Recipe for Disaster (33 page)

She was very glad she had said she was his fiancée
because when they put him in a little side room off one of
the main wards he suddenly became a magnet for what
seemed like half the female staff at the hospital. It seemed
impossible that so many young and pretty nurses all
thought it was their job to come in and take his temperature
or check his pulse. Jake was in a lot of pain but all the
attention seemed to cheer him up.

'Talk to him as much as he wants but don't tire him,' said
the doctor, also female, who was stroking the hair out of his
eyes, quite unnecessarily, Kate thought.

Tess popped in during a lull and they conferred in
whispers because Jake seemed to be asleep. 'They are all
very relieved, of course, but that means they've gone back
to their usual habits of cocking things up,' she hissed.

She had just spent a fraught ten minutes on the phone
with Kirsty. What no one knew was that Mr Blair had gone
back to his hotel and rung his old friend Louis to ask
plaintively why the great chef had sent him on a wild goose
chase to a madhouse populated by sexual deviants. Louis
had then had one of his famous Gallic tantrums and had to
be pulled away from the phone by his wife.

'I do not understand a word of this. You start off this
conversation about cooking and then we seem to be talking
about underwear! Louis has gone quite purple – no, Louis,
you cannot have the phone back – I will deal with this. Let
us cut the crap, as young people would say. We recommended
you eat with Jake because he is a chef of sublime
ability and we think you will look complete fools if you do
not recognise this. I also have to say that I have known this
young chef for years and he is one of the most honest,
decent and straightforward young men I have ever met.
Louis is incensed that you would think he would send you
on a wild goose chase and is threatening to stop stocking
that 1965 claret you seem so fond of.
Au revoir!
'

Mr Blair picked up the phone again, rang Cuisine, booked
a table for that night and went out for a walk to build up an
appetite and burn off some calories in order to make room
for the several thousand more he intended to ingest.

He had booked the table with Godfrey, and Kirsty went
ballistic when she found out.

'But I thought you would be pleased!'

'One of the most influential people in the world of
cookery is coming to eat here tonight and our chef is twenty
miles away in bloody hospital, you oaf!'

'But he's OK, isn't he?'

'Oh, he's fine, apart from the fact that he doesn't know
what day it is.'

At the hospital Tess related the gist of this conversation
to Kate, adding: 'Obviously Kirsty tried to ring him and
cancel the booking but he went out and no one at the hotel
knows when he'll be back. I think we are going to have to
go back to the restaurant and try and get through this
evening without Jake.'

'Oh God! Could today get much worse?'

'If I don't get out of here, it surely will,' said a faint voice
from the bed. Gingerly Jake tried to ease himself up into a
sitting position. He had been dozing until he heard the
hideous words: 'Get through this evening without Jake'. He
wasn't sure what they were going to try to do without him
but it sounded like a recipe for disaster.

Both women shrieked: 'Lie back down again at once!'
And then realised they were making his head hurt. Kate ran
out of the room. Where were those bloody nurses when you
really needed them?

A harassed-looking male doctor came in and said: 'You
cannot possibly leave.'

'I can. It's called discharging yourself without permission.'

'What on earth is so important that you have to leave
hospital?'

'You wouldn't understand,' said Jake, who didn't really
himself, but would go to hell in a handcart before he let the
doctor know this. The doctor got out an instrument and
looked into Jake's eyes. 'How many fingers am I holding
up?'

'Three,' and then when the doctor looked triumphant,
he added kindly, 'the other digit is your thumb.'

'What day is it today?'

The doctor had a copy of the
Guardian
folded up in his
jacket pocket. Jake squinted carelessly. 'Thursday.'

'And who is this?' pointing at Kate.

'That is the woman I am going to marry.'

'Is that right?'

What could she say? It was another of those occasions
when it wasn't the right time to tell the truth.

She looked at Jake. He was smiling at her and there was
a look in his eyes that she wanted to keep there for ever.
'Yes,' she said. When he got his memory back it would all be
over, so she might as well make the most of this moment.

