betide anyone who borrowed so much as a measuring spoon. His rules were not made to be broken; they were made to be followed to the letter. Anyone who bucked the system wouldn’t last the day. His two loyal sous-chefs, Fred and Loz, had learnt the hard way how to handle him, and had now earned his respect. Sure, they might have an easier life at one of the other hotels or restaurants in the area, but the food they produced would be nowhere near as good. Luca set the pace, and they were happy to keep up. They knew that if they screwed up one day and suffered his wrath, they would be triumphant the next and be heaped with praise. And now, he trusted them enough to let them do lunches without his supervision. They were prepping them now: a selection of light dishes to be served in the bar or on the terrace. Today’s delights included a crab salad, a chunky rabbit terrine and lobster ravioli.
‘Hey, boss!’ Fred looked up from coaxing silken sheets of pasta out of the machine. Loz brought him over a caffè ristretto without being asked. They could already sense that Luca was feeling uptight. He wore his emotions so clearly on his face. Something had rattled him, so the two boys knew to keep their heads low and their output high.
This was usually the part of the day Luca loved best, when he came into the kitchen to see what his suppliers had bought and began to put together the evening’s menu. But today something wasn’t right. He sensed a shift in Claire that he didn’t like, and he suspected it was something to do with the man she had introduced him to. Claire wasn’t very forthcoming about her past; she never had been. She said it was irrelevant and unspeakably dull, but Luca knew that a woman of her depth, her passion and her wisdom must have done some living.
Was this stag more than just an old friend? Something inside Luca told him he was. But he was going to play it cool for now. He’d learnt to curb his temper over the past few years. If Claire had taught him anything, it was that overreaction didn’t get you anywhere. He was going to bide his time and make sure of the facts before he made his move, if any move was necessary.
He gulped down his coffee, reminding himself that, after all, the bloke was getting married next week. Maybe Claire just felt awkward at someone from her past appearing unannounced. She was very private.
So why had she hit the bottle? He’d never seen her do that before, not even when that couple had done a bunk without paying after staying a week and running up a massive bill. He certainly hadn’t bought Angelica’s cover story. Angelica was a tough nut. She was like him. A survivor. She didn’t need Claire’s bloody reassurance over a row with her stepdad. Girls like Angelica ate stepfathers for breakfast.
He put the tiny cup in the dishwasher. He wasn’t going to let the situation rattle him. This weekend was an important one. He didn’t want to mess things up in front of Trevor and Monique. He was desperate for his own place in London; desperate to make a real name for himself. Sure, he had a great reputation, but Pennfleet was off the map. This was the next step, and a big one, and the last thing he wanted was for his investor to get cold feet. They had to come across as a team. A great team. Which they were. They absolutely were.
Luca liked to tell people he had learnt to cook in borstal, which was bullshit. Not that he hadn’t been to borstal – he had; when he was seventeen, for stealing a car – but actually he’d learnt to cook when his mother dragged him to live with one of her lovers in the south of France. He had spent the whole summer in the kitchen of the village restaurant, learning at the feet of the irascible patron, and had emerged as accomplished a cook as any Michelin-starred chef. This was a typical interlude in Luca’s life. His past was a patchwork splatter-gun portfolio of überglamorous and harrowing, as he and his mother lurched from squalor to
‘Hey, boss!’ Fred looked up from coaxing silken sheets of pasta out of the machine. Loz brought him over a caffè ristretto without being asked. They could already sense that Luca was feeling uptight. He wore his emotions so clearly on his face. Something had rattled him, so the two boys knew to keep their heads low and their output high.
This was usually the part of the day Luca loved best, when he came into the kitchen to see what his suppliers had bought and began to put together the evening’s menu. But today something wasn’t right. He sensed a shift in Claire that he didn’t like, and he suspected it was something to do with the man she had introduced him to. Claire wasn’t very forthcoming about her past; she never had been. She said it was irrelevant and unspeakably dull, but Luca knew that a woman of her depth, her passion and her wisdom must have done some living.
Was this stag more than just an old friend? Something inside Luca told him he was. But he was going to play it cool for now. He’d learnt to curb his temper over the past few years. If Claire had taught him anything, it was that overreaction didn’t get you anywhere. He was going to bide his time and make sure of the facts before he made his move, if any move was necessary.
He gulped down his coffee, reminding himself that, after all, the bloke was getting married next week. Maybe Claire just felt awkward at someone from her past appearing unannounced. She was very private.
So why had she hit the bottle? He’d never seen her do that before, not even when that couple had done a bunk without paying after staying a week and running up a massive bill. He certainly hadn’t bought Angelica’s cover story. Angelica was a tough nut. She was like him. A survivor. She didn’t need Claire’s bloody reassurance over a row with her stepdad. Girls like Angelica ate stepfathers for breakfast.
He put the tiny cup in the dishwasher. He wasn’t going to let the situation rattle him. This weekend was an important one. He didn’t want to mess things up in front of Trevor and Monique. He was desperate for his own place in London; desperate to make a real name for himself. Sure, he had a great reputation, but Pennfleet was off the map. This was the next step, and a big one, and the last thing he wanted was for his investor to get cold feet. They had to come across as a team. A great team. Which they were. They absolutely were.
Luca liked to tell people he had learnt to cook in borstal, which was bullshit. Not that he hadn’t been to borstal – he had; when he was seventeen, for stealing a car – but actually he’d learnt to cook when his mother dragged him to live with one of her lovers in the south of France. He had spent the whole summer in the kitchen of the village restaurant, learning at the feet of the irascible patron, and had emerged as accomplished a cook as any Michelin-starred chef. This was a typical interlude in Luca’s life. His past was a patchwork splatter-gun portfolio of überglamorous and harrowing, as he and his mother lurched from squalor to
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