Cooking the Books (6 page)

‘It’s just that internships are so hard to get,’ she mourned. ‘I was so happy when Mr Mason said I could come. I’d be good at accounting if they gave me a chance. But I know they’ll sack me and then no one else will employ me. And I’d be better if they didn’t yell at me all the time. The partner comes in every morning and kicks the filing cabinet and yells ‘Hello, stupid!’ at me and that sort of sets the tone for the day. I get nervous and I drop things and misread things. They tell me I’m useless and I
am
useless. And now . . .’

‘Haven’t you got any friend in that office?’ I asked, looking for some silver in the cumulo-nimbus lining.

‘No, well, there’s the other intern, her name is Claire. She doesn’t say nasty things to me. Sometimes we have lunch together. She’s on a fierce diet so it’s good for me.’ Unconscious of irony, Lena drank more of the lethal Heavenly Pleasures brew. The chocolate was doing its healing work. Lena’s face had dried and her eyes were clearing a little. But they were still as red as coals.

‘I have to get back,’ she said, glancing at her watch. ‘I’m in enough trouble without being late. Thank you,’ she said to me. ‘That was an amazing treat. You’ll let me know, Daniel?’

‘I’ll let you know,’ he replied. And Lena bustled away.

‘Poor girl,’ I said.

‘Indeed.’

‘How have your enquiries progressed?’

‘They haven’t,’ he confessed. ‘Rumours and more rumours. I’ll have another trawl tonight. What about you?’

I told him about the studio, the crew, and the remarkably bad behaviour of the star.

‘More bullies,’ he answered. We sipped chocolate in silence. It was, however, wonderful chocolate. I paid Julie and we went back to the apartment for some afternoon delight in preparation for an early dinner and then more wandering in the underworld for him and a lot of sleep for me. That studio had been a very stressful workplace. I wondered why anyone took up acting as a profession. Early hours, temperamental co-workers, and long periods of time when nothing was happening. There must be rewards. I just couldn’t see them.

Morning announced itself with the alarm and I supplied myself with coffee and toast before I stepped down to the bakery to start my loaves. The mail yesterday had included another free postcard, this one advertising mineral water baths, on which Jason had scrawled:
Think I’m getting the hang of surfing. And camping. Luv
. I could not read the postmark. Was he still in Lorne? And staying out of trouble? I missed my apprentice as I hauled sacks of flour and measured and mixed. Jason had been strong and willing and quick to learn. I wondered if he would fall in love with surfing and follow the trail to the Queensland sun. I hoped not.

Bread was baking and I was drinking my third cup of coffee, which I never pour until all the heavy work is done, when there was a respectful tapping at the street door. When I opened it there was a neat young woman dressed in a white overall.

‘Tommy sent me,’ she said. ‘She called me last night. In case you needed any help.’

‘Well . . .’ I hesitated. Did I need any help? I had run Earthly Delights on my own before Jason’s advent and I seemed to be coping with doing it again. She read my expression.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘I could be good if anyone gave me a chance. I’ve got my pastry cook’s certificate but I’ve never done any bread.’

‘All right,’ I said grudgingly. I could not ignore an appeal like that. ‘But if I find that you’ve pinched my mother of bread and started your own bakery, I warn you, I’ll sue.’

‘Not a chance,’ she replied, coming in and bending down to stroke the Mouse Police. ‘Who’s a gorgeous kitty-cat then?’

Heckle looked offended. He had taken a great many pains to be accepted as a tough streetfighter. He did not appreciate being addressed as though he was a fluffy toy. The young woman realised her mistake.

‘Oh no, you’re a big tough bully, aren’t you? I had a cat like you called Attila Mouse Ripper.’

That was more like it. Heckle let out a faint, rusty purr and angled his jaw into the caressing hand. I smiled.

‘Sit down, have some coffee, don’t talk a lot unless you need to ask a question and we shall manage. What’s your name?’

‘Bernadette. People call me Bernie. Just black, please. What’s on the menu?’

‘Muffins, brioche, rolls, bread. All the dough is on and proving. We just need to make the muffins. You any good at muffins?’

‘No idea,’ said Bernie. ‘Give it a go.’

Well, she had the proper baker’s taste in coffee and maybe she would be helpful, at that. I turned over the recipe, the tins of apple filling, allowed her to collect her ingredients and showed her which oven to use while I got on with cleaning the mixers. And I covertly watched her, of course.

She was neat. Her hair was short and neat, her overall was neat, her feet were neatly shod and she didn’t waste a movement. Although she had evidently not made muffins before she worked out that they should not be overmixed and dropped the batter (neatly) into the pans in the recommended time. Then she looked around for something else to do and I directed her to take the rye bread out of the oven. This she managed without dropping the loaves or burning herself, which is not as easy as it sounds, that oven having been designed by someone who hated bakers or ran a bandaid franchise. She didn’t ask a single unnecessary question that whole morning’s work. I was impressed with Bernie.

When the carrier arrived, we packed ourselves into the van for the trip to Harbour Studios with the glowing consciousness of a good day’s work already completed. The driver was still whistling ‘Heartbreak Hotel’. I wished he wouldn’t. I started a conversation to cover the sound.

‘So you’re not aiming to become a baker?’ I asked Bernie.

‘Pastry chef,’ she replied. ‘I admire what you do, of course,’ she added hurriedly, in case I might be offended, ‘but I just love pastry. There is something magical about it.’

‘Yes. That’s how I feel about bread,’ I assured her. ‘And if you don’t feel like that, you have no business being a baker. The hours,’ I added, ‘are a killer.’

‘So they are,’ she said. ‘This catering firm is my first real job. It’s a bit stressful,’ she said dubiously.

