Recipe for Disaster (5 page)

She sat in silence all the way home, mulling over story
ideas and a short but very funny piece on the lost worshippers
to tide her over. Even when she'd waved goodbye
to Joe, let herself into her apartment and made a cup of tea,
she couldn't stop thinking about ideas – and one in
particular. She pulled down books at random, making
notes, and was so absorbed in what she was doing that she
took a slug of tea without realising it had gone stone cold.
'Ugh,' she said, swallowing it in disgust, and was getting up
to make some fresh when the doorbell rang.

Jonathan took a step towards her, but Kate wasn't having
any of it. 'I've already written a conclusion to the unfinished
business between us last night,' she said firmly. 'It's over
and it has been ever since you decided, quite rightly, that
you needed to give your marriage another try. I never tried
to persuade you otherwise. But we are so not going to have
a last screw for old times' sake, or anything else.'

'But I need to make absolutely certain I've made the
right decision, and how can I be sure unless –'

'Trust me. From now on you will have to live in your
memories,' Kate retorted. She held her breath for a moment
– he was still her boss, after all – but then he grinned.

'Oh, well, it was worth a try. Do you know that a new
book has come out which absolutely proves that while
women are mulling over all the emotional complexities of a
situation, men are just thinking about sex?'

'Women have known that for years. We certainly don't
need a bloody book to tell us!' God, she was really going to
miss this banter. Then she had a thought. 'Look, I know this
may sound odd, but I really need to pick your brains. It's
about a potential story.'

His ears perked up. 'OK, stick the kettle on and shoot.'

She waved him inside, grinning to herself in relief.
Jonathan drank tea by the gallon at work, claiming it
helped him think. Now it was a sign that he had become her
respected colleague again and she welcomed it.

'Do you remember that awful meal we had – the one with
the burned lamb?' she began, when they were sitting on the
sofa, mugs in hand. 'Well, it got me thinking. There seems
to be a massive gap between what we punters get to see and
what really happens out of our sight, in the back of a
restaurant.'

'You're right there. If the paper hadn't picked up the tab
for that meal, I certainly wouldn't have.'

'Exactly! And that's only the tip of the iceberg! Half the
restaurants in this town seem to serve up food that's not
even their own. It's been cooked and frozen by someone
else. I mean, anyone with half a brain could shove something
in the microwave and chuck it on a plate. Yet they
pretend it's some kind of elevated cuisine, almost like an
exclusive club that we ordinary humans don't have access to
– partly because they insist on talking in another language.
Do you know that to "mortify" something makes it more
tender?' She bent down and rummaged through some
papers. 'Oh, yes, and a
fleuron
, which I could swear was one
of the aliens attacking Dr Who on the telly last week, is
actually a lozenge or crescent made with puff pastry. I
mean, pretentious twaddle or what?'

'And chefs are so precious about their reputations. You
can't pick up a paper these days without having to wade
through one of the celebrity chefs claiming to be the best
cook since the invention of the knife and fork,' mused
Jonathan. 'I totally agree – all that crap is a waste of good
newsprint.'

'So . . .' Kate took a deep breath. 'Chefs – real cooking or
just a cover up?'

'Hmm. Could be good. Colourful personalities,
scandalous practices and plenty of bullshit for you to expose
in your inimitable way. I assume you'd be thinking of going
undercover somehow to get the proof?'

'Oh, yes. It's got to be well researched – not worth doing
otherwise.'

'I agree. But you are not going to get work as a chef.
You've got guts, Kate, but not even you could pull that off.'

'No, but I wouldn't have to. I could become a waitress
instead. All they do is swan around and look snooty. An
idiot could do it!'

'I'm looking forward to those pictures.' He grinned at
her and she quickly looked away, trying not to get caught
up in his eyes. Now was not the time to be reminded how
sexy a sharp, rugged, carelessly ruffled professional man
like Jonathan was. This was now over.

Jonathan was the first to look away. 'I've got to go. I
promised . . .' he hesitated.

'You promised your wife you would be home hours ago,'
she finished off for him. 'Well, you are late, but at least
you've got a clean conscience.'

'Sorry. Sorry about everything, really.'

