Recipe for Disaster (31 page)

Her phone rang.

'Some people in the front office want to see a reporter,'
said the secretary.

'Well, tell Paul,' Kate snapped.

Paul was the cub reporter and it was his job to deal with
members of the public because it was usually people who
had come in to complain that the paper had spelled their
names wrong.

'They want to see you particularly.'

Kate slouched downstairs in a sulk, convinced, now that
she had been interrupted, that she had been about to write
something brilliant. She nearly turned round and ran away
when she saw the motley crew clustered round the front
desk. They were still dressed in their cooking gear and a
tantalising aroma of garlic, oil and roasted lamb wafted
from them. But were they friends or foes? Were there
knives concealed under those chef's jackets? If there were,
she could hardly blame them. She approached warily.

'So, this is where you really work,' said Kirsty brightly.

'Have you come to bury me or praise me?'

'Eh, what?' said Godfrey.

'We've come to talk,' said Tess firmly.

'OK, but not here.' Kate didn't want the events of the last
few months rehashed in front of the counter staff, who were
always up for gossip and scandal. Also, people were starting
to cast strange looks at the various bloodstains that adorned
Godfrey's white jacket.

They adjourned to a nearby park and sat down on the
grass under the shade of a huge oak tree because it was so
hot. Automatically, Kate leaned forward to pinch one of
Kirsty's fags, then drew back. Maybe things weren't like that
between them any more.

'Oh, go on, then. At least some things haven't changed,'
grumbled Kirsty.

Kate took one, lit up and drew a deep breath. 'Guys, I am
really sorry. You have to believe me, I never meant for you
to find out like you did.' Oh, brilliant, she thought. That
little speech would really set them at their ease. Even with
the nicotine flooding through her system she felt too shy to
say what she really felt – that she loved them and respected
them. She felt so bad that she couldn't even look them in
the eye. Miserably she stared at the ground, absentmindedly
pulling little bits of grass up.

'We are very cross with you.'

'I deserve it,' said Kate humbly. 'You must feel that you
had a Trojan horse in the kitchen with you all this time, and
maybe it was like that at the start but then everything
changed. You changed me; you destroyed all my crappy
preconceptions and –'

'I don't know what you mean about horses – it's about the
only thing Jake hasn't made me cook yet. Anyway, it's him
we have come to talk about. You've knocked the stuffing
out of him – he's like a piece of wilted lettuce, he –'

Tess broke in on Godfrey as the conversation seemed to
be going in ever decreasing culinary circles. 'We need to
know the full story, Kate, because we only got a garbled
version from Jake. When we've got the facts, all of them,
then we can consider your apology and whether we are
prepared to accept it.' She looked extremely fierce as she
delivered this little speech.

This was fair, though. Kate took another deep breath,
pulled up a dandelion and started at the beginning.
Succinctly she filled them in, without sparing herself: her
arrogance, her preconceived ideas, the exposé story she
thought she was going to write and how she'd come to
realise that she couldn't because it wasn't true.

'A lot of people don't think cooking is a proper job and
in a sense it isn't because most people wouldn't be allowed
to work under the conditions you do – sweaty, scared and
permanently knackered.'

'That's true. My sister is always giving me a hard time
about when I'm going to get a proper job. She thinks I
spend all day flouncing around with a whisk,' said Godfrey.
'And people watching cookery programmes on television
can't feel how hot it gets in a busy kitchen, and they never
get to see the mountain of clearing up you have to do at the
end of a shift.'

'They think any dimwit can be a waitress, but it's not that
easy, is it?' said Kirsty.

'They watch Jamie Oliver and they think all chefs are
rich,' said Tess, thinking about how Jake had to juggle any
minuscule profit he made to cover all his bills.

'Exactly!' said Kate eagerly. 'I am a good journalist; I am
certainly better at it than I am as a waitress –'

'We wouldn't know – we never have time to read a
paper.'

'Well, I am. We are not all tabloid hacks. I have integrity,
though I know I might have squandered the chances of you
believing that. I don't write lies. I don't have to. The truth
is much more interesting. But by the time I realised that, I
was in a bit too deep and I thought that if I waited until you
could see what I had written you might be more prepared
to forgive me for telling one or two fibs.'

