'Absolutely,' said Godfrey, resolving to do this as soon as Jake's back was turned.
Jake leaned on a work bench. His memory seemed to be returning in patches and he'd just had the fright of his life when he remembered Mr Blair. 'OK, this is my plan. I will go upstairs and rest as long as someone promises to keep trying to contact Mr Blair. If he is happy to postpone, fine. If not, I will have to come down and cook his meal.' He put up a hand to forestall any protests. There was a desperate look in his eyes. 'I know you think I am completely mad and it is not that important, but it is; it is. You might not be able to understand, but you have got to accept that I simply have to do this. You are all absolutely brilliant and I don't know quite what I would do without you, but only one person can cook this man's meal and that person is me.'
They all looked at each other. Eventually Tess spoke. 'OK. You are, of course, completely mad and so are we, but we will go along with this.'
Jake looked relieved, then suspicious.
'No, I give you my word – we won't try to pull any stunts. If it looks like this guy is coming we will come and get you,' said Tess.
'I wonder if I should quickly check the fridge –'
'NO!' they all shouted at him in unison.
'You won't be fit to heat up a baked bean if you don't lie down now. Honestly, what is it with men? You give in to them and then they always need to take that extra inch,' complained Tess.
Chapter Twenty-six
On his way to gaze at the top of a mountain, Mr Blair met a very old friend who was on his way down it and who insisted on taking him to meet the family. Because he hadn't exerted himself in any way, Mr Blair decided that a quick wash and brush-up at his friend's house would suffice before he left for the restaurant.
Of course, no one at Cuisine knew this and so they carried on ringing his hotel with dedicated but infuriating regularity until the receptionist lost her temper and told them to fuck off. After that, they rationed the calls to once every half-hour, but as the time ticked by, the tension mounted.
By six o'clock it also became apparent that, Blair or no Blair, they were in for a very busy night indeed.
'We've only got that little table for two in the corner left,' said Kirsty, coming off the phone and looking with horror at the bookings diary.
'Oh crap. Why tonight of all nights?'
'It's the thirteenth culinary commandment: "Thou shalt be hideously busy when thy chef's brains have been battered",' said Kate.
'How do you know?' asked Godfrey.
'Because all professions have one. For journalists it's: "Thou shalt only find out the tape recorder is broken after the most important interview of thy career." I'll go and wake Jake up, shall I?'
Jake had only pretended to swallow one of the monster painkillers the hospital had given him, because he was terrified it would knock him out for the whole evening. This meant, of course, that he didn't get any real rest at all, but just dozed fitfully, in between experiencing the most peculiar dreams in which he and Kate seemed to be having the most tremendous argument about a page out of a newspaper, for heaven's sake! It was all rather disturbing and he was quite glad to get up, even though his head hurt like hell and his vision kept going slightly blurry.
Kate tapped on the door and walked in. 'You are aware, of course, how tempted I am to find a strait-jacket and pin you to the bed?'
'Sounds slightly kinky, but fun. Maybe later, eh?'
'Ha, ha.'
'I assume that our special guest is proving elusive?'
'Godfrey even went out and searched the streets for him. No luck. He is coming here tonight, whether we want him or not.'
'Shit. Oh, well, could be worse, I suppose.'
'How, exactly?'
'Er . . . I could have had my right hand chopped off. Even I would have had to take a few weeks off to learn how to dice with my left hand.'
Kate moved towards him and kissed him tenderly on the lips. She might as well make the most of his amnesia while it lasted. 'I'll be right there with you, babe,' she whispered.
'Don't tell anyone, but you are my favourite waitress.'
'Now, Blair isn't due for another hour, so –'
'I'm coming down anyway. It's got to be better than lying here having weird dreams.'
Jake could smell the fear even before he walked into the kitchen. It emanated from everyone's pores, although a casual observer would just have seen a group of people rushing around and being quite efficient. But he knew better. A quick glance at the table told him they had a huge amount of work on, and Kirsty brought another check in as he looked.
