Recipe for Disaster

by Miriam Morrison

  He bent his head. Who am I kidding, he thought. I'm desperately trying to cover up my feelings for Kate.

  Georgia turned and stubbed her toe on a disgustingly graphic description of how to dismember a deer.

  'Ugh! What are those horrible pictures? And now my manicure is ruined. This is a really bad start to the day. My chakras must be completely out of balance!'

  'My finances certainly are,' muttered Jake. What am I going to do? I don't want to spend the rest of this afternoon with her, let alone the rest of my life, he thought, bleakly.

  'There is nothing to do here – I'm bored, and maybe,' she said darkly, 'maybe that is only the tip of the iceberg. Who knows what other dark feelings are simmering away in my subconscious? Oh God! All this stress could be giving me lines!'

  'What on earth are you talking about?' Jake snapped, throwing the book down so hard it raised a cloud of dust. He sneezed violently. 'You're right – this is a tip. Let's get out of here!'

  'Oh, good!' Georgia was thinking of nice hotels and cocktails.

  'Yes! Let's go for a walk!'

  'A what? Why?'

  'Fresh air, sunshine, glorious scenery, and all of it for free – what would be better?'

  'Well, practically anything, Jake. I've never been on a walk. I haven't got the right sort of shoes!'

  'Georgia, you have twenty-seven pairs clogging up the wardrobe. One of them must be a pair without six-inch heels and diamonds, surely?'

  'Well, yes, but –'

  'Well, go and put them on. I've heard that walking is terribly good for one's chakras.'

  'Are you making fun of me?'

  'Now, why would I do that?'

  Georgia gave him a long look before disappearing into the bedroom. Jake's good intentions about lightening the mood started to fade as the minutes went by and she didn't return. Eventually he could take it no longer. 'For goodness' sake! Edmund Hillary didn't take this long to get ready for Everest!'

  She emerged, with a sulky look on her face and a beautiful pair of soft leather mules with soles about as thin as a carrot peeling. He looked at them in disbelief.

  'Is that the best you can do?' he said, trying to sound polite.

  Georgia had been fighting her own demons, the ones telling her how wonderfully charming and understanding Harry was in comparison to Jake. With a certain amount of relief she gave in to them.

  'You're horrible when you're like this. Dr Ko Lon says my aura is particularly susceptible to damage when people around me are shouting.'

  'Well, mine happens to be allergic to idiots like your Dr Colon! I'll go on this bloody walk on my own!' He stomped down the stairs and out of the house.

  I'm susceptible too – to a certain redhead, he thought, walking fast, anywhere, to try and get his feelings under control. Kate had got right under his defences and he couldn't get her out. He didn't want to, either. He liked thinking about her when she wasn't there – so he could look forward to being with her again. He had even started having imaginary conversations with her. This was getting serious.

  He tried to focus on something harmless, like tonight's prep list for the kitchen, but found himself wondering where he would take her if he was free – Italy or France? French food spoke for itself, of course, but there was something so seductive and romantic about a piazza in the moonlight, a table for two and feeding someone delicious morsels of lobster linguine . . .

  Now, where the hell was he? He seemed to have climbed a hill and walked across two . . . no, three fields. Oh well, the views were worth it. Surely a landscape this beautiful would put everything in perspective?

  Then a gloriously red streak of fur flashed by him so quickly it took Jake a second or two to work out it was a fox. He was used to them, of course – they were more common in London than stray dogs now. But city foxes were pale, sluggish creatures compared to this vivid, taut and alert hunter. The fox turned for a second and he could feel its bright intelligent eyes assessing him before it jumped into a stream and out the other side into the bushes. He stood stock-still and realised he was holding his breath with the wonderfulness of it all.

  'Wow!' and then – 'Shit!' as he was knocked to the ground by four baying hounds. They charged over to the water, sniffed, confused and then darted back to jump on his chest in a perfectly friendly way.