'You are of course entitled to do what you like but you
will have to sign a form taking all responsibility for this
foolhardy action.'

'Absolutely,' said Jake cheerfully. Blimey, he hoped he
could remember how to use a pen. Now a knife, well, that
was a different matter. That was engrained into his subconscious
like breathing.

'He will have a headache but if he starts talking nonsense
or acting erratically, get him back here pronto.'

'The trouble is, Doctor, how am I possibly going to be
able to tell the difference?' said Tess drily.

Several nurses were very eager to help Jake get dressed
but Kate shooed them away. 'I am perfectly capable of
helping my boyfriend put on a pair of trousers,' she
snapped. But she was very tempted to go and snaffle some
sedatives for him. It was quite obvious, watching him move
so slowly and painfully, that he was in no state to go home,
let alone cook.

'This is ridiculous,' she said eventually, when he'd had to
lie down after managing to get one sock on, and he was
looking so pale she thought he was going to pass out. 'The
doctor was right. You are in no state to go anywhere except
back to bed.'

Jake didn't say anything but his face took on that familiar
look of stubbornness. 'I am going back to my restaurant,
with or without your help.'

'Just for the record, I am doing this against all my better
instincts,' she grumbled as he had to lean on her to walk
out.

Tess took his other arm and the nurses watched them go
with regret. They had been drawing straws as to who
should be the ones to give him a bed bath.

Jake got in the car and shut his eyes but the world still felt
as if it was spinning.

'Just how much do you remember of the last few weeks?'
asked Tess.

He thought, but even doing that was painful. 'We had a
flood and I am going to that stupid television competition,
aren't I? And then there was shouting and fighting, wasn't
there? What am I missing?'

Tess raised her eyebrows and looked at Kate. Over to you,
she seemed to be saying, but before Kate could open her
mouth, Jake said: 'Oh God! Sorry, guys – think I'm going to
be sick,' stumbled out of the car and threw up down a drain.

Kate rooted around in her bag, found some tissues and a
bottle of water, got out and hovered anxiously.

'Sorry,' he muttered.

She took him in her arms. He was shaking like a leaf.

'Oh, Jake, I love you so much. You have nothing to
apologise to me for, ever.'

'Can I have that in writing?'

'Why?'

'Well, I admit I am pretty confused at the moment, but I
feel absolutely certain I was going to propose to you in the
near future and it would be kind of handy to know I could
skip ever having to say sorry.'

Joy surged through her. 'I will let you know when you do
propose then.'

'Well, I'm certainly not going to do it here. Those people
across the road at the bus stop think I am a drunk who can't
hold his liquor.'

'Let's go home,' said Kate happily, because that was
exactly what his restaurant felt like to her.

They were met by Godfrey, who told them that he had
cleaned all the blood off the kitchen floor.

'Have you disinfected?' asked Jake.

'Absolutely,' said Godfrey, resolving to do this as soon as
Jake's back was turned.

Jake leaned on a work bench. His memory seemed to be
returning in patches and he'd just had the fright of his life
when he remembered Mr Blair. 'OK, this is my plan. I will
go upstairs and rest as long as someone promises to keep
trying to contact Mr Blair. If he is happy to postpone, fine.
If not, I will have to come down and cook his meal.' He put
up a hand to forestall any protests. There was a desperate
look in his eyes. 'I know you think I am completely mad and
it is not that important, but it is; it is. You might not be able
to understand, but you have got to accept that I simply have
to do this. You are all absolutely brilliant and I don't know
quite what I would do without you, but only one person can
cook this man's meal and that person is me.'

They all looked at each other. Eventually Tess spoke.
'OK. You are, of course, completely mad and so are we, but
we will go along with this.'

Jake looked relieved, then suspicious.

'No, I give you my word – we won't try to pull any stunts.
If it looks like this guy is coming we will come and get you,'
said Tess.

'I wonder if I should quickly check the fridge –'

'NO!' they all shouted at him in unison.

'You won't be fit to heat up a baked bean if you don't lie
down now. Honestly, what is it with men? You give in to
them and then they always need to take that extra inch,'
complained Tess.

