She was about to creep stealthily towards it, rolling pin in hand and quite prepared to batter it senseless if she had to, when the door opened and a ridiculously beautiful woman walked in.
She had impossibly long legs, sheathed in leather so soft it gleamed like silk and was so tight it looked like it had been sprayed on. She was wearing a tiny pink top that screamed 'I may only be four square inches of material but I am designer-made and way out of your spending league, honey!' Her face was the sort you usually only ever see in a heavily airbrushed photograph. Kate just knew her rich golden hair didn't have a single split end, and it was obvious that the curved, pouting mouth owed everything to nature and not injections. But what the hell was she doing here?
'Er . . . who are you?' This seemed a fairly safe way to start.
'I'm Georgia,' said the vision simply, as if that was enough. 'Where's Jake? Why have you got jam on your nose?'
Kate remembered the doughnuts and instantly felt two stones overweight, although she generally thought of herself as skinny. So this was Jake's girlfriend! Somehow this information seemed to be making her feel very bad tempered, which was absurd: it was no business of hers who he went out with.
She looked at her watch. 'He'll be upstairs in the flat, asleep probably. You have to bang on the door very hard or he won't hear.'
'I did,' said Georgia, examining her fingernails, which looked as if they never did anything more strenuous than tap open the lid of a Chanel compact.
'Well, I'm not sure what I can do,' said Kate. She certainly wasn't going to bang on the door herself, thus incurring a tired man's wrath and then have to watch while he flung himself into this gorgeous woman's arms. Honestly, if it wasn't seafood it was sex bombs. Couldn't they all just leave her in peace?
'I suppose I could try again,' said Georgia rather doubtfully.
'Yes, you do that,' said Kate briskly, and turned away in case she was expected to carry luggage upstairs like a lackey. She chucked the lobsters in the fridge and stomped off to the nearest café.
Sipping her cup of sludge, which was what passed for coffee, she took out her notebook, sucked the end of her pen and gazed into the middle distance. But it was no good. The only thing she could concentrate on was how beautiful Jake's girlfriend was. It really wasn't fair that God had given Georgia a slender body and large boobs, though with a bit of luck He hadn't given her a brain. She looked down at her thighs. Was it her imagination or were they spreading?
Pull yourself together, she told herself severely. The next boyfriend she had would be someone who fell in love with her mind, not her body. The trouble was, this meant she was in for a long spell of celibacy. If she met six men tomorrow, at least five of them would try and have a conversation with her breasts. This was so depressing she was quite pleased when it was time to go back to work.
Kirsty grabbed her the minute she walked back in. 'Guess what? Jake's girlfriend has turned up and they've just had a massive row upstairs. I could hear it all. She was screaming and slamming doors and when he tried to calm her down she yelled all he wanted her for now was sex and he said, well no, he didn't actually, because he was so bloody knackered he'd prefer an extra hour's kip any day. Then she burst into tears and threatened to stick her head in the oven because he didn't love her any more and he said she'd be waiting a long time for death then because that was an electric oven and it wasn't even plugged in and could she stop being such a silly tart, and did you know we've got an extra twenty booked in tonight and Godfrey can't find a clean apron and ohmigod, who is that?'
A man in a white overall had just walked in. He was carrying a clipboard and looked frighteningly official.
'Where is Jake Goldman, the owner of this establishment?'
'Who's asking?' said Jake, appearing before them and brandishing the knife he was about to use on the lobsters.
'Geoff Brown, Environmental Health. We have heard a report that there are rats in this kitchen. I have to inform you, sir, that we must close you down immediately while it is being investigated. I must warn you that the process could take at least two weeks,' he continued.
There was a stunned, horrified silence.
Nightmares filled Jake's head. He was crippled; no, he was ruined. By the time this was sorted out he would be a dead chef walking. Rats? The only rat that had ever been in his kitchen was –
'Ha ha! Got you. I am from Environmental Health, by the way, but we're the party booked in tonight. My friend Harry Hunter said you'd be up for a laugh. Hope I didn't scare you too much to cook a decent meal for us!'