  'Well, well, look what we have here!' said a familiar drawling voice and Jake realised that lying in the grass with a large dog on his stomach which was trying to lick his ear off wasn't how he would choose to meet Harry. It obviously suited Harry, though, because he made no attempt to call the dogs off. To complete Jake's mortification, he was then joined by four or five men, whom he guessed were all friends of Harry's.

  'What the hell are you doing, lying in the mud, man?' asked one.

  'Meditating, of course,' snapped Jake. He managed to push away the hound and scrambled awkwardly to his feet, brushing off what he hoped was just mud. Typical. He couldn't even go for a walk on his own without bumping into Harry. Worse still, he had been trying to woo the locals for weeks now, and for them to find him lying flat on his back like a prat was about the worst way they could meet. Harry, on the other had, looked completely at home here. I never will, Jake suddenly thought, despairingly. I'm always going to be on the outside, looking in. Oh bugger – once a townie, always a townie. I might as well be proud of it.

  'Mislaid a fox, have you?' he said slyly, suddenly very much on the fox's side.

  'I'll answer that when you tell me what you're doing on private land,' said one of the men, stepping forward and glaring at Jake.

  'Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't know I was trespassing,' said Jake, wrong-footed.

  'You're not very familiar with the country, are you? Hope you didn't leave any gates open?' continued the man.

  'I'm not stupid,' said Jake hotly and decided that attack was the best form of defence. 'I'm a bit confused here, but isn't hunting foxes with a pack of hounds against the law now?'

  'There's nowt in the law books about going for a walk with your dogs on your own land, though, is there? Or are you one of them people that move here from the city and think you've got the right to tell us simple folk how to live our lives?'

  Oh crap. Well done, Jake, antagonising country folk, like a typical bratty city boy. 'No, of course I don't think that,' he began. 'I think we've –'

  'You see, it's all very well giving us a lecture about the rights of wild animals, but have you ever tried talking to a henhouse full of murdered chickens?'

  'No, of course not, but –'

  'Or maybe you know what it is like to sit up all night hand-rearing a lamb, only to see it carried off squealing, for foxy's supper. Or maybe you don't,' said the man, coming a little too close for Jake's comfort. He clicked his fingers and the dogs clustered around him, so close he could feel their hot breath and their sandpaper tongues. Now he knew exactly how that fox had felt.

  Not only was he in severe danger of being eaten by the dogs and then buried where no one would ever find him (Georgia wouldn't even try – but Kate, now she wouldn't ever give up looking) but these men were all local. He should be wooing them as potential customers, not pissing them off. He couldn't afford to irritate anyone at the moment, especially someone with a gun.

  Harry was leaning on his rifle and trying not to smirk. This afternoon was turning out so much more entertaining than he expected. He practically had Georgia in the bag, so to speak, and now here was his rival being made to look a fool in front of a bunch of locals. He thought how amusing it would be to carry on duping Jake. It would make Jake doubly furious when he found out that the person who had stood up for him had also stolen his woman.

  'Oh, come on, Briggsy,' he said to the man, 'Jake's new to the country and doesn't completely know his way around our customs yet. After all, you go down to London a couple of times a year and no one expects you to know the underground map off by heart.'

  'Are you defending this fella? Is he a friend of yours?' said Mr Briggs suspiciously.
Harry flashed an awkward grin at Jake. 'Well, to be perfectly honest with you, we are not really friends, but we're working on it – isn't that right, Jake?'

  Jake nodded warily, and Mr Briggs laughed suddenly. 'You know, your expression reminds me a bit of that fox! Why? Are you worried he's going to shoot you?' He nodded over at Harry.

  'That wouldn't have been out of the question in the past,' Jake began.

  'Yeah, we've got a bit of history, Jake and I,' said Harry. 'But we've recently come to a bit of an agreement – to keep the past where it belongs.'

  Jake flashed Harry a grateful glance, which was something he never thought he would find himself doing. He took a deep breath and prepared to stand up to Mr Briggs. 'You're right. I have no idea what it is like to be a farmer. But I know what it's like to spend time and money nurturing something fragile and precious. I'd do anything I had to, to protect it. But I wouldn't make a sport out of it. And no one's going to stop me standing up for what I believe in!'