'Perfect, Godfrey – that's exactly the way I want that starter to look.'
'But why are you frowning then, boss?'
'It's the only way I can avoid seeing two of you,' he explained patiently, and moved round to his side of the kitchen. Instantly he felt a bit better. He took a deep breath. This was his place; this was familiar – he could do this.
'If you fall over halfway through this hell, I hope you realise we are just going to step over you and carry on cooking?' said Tess.
'I would expect no less.'
She grinned. She wasn't going to say so, but it was good to have him here. Tess was in no doubt about her own talents, but a good kitchen needed a leader and even though Jake was wounded, it was what he was brilliant at. Although her hands and most of her brain were busy with the task in front of her, part of her was watching him take control and feeling relieved because of it.
Godfrey had been skimming through the orders and now decided he couldn't do any of them. His brain felt like it was full of confetti, and when he looked down at the knives on his work bench he couldn't remember what each specifically was for, except that any of them would do if he felt driven to slitting his throat.
'Three moules marinière and a Caesar salad. Get the mussels on first and remember – don't rip the lettuce apart this time,' Jake told him.
OK, he could do that and then worry about the rest later.
Jake concentrated on radiating calm and control, even though it seemed as though the kitchen floor had turned into cotton wool. Having concussion felt a bit like being on a really bad trip, he thought, and then Kirsty came into the kitchen.
'He's here,' she said and rushed out again. Instantly, everyone felt any other career would have been better than this.
Please don't let him order the woodcock, thought Tess as she carried on cooking for a table of five, outwardly calm.
I bet he orders the woodcock. It's the most complicated dish on the menu. Why in God's name did I leave it on? wondered Jake. Because it's a fucking fantastic dish, that's why, you fool, he told himself.
'OK, here it is. He wants the gratinée Normandie, followed by the woodcock. What did I say?'
Jake took a deep breath, like a diver who is about to plunge into thirty feet of icy-cold water and doesn't know if there are rocks at the bottom. 'Focus – you can do this,' he said to himself, and then realised he was talking out loud.
''Course you can, Chef,' said Tess, but now she was starting to doubt it. Jake was now almost as pale as when he had been unconscious, and his right hand was definitely shaking. If he overcooked the bird it would be as tough as Godfrey's old boots, and if there was too much or too little of any one of the six components of the sauce it would taste like a buggered old boot.
Time seemed to stand still for Jake. If I get this wrong, he thought quite calmly, as if he had all the time in the world for thinking, if I fuck this up, I've had it. I don't have the money or the resources to wait for a second chance. This is it.
He looked up and realised they were all staring at him, with a mixture of hope and fear and absolute faith. He wondered if it was the concussion that had brought tears to his eyes.
'I am going to cook now,' he said, simply.
So he did.
Ditch all the crap that isn't relevant, he told himself. Ditch all those weird flashbacks that don't seem to make any sense; pretend that someone isn't trying to for
ce a screwdriver into your skull; ignore the terror.
He picked up a knife and looked sternly at his hand until it stopped shaking. All around him he could vaguely hear the noises of several people catering for the sixty other hungry customers in the restaurant that night. He blotted the sounds out and tried to cocoon himself in a bubble of concentration.
Kate could see the sweat running down his face, which was twisted in pain, and she couldn't bear to watch, but then drove Kirsty crazy by asking her for constant updates.
'Go into the kitchen and see for yourself!'
'But what if the sight of me brings all his memory back at just the wrong moment?'
'For God's sake! He is still on his feet and that table over there are positively gagging for the wine they ordered from you about half an hour ago. Jake still thinks you are just a waitress, so try and be one!'
Poor Tess felt like she had lost about five and a half years of her life watching Jake cook this one meal. She was desperate to offer support but didn't dare do anything that might break his concentration. For one awful moment his hand faltered while he was adding the redcurrants to the sauce and she nearly screamed. Then he looked over, gave her a brief grin and carried on.
