But he said it absent-mindedly, because he was now looking over at Kate, who was standing on her own in the corner. She was looking at him with a mixture of love and terror. He loved his crew but he wanted them all to go home so he could talk to Kate in private, but before he could say this, the phone rang.
'I don't care who you are – go away. Oh, no – not you, Louis! I am really pleased you called. . . . Yes, tonight. . . . Well, one or two small problems. . . . No, well, some of it doesn't make any sense to me either. . . . Thank you, that means everything, coming from you. . . . Oh, you did – you had faith in me when no one else could give a damn.'
'Who is he talking to? It's about as difficult to make out as one of Kirsty's stories,' said Godfrey.
'Well, I think the whole world has gone crazy,' said Hans.
'Shut up, the lot of you,' said Tess, who was listening intently.
'What sort of an idea? . . . Oh, I see. . . . Blimey, I don't know what to say – I never expected that, and pretty much everything that could have happened has happened today. . . . Yes, of course I will sleep on it. . . . And, Louis, thank you; I am really honoured.' He put the phone down. 'Well, it never rains but it's a bloody great downpour.'
'Nice of him to ring up and congratulate you. What else did he say?' asked Tess.
'Do you ever take a rest from being so sharp?' said Jake wryly.
'No. Wish I could, but really, there's never a good time.'
Godfrey was looking from one to the other, bewildered. 'Well, I don't mind admitting I'm stupid, so will someone please tell me out loud what the hell is going on?'
Jake sighed. 'This is not a good time. That was Louis. I used to work for him in London. He rang to congratulate me. And . . . to offer me a partnership in his business.'
'In London?'
'Well, yes, Godfrey.'
'Oh. So that's why Tess is looking so . . . well, like that.'
No one dared look at Kate, not even Jake, she noticed.
Chapter Twenty-seven
After that, they all just seemed to melt away. No one really knew what to say. Obviously, congratulations were in order, but seeing as this might leave them without a job, no one even wanted to pretend.
'What do you think is going to happen?' asked Godfrey outside.
'What do you think I am – a bleeding oracle?'
'I think – sorry, Kate – but I think he will take that guy up on his offer,' said Kirsty.
They all looked at Kate. 'Yeah, I think so too, she said dully. 'That guy, as you call him, happens to own one of London's top restaurants. It's the place where top chefs go for a meal on their nights off. Gordon Ramsay had his birthday bash there. So, yeah, it's the chance of a lifetime and it would send his career into the stratosphere. There is no way he would turn that down for – what? – a woman who lied to him and a little place like this.'
'Bugger. Sorry, Kate. I'd better get me CV out when I get home,' said Godfrey and clumped off, head down. No one had ever seen him looking so low.
Kate drove off fast, without looking back. It was her first step towards severing her ties with the restaurant. With Cuisine. Maybe Jake would forgive her in time. When they were both back to living their separate lives.
When she got back to her cold and empty flat, there was still so much adrenalin swilling round her system, she knew there wasn't even the faintest hope of sleep, so she picked up the phone.
'No, sweetie, it's fine. Jim doesn't mind waiting, do you, honey?'
'Oh God! I am so sorry! I forgot for a minute that you have a life too.' To Kate's horror Jim then came on the line.
'Carry on – take as long as you want – I could do with a break!'
'That's really more information than I need,' said Kate sternly. She was furious with herself, though, for feeling a sharp stab of jealousy. Lydia and Jim had got it right and sounded so happy. As she might have done if she'd played it straight.
Lydia came back on the line and Kate gave her a quick summary. 'Well, you have had a busy day. So he's got his award – and you've got a hell of a story.'
'Yes. And it feels like I've got nothing.'
'You do sound low.'
'Oh, I'll get over it!' said Kate, making a huge effort to sound more cheerful. She didn't want Lydia coming round – which she would, she was that sort of a friend – when she really ought be with Jim. 'Look, you're busy, and I've got a story to write. Have fun – I'll talk soon!' She put the phone down. What was her mantra? When all else failed, there was always work? It didn't feel like it was going to comfort her this time, but it was worth a try.
