully then?'
The woman nodded, grudgingly. 'Only because we were interrupted at a crucial point. The goddess is angered. There will be many storms to come.' She looked accusingly at Kate, as if she thought it was her fault.
Kate waited to return to the car before laughing. 'God, I love this job!' Then she sobered up. This would make an amusing little piece but it was hardly a ground-breaking feature. In this business you were only as good as your last story.
Kate had wanted to be a journalist ever since she was ten, when she came top of her class for writing an entirely fictitious essay on what she had done during her school holidays. When her teacher had found out and threatened to take the prize away, Kate pointed out that no one had actually said it should be truthful, so she hadn't broken the rules.
Kate loved writing. She saw words as almost magical and certainly precious things. Finding the right word was like getting the steps of a dance correct. No one was surprised when she was made editor of the school newspaper, though she tended to hog all the best stories for herself. As soon as she could she had left school, with an impressive clutch of qualifications, and walked straight into the nearest newspaper office, where she spent a few months making tea and writing reports of Women's Institute meetings. She covered her first major news story because she took the phone call and failed to inform the chief reporter, who would have given it to someone with more experience. Of course he'd bollocked her for it afterwards, but it was already on the front page. Now the years working her way up had softened her a bit, but she was still following stories in the same single-minded way.
They took their time going back into town, because although still early in the year, the narrow roads were already clogged with tourists. While Joe waited at the traffic lights, Kate fidgeted in her seat. Her evening at the restaurant with Jonathan was still replaying in her head and now, topped by this dissatisfying interview, she could feel herself getting edgy again. She glanced idly outside at a café sign that proudly proclaimed it served ice cream homemade made on the premises.
'Funny, I would swear that's a van delivering ice cream round the back!'
Joe tapped the wheel impatiently. 'Eh? What the hell are you on about?'
'That café. Pretty cheeky, don't you think?' When he looked blank she pointed at the ice-cream van just passing underneath the sign. 'It's false advertising really. I've got a food thing at the moment. What we get are too many fancy and pretentious promises. Who knows what restaurants get up to in the back, out of the sight of us customers?' she said sharply, her red hair almost vibrating with an angry life of its own.
'Well, you're in England – the north of England, to be precise – what do you expect?' said Joe tolerantly.
Kate opened her mouth to reply, then she bit her lip. 'Sorry, you're right. I seem to have turned into a complete bitch today.'
He laughed. 'Don't be silly. You're just . . . well, you've got a bit of a sharp edge at the moment.'
She winced. 'I know, I know, it's just that I've been a total idiot. I should never have started an affair with a married man, even if he did swear he was separated at the time,' she said wryly. 'And the whole office knows about it. Every time I walk into a room I feel like everyone has just stopped talking about me!'
'Well, they probably have. But they'll get over it.'
'Actually, I just need to get over myself. What I really need is a cracking story, the sort that will take me out of the office for a couple of weeks until it's all died down.'
Joe nodded. This was only the ninth or tenth time she'd said this today. 'You and me both,' he yawned. 'Since having the twins I don't really have any ideas at all any more, well, apart from how to try and snatch more sleep. I just point my camera, press, go home and try to remember what disgusting shade a healthy nappy should look like. Mary's quite keen on that sort of thing,' he added apologetically.
'The woman was a saint to marry you in the first place, let alone consent to have your sprogs,' Kate retorted, but absently. She was thinking.
She sat in silence all the way home, mulling over story ideas and a short but very funny piece on the lost worshippers to tide her over. Even when she'd waved goodbye to Joe, let herself into her apartment and made a cup of tea, she couldn't stop thinking about ideas – and one in particular. She pulled down books at random, making notes, and was so absorbed in what she was doing that she took a slug of tea without realising it had gone stone cold. 'Ugh,' she said, swallowing it in disgust, and was getting up to make some fresh when the doorbell rang.
Jonathan took a step towards her, but Kate wasn't having any of it. 'I've already written a conclusion to the unfinished business between us last night,' she said firmly. 'It's over and it has been ever since you decided, quite rightly, that you needed to give your marriage another try. I never tried to persuade you otherwise. But we are so not going to have a last screw for old times' sake, or anything else.'
'But I need to make absolutely certain I've made the right decision, and how can I be sure unless –'
'Trust me. From now on you will have to live in your memories,' Kate retorted. She held her breath for a moment – he was still her boss, after all – but then he grinned.
'Oh, well, it was worth a try. Do you know that a new book has come out which absolutely proves that while women are mulling over all the emotional complexities of a situation, men are just thinking about sex?'
'Women have known that for years. We certainly don't need a bloody book to tell us!' God, she was really going to miss this banter. Then she had a thought. 'Look, I know this may sound odd, but I really need to pick your brains. It's about a potential story.'
His ears perked up. 'OK, stick the kettle on and shoot.'