Kirsty was waiting to take the plate out but before she could reach over for it, Godfrey was there with a cloth, wiping away a tiny bit of sauce on the wrong side of the plate.
'Bloody hell – I missed that,' said Jake. 'Thanks.' Then, in an attempt to regain some authority, he snapped: 'Off you go. What the hell are you waiting for?'
'Well, stop staring, then,' retorted Kirsty. 'I am quite capable of walking in a straight line without dropping this plate – or I was until this evening.' She picked up the plate, straightened her back and carried it out reverently. The kitchen breathed out collectively.
'You did good there,' Jake said to Godfrey. He shuddered at the consequences of nearly sending out a dish that wasn't one hundred per cent perfect.
When Kirsty brought Mr Blair's plate back to the kitchen, he pounced on it, if someone on the verge of collapse could be said to pounce.
'Well, he's eaten the lot – that's a good sign, isn't it? What did he say?'
'He said, "Thank you." '
'Hmm, now what does that mean?'
'Thank you very much, that was bloody brilliant,' offered Godfrey hopefully.
'Thank you very much – now I can get the hell out of here,' worried Jake.
'Thank you very much, and I wish all waitresses were as hot as you?'
They all looked at Kirsty.
'Well, I don't bloody know! What do you want me to do now – get Godfrey's bicycle lamp, shove it in his face and interrogate him?'
Mr Blair stayed and stayed.
He had pudding – hot raspberry soufflés – and then he ordered another one – peaches poached in champagne. Jake fretted aloud if this was because he was just greedy or hated the first one and was giving them another chance.
Mr Blair had coffee and petits fours. Then he had more coffee.
Was he ever going to leave?
'Maybe he's forgotten his wallet and doesn't dare say so,' suggested Godfrey, who was cleaning the floor in the only way he knew how, which was to get himself almost as wet as the mop.
Kate was seriously worried about Jake, who looked ready to drop and was staring at the kitchen in a glassy-eyed manner as if he had never seen it before. He was leaning against a work bench, being mopped around, and hadn't even noticed that the oven door had a huge greasy stain down it. She was dying to go on the Internet and find out what might happen to people who had concussion and refused to lie down, but she didn't want to leave him.
Jake felt as if his memory was doing some complicated dance, but the rest of him didn't know the steps. His brain kept hopping backwards and forwards, and then spinning round until he felt quite dizzy. Images whizzed before his eyes, but he couldn't put them into any sort of order. He wasn't even sure if they were real or just half-remembered dreams.
Why was he getting mixed messages of love and hate towards Kate, for instance? Had they quarrelled and, if so, what had it been about? It must have been a silly lovers' tiff, nothing that couldn't be mended. The one thing he knew for certain was that he and Kate were soul mates. Oh crap – he was starting to sound like he was in the pages of some romantic novel or tabloid newspaper article . . . Oh, that wasn't a nice thought at all . . .
'Mr Blair wants to know if you will join him for a drink. Jake, are you all right?'
He ignored Kirsty. He frowned, trying to shut everything else out, so he could focus on Kate. She could see what was happening and flinched from the implications, but stood her ground.
'Everything is starting to come back, isn't it?'
'Unfortunately, yes.'
'I don't think Mr Blair is going to wait for ever.' Kirsty sounded anxious.
'He will probably last longer than Kate's words. You think you know her and then you don't. What else is there to know about you that isn't real?'
'Nothing! You are being ridiculous! And I don't appreciate you talking about my personality as if it was a pair of fake breasts!'
'The more I hear about your private life, the less I wish to know. It all sounds most unsavoury and, frankly, if your food wasn't so sublime you wouldn't be seeing my heels for dust,' said Mr Blair crossly, peering round the kitchen door.
'Oh, for God's sake! You have a talent for appearing at the wrong moment and getting the wrong end of the stick. This is nothing like it sounds. Let's go into the restaurant.' Jake ushered the critic out, pausing only to turn round and say threateningly to Kate, 'Wait there. This is not over!'
