‘Gas and electricity on a meter,’ said Mr Selby. ‘Like I said on the phone, two months in advance, all breakages to be paid for. I take a five-hundred-pound bond an’ all.
Refundable when you leave if you haven’t broke owt.’
‘When can I let you know?’ said Floz, smiling and trying not to look as if the thought of moving in here made her want to cry.
‘Now if you can,’ said Mr Selby. He seemed surprised that she wasn’t instantly taken with it.
‘Well, I’ve got another place to see first,’ fibbed Floz.
‘Where’s that then?’
‘Oh, er . . . Bretton.’
Please don’t ask me where in Bretton, prayed Floz. But he didn’t. He just shepherded her down the stairs and said, ‘Right then. I can’t hold it for you. If someone gives
me a definite, they can have it, you know.’
‘I perfectly understand,’ said Floz. ‘Thank you so much.’
But Mr Selby had turned away from her after the ‘Thank’. He could obviously sense that she would rather cut off her own ear than lived in his stinky, grotty flat, which would
probably not be half-bad for a good scrub and a few new carpets.
Floz sat in her car and rested her head on the steering wheel. She had never liked change, hated being ripped away from houses after daring to grow a few roots. The trouble was that being ripped
away from the Miller family felt more than an uprooting. It felt like pulling out her heart.
She made a plan that as soon as Juliet had got married, she would move into the first place she could find – even if it was just for a little while. And if Greenfield Lane was still on the
market, she would take a deep breath, buy a supermarket aisle’s-worth of cleaning products and rent it.
Three days later Guy stood in the restaurant and wondered again what the hell he had taken on. The main walls were all newly plastered, and big wet patches where it
hadn’t yet dried made it look as if it was riddled with damp. The old drapes had been pulled off the windows in a storm of dust and cobwebs. All the cheap tables and chairs had been removed,
the disgusting lampshades skipped, and the space looked vast and more like a cavernous – and grotty – dance hall.
He tried to imagine it after the decorators had been in and painted the walls in subtle green and creams, with the new light fittings added, the heavy, beautiful drapes at the window . . . but
today he couldn’t. He was tired. And he wanted to do all this
with
someone and
for
someone – and there was no one, not even someone he could dream about. Sandra’s
voice called him to the office. She had found some very promising possibles for new staff. Oh, and she showed him a letter that said Varto was suing them for five million pounds.
He was laughing when he picked up the phone to find his sister on the other end of the line in tears, begging him to come to their parents’ house, where she was now
heading from work. She wasn’t making much sense on the phone. All he could ascertain was that no one was ill, it wasn’t a medical emergency.
Guy dashed into his parents’ house to see Alberto Masserati crammed into Perry’s giant armchair with Stripies on his knee. He was stroking the cat with one hand, and the giant
fingers of his other were holding a dainty china cup of tea. Although he wasn’t a tall man, Alberto looked as if he had swallowed a wardrobe and always wore his trademark leather coat which
seemed to double that width. He was a fearsome animal in the ring, but sitting in Guy’s mum and dad’s front room, he looked rather as if he was about to cry.
‘The bloody Oak Leaf has gone into liquidation!’ sobbed Juliet, throwing herself on her brother. ‘Where the hell can I have my wedding reception now?’
‘Alberto’s daughter is supposed to be having her reception there tomorrow,’ added Grainne. ‘He just went up there to pay the balance and found it closed up. He
can’t even get to the wedding cake that they took up at the beginning of the week.’
‘I knew that Steve was having his reception there as well,’ said Alberto. ‘The long and the short of it is there’s no place free.’
‘Why don’t you have it in the pub?’ asked Guy. Alberto ran a tiny inn in Little Cawthorpe: the Grapevine.
‘I’ve got one hundred and twenty guests coming. I can’t seat that lot in my gaffe. Our Lulu’s in a right state.’
‘There must be somewhere free,’ said Guy.
‘Me and the missus have rung everywhere. Which means Juliet and Guy are probably stuffed as well.’
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Steve crashed into the room, still in his plastering whites. He’d driven like a nutter over to the Millers’ house after Juliet rang him
in tears and told him to meet her there.
‘I’ve a good mind to go round to that bloody landlord at the Oak Leaf and smash his face in,’ said Juliet.
