Recipe for Disaster

by Miriam Morrison

  After they had got over the trauma, the girls would then kick themselves for failing to notice earlier that Jake was sexy too, with his heavy-lidded dark eyes and the smile that could be tough or tender, depending on the occasion.

  So another thing he had to become good at was explaining (tactfully, of course) that there was no way on God's earth he was ever going to go out with that bastard's cast-offs. There was such a thing as pride, thank you very much. Which made him a man of principle, but rather lonely at night.

  But most of the time he was busy doing the important stuff: cooking, and soaking up the theory. He listened, studied, copied and experimented until sometimes he felt like a chicken someone had overstuffed and which had exploded in the oven. But the more he learned, the more he realised there was to learn. After work-experience sessions at places like Le Gavroche and the Ritz, he took to repeating every day, like a mantra, 'A chef is only as good as his last meal.' By the end of the course, he was itching to get back out there.

  On their last day, there was a party and the college's own version of a prize-giving ceremony. Klutz of the year went to a guy named John, who had broken more plates than anyone else and even managed to smash a silver salver. Jake's mate Barney got Pudding of the Year. He had put on three and half stones since he started and had got the job of his dreams as a pastry chef on a cruise liner. 'If you go on like this, they will have to reinforce the boat,' said the principal. Barney just grinned and asked Jake if he was going to finish that pudding.

  'Joking aside, you have been a brilliant group this year. Well, by and large. Anyone remember that girl who ran off in tears during the first week, when she was asked to try some tripe?'

  'Dozy bitch,' muttered Harry, but too quietly for anyone to hear.

  'Well, someone spotted her the other day working in a fast-food joint at Oxford Circus.'

  There was a shocked and pitying silence.

  'Now, I am sure none of you will be surprised that the award for outstanding student has effectively been a two chef race. During their time here, Jake Goldman and Harry Hunter have proved themselves to be dedicated and talented. I can assure you that the debate over this award has been worse than a meeting of the UN. We argued like fury among ourselves, but eventually, probably because we finally ran out of booze – no, seriously – it was decided – because we feel he had the ability to run a happy and focused kitchen, as well as cook like one of the gods – to present this award to Jake.'

  Everyone cheered and threw their bread rolls at him. Jake was astounded. He had never won anything in his life and was always too busy trying to become a better cook to get big-headed about his talent. The award took the form of a little silver chef's hat. Guiltily, he wondered if he could sell it. It would be the only way he could afford new chef's gear.

  When he got back to the table, Harry made sure he was the first one to stand up and shake Jake's hand. Anyone watching them would assume they were the best of friends. But when Jake looked into Harry's eyes, he shivered.

  The principal banged a spoon on the table to get their attention. 'Listen up, you lot. I said shut up! God, I am really looking forward to seeing those cocky smiles wiped off your faces on your first day at work. Anyway, this brings me to my final announcement.

  'It is my great pleasure to tell you all that really, both Jake and Harry have come up winners tonight. The Capital, that famous spot that none of us can afford to eat at, has – and this has never happened before – offered both these guys jobs. Well done, you two. That's a really remarkable achievement!'

  Jake could feel a large smile spread over his face. He felt as though he was about to burst. This was the chance of a lifetime. Harry grinned at the crowd, nodding regally, but inside he was seething, and shocked at his very unfamiliar feeling of humiliation. Being top – winning prizes – well, that was his natural place in the world. But no one else belonged there. And certainly Jake didn't.

  Harry carried on smiling and talking, while his brain feverishly started producing ideas for teaching Jake a lesson. There were so many things he could do. All he needed was an opportunity. He could wait. In the meantime . . .

  'Let me shake your hand again, mate. I think we are going to work very well together.'

  'What a gent!' someone shouted, but Jake's delighted smile quickly turned sour. His hand was hurting so much he wouldn't have been surprised if Harry hadn't broken a bone or two.