Mr Blair sat down, took a deep breath and ordered a large brandy.
'Every time I come here I feel as if I've strayed on to the set of some tacky television show, except that you obviously think you are auditioning for an episode of Casualty. Mad, quite mad and yet, the food . . .' He gestured in despair as words failed him and took a huge slug of the restaurant's finest cognac. This gave him the strength to carry on. 'It feels as though I've come to a lunatic asylum and yet I have just been served one of the best meals of my life. How is this? And why?'
'Well, for starters, I don't think any decent chef is entirely sane,' said Jake, putting on what he hoped was a winning, but not certifiable, smile. He really wanted to hug the critic for saying such nice things about him, but didn't want to frighten him.
'Your waitress, the one with whom you seem to be enjoying a rather turbulent sex life, explained some of the circumstances of this completely bizarre gastronomic experience. Your concussion, I mean. I have absolutely no desire to probe further into the knicker episode, which I trust will always remain a mystery.'
'Frankly, it was a mystery to me to, even before I got knocked on the head.'
'Yes, you seem to enjoy a rather turbulent relationship with other chefs as well.'
'I don't know why. All I ever wanted to do was to be left alone to cook.'
'That is a wise plan. Good brandy, by the way. I take it your mentor, Louis, passed on the secret of where he gets it from?'
'He was kind enough to let me in on it.'
'He thinks highly of you.' Mr Blair sighed, rather plaintively. 'People who know nothing envy me this job. I don't know why. I have had to eat more revolting meals than anyone I know. Of course, they don't cost me anything, but believe me, I pay.' He patted his stomach sadly.
'All I wanted to do tonight was sit on some lonely crag with only the sunset and a cheese baguette for company. I still think you are completely crazy, but I am glad I came. There was no view, but the food more than made up for it. Generally, the restaurants I visit have to wait some time before hearing my opinion. I once ate what I considered a reasonably pleasant meal only to be rushed to hospital later that evening with food poisoning.
'Genius is unmistakable, however, and you are certainly in need of a good night's sleep. There is nothing to weigh up. I can tell you now that the award the Club will be giving y
ou will be the first of many in what I hope will be, if your private life permits, a long and successful career.
'Wow,' said Jake faintly. It had been a long and hard road to this moment, and he knew exactly why people blubbed when they got Oscars. He wanted to pinch himself to check that this wasn't a concussion-induced hallucination.
Mr Blair downed the last of his brandy, looked at the bottle longingly, but shook his head and stood up. 'I should go. It has been a tiring and confusing day. It will be quite a relief to return to London, where chefs have normal tantrums, but I am sure I will return. Congratulations, young man.'
He shook Jake's hand and gave a thumbs-up salute. When Jake turned round he realised why. Everyone's noses were pressed up against the door to the restaurant.
'You have a very loyal crew. Goodbye.'
As soon as the critic had gone, they all burst in, cheering and patting Jake on the back, but carefully, in case he fell over.
'You've completely smudged the glass in the door. I expect someone to polish it tomorrow first thing,' he grumbled, but he was smiling so widely he thought his face would split.
'So, does this award thingy mean you are going to become rich and famous?' asked Kirsty.
'God, I hope not.'
Her face fell.
'The people who matter, people who are passionate about food, will hear about it and want to try the food for themselves, so, if we carry on working incredibly hard and try not to fuck up too often, this place should become quite successful.'
'So all your troubles are over,' Kirsty persisted. She did like a happy ending.
Jake looked at his crew. At Hans, who had slipped out for a spliff, which had been much stronger than he intended and was now imagining he could smell sherbet. At Kirsty, who was sulking slightly because she had appeared on telly and wanted more. At Tess, who was talking to Angelica on the phone, saying: 'I don't care if you do know the number for Childline, you are not coming down here in your jimjams to give Jake a kiss.' At Godfrey, who was picking his nose thoughtfully and trying to drum up support for opening several bottles of champagne.
'Hell, no. With you lot, I have a feeling they've only just started.'
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