‘Trust me, if that had been an option, I’d have done it,’ said Alberto. ‘But he’s nicked the stock and done a runner. No doubt our deposits have filled up his
petrol tank.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Guy, hunting around in his brain for a solution.
‘I do. I had an idea,’ said Alberto. ‘Guy, if you can arrange the catering for me at your restaurant, I’ll do it for your sister at my pub. You can even have the beer
garden for fireworks at night.’
‘I would, Alberto, but one, I’ve no staff and two, the place has just been plastered. It looks a right mess.’
‘My son has a textile shop,’ said Alberto. ‘We were going to drape all the walls in the Oak Leaf with black net. My daughter’s one of them Goths, hence the
Hallowe’en theme.’
‘That’s doable,’ nodded Guy. ‘The old kitchen hasn’t been completely stripped out yet, thank goodness, but I’ve still got the problem of no staff.’
‘I can give you a couple of waitresses,’ said Alberto, visibly sweating. ‘I can’t give you the chef because he’s the bloody groom.’
‘You’ve got us,’ piped up Grainne with a grin. ‘I can be a waitress, if not a cook.’
‘I can help in the kitchen,’ said Perry. ‘And I’m sure Steve will.’
‘And I will,’ said Juliet. ‘And I’m sure Floz will as well.’
‘I’ll ring around the wrestling lads, see if any of them are free. Oh please, Guy,’ begged Alberto, as Stripies reached up and rubbed his head against Alberto’s stubbly
face, finding it as desirable as a central-heated scratching post.
‘Gina will help, I’m sure,’ Guy decided. He looked up to see a crescent of dear expectant faces. His sister’s wedding, as well as Alberto’s daughter’s,
depended on this. Then he clicked into action. ‘Right, Alberto, we’re on.’
‘So you’ve given me paid leave but you’ve changed your mind and want me to come in and work instead. I don’t know!’ said Gina with
mock-annoyance.
‘Trust me, this is a big emergency and if you turn around and say no, I won’t hold it against you,’ said Guy on the other end of the phone. ‘Obviously I’ll pay you
for that as well.’
‘Of course I will,’ said Gina, who would probably have given Guy that answer if he had asked her to sever her own head and stick it on a pikestaff outside Buck House.
‘Thank you so, so much,’ Guy said gratefully. ‘I owe you.’
‘Owe me what?’ tried Gina, seizing her big chance. ‘I should insist on dinner at Four Trees for this.’
Guy swallowed, because he didn’t know how to get out of that one without hurting her feelings. But then, was the thought of taking Gina out on a date so bad? Floz couldn’t have made
it clearer that she didn’t want him; Gina was crazy about him. Maybe he should move on and forget Floz and accept that it wasn’t to be, after all. Maybe if he and Gina went out, his
feelings might start to grow in her direction. A sea-change had happened to Steve and Juliet, so it wasn’t that far-fetched an idea – and really, how convenient would that be?
‘Okay. How about a couple of days after Alberto’s daughter’s wedding, say the second of November? I know the maître d’hôte. I’m sure he can squeeze us
in.’
‘Lovely!’ said Gina, sighing in the manner of someone who couldn’t believe her luck and would have fainted had she said more.
Guy put down the phone but, try as he might, he couldn’t find an image in his brain of Gina and him making love in front of that log fire in Hallow’s Cottage.
Within the hour, Burgerov was full of people. Jeff Leppard had arrived with a truck full of lads to make some temporary frames to hang the black drapes from. The Miller family
and Floz were ripping the packaging off the hired tables and chairs, and Guy was ringing around suppliers trying to order stocks. Saturday afternoon was not the best time to do this.
‘I don’t care if we have to have fish and chips,’ said Alberto. ‘Just do your best, mate. It doesn’t have to be the full beef dinner shebang.’
Just then, Big Bad Davy walked into the madness. ‘Oy, ugly,’ he called at Alberto. ‘I’ve got a vanload of fruit and veg here for you if you want it. I heard on the
grapevine, if you’ll excuse the pun, that you were in the shit.’
‘You legend,’ said Alberto, encasing him in a bone-crushing hug that had him screaming for mercy.
‘It’s going to be a bit of a squash on some tables, Alberto,’ said Guy.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Alberto. ‘The wife’s side are all skinny bleeders. You can fit twenty of them on the end of a pin.’
‘Do you need meat?’ asked Davy. ‘My brother’s a butcher. Stay away from me, Alberto,’ he warned, seeing the wide man’s arms come out again. ‘I’ll
ring him, if you don’t come any closer.’