'Well, I think it was worse than a few fibs, but I believe
you meant to do the right thing,' said Tess, and looked
round at the others. They all nodded.

'But you've missed something out, haven't you? You've
avoided mentioning Jake in all this. How does he fit in?'

Blimey, she was sharp, thought Kate admiringly. She had
hoped they wouldn't notice she had kept Jake out of it. But
they weren't going to let her off that easily.

Nervously she started making a daisy chain. She'd had
no practice in telling people she was in love with someone
because it hadn't happened before. Trust her to screw
things up the one time it did.

'That's when it all got really complicated. I, er . . . oh
God, this is difficult. I fell in love with him, hook, line and
sinker, the whole caboodle, hearts, flowers – the whole lot.
And I'm pretty sure he quite liked me too, when he thought
I was a struggling writer. How is he really, by the way?'

'Well, we think he needs therapy but we can't afford to
send him. You see, he can't sort the fact from the fiction and
it's making him crazy, which is why we are here.'

'Oh God!' wailed Kate, and buried her head in the
flowers.

'We were pretty sure you weren't the complete bitch he
is making out you are,' said Kirsty kindly. 'None of you have
ever probably met one, but I have. My sister was going out
with this guy once – actually, that's quite funny 'cos he really
was called Guy – anyway his best mate at school had a sister
who you wouldn't believe –'

'Kirsty, you are a great girl, but if you don't shut up this
second, I may have to sit on your head. Good. I knew you
could do it. Right. Back to the Problem. The trouble is that
he is hurt and he's stubborn, which is not a good combination.
Life has been hell since you left,' said Tess frankly.
'And the question is: what are we going to do about it?'

'Tell me first: am I forgiven?'

'Oh, well, I suppose so, as long as you don't write about
that time Jake told me to flower the tomatoes and I thought
he meant put flour on them when what he wanted was me
to cut them in the shape of a flower, which was a mistake
anyone could have made and –'

'Shut up, Godfrey, but yes. He speaks for all of us, minus
the verbal diarrhoea.'

'Thank you. You don't know what that means to me,
guys.'

'Well, hopefully it means you can stop digging up the
park before we get chucked out for vandalism. The park
attendant has been past three times and he's starting to look
nasty,' said Kirsty.

'I keep trying to ring Jake but he just tells me he doesn't
want to talk and then he puts the phone down. I think I'm
just making things worse.'

'You are. We always know when you've called because
the atmosphere goes from frosty to glacial, which you'd
think was impossible in a bloody kitchen,' said Tess.

'When does this story of yours come out?'

'Soon,' said Kate, getting anxious again but she had to be
honest with them now. 'The story is going to be great – you
will love it. But . . .'

'But?'

'But the paper wants a load of pictures of you all, and
Jake especially, of course, to go with it.'

Hans started to laugh, a trifle hysterically. 'Oh
wunderbar
!
I hope the cameraman can take a picture with a flash
shoved up his . . . what do you call it?'

'And we'd probably be serving up deep-fried camera for
dinner. Oh shit.'

'Look, I think you should write the story, while we all
pray it's as nice as you say it is –'

'It is, it is! You are all heroes, even Godfrey –'

'Well, we're not expecting you to perform miracles, Kate.
Personally I think you are as daft as Jake if you think you
can pull that off – no, shut up, everyone, we need to focus
here. Right. This is what we will do. You, Kate, will write the
story and I will smuggle it into the restaurant, tie Jake up,
if necessary, but somehow make him read it,' said Tess. 'It
is, I admit, a pretty weak plan but it's all we've got. Blimey,
is that the time? We'd better get back – it's nearly time for
service.'

They all stood up, wiping grass and daisies off their
clothes.

Kirsty gave Kate a quick, shy hug. 'Don't worry, we'll get
you two back together somehow. We've got to – you are so
right for each other.'

Kate felt tears welling up in her eyes. She must really be
losing it, but this was much more than she deserved.