'Gosh, no! Absolutely not! Yeah, very funny! My sides are nearly splitting – I do like a good joke. But that one –' But Kate clapped her hand over Jake's mouth just in case he was going to say something he would regret later.
When the man had gone Jake leaned against a wall for support. His knees were shaking.
'Water! Water! I think he's fainted!' shouted Godfrey.
'Don't be silly,' said Jake irritably. He was furious with himself for having been so easily taken in. But it was the thought of being shut down . . . Only a complete bastard like Harry would make a joke like that. As for the Environmental Health people . . .
'No, I don't think you should go out and tell them what you think of them. Remember – they – are – customers,' explained Kirsty, very slowly and clearly, as if to an idiot, flapping a clean tea towel in front of his face.
'Just think of all the money we'll make from them tonight,' said Godfrey encouragingly.
'They will love it here and recommend it to loads of people,' said Kate, hoping none of them would recognise her. She would walk with a stoop and cover her face with her hair. No, that would make her look like Quasimodo.
'I know how you feel,' soothed Godfrey. 'My dad hates officials as well. He once locked a man from DEFRA in the cowshed and left him there for an hour. He was so overcome by the pong he didn't realise he'd counted all the sheep twice and we got an enormous subsidy.'
'But your dad doesn't keep cows,' said Jake, trying to keep track of this conversation.
'You're right. There was nothing in there but two enormous cheeses my mum had brought back from France and had forgotten about.'
'Camembert?'
'Pont l'Évêque. They absolutely reeked. She wasn't allowed to keep them in the kitchen.'
'Well, what are you all doing standing around and gawping? Don't you realise there is work to do?' said Jake, getting up and waving the towel away crossly.
He then went into overdrive, reducing everyone to exasperation and heightened nerves.
He dealt with the lobsters by the simple method of chopping them in half and told Sally curtly that if she didn't like it she could take herself and her strawberry mousses to another kitchen.
He hated Tess's sauce for the pork, commenting that if he had wanted Polyfilla he would have asked for it.
When Kate returned to the kitchen after a furtive recce to see if there was anyone out there who might shop her, she found him icily congratulating Godfrey for making a salad that looked as if a blind man in boxing gloves had put it together.
'Honestly, Jake, calm down. They are really very nice people out there, and judging by the amount of wine they've ordered, it's going to be a massive bill. You are making us all so wound up, we're bound to do something wrong.' She stared him straight in the eyes, daring him to bawl her out.
Everyone cringed, waiting for the fallout. Jake opened his mouth, thought about it and shut it again. He gave her an apologetic grin. 'OK, you're right. Enjoy this moment – it won't happen very often.'
No one had ever smiled at her like that before. Well, maybe they had, but she hadn't cared about them.
When he left the room, everyone breathed out and relaxed, apart from Kate, who was suddenly so keyed up she needed a moment on her own. In the loo, she splashed cold water on her face. When Jake had smiled at her she had felt a jolt of connection between them, like an electrical spark. 'Control yourself, woman,' she said to her
reflection in the mirror. 'You so don't need this complication.'
Back in the kitchen, Godfrey loosened his collar. 'Phew, I was getting a bit wound up myself.'
'Oh, come on – what's the worst he could do to you?'
'Quite a lot, actually. I've even come out in a funny rash since I started here.'
'Have you been shagging someone you shouldn't?' chortled Tess.
'Chance would be a fine thing,' said Godfrey gloomily. 'The doctor says it's nervous tension.'
'Well, I wouldn't start worrying until something falls off.'
Godfrey did looked worried and said: 'But I'm so knackered by the time I get home I don't even have the energy to flick through the channels to find Baywatch.'
'Well, in that case, you're bottling it all up – that's even worse,' said Tess wisely.
'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.
Chapter Thirteen
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.
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