The moon was out by the time all the temporary drapes had been hung, the tables arranged, the tablecloths, cutlery and glasses put out, the serviettes folded and place-names distributed.
‘I won’t forget this,’ said Alberto, giving Guy a tearful man-hug, though Guy’s solid bones were only slightly bruised. ‘I’ll make sure your sister’s
day is as special as my girl’s will be tomorrow.’
Guy waved everyone off. He had an early start in the morning so he would sleep on the sofa in his office. But before he could call it a night, he had a cake to make.
When the motley crew of kitchen staff arrived early that Sunday morning, Guy had already had two espressos. Not that he needed the extra kick because the adrenalin coursing
through his arteries could have generated all the electricity for the ovens.
The kitchen was filled with the delicious aroma of beef. Guy was just putting the finishing touches to a four-tiered black-iced wedding cake with some sugar-spun cobwebs. It was a bizarre
concept for a wedding cake, but stunning. There was a collective ‘ahhh’ from everyone when they entered the kitchen and saw it.
‘Morning,’ smiled Guy. ‘Help yourself to aprons, Gina will show you where they are.’
‘Morning, everyone,’ chirped Gina, who had arrived an hour before. For all that delicious time she and Guy had been in the kitchen alone together. He had broken off icing the cake to
make her a coffee. From the way she had melted at the attention, it was as though he had presented her with an engagement ring.
Gina had been walking on air since talking to Guy the previous day. Her feet hadn’t touched the ground and she had gone to sleep imagining the date to come, then the wedding to come, then
the children and grandchildren who would follow.
She knew better than to mention anything about the date that morning though, because when he had his whites on, he was no longer Guy, he was ‘Chef’ and focused on food and service
and nothing else. And
GOD
was he sexy when he locked into his duties.
Floz, Juliet, Perry, Steve, Grainne, Coco and Gideon all fastened on their aprons. They had just started on peeling vegetables when Jeff Leppard’s wife and daughter arrived, then
Alberto’s two waitresses turned up with the flower arrangements which Tarzan, who by day was Dave Ward the florist, had been up since the crack of dawn arranging, surprisingly daintily, with
his big fingers.
It was the first time Floz had been in contact with Guy since the day they had driven out to Hallow’s. She had tried so hard to put him out of her mind, because she couldn’t be the
woman he wanted. But thoughts of him and that cottage had kept pushing through – especially in her dreams, when her defensive barriers were down.
Now they were here in the same room and she could barely look at him, because every time her eyes fell on him, her heart started quickening. But other than a brief nod of greeting, he had
totally ignored her, and that hurt more than she could have imagined. She really should have told him the truth. Seeing him now made her realize that. She owed him that at least, then he would see
why he shouldn’t get involved with her.
This Guy in whites, creator of the Hallowe’en cake, was a different man to the clumsy, shy Guy she knew. He was assured and in control, and so very sexy.
‘Gina, check the beef will you, please.’
‘Yes, Chef.’
He even sounded different. The TV chefs, including the smouldering Spanish Raul Cruz, weren’t anything as desirable as Guy Miller in his chef’s outfit.
Guy swore under his breath as the tiny fondant black cat which he was moulding tumbled to the floor.
Focus, you idiot, focus
. It was the first time he had been in the same room as Floz
since they had driven out to Hallow’s, when she had pulled up her drawbridge. He had thrown every bit of energy and thought into the restaurant, and drawing up plans for the cottage. He had
tried not to think of her, but she kept breaking through, especially at night in his dreams.
He couldn’t look at her without his heart cracking just a little bit more. She didn’t want what he had to offer, a heart brimming with love. He growled and told himself to
concentrate on the job in hand.
With the cake finished, he strutted around his kitchen-kingdom checking on all the preparations.
‘Floz, who told you to slice those carrots like that? I don’t want them sliced, I want them roasted whole,’ he barked at her.
‘Sorry, Chef,’ said Floz. ‘Shall I start again?’
‘Of course. Unless you have some magic carrot glue and can join them back together again.’
‘No, Chef.’
Gina’s eyes jerked to the short red-haired woman.
One Floz equals all of my back catalogue and yours put together
– that’s what she had overheard Guy say to his friend
that day when he visited. So this was
her
. This was
Floz
.