  'And, frankly, that fox deserved to outwit the hounds. They really are the most inept pack we've had for a long time,' said Harry helpfully. God, he was so good at this!

  Mr Briggs sucked his teeth thoughtfully, while he made his mind up. 'I like to think that any pal of the Hunters is a pal of mine. I don't agree with what you're saying, but I respect the fact that you've got the bottle to say it.' He looked at Jake thoughtfully for a moment. 'A mate of mine was talking about you the other day – Geoff Tomlinson. He reckons he owes you a bit of a thank you. It's his wife, see – she's got depression. But she's so busy putting together all the stuff you're ordering from her, she says she hasn't got time to think about it any more. Well, I reckon you've done quite a bit of good there. I still think you're a fool over the foxes, mind, but what d'you say we all go back to Bill's for a spot of whisky to cement our differences?'

  'I'd say that's a bloody good way to sign a peace treaty,' said Jake, grinning.

  You are almost as easy to outwit as a fox, thought Harry.

  The next day, nursing a rather bad head from more whisky than he was used to, Jake was on his own in the kitchen making torte aux trois mousses to put on the menu that evening. It was a slightly tricky dish to get absolutely right and he preferred to be on his own while he was doing it. For other reasons as well, solitude was good. He wanted to look at Kate all the time, but didn't want anyone else to notice this, so he found himself deliberately not looking at her, which was plainly impracticable during service.

  Georgia had inexplicably taken herself off for a few days to visit her mother, she said. This was something she hardly ever did but Jake was too relieved to see her go to ask questions. This seemed to annoy her.

  'Aren't you going to ask why?' she'd said, her tone heavy with meaning.

  'Oh. OK – why?'

  'I can't tell you – you wouldn't understand,' she'd replied and swept out, leaving Jake furious and baffled. He had spent some time trying to work out what was going on, but then a letter had arrived in the post from the Lake District's regional television station. They had just finished a very successful series on cooking and were keen to capitalise on it. The idea was for a sort of cook-off between the area's top chefs, with viewers ringing in during the programme to vote for their favourite.

  Jake had no patience with the current mood for cooking on television. It distracted chefs from their true work and took the edge off their art. They allowed themselves to take part in unreal situations and either tried to charm the viewers or claim some dubious crown for being the most unpleasant. It was all too tacky for words, and he was so busy grumbling to himself about cooks who thought they were film stars that he didn't hear the door open.

  'Surprise!'

  Jake was so taken aback he dropped his spoon.

  It was Louis Challon, his old boss at Brie. He burst in through the door, his ample arms full of wine and a huge, toe-curlingly smelly parcel of Camembert.

  He dropped his presents onto a worktop and enveloped Jake in a crushing bear hug. 'Mon ami! It's been too long!'

  'My God, it's good to see you, old friend! But what on earth are you doing here and why didn't you let me know you were coming?'

  'Because he pretends to forget you are no longer a member of his staff. You must remember how he used to like to creep up on you all to catch you out in some crime,' said Maria, following her husband in more quietly, kissing Jake on the cheek and looking him up and down critically.

  'You have lost weight, my dear boy. Do you not eat your own food?' she demanded.

  'Of course not! He has that much sense at least,' scoffed Louis, peering into saucepans with a professional eye.

  'Ah! The mousse of little fishes – I have fond memories of that dish.'

  'I remember that the language you used when you tried my first attempt nearly had me in tears,' said Jake.

  'Well, you should have wept. It was an abomination. But the question is, what did you learn from that débâcle? Recite to me, please, the herbs you are planning to use.'

  'Citronella, coriander, rosebuds, lavender seeds, fennel and juniper,' Jake reeled off meekly and grinned at Maria.

  'White or black pepper?'

  'White, of course.'

  'That's good.' Then triumphantly: 'But you forget the lime flowers, do you not? What have you got against these inoffensive little leaves?'

  Jake shrugged his shoulders in sorrow and looked at his feet. 'I couldn't get any, Chef,' he murmured.