'Oh, well, it's worth a try. I mean, things can't possibly get
any worse, can they?' said Godfrey.

'I hate it when people say that. It means they always do,'
said Kirsty.

While Jake was suffering emotional turmoil in his debt ridden
restaurant, Georgia was having a little crisis of her
own, but in the far more comfortable surroundings of a
first-class flight from Rome. And on the surface, at least, she
had nothing to complain about. She had just finished
shooting the cover of
Marie Claire
magazine. Beside her
being cosseted in a five-star hotel, her every need instantly
gratified, this two-day job had netted her a cool twenty
thousand quid. When she landed at Heathrow, Harry
would be waiting for her, or, if he was still stuck in that
meeting, a limousine, which would whisk her off to another
posh hotel. If Harry was still late, she had no doubt that
champagne and flowers and very expensive bath oils would
smooth the interval until he arrived. She had nothing to
complain about. But still dissatisfaction and confusion
nagged away at her, like toothache. It was very upsetting
and would do nothing for her looks.

It was this that was sending her slightly crazy. She
remembered a time when Jake had promised to meet her at
Gatwick and then forgot all about it. She'd ended up having
to get a bus, for God's sake, and then when she got to his
flat, in the middle of January the heating wasn't working;
hadn't been for days judging by the frost on the inside of
the windows. His mobile was switched off and he hadn't
come home until three in the morning, having had to cook
dinner for three very drunk junior Cabinet ministers. He
had been very, very sorry, but it really wasn't good enough.

She couldn't argue with a limousine, however. Or a
bunch of red roses with a sexy note attached to them. She
couldn't argue with Harry either, even if he was late,
because he would storm in, throw her onto the bed and
cover her with kisses before she even had time to open her
mouth. This was everything she had ever wanted in a
relationship, so why the turmoil? Georgia frowned, then
remembered she didn't want wrinkles, or to be spotted by a
photographer going for botox.

'Oh God, she's flicking her finger again,' said one of the
three cabin crew. They were taking it in turns to serve her.
It got very wearing after a while to wait on someone who
apparently didn't know the words 'please' and 'thank you'
and didn't even look at you when they talked and then
claimed she didn't want the things she had asked for when
they were brought to her.

Georgia called for – and got – paper and a pen, a bottle
of Evian with ice and lemon and a Mars bar to snack on,
while she worked. She was going to make a list of pros and
cons.

Harry was obviously the pro. Underneath his name she
wrote: 'Handsome, wealthy, charming, attentive, sexy,
generous.'

Jake next. She sucked the end of the pen, then wrote
firmly: 'Scruffy, poor, absent-minded, stingy, selfish, sexy.'

Then she realised she had also written 'sexy' under his
name as well. Furiously she scribbled that last bit out so
hard she wore a hole in the paper and got ink on her new
dress. It was absurd to think she still found him attractive.
She remembered the last time she had seen him at the
studios for that stupid cookery programme that had sent
Harry into such a temper. He had looked a complete mess,
as usual, with dark shadows under his eyes, though his eyes
had still crinkled attractively when he smiled at that Kate,
who worked at the restaurant.

Irritably, Georgia waved away the attendant who had
been summoned to provide a wet wipe to try to get rid of
the ink stain. She was having a moment of deep psychological
revelation and she needed to be left in peace to do it.
It was that smile that had sparked off this gnawing
dissatisfaction. Did this mean she was still hankering after
him? She remembered his obsession with cooking and
shuddered. No, she couldn't go back to that. But he should
have been suffering after she had left him, not smiling like
that at someone else. It was right and proper that she had
left him but he shouldn't have looked so damn pleased
about it.

Georgia had packed and left Jake's flat in rather a hurry.
Now she remembered a very expensive scarf that had been
left behind. There was nothing strange about wanting to
pop back to retrieve it. Obviously she would be looking at
her stunning best when she did this and, just as obviously,
Jake would be extremely upset to see her and be reminded
of everything he had lost. With this picture in her mind,
Georgia became cheerful again. She decided she had
plumbed the depths of psychological revelations for today,
so she went off to the loo to vomit up the Mars bar instead.