*
Back at the restaurant, Jake couldn't remember saying goodbye to anyone. One minute they were all there and the next time he looked up, he was on his own. He didn't blame them. That was a hell of a bombshell to land at his feet at the end of this ridiculous day. But then, hardly thinking about what he was doing, he reached over for the phone to call Kate. She was different. He needed to talk to her. How dare she just run off like that? He hesitated, then drew his hand back slowly. Exactly where would they start? Surely he needed to get a few things sorted in his head before he could have a sensible conversation with anyone? He pulled a handful of cushions off chairs and sat down on the carpet. There was no point in going upstairs to think. He needed to do it down here, in his restaurant. This was where he did his real living. He looked round, soothed by its familiarity. Thanks to the intensive cleaning sessions post-flood, he knew every inch of it, intimately, like it was a lover. And he did love it. This was his place and the people who had just left were his people.
But he had just been offered an opportunity that had him quite dazzled by its implications. Surely only a complete moron would turn down the chance to go into partnership with one of the country's leading chefs? It would be like cooking in Heaven but without having to go through all the bother of dying first. At a stroke all his worries would be over. Heat magazine would probably start taking his picture again. Hell, even Georgia would want him back and, more to the point, this would be the move that would ensure once and for all that he would never have to cross swords with Harry again. He closed his eyes so he could savour this blissful vision. He imagined his car, all packed up and ready to go, him at the wheel saying jubilantly: 'I'm off! This is it! I will never have to see you again!'
But then Harry bent down and was banging on the window. He was shouting something . . . 'Jake! Jake!'
Jake woke with a start. His first thought was: this is a hell of a headache. His second was: why is Harry shouting at me?
He blinked. It was early morning and, unfortunately, he wasn't dreaming. Harry was standing outside at the window, banging on it and shouting. He actually, for Harry, looked quite anxious. Jake got up slowly. It hadn't been the best place to spend the night, but he grinned. Harry must have looked in and panicked, thinking that he had collapsed, maybe even died. He hoped Harry had had a few visions himself, hideous ones of being carted off to gaol for manslaughter.
'It's all right – I'm still alive,' he grumbled, going to the door. 'What the hell do you want? Not to hit me again, I hope?'
'Don't be ridiculous! I came to see how you were. Things got rather out of control yesterday. It was all most unfortunate.'
'Is that your idea of an apology?' asked Jake icily. 'Because if it is, it's crap, frankly. You really need to do much better than that to have even a fighting chance of me believing you. Actually, scrap that. From now on, I am never going to believe a word you say – it will save a lot of time.'
'I certainly did not want to cause you lasting harm,' said Harry, mendaciously. For a nasty moment there he had thought Jake was dead and that was going to be a tricky one to get out of. 'I admit I lost my temper, but I felt it was with just cause. Georgia and I are together now and nothing you can do will change that.'
'Dear God – you are really stupid! Ow! OK, shouting hurts. Bad for head. Listen very carefully, you moron, because I am only going to say this once. Much as it might dent
her ego to hear this, but since we split up I haven't given Georgia another thought. I have no bloody idea what your fevered brain imagined I was getting up to, but I can assure you I wasn't. I don't love her any more. You can have her. With pleasure. Because she is definitely the last girlfriend of mine you will ever nick.'
'Oh, I'm going to marry Georgia!' said Harry confidently. 'I've netted the big one this time. She was always way out of your league, you know.'
'Whatever. Oh dear, how am I going to get this through to you? – I don't care.'
'Just don't come sniffing round at the reception!'
Jake couldn't resist it. 'Harry, I've just been offered a partnership with Louis Challon down in London. I guess I'll have better things to do than boycott your wedding!'