  Chapter Five

  The Capital was so trendy it was rumoured that even Gwyneth Paltrow was unable to get a table one night. Members of cool and edgy rock bands ate there, and television presenters who wanted to be seen as cool. It was so expensive that Jake would have had to take out a mortgage to afford dinner.

  The chef who had created its reputation was currently off work, enjoying a protracted nervous breakdown. In his place was his brother, who couldn't cook quite as well but was sleeping with the owner's wife.

  Jake got the distinct impression that, despite appearances to the contrary, the restaurant was on its way down. It happened. Restaurants come and go – actually, most of them go. Coming down with a bump after the happy glow induced by the principal's praise, he saw in reality that the atmosphere in the kitchen was often so bad (think sinking ship and rats) that he didn't really want to stay, if there hadn't been the urgent matter of an overdraft to pay off first. He had spent a brilliant but pricey week in Italy, learning how to make pasta from a master, and now was seriously in debt. But it had been worth it. The chef's wife had taken him to her heart – literally. Every morning he would be enveloped in a squishy, garlic-and-herb fragranced embrace, fed huge amounts of food and told that he looked too peaky. He had worked hard, but the food, the glorious red wine and the sun had left him feeling as fit as a butcher's dog.

  Harry was furious that Jake hadn't died in a plane crash on the way, or at the least chopped his fingers off in a pasta machine, but they were both lowly commis chefs at the moment so Harry's plan of action called for discretion and cunning.

  Harry had plenty of spare energy for this, because on his days off he could kip at his cousin's flat in Hampstead, lulled to sleep on Egyptian cotton sheets and cocooned from the traffic behind triple-glazed windows. When he felt peckish there was always some fillet steak or smoked salmon in the fridge.

  Jake, on the other hand, had found the cheapest bedsit in the whole of London. It was above an Indian supermarket, and opposite the sort of pub whose clientele consider it a poor do if there isn't at least one fight at night. Jake would lie in bed, under a woefully inadequate duvet, shivering and listening to the sound of glass bottles breaking over people's heads.

  His diet would have been just soup, made from vegetables picked up from a local market, because that was all he could afford. But he had made friends with Mr Patel downstairs, who had left Bombay twenty-five years ago but was still dreadfully homesick, and was thrilled by Jake's genuine interest in Indian cuisine. He took to leaving a portion of the family's curry on Jake's doorstep most nights. Jake was usually so tired he would eat it cold, standing up, before falling into a fitful doze on a bed so uncomfortable he was tempted to lift the mattress up to see if there were nails underneath.

  When he came into work hollow-eyed, Harry would look over in mock concern and say: 'You look rough. Been burning the candle at both ends again?'

  Although Jake's work was always impeccable, Harry's words gave the impression that Jake was a bit of a party animal, which made their boss, who was seriously stressed to start with, look at him with some suspicion.

  Kitchens are busy places and people often bump into each other, but Jake always seemed to get jostled when he was using a sharp knife or stirring a hot sauce. Scalded or cut, he would swear profusely, and Harry would shrug and grin an apology. It gained Jake an entirely undeserved reputation for being humourless and grouchy.

  Also, if they all went out for a drink after work, Harry always bought several rounds while Jake (mindful of his bank manager, who was making increasingly t
hreatening noises) tried to nurse half a shandy through the evening. No one actually said he was mean, but the unspoken words hung in the air alongside the cigarette smoke.

  He was often too tired to make much conversation, but he watched. Did the others not realise they were being befriended by a shark? Harry had predatory eyes, clear, focused and hungry. The others might think him a good sort but Jake was determined not to land between those expensive, gleaming white teeth.

  The one bright spot was Jill, one of the restaurant's ever-shifting population of waiting staff. She was freckled and funny, and a truly terrible waitress, but at least she always turned up for work, though this wasn't due to professionalism, but because she couldn't bear to be parted from Jake.

  They had been going out for only a week before she said: 'I know this is so totally the wrong thing to say, but I have fallen in love with you. Do you want to kick me out?'