She waved him inside, grinning to herself in relief. Jonathan drank tea by the gallon at work, claiming it helped him think. Now it was a sign that he had become her respected colleague again and she welcomed it.
'Do you remember that awful meal we had – the one with the burned lamb?' she began, when they were sitting on the sofa, mugs in hand. 'Well, it got me thinking. There seems to be a massive gap between what we punters get to see and what really happens out of our sight, in the back of a restaurant.'
'You're right there. If the paper hadn't picked up the tab for that meal, I certainly wouldn't have.'
'Exactly! And that's only the tip of the iceberg! Half the restaurants in this town seem to serve up food that's not even their own. It's been cooked and frozen by someone else. I mean, anyone with half a brain could shove something in the microwave and chuck it on a plate. Yet they pretend it's some kind of elevated cuisine, almost like an exclusive club that we ordinary humans don't have access to – partly because they insist on talking in another language. Do you know that to "mortify" something makes it more tender?' She bent down and rummaged through some papers. 'Oh, yes, and a fleuron, which
I could swear was one of the aliens attacking Dr Who on the telly last week, is actually a lozenge or crescent made with puff pastry. I mean, pretentious twaddle or what?'
'And chefs are so precious about their reputations. You can't pick up a paper these days without having to wade through one of the celebrity chefs claiming to be the best cook since the invention of the knife and fork,' mused Jonathan. 'I totally agree – all that crap is a waste of good newsprint.'
'So . . .' Kate took a deep breath. 'Chefs – real cooking or just a cover up?'
'Hmm. Could be good. Colourful personalities, scandalous practices and plenty of bullshit for you to expose in your inimitable way. I assume you'd be thinking of going undercover somehow to get the proof?'
'Oh, yes. It's got to be well researched – not worth doing otherwise.'
'I agree. But you are not going to get work as a chef. You've got guts, Kate, but not even you could pull that off.'
'No, but I wouldn't have to. I could become a waitress instead. All they do is swan around and look snooty. An idiot could do it!'
'I'm looking forward to those pictures.' He grinned at her and she quickly looked away, trying not to get caught up in his eyes. Now was not the time to be reminded how sexy a sharp, rugged, carelessly ruffled professional man like Jonathan was. This was now over.
Jonathan was the first to look away. 'I've got to go. I promised . . .' he hesitated.
'You promised your wife you would be home hours ago,' she finished off for him. 'Well, you are late, but at least you've got a clean conscience.'
'Sorry. Sorry about everything, really.'
'I know.' She gave him an awkward grin and propelled him out of the door, patting him kindly on the back. Hopefully, the next time they met, they could just move on. Affairs at work were never a good idea, she thought, prowling restlessly about the room after he'd gone. Glancing around, she realised he might never have been there. He had left nothing that might announce his presence in her life. It had been a bit like having an affair with a ghost.
The next time – and I don't care how long I have to wait – the next time I start a relationship, it will be completely open and above board, with someone who is single and legitimately mine for the taking. There will be no secrets, no lies and definitely no guilt, she thought.
She wandered aimlessly through her flat, checking her messages – there was one from her mum – and riffling through the post: a belated birthday card from her best mate at school cheered her up momentarily. Then she went into the bathroom and disconsolately ran herself a bath, throwing in a generous handful of expensive bath salts. When she got out she would be clean, refreshed and a single woman, ready to start again.
Chapter Four
When Harry Hunter was born, his glorious blue eyes made even the hardened battle axe of a midwife smile and coo with pleasure. Later on that night, however, he tried to bite her. She was glad she was leaving before he developed teeth.
His grandmother might have loved him just as much as Jake's did. But if that was the case, she never said so.
No one ever said anything like that in Harry's family.
Far back in time, his ancestor Harolde Hunter had performed some vital but unsavoury tasks for that canny old skinflint Henry VII. Henry was grateful, but sick of the sight of Harolde, who displayed, even in those rough times, rather too much eagerness to get his hands dirty. So he gave him a parcel of land up north, where, with a bit of luck, he would get eaten by wolves, or the locals, who were rumoured to be wild.
But Harolde prospered and, among other things, bequeathed to his heirs an unshakeable belief that whatever Hunters wanted, they got.
So, through the ages, Hunters made their mark on the world through skulduggery, cheating, betrayal and allround nastiness. There might have been nice Hunters, but they never lasted long. They probably just faded away, like a flower does without water.
When he wasn't at work, Harry's father enjoyed living up to his name, and if the Government thought they were going to stop him, well, Hunter Hall was a long way from Westminster, too far to hear horns and the baying of hounds. Harry's mother enjoyed gin and bridge, in that order, and was always having things done to her face in the vain hope people might think she was still thirty-five.
Harry, on the other hand, was a pin-up. He was so vain, the only photo he kept in his wallet was one of himself. Tall and broad-shouldered, he romped through his private schools, winning sporting and academic prizes without even having to cheat. Early on, he mastered the art of looking down his Roman nose at everyone he considered beneath him.