On his way to gaze at the top of a mountain, Mr Blair met a
very old friend who was on his way down it and who insisted
on taking him to meet the family. Because he hadn't
exerted himself in any way, Mr Blair decided that a quick
wash and brush-up at his friend's house would suffice
before he left for the restaurant.

Of course, no one at Cuisine knew this and so they
carried on ringing his hotel with dedicated but infuriating
regularity until the receptionist lost her temper and told
them to fuck off. After that, they rationed the calls to once
every half-hour, but as the time ticked by, the tension
mounted.

By six o'clock it also became apparent that, Blair or no
Blair, they were in for a very busy night indeed.

'We've only got that little table for two in the corner left,'
said Kirsty, coming off the phone and looking with horror
at the bookings diary.

'Oh crap. Why tonight of all nights?'

'It's the thirteenth culinary commandment: "Thou shalt
be hideously busy when thy chef's brains have been
battered",' said Kate.

'How do you know?' asked Godfrey.

'Because all professions have one. For journalists it's:
"Thou shalt only find out the tape recorder is broken after
the most important interview of thy career." I'll go and
wake Jake up, shall I?'

Jake had only pretended to swallow one of the monster
painkillers the hospital had given him, because he was
terrified it would knock him out for the whole evening.
This meant, of course, that he didn't get any real rest at all,
but just dozed fitfully, in between experiencing the most
peculiar dreams in which he and Kate seemed to be
having the most tremendous argument about a page out
of a newspaper, for heaven's sake! It was all rather
disturbing and he was quite glad to get up, even though
his head hurt like hell and his vision kept going slightly
blurry.

Kate tapped on the door and walked in. 'You are aware,
of course, how tempted I am to find a strait-jacket and pin
you to the bed?'

'Sounds slightly kinky, but fun. Maybe later, eh?'

'Ha, ha.'

'I assume that our special guest is proving elusive?'

'Godfrey even went out and searched the streets for him.
No luck. He is coming here tonight, whether we want him
or not.'

'Shit. Oh, well, could be worse, I suppose.'

'How, exactly?'

'Er . . . I could have had my right hand chopped off. Even
I would have had to take a few weeks off to learn how to dice
with my left hand.'

Kate moved towards him and kissed him tenderly on
the lips. She might as well make the most of his amnesia
while it lasted. 'I'll be right there with you, babe,' she
whispered.

'Don't tell anyone, but you are my favourite waitress.'

'Now, Blair isn't due for another hour, so –'

'I'm coming down anyway. It's got to be better than lying
here having weird dreams.'

Jake could smell the fear even before he walked into the
kitchen. It emanated from everyone's pores, although a
casual observer would just have seen a group of people
rushing around and being quite efficient. But he knew
better. A quick glance at the table told him they had a huge
amount of work on, and Kirsty brought another check in as
he looked.

'Perfect, Godfrey – that's exactly the way I want that
starter to look.'

'But why are you frowning then, boss?'

'It's the only way I can avoid seeing two of you,' he
explained patiently, and moved round to his side of the
kitchen. Instantly he felt a bit better. He took a deep breath.
This was his place; this was familiar – he could do this.

'If you fall over halfway through this hell, I hope you
realise we are just going to step over you and carry on
cooking?' said Tess.

'I would expect no less.'

She grinned. She wasn't going to say so, but it was good
to have him here. Tess was in no doubt about her own
talents, but a good kitchen needed a leader and even
though Jake was wounded, it was what he was brilliant at.
Although her hands and most of her brain were busy with
the task in front of her, part of her was watching him take
control and feeling relieved because of it.

Godfrey had been skimming through the orders and
now decided he couldn't do any of them. His brain felt like
it was full of confetti, and when he looked down at the
knives on his work bench he couldn't remember what each
specifically was for, except that any of them would do if he
felt driven to slitting his throat.

'Three
moules marinière
and a Caesar salad. Get the
mussels on first and remember – don't rip the lettuce apart
this time,' Jake told him.