  'I haven't finished counting the freckles on your nose yet, let alone the rest of you. I'll let you know when I've finished,' he teased. 'Anyway, the feeling is mutual because you are practically perfect, you know. You're gorgeous, you make me laugh and, most importantly, you don't seem to mind that this bed is as hard as a rock and so short our feet dangle over the edge.'

  She was always chronically short of cash as well. If they were off on the same day they would walk to the nearest free exhibition, or lie in bed eating cold curry and making love.

  He was enjoying himself so much he didn't want to spoil it by taking her home to meet his family yet. This was because they were mad. Mrs Goldman never believed in using one word if you could slot in at least another fifty, even if they contradicted each other. She was always on the lookout for a molehill to turn into a mountain. Jake was convinced his father had taken up bird-watching just to get out of the house, but as he hardly uttered a word when he was in it, it was difficult to tell the difference.

  Four of the kitchen staff had left or been sacked within hours of each other that month, so no one had been able to have much time off. Jake was knackered, but it was his and Jill's first afternoon off together for three weeks and he had it planned down to the last minute. He was going to take her on the bus (cheap) to an exhibition (free), which would leave him flush enough for pasta for two at an Italian restaurant round the corner. He was just outlining this plan to her when his mother rang.

  'There is an enormous bird flapping around in the attic. I can hear it!' Jake's mother had a phobia about birds.

  'Well, where's Dad?'

  'Out.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Of course I'm sure. It's always the same. I don't know why he bothers to call this place his home and does he take his phone with him? No! It is right here in front of me on the sideboard. I told him to shut the window in the attic but he must have forgotten, and heaven knows what it is dropping onto the boxes up there. Imagine the smell! Oh my God! Maybe it is laying eggs; before we know it there will be a whole flock of them. There is that box belonging to your oma up there – it is all we have left of her!'

  'I'll come right over, Mum,' said Jake, putting the phone down. It was easier to say it now and cut out another twenty minutes of kvetch.

  He sighed. 'It's going to take ages to get across London and she won't let me out of her clutches until I've had at least two cups of tea and an update on everything our neighbours have been up to, even though she knows I don't know who half of them are.' He smiled at Jill ruefully. 'Then there will be an intensive interrogation of every aspect of my life for the last six months, followed by analysis, criticism and entirely unsolicited advice.' He didn't want to do any of this, but he was a good Jewish son. In his head he saw his precious time off vanish like smoke. He might as well have been working.

  'Don't worry,' said Jill gamely. 'To be honest, I could do with spending the afternoon asleep, anyway.' She kissed him, but although she tried not to show her disappointment, she knew it would be ages before they got more time off together.

  'Thank God you are such a nice person,' said Jake, and rushed off.

  Jill mooched round the restaurant kitchen in an aimless way. She was tired, but the sun was shining and she wasn't rostered for an afternoon off for at least another ten days. It was all a real bummer.

  Harry was apparently absorbed in sharpening his knives but his hearing was acute when it was something that could be turned to his advantage.

  'I've been stood up as well. My girlfriend is off sick with a migraine,' he lied. He didn't have a girlfriend at the moment, but he wanted to appear casual and unthreatening. 'It's such a nice day, isn't it? There's supposed to be a good jazz band on in Hyde Park later this afternoon. Hey, do you fancy going? I'll buy you one those mocha coffee caramel things you're always going on about. They sound really revolting, but if you like them . . .' He grinned at her disarmingly.

  Jill thought about this. She knew Jake didn't like Harry but she didn't really understand why. He seemed perfectly nice to her so she couldn't see any harm in his suggestion. He just wanted some company for the afternoon, in a brotherly sort of way. She wouldn't even have to tell Jake.