Jake wasn't a vindictive man, but the next few seconds gave him intense pleasure. Harry's face, shorn of subterfuge, was a picture of shock and naked envy. He tried to cover his tracks, but it was too late. Jake watched as Harry mentally staggered back from this crippling blow. He was outraged. The god of good luck should serve only him! He tried to fight it, but his head filled with awful pictures of Jake driving off to the bright lights and leaving him behind. He would be forgotten. Their feud would fizzle out simply because Jake had better things to do. It was unthinkable!
He suddenly felt like he was floundering in a quicksand, and flailed around in search of solid ground. 'Well, you are very welcome to the noise and pollution.' He took a deep breath of the crisp morning air to prove his point, but he knew this was pathetically weak stuff. 'Let's face it, Jake,' he said kindly, 'you've tried to take the city out of the boy and put the country in, but it's never really worked, has it? Admit it – you've never really felt at home here. You don't understand our ways. You've tried to copy them, but they've never really sat comfortably on you. And your life here has always been a struggle, hasn't it? Big ideas but not quite enough wherewithal or talent to make them work.'
He glanced up and Jake followed his gaze – dammit, the bloody windowsills needed painting again. Oh. It probably wouldn't be his problem. Someone else would have this place. Probably paint them pukey green again. Why did he care?
Harry carried on more confidently, aware that he was hitting home. 'I know you have found it difficult to settle and make friends – it's so much easier in the city, where, let's face it, things are more superficial –'
'Let me know when you finally run out of this garbage you are spewing out!' said Jake furiously. 'You don't half talk a lot of crap when you get going. I am just as much a part of this place now as you are. My staff are all local and so are a great many of my customers, even the ones who don't share my views on fox-hunting. I've got a standing invitation to go for tea at the Tomlinson farm any time I want. I like it here and the people like me!'
Despite the fact that his head was now beating out a very strange tattoo, he had never felt more clear-headed and calm. In a way he was grateful to Harry. He'd made him see where his priorities were.
No, he'd done more than that. He had made him see where his heart was.
'Listen to me, dumb-arse!' Jake grinned. He was going to enjoy this. 'This is my home now, as well as yours, so you are just going to have to shove over and let me in. I'm not going anywhere. You are going to have to get up for work every morning and know that there is an award-winning restaurant just down the road from you, pulling in all the most discerning punters and thinking up the best menus.'
'Yah! Putting on some poncy dish that you'll have no hope of ever shifting! You have no idea of what I've got planned for the autumn, but I'm telling you, it'll blow this place out of the water!' blustered Harry. He hadn't got anything planned, but he was absolutely sure he'd be able to come up with something.
Jake faked a yawn.
'You really are too old to believe in fairy tales, you know! But, seeing as I am feeling in quite a good mood this morning, I'll give you a little warning – you won't ever have to watch your back from now on, because I won't be there. I'll be out front – so far ahead of you, I'll probably be out of sight!' And he slammed the door, leaving Harry outside, gibbering with rage.
Jake leaned against the door and smiled to himself. Despite his headache he suddenly felt strong and confident. He liked what he had said so much, he said it again, so he could get used to it. 'This is my home. I belong here now.' Then he added, because he was always a realist: 'If I have to, I will meet trouble head on. There will be trouble, no doubt about that, because Harry will be here. But that's tough. For him.'
So what was he doing just standing here? There were things to do, phone calls to make, windowsills to paint. But first he had to have it out with Kate. There were things that needed to be said. Things would probably change for ever as a result and he would have to take the consequences. He thought about those for a minute, then he squared his shoulders. This was a day for making tough decisions.
Kate was very nervous as she walked into the restaurant. Jake had sounded quite curt on the phone when he asked her to come over, which didn't bode well for what he was obviously going to say to her. She would let him get it all out of his system, but then she would say a few things too. There was no way he was going to walk out of her life before then.
He was sitting in the office just like he had on the day she had gone for her hangover interview. That seemed an awfully long time ago now. So much had happened since then. She absolutely had to tell him that, whatever happened next, being with him had changed her for ever and she wasn't going to regret this for a minute.