OK, he could do that and then worry about the rest later.

Jake concentrated on radiating calm and control, even
though it seemed as though the kitchen floor had turned
into cotton wool. Having concussion felt a bit like being on
a really bad trip, he thought, and then Kirsty came into the
kitchen.

'He's here,' she said and rushed out again. Instantly,
everyone felt any other career would have been better than
this.

Please don't let him order the woodcock, thought Tess as
she carried on cooking for a table of five, outwardly calm.

I bet he orders the woodcock. It's the most complicated
dish on the menu. Why in God's name did I leave it on?
wondered Jake. Because it's a fucking fantastic dish, that's
why, you fool, he told himself.

'OK, here it is. He wants the
gratinée Normandie
, followed
by the woodcock. What did I say?'

Jake took a deep breath, like a diver who is about to
plunge into thirty feet of icy-cold water and doesn't know if
there are rocks at the bottom. 'Focus – you can do this,' he
said to himself, and then realised he was talking out loud.

''Course you can, Chef,' said Tess, but now she was
starting to doubt it. Jake was now almost as pale as when he
had been unconscious, and his right hand was definitely
shaking. If he overcooked the bird it would be as tough as
Godfrey's old boots, and if there was too much or too little
of any one of the six components of the sauce it would taste
like a buggered old boot.

Time seemed to stand still for Jake. If I get this wrong, he
thought quite calmly, as if he had all the time in the world
for thinking, if I fuck this up, I've had it. I don't have the
money or the resources to wait for a second chance. This
is it.

He looked up and realised they were all staring at him,
with a mixture of hope and fear and absolute faith. He
wondered if it was the concussion that had brought tears to
his eyes.

'I am going to cook now,' he said, simply.

So he did.

Ditch all the crap that isn't relevant, he told himself.
Ditch all those weird flashbacks that don't seem to make any
sense; pretend that someone isn't trying to force a screwdriver
into your skull; ignore the terror.

He picked up a knife and looked sternly at his hand until
it stopped shaking. All around him he could vaguely hear
the noises of several people catering for the sixty other
hungry customers in the restaurant that night. He blotted
the sounds out and tried to cocoon himself in a bubble of
concentration.

Kate could see the sweat running down his face, which
was twisted in pain, and she couldn't bear to watch, but
then drove Kirsty crazy by asking her for constant
updates.

'Go into the kitchen and see for yourself!'

'But what if the sight of me brings all his memory back at
just the wrong moment?'

'For God's sake! He is still on his feet and that table over
there are positively gagging for the wine they ordered from
you about half an hour ago. Jake still thinks you are just a
waitress, so try and be one!'

Poor Tess felt like she had lost about five and a half years
of her life watching Jake cook this one meal. She was
desperate to offer support but didn't dare do anything that
might break his concentration. For one awful moment his
hand faltered while he was adding the redcurrants to the
sauce and she nearly screamed. Then he looked over, gave
her a brief grin and carried on.

Kirsty was waiting to take the plate out but before she
could reach over for it, Godfrey was there with a cloth,
wiping away a tiny bit of sauce on the wrong side of the plate.

'Bloody hell – I missed that,' said Jake. 'Thanks.' Then,
in an attempt to regain some authority, he snapped: 'Off
you go. What the hell are you waiting for?'

'Well, stop staring, then,' retorted Kirsty. 'I am quite
capable of walking in a straight line without dropping this
plate – or I was until this evening.' She picked up the plate,
straightened her back and carried it out reverently. The
kitchen breathed out collectively.

'You did good there,' Jake said to Godfrey. He
shuddered at the consequences of nearly sending out a dish
that wasn't one hundred per cent perfect.

When Kirsty brought Mr Blair's plate back to the
kitchen, he pounced on it, if someone on the verge of
collapse could be said to pounce.

'Well, he's eaten the lot – that's a good sign, isn't it? What
did he say?'

'He said, "Thank you." '

'Hmm, now what does that mean?'

'Thank you very much, that was bloody brilliant,' offered
Godfrey hopefully.