'Hello, Jake,' said Georgia softly.

He looked up, stared blankly at her for a second, said:
'Oh God!' and dropped the carving knife. She was gratified
by this response but would have been less pleased to know
the reason for it.

It was mid-afternoon, two days later, and he had come
down to the empty kitchen, having come to the conclusion
that part of the reason why he was feeling like shit might be
due to the fact that he hadn't eaten a decent meal for days.
He didn't feel even the slightest bit inclined to eat, but it was
something that everyone seemed to do so it was worth a go.

The reason he had looked blank on seeing Georgia was
that for a second he didn't know who she was. He had
simply forgotten about her. He felt quite bad about this. He
bent down to pick up the knife and compose his face into
something more friendly and realised how bad things had
got. He must really be losing the plot. He had come down
to cook in his stockinged feet, for God's sake! A real chef
only enters a kitchen when properly attired. If Louis could
see him now he would get a real bollocking, and he
deserved it.

He waved the carving knife in what he thought was a
friendly manner but Georgia flinched and stepped back.
Jake put the knife down hastily and tried to pull himself
together.

'Sorry. Hello. How are you?'

'I'm fine. You look terrible.'

'Thank you. It's good to know we haven't changed much,
then,' he said wryly.

'I'm sorry to barge in like this, but I think I must have left
a scarf behind and I really need it.'

'It could be anywhere. Go up and have a look.'

Excellent, she thought as she went up the stairs. He
wasn't following her so she could snoop around to her
heart's content.

It was a small shock to open the door onto the still
shabby, but now tidy flat and her first thought was that he
had a new woman and that she must have cleaned up. Jake
was positively anal about a stray crumb in his kitchen but as
far as she knew hadn't got the vacuum cleaner out of the
cupboard since he'd moved in. But this was no longer true.
He'd had a manic cleaning session the night before, but
only because it was three o'clock in the morning, he
couldn't sleep and anything was better than lying in bed
thinking the same dreary thoughts over and over.

She investigated further. The bathroom was empty of
anything female – tampons, tweezers or face creams – and
there was only one toothbrush lying on the basin, obviously
his.
She went into the bedroom. Only his clothes were in the
wardrobe; there was nothing on the bedside table on her
side of the bed, but on his – a pair of frilly knickers. Surely
they didn't belong to anyone round here? Despite herself
she had to pick them up and then she realised they were
hers. There was no doubt. They were La Perla panties,
made specially for her. They even had a tiny G
embroidered on the crotch. He hadn't got over her or why
were they by his bed? Oh my God! What had he been doing
with them during the long, lonely hours of the night? It
hardly bore thinking about, but Georgia did, with a certain
amount of satisfaction.

She went back downstairs. Jake was still in the kitchen
staring at the sandwich he'd just made like he had never
seen one before.

'Did you find the scarf?'

Shit! She had completely forgotten to look for it and she
was still clutching her knickers.

Jake saw them and looked embarrassed. As well he
might, she thought.

Jake was embarrassed, but not for the reasons Georgia
thought. During his desperate cleaning session last night
they had got sucked up from somewhere underneath his
bed and then snarled up in the vacuum cleaner. This put
him in such a bad temper he had ripped them while pulling
them out. Of course he had instantly forgotten about them
and only realised now that Georgia would be furious to find
them in bits.

'Oh, sorry, I should never have –'

'No you shouldn't, but it's all right. I understand.'

What was there to understand, and did he care? Jake was
so tired and undernourished he didn't have the strength to
work this out or try to put on a brave face. What was the
point? It was probably all round town that he had been
duped by a journalist. He probably had a big sign on his
back saying 'Cook, Pauper, Laughing Stock'. But Georgia
was looking friendly and sympathetic. He bore her no
grudges. It would be nice if they could remain friends.

'I'm sorry you are taking this so badly,' she said, thinking
about their break-up.

'Well, I thought it was the real thing,' he said, thinking
about Kate.

Georgia sighed happily. 'Maybe it was, for a while, but it
could never have lasted.'

'Sooner or later the shit was bound to hit the fan,' he
agreed.