  Chapter Six

  The following week it was Friday the thirteenth. But Jake wasn't superstitious so he strolled into work whistling cheerfully. It was payday and he planned to cook Jill a fabulous meal that night. He had already been out and bought a bunch of roses on tick from the flower shop on the corner, and a bottle of Mr Patel's best wine, which wasn't actually that good but none of the other off-licences operated a buy now, pay later scheme. Jill had seemed a bit down recently, which wasn't like her at all, but when he asked her what the matter was she had just shrugged and said she must be coming down with a cold or something. Jake wasn't surprised. His room was distinctly damp as well as chilly, but tonight it was full of Mr Patel's entire stock of candles. It would be so warm they might have to eat supper in the nude, which could be fun.

  She was already at work when he arrived, polishing wine glasses. He crept up behind her and kissed the back of her neck.

  'Hello, beautiful.'

  Jill jumped about two feet in the air and dropped a wine glass.

  'Oh, shit.'

  'Hey, don't worry – it was my fault anyway. You're a bit jumpy this morning.' He tried to kiss her again but she moved her head so that his lips landed on her chin and he sensed it wasn't a good moment to try again.

  'Are you all right?'

  'Of course,' she snapped, and then gave him a weak smile.

  'Sorry, Jake. I've just got such a bad headache.'

  'Oh, poor you. Try and survive till tonight and then I will cosset you and comfort you. Leave the glass – I'll clear it up.' He went out and so didn't see the look on her face, which was of intense guilt, mixed with irritation.

  Why was he always so bloody nice, she thought, conveniently forgetting that this was why she had fallen in love with him in the first place.

  Later that evening Jake looked round his room with satisfaction. OK, most of the candles were the sort you would only use in a power cut and the ones that were scented were giving off a slightly curried fragrance, but the flickering lights hid the damp patch in the corner rather well.

  Jill gave a rather wan smile when she saw the roses, before sitting down at the table and putting her face in her hands.

  'Jake, we need to talk.'

  He went very still. It was not going to be good news. This loaded little phrase never meant anything of the sort. In his experience, 'we need to talk' never involved anything remotely resembling a two-way conversation. No, what it meant was 'I have an overpowering need to tell you lots of things you would rather not hear and, frankly, anything you might have to contribute isn't going to make any difference.' Oh crap.

  'I'll just put the steaks back in the fridge then. I don't suppose we're going to want them,' he said coldly.

  'Oh, please, just leave them and sit down.'

  'Certainly not. Whatever you might have to say will not be a good enough excuse for treating food badly.'
He busied himself in the kitchen for a few minutes, putting off the horrible moment. It also gave him a small amount of satisfaction to make her wait.

  She was sitting at the table, shredding a napkin into tiny pieces.

  'Things haven't been right between us for a while now.'

  'Haven't they?' This was news to him.

  Jill swallowed and wished he would open that bottle of wine, but he just sat there, very still, waiting.

  'I've been seeing someone else.' When he didn't respond, but just looked at her blankly, she burst out: 'Oh, please don't make this more difficult than it already is!'

  'For whom, exactly? You or me? Because it's bad enough for me as it is. But let me help you out. By "seeing" someone, I take it you mean you've been sleeping with him. You're terribly sorry; you never meant this to happen and you certainly didn't mean to hurt anyone.'

  This was exactly what Jill was going to say, but it didn't sound quite the same coming out of Jake's mouth.

  'So, who is it?

  'You don't want to know.'

  'That means you are too scared to tell me.'

  She took a deep breath. Jake wasn't the violent sort, but you never knew, and this might be the one thing that would tip him over the edge.

  'It's Harry.'

  Jake continued to sit very still and concentrated on keeping his face under control. He was damned if he was going to let her see how shocked and upset he was.

  'That's a very stupid thing you are doing.' That was good. He sound quite calm, almost casual, but he knew it had hit home because she flinched.

  'I knew you would say that, but –'

  'Even before we were going out I told you to stay away from him, didn't I? He is a devious, manipulative, arrogant shit who will sleep with you for a while and then dump you because that's what he's like. I don't want to burst the bubble of your self-esteem, but he's just using you to get at me.'