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.
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 wi
tness 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?
Chapter Fifteen
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.
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