This was better than she had hoped for. He was obviously
far more cut up than she thought.

'In the end I suppose it was just about two people with
deep feelings who needed to walk different roads.'

'You can say that again.'

'I am sure that one day you will be able to look back and
take comfort from your happy memories.'

His face cracked up. 'But that's the worst bit, looking
back and knowing that I've lost it. And I can't get away
from them; they're everywhere, where I work, where I
sleep . . .'

Well, obviously, if you spent last night burying your head
in my knickers, she thought. 'I should go. I'm probably only
making things worse.'

'No, it was nice to see you,' he said politely.

Poor man! He was obviously desperate for every tiny
crumb of comfort he could get. Would it be cruel to kiss him
goodbye? Well, yes, but he would be able to live on the
memory of it for weeks. She leaned over, brushed his cheek
with her lips and looked at him tenderly. 'Let the memories
heal you, work with them. One day you will be able to move
on,' she said, and left.

Blimey, she didn't half talk crappy glossy magazine
nonsense, he thought irritably when she'd gone.

When Tess came in for work later, she found him sitting
on the steps outside, smoking. 'Er, Jake, you don't actually
approve of cigarettes, or had you forgotten?'

'I know. I thought I would give them a try. Actually, they
are quite revolting.' He couldn't tell her that they reminded
him of Kate, outside, furtively smoking someone else's and
swearing this was her last.

She had brought a plate out with her and now thrust it
under his nose. 'This, on the other hand, is food, essential
sustenance but you actually have to eat it for it to do you any
good.'

They both looked at the sandwich. Two pieces of stale
bread that Tess had actually left out for feeding the birds,
surrounding a chunk of dry cheese. It was unadorned by
mayo, relish or even butter.

'We'll chuck this, shall we? I'll get out some of that nice
carrot and coriander soup,' said Tess kindly.

'I'm not an invalid,' said Jake crossly and got up, galvanised
into action by the sight of the disgusting sandwich.
'Come on, let's get to work, there's loads to do; we haven't
got time to stand around chatting.'

He burst into the kitchen, frightening the life out of
Godfrey, who was leaning on a worktop and gazing vacantly
into space.

The next morning, upstairs at Café Anglais, Georgia was
being grilled by Harry, who had seen her coming out of
Jake's restaurant.

'Have you been spying on me?' demanded Georgia. But
she was secretly thrilled.

'No, but one of the staff has. Well, he wasn't spying, but
he did see you. What the hell were you doing there?'

'Nothing,' said Georgia, securely innocent. She loved
Harry for being so jealous and passionate. There was
nothing more boring than someone who trusted you. 'I
merely went to pick up a scarf I'd left behind and we had a
quick chat.'

'Are you sure that's all you did?'

'There isn't anything else I want to do with him,' she lied.

'He's still a loser, even if he did win a crappy local telly
show,' murmured Harry into her ear. He blew gently and
she squealed with pleasure.

'Really we should feel sorry for him,' she continued virtuously.
'He's in a really bad way, completely lost the plot.'

'Excellent,' he said, nuzzling her neck.

'It was a bit kinky, actually.'

'What was? I thought you just went in for your scarf?'

'I did. But then I found something else –'

'And it was where –'

'And it looked like he had been –'

'Well, what else could he have been doing?'

Harry ceased nuzzling and started roaring. 'That fucking
pervert! He's disgusting!'

'Well, it's quite sad really. Like I said, we should feel sorry
for him.'

'Like hell we should!' Harry started to laugh. He had
never felt sorry for anyone in his life and it was inconceivable
that he would start by pitying Jake, of all men.

Later, after sex, he was downstairs tying on a crisp new
apron, when there was a knock on the door. It was Hans.

'I am just delivering a message from my friend Ronnie.'

'I couldn't care less what that loser has to say!'

Hans shrugged. 'Suit yourself. Tear it up if you like,' he
said and went off to work.

Harry wanted to chuck the letter in the bin, but curiosity
won. Maybe it contained a desperate plea for his old job. It
would give Harry a great deal of pleasure to ignore that.