She took a deep breath and walked in.
'So – who are you this morning?'
'Jake, please listen –'
'No. I am going to talk first. I have to. I have to tell you how awful it felt to be lied to, by you of all people. You see, I fell in love with you. It's going to sound really trite, but I felt connected to you in a way I never have with anyone before, so the fact that you lied to me made it much, much worse.'
'I know. There isn't a name you could call me that I haven't already called myself. It wasn't meant to be like this. I've fallen in love with you too. Look at me, Jake. I can say I'm sorry in a thousand different ways – I am bloody good with words, after all. But can't you see the truth of it in my face?'
He looked. She did look terrible. Her hair was a mess; her nose was red and her cheeks were splotchy from too many salty tears, but it was her eyes that held him.
'At least,' she faltered, 'I know I've got no right to ask anything of you, but please, please, whatever else you need to say to me – please read this first.' She handed him a sheaf of papers. 'This is the article that's going in the Easedale Gazette next week.' She took a deep breath. 'It wasn't what I thought I was going to write. But real life is like that – it doesn't follow a neat plan. Sometimes you have to get things very messily wrong so you can see how to get them right. Oh, and I would have written this article even if I hadn't fallen, totally, catastrophically, irrevocably in love with you. Please. You have to read it. Give me that much at least.'
Chef Jake Goldman has twenty-one scars running down his right arm. I know because I've counted them. Some are already fading, but some are deep and will lie on his skin for ever, mute witnesses to his obsessive quest for culinary perfection.
Forget what you know, or think you know about people who cook for a career. This is what it's really like.
She bit her lip as she watched him read. It was infuriating how well he could school his face into impassivity. But then his lips twitched slightly.
'Surely your first shift here wasn't that bad?'
'Worse, actually. Some of it the readers simply wouldn't have believed.'
I thought I was going to a gourmet's paradise. That was certainly true for the customers, but there should have been a sign above the kitchen door: 'Staff – abandon all hope of a life, all ye who enter here.'
This was worse than her first day as a cub reporter, watching while her editor remorselessly sliced through her story with a red
pen, as sharp as a knife. Oh, no, now he was frowning – why was he frowning? What had she got wrong?
'They just left the lobsters outside the back door? I'll have their guts for garters. How many times has that happened?'
'Just once,' she reassured him. He bent his head back to the article, only slightly mollified.
'God, yes, the flood was really bad. But so much has happened since then.' He read on.
'You're looking cross again! Why? Which bit do you not like?'
'I'm looking cross because you've got it absolutely right about the teamwork involved and how it's not just the chef who should get the credit! It's about bloody time we stood up for the people who stand behind us, as you put it.'
He read on.
Chefs are driven people, like athletes, or great artists. They have a vision, but they are also haunted by the fear of failure. Rising through the ranks isn't like being on Pop Idol – belting out a few songs that someone else has written. It's about blood and sweat and the black dog that sits on every chef's shoulder, whispering: 'You got it right today, but maybe you'll screw up tomorrow.'
She watched him and chewed on a fingernail until she was practically down to bone. Finally he finished. He put the article on the table and arranged it neatly so it lined up with the edge. He seemed unable to look her in the eye. He must have hated it.
'You are a very good writer.' He said this with a certain amount of surprise.
'This actually comes as quite a relief, because you are not,' he paused, trying to think of the right words, 'you are not a brilliant waitress.'
'No,' she agreed.
'I mean, you've never really got the hang of carrying more than two plates at a time, have you?'
'Well, no.'
'Sometimes you've had difficulty with just the two, to be honest.'
'Come on! That's not totally fair!'
'I meant being able to carry two plates without getting your thumb in the sauce?'
'OK. Well, if you put it like that –'
He surged on remorselessly. 'And you do have a habit of sharing too much, don't you?'
Recipe for Disaster Page 33