‘Get used to it,’ I advised, hanging on to the panic strap as we veered round a truck. ‘All commercial kitchens are nervous places. Customers demanding food, only a certain number of bread rolls that they can usefully eat without spoiling their appetite, something always going wrong—overcooking, undercooking, curdling sauces. No wonder chefs used to drink like fish in the old days.’

‘Some still do,’ said Bernie.

‘Not this one, though?’ I hadn’t noticed any alcohol available except for use in sauces. No open bottles of brandy on the sink. No bodies on the floor, either.

‘No, though everyone yells a lot.’

‘Par for the course,’ I said.

‘And then there’s the actors,’ she went on, settling into her subject.

‘Fraught?’

‘Congenitally. They’re a funny mixture of in-your-face arrogance and terrible vulnerability. I get on better with the TV crew. They’ve just got a job to do, and they do it.’

‘Anyone in particular?’

‘Ethan,’ confessed Bernie. ‘But I don’t think he’s even noticed me.’

‘Keep feeding him,’ I said. ‘And keep up the supply of chilli oil.’

‘Oh my God, he hasn’t still got the chilli oil?’ She clasped her hands on her breast. The reaction seemed extreme.

‘Yes, he was pouring it on his scrambled eggs yester- day. Why?’

‘Tash said she’d kill him if she caught him with the stuff again. You see, someone—not Ethan, of course—mixed some in Ms Atkins’ chilli con carne when we did Mexican and she burnt her mouth: couldn’t do any more work that day. Cost Tash a day’s shooting because she’s in almost every scene. They shot around her but now she makes that poor PA taste all her food. And Emily’s got all sorts of dietary problems and allergies.’

‘Yes, I saw her doing that yesterday. I think Emily needs a new job.’

‘Oh, so do I, but she wants to be an actor and Ms Atkins could call in some favours and do wonderful things for Emily. So she puts up with it.’

I was spared the necessity of a reply because we had arrived at the Harbour Studios kitchen entrance and it was time to go and make pastry.

Today’s lunch theme was Mediterranean, so I was making tarts and pizza. I set my dough to prove while I inspected the fillings for the pissaladière. Excellent. Someone must have stayed up late to make it. Onions and yes, here were the anchovies, but no garlic, of course. Pasta was being made and rolled. Sauces were being concocted. The usual breakfast—bacon and sausages and eggs, mushrooms and baked beans—were being fried and poached. The air was full of the most wonderful smell as the food was carried past to the bains-marie outside the kitchen door.

The sandwich hands were slicing rapidly; tomatoes, cucumber, beetroot in aspic, egg, lettuce, cheese, ham, my bread. Constant practice makes sous chefs very good at knife work. They seldom cut themselves. However, sometimes they do. There was an exclamation and one of them dropped her knife. It clattered on the floor. The worker rushed to a sink and held her hand under the tap. The water ran red.

I was unoccupied, as my dough had yet to rise, so I went looking for the first-aid box and the fluoro bandaids, which we use so that one cannot escape into the food unnoticed. I found the box and overheard a most peculiar conversation.

‘This morning?’ asked Ethan the director of photography.

‘Tomorrow,’ said Ms Emily. There was a sly, gleeful undertone in her voice which I did not like.

‘Tomorrow,’ agreed Ethan, and they went back to the table and I carried on with my Florence Nightingale routine before Kate bled to death. She had managed not to bleed on the food, which is always a chef’s first duty when injured. It was not a bad cut. I patched it easily with glow-in-the-dark green bandaids and went back to my pizza.

Tomorrow? What was going to happen tomorrow?

While I thought about it, there was food to construct. In the making of pizza there are two imperatives: 1) a very hot oven, and 2) a minimum of toppings. In origin they were, after all, a snack to be eaten while walking, leaving one hand free to pinch attractive bums and fondle appreciative waitresses. Or fend off irritated slaps. Bernie came to join me and we worked in silence. Gradually the trays vanished under dough which I rolled and then spun in the air.

This attracted quite an audience as catering tricks often do. I tried to ignore them in case I got distracted and dropped the dough or, even worse, lost control of it and draped some poor innocent bystander in a floury shroud. That had happened before. But I was aware of the two writers, making notes. I had no idea what they were doing in the kitchen and I hoped those dreadlocks were secure. Gordon nudged Kendall and Kendall nodded emphatically. They were plotting something.

‘Teach me how to do that!’ Bernie pleaded.

‘It’s centrifugal force,’ I explained. ‘Gravity or something. You want the dough to make a flat disc and the easiest way to do it is to use spin. Not that much spin,’ I added, as her first attempt slid towards the edge of the bench. ‘Gently. It’s yeasty. Yeast needs to be handled with care and respect or it will sulk and refuse to rise.’

‘This isn’t as easy as it looks,’ muttered Bernie, trying again and achieving a lopsided ellipse.

‘But secretly she’s really his mother,’ said Kendall to Gordon.

She laughed, a deep gurgle, and replied, ‘Yes! That’s the subplot. Of course!’

They both hurried off. I assumed this was the nature of soap operas and paid little attention.

The audience began to fade away. Bernie sweated over acquiring the skill. She was a very determined young woman, I gave her that. But the dough would be overworked soon. I was just about to interfere when she achieved the perfect disc and slapped it on an oven tray. She turned to me, her face bright with joy.

‘You did it,’ I said, patting her on the shoulder. ‘Well done! Now you can do the rest while I get on with my onion tart.’

‘Can I?’ she said breathlessly. I felt like a benefactor, which was silly because I was sure that she had the knack and her pizzas would be as good as mine, or better. After all, I had made the dough.

Tommy bustled over to the pastry corner as I was sliding the last of the pizzas into the oven.