School had its drawbacks, one of which was the sexual habits of some of the masters. No one buggered about with Harry, though, unless he wanted them to, which, on the whole, he didn't, having discovered the fun that could be had at the girls' school half a mile away. He could charm anyone he liked, but then he always despised them afterwards for being so gullible.
Holidays were spent in Aspen or the Caribbean, and there he discovered a love of good food. But, being Harry, he suddenly realised that he could cook it better himself. He started practising at home, when no one was looking, because some people still thought cooking was just for girls.
On leaving school he was at a bit of a loss. Plenty of universities would have had him, but he was bored with academic life. What he really wanted to do was cook. All that chopping and slashing and heat and blood – in a kitchen he was as at home as a shark in the ocean. Other people might wilt under the intense pressure, but Harry just thrived. The white chef's jacket really brought out the blue of his eyes, and everyone knew uniforms were terribly popular with the girls.
For Harry, there was only one way to do things – properly – so once his mind was made up, he had to go to the best catering college there was. Obviously he never doubted for a minute that he would get in.
The Richmond College of Catering was the cooking world's equivalent of Oxford or Cambridge. Some bright sparks, like Harry, went straight from school. He lacked experience but he radiated energy and enthusiasm. Others, like Jake, had actually toiled at the coal face of a real kitchen. The interviewing panel were very impressed by how much he had already picked up. They also noted his steely determination.
The college was looking for raw talent that could be chucked into a furnace of intensive teaching, work experience and fierce criticism. If you survived with your ambition and self-confidence intact, the world was your lobster thermidor.
On the first day of term the entrance hall was crammed with eager young cooks, polished like newly minted coins in their pristine white chef's jackets, the sunshine glinting off a positive arsenal of sharp knives. On the walls were pictures of the college's alumni, some of them now familiar faces on television. There was even an enticing aroma of frying onions and garlic wafting across the room from one of the classes already in progress.
Jake had had to sell his laptop and half his CD collection to buy the set of knives the college insisted they use. He had bought his chef's clobber from a commis who was leaving catering to go into the army – he said he needed a rest. Jake had used up a whole bottle of Vanish getting out the bloodstains. Glancing idly round the room he reflected that at least his gear had been in a real kitchen. Judging by the look of the stuff some of the others were wearing, their whites had only just come out of their plastic wrappers. He grinned to himself at the thought of what some of these kids would look like after the real world of a kitchen had met their snowy aprons. One or two of them weren't even going to last the first week, he reckoned.
Eavesdropping shamelessly, he was able to pick out the kitchen virgins. Listening to them talk it was clear they had picked up vast amounts of theory. They just hadn't done it yet.
One of the advantages of growing up in south London was that you developed a finely honed instinct for possible trouble. There was always one boy in the playground who called you mate, but then stole your dinner money. Jake saw Harry and instantly recognised the type. He was standing in the mid
st of a group of people as if he owned it. He was perfectly balanced, legs slightly apart, unlike everyone else, who was shuffling nervously from one foot to the other. It was obvious Harry didn't do nervous. He was telling a joke about some TV chef that made it sound as if he knew him.
Harry laughed, throwing his head back and exposing an immaculate set of teeth. He glanced round the room to make sure everyone was joining in and for a brief second his eyes met Jake's. Under the laughter they were cold and calculating before he looked away. No one else seemed to notice. Jake shrugged. He wasn't a schoolboy now; he could take care of himself.
Of that year's intake of budding Marco Pierre Whites, there were a number of casualties. One guy discovered he just couldn't bear the sight of blood. He was nearly sick when asked to cook something rare, and as for steak tartare . . . A few were just too lazy to put in the graft, and one girl was told to leave because, even after a year, she couldn't tell the difference between basil and parsley.
Of the ones that were left, Jake and Harry rose to the top, like the cream in a pint of milk. This incensed Harry, who had been top of everything when he was at school and was not prepared to share.
But charm was one of Harry's strongest weapons. He quickly learned to temper his public-school drawl with Cumbrian idioms from home. He called his mates his 'marras', a term they had never heard before and which made them laugh. He was always generous about lending things from his state-of-the-art chef's tool box, and he went through the pretty girls like a knife through butter. The combination of his good looks, charisma and invitations to weekends at home in the Lake District was irresistible.
Every girl thought she was the one, until she was dumped. Jake became so used to having hysterical females sobbing on his shoulder that it was a bit like living through Groundhog Day. He became skilled at dispensing cookery and comfort at the same time. Typically his advice always went: 'Yes, Pamela/Anne/Lyndsay, I agree it's awful. Here, take this tissue and try not to drip into my jus/coulis/soup.' Or, 'Yeah, he is a shit, but you refused to listen when I told you this.' Or, 'Now, don't be silly. You don't really want to kill yourself/him, so please put my knife/rolling pin/ sharpener back in my box.'
Recipe for Disaster Page 4