'Thank you very much – now I can get the hell out of
here,' worried Jake.

'Thank you very much, and I wish all waitresses were as
hot as you?'

They all looked at Kirsty.

'Well, I don't bloody know! What do you want me to do
now – get Godfrey's bicycle lamp, shove it in his face and
interrogate him?'

Mr Blair stayed and stayed.

He had pudding – hot raspberry soufflés – and then he
ordered another one – peaches poached in champagne.
Jake fretted aloud if this was because he was just greedy or
hated the first one and was giving them another chance.

Mr Blair had coffee and petits fours. Then he had more
coffee.

Was he ever going to leave?

'Maybe he's forgotten his wallet and doesn't dare say so,'
suggested Godfrey, who was cleaning the floor in the only
way he knew how, which was to get himself almost as wet as
the mop.

Kate was seriously worried about Jake, who looked
ready to drop and was staring at the kitchen in a glassy-eyed
manner as if he had never seen it before. He was
leaning against a work bench, being mopped around,
and hadn't even noticed that the oven door had a huge
greasy stain down it. She was dying to go on the Internet
and find out what might happen to people who had
concussion and refused to lie down, but she didn't want to
leave him.

Jake felt as if his memory was doing some complicated
dance, but the rest of him didn't know the steps. His brain
kept hopping backwards and forwards, and then spinning
round until he felt quite dizzy. Images whizzed before his
eyes, but he couldn't put them into any sort of order. He
wasn't even sure if they were real or just half-remembered
dreams.

Why was he getting mixed messages of love and hate
towards Kate, for instance? Had they quarrelled and, if so,
what had it been about? It must have been a silly lovers' tiff,
nothing that couldn't be mended. The one thing he knew
for certain was that he and Kate were soul mates. Oh crap –
he was starting to sound like he was in the pages of some
romantic novel or tabloid newspaper article . . . Oh, that
wasn't a nice thought at all . . .

'Mr Blair wants to know if you will join him for a drink.
Jake, are you all right?'

He ignored Kirsty. He frowned, trying to shut everything
else out, so he could focus on Kate. She could see what
was happening and flinched from the implications, but
stood her ground.

'Everything is starting to come back, isn't it?'

'Unfortunately, yes.'

'I don't think Mr Blair is going to wait for ever.' Kirsty
sounded anxious.

'He will probably last longer than Kate's words. You
think you know her and then you don't. What else is there
to know about you that isn't real?'

'Nothing! You are being ridiculous! And I don't
appreciate you talking about my personality as if it was a
pair of fake breasts!'

'The more I hear about your private life, the less I wish
to know. It all sounds most unsavoury and, frankly, if your
food wasn't so sublime you wouldn't be seeing my heels for
dust,' said Mr Blair crossly, peering round the kitchen
door.

'Oh, for God's sake! You have a talent for appearing at
the wrong moment and getting the wrong end of the stick.
This is nothing like it sounds. Let's go into the restaurant.'
Jake ushered the critic out, pausing only to turn round and
say threateningly to Kate, 'Wait there. This is not over!'

Mr Blair sat down, took a deep breath and ordered a
large brandy.

'Every time I come here I feel as if I've strayed on to the
set of some tacky television show, except that you obviously
think you are auditioning for an episode of
Casualty
. Mad,
quite mad and yet, the food . . .' He gestured in despair as
words failed him and took a huge slug of the restaurant's
finest cognac. This gave him the strength to carry on. 'It
feels as though I've come to a lunatic asylum and yet I have
just been served one of the best meals of my life. How is
this? And why?'

'Well, for starters, I don't think any decent chef is entirely
sane,' said Jake, putting on what he hoped was a winning,
but not certifiable, smile. He really wanted to hug the critic
for saying such nice things about him, but didn't want to
frighten him.

'Your waitress, the one with whom you seem to be
enjoying a rather turbulent sex life, explained some of the
circumstances of this completely bizarre gastronomic
experience. Your concussion, I mean. I have absolutely no
desire to probe further into the knicker episode, which I
trust will always remain a mystery.'