  'Couldn't get any? What sort of answer is that? Unacceptable, I say,' said Louis. 'Anyway, what do you expect, trying to run a restaurant in the middle of nowhere?' He ran a suspicious finger along the work benches looking for drips, tested the sharpness of Jake's knife against his finger and helped himself to a clean apron.

  'So why are you here?' asked Jake, hoping to deflect his former boss's attention from his work, which he was instantly sure would not bear scrutiny.

  'We are supposed to be on a short break, but how funny – we find ourselves in a kitchen,' Maria said in the resigned tone of voice of a woman to whom this often happened.

  'I will make you some tea.'

  'Come here,' growled Louis. 'She can make her own. Now tell me what you are doing here.'

  It was as if the past had melted away. Jake could even feel a familiar film of sweat beading his brow. He had forgotten what it was like to stand with sweaty palms waiting for the great god Chef to pass judgement on his work. He promised himself he would be very kind to Godfrey when he came in that evening, a resolve which was forgotten half a minute after he actually walked into the kitchen.

  Louis tasted the salmon, hake and sole mousses, which Jake had already made, and pronounced them edible, which was high praise, but decided that the puff pastry that Jake had rolled out was far too thick.

  'This you could use to line a loft with. Your diners will be dead of exhaustion by the time they have waded through all this,' he complained.

  Jake looked pleadingly at Maria, a look that would have melted many a woman's heart, but Maria, as she had done quite a few times in the past, just patted his shoulder reassuringly and took herself off for an unguided tour of his restaurant.

  By the time the pastry shells were chilling in the fridge, the mousses were baking in the oven and a sauce containing oysters and double cream was simmering on the hob, Jake felt quite exhausted. But this was why Louis had three Michelin stars and why every young chef in the business wanted to work with him.

  Maria came back and put the kettle on just as Louis was saying: 'Not bad, I suppose, for an Englishman who dares to think he can cook.' Louis was of the old school that believed that cooking had started in France and had never really left. 'Now, if you had stayed with me,' he wiped an imaginary tear from his eye, 'I might have made something of you.'

  'This is a very nice little restaurant and anyway you told him it was time he spread his wings,' retorted Maria. Louis might be one of the greatest chefs in the business, but he was still a contrary old boot who needed to
be put in his place from time to time.

  Louis reasserted himself by snatching the tea leaves from her. 'None of us wants tea, woman! Why do you think I removed this excellent Pouilly Fumé from my own cellar?'

  'How are things down in London?' asked Jake, getting glasses.

  Louis sniffed. 'New restaurants opening up everywhere and then closing down again because the cooks cannot cook or they think they can make a fortune by shoving out gimmicky food. They all think they are Harry Potter and can magic people in through the door. We see them come, we see them go.' He opened the wine with a flourish, poured it and gave Jake a nudge. 'She misses you, you know,' he said in a loud whisper, gesturing towards his wife.

  Maria gave him a look.

  'All right, all right. We both miss you, I suppose. You are inept, of course, but you have a touch others lack.'

  Jake accepted this for what it was: an enormous compliment.

  Because he had been in the business for forty-five years, Louis knew everything that was going on in the cooking world, sometimes before it happened. Framed on his kitchen wall was an interview he had given when the nouvelle cuisine fad was at its height, in which he said 'this will never last'. 'I said this was rubbish then and I was right. I know everything.' Now he leaned forward. 'I hear you are expecting an important visitor.'

  Jake nodded and his throat went dry with fear. The Restaurant Club. Maria patted his arm comfortingly. Sometimes she dreamed he was the son she had never had. 'This club man was in for a meal a few weeks ago. They were talking about you. Inept indeed! Louis says you are one of the best young chefs in the country and this man will be delighted with your food.'

  Louis glared at his wife. 'Stop talking nonsense. I just put in a kind word, that is all. This man will present himself as a Mr Blair. He is tall, with a beard and glasses. He looks more like he inspects the taxes than the food, but he is no fool and will be fair. You, of course, will sweat blood before he eats and be ready to kill yourself by the time he has finished, but you have been trained by me so things may turn out all right.'

  Jake raised his glass. 'I'll drink to that.'