'I know.' She gave him an awkward grin and propelled
him out of the door, patting him kindly on the back.
Hopefully, the next time they met, they could just move on.
Affairs at work were never a good idea, she thought,
prowling restlessly about the room after he'd gone.
Glancing around, she realised he might never have been
there. He had left nothing that might announce his
presence in her life. It had been a bit like having an affair
with a ghost.

The next time – and I don't care how long I have to wait
– the next time I start a relationship, it will be completely
open and above board, with someone who is single and
legitimately mine for the taking. There will be no secrets, no
lies and definitely no guilt, she thought.

She wandered aimlessly through her flat, checking her
messages – there was one from her mum – and riffling
through the post: a belated birthday card from her best
mate at school cheered her up momentarily. Then she went
into the bathroom and disconsolately ran herself a bath,
throwing in a generous handful of expensive bath salts.
When she got out she would be clean, refreshed and a
single woman, ready to start again.

When Harry Hunter was born, his glorious blue eyes made
even the hardened battle axe of a midwife smile and coo
with pleasure. Later on that night, however, he tried to bite
her. She was glad she was leaving before he developed
teeth.

His grandmother might have loved him just as much as
Jake's did. But if that was the case, she never said so.

No one ever said anything like that in Harry's family.

Far back in time, his ancestor Harolde Hunter had
performed some vital but unsavoury tasks for that canny
old skinflint Henry VII. Henry was grateful, but sick of the
sight of Harolde, who displayed, even in those rough times,
rather too much eagerness to get his hands dirty. So he gave
him a parcel of land up north, where, with a bit of luck, he
would get eaten by wolves, or the locals, who were
rumoured to be wild.

But Harolde prospered and, among other things,
bequeathed to his heirs an unshakeable belief that whatever
Hunters wanted, they got.

So, through the ages, Hunters made their mark on the
world through skulduggery, cheating, betrayal and allround
nastiness. There might have been nice Hunters, but
they never lasted long. They probably just faded away, like
a flower does without water.

When he wasn't at work, Harry's father enjoyed living up
to his name, and if the Government thought they were
going to stop him, well, Hunter Hall was a long way from
Westminster, too far to hear horns and the baying of
hounds. Harry's mother enjoyed gin and bridge, in that
order, and was always having things done to her face in the
vain hope people might think she was still thirty-five.

Harry, on the other hand, was a pin-up. He was so vain,
the only photo he kept in his wallet was one of himself. Tall
and broad-shouldered, he romped through his private
schools, winning sporting and academic prizes without
even having to cheat. Early on, he mastered the art of
looking down his Roman nose at everyone he considered
beneath him.

School had its drawbacks, one of which was the sexual
habits of some of the masters. No one buggered about with
Harry, though, unless he wanted them to, which, on the
whole, he didn't, having discovered the fun that could be
had at the girls' school half a mile away. He could charm
anyone he liked, but then he always despised them
afterwards for being so gullible.

Holidays were spent in Aspen or the Caribbean, and
there he discovered a love of good food. But, being Harry,
he suddenly realised that he could cook it better himself. He
started practising at home, when no one was looking,
because some people still thought cooking was just for girls.

On leaving school he was at a bit of a loss. Plenty of
universities would have had him, but he was bored with
academic life. What he really wanted to do was cook. All that
chopping and slashing and heat and blood – in a kitchen he
was as at home as a shark in the ocean. Other people might
wilt under the intense pressure, but Harry just thrived. The
white chef's jacket really brought out the blue of his eyes,
and everyone knew uniforms were terribly popular with the
girls.

For Harry, there was only one way to do things –
properly – so once his mind was made up, he had to go to
the best catering college there was. Obviously he never
doubted for a minute that he would get in.

The Richmond College of Catering was the cooking world's
equivalent of Oxford or Cambridge. Some bright sparks, like
Harry, went straight from school. He lacked experience but
he radiated energy and enthusiasm. Others, like Jake, had
actually toiled at the coal face of a real kitchen. The
interviewing panel were very impressed by how much he had
already picked up. They also noted his steely determination.

The college was looking for raw talent that could be
chucked into a furnace of intensive teaching, work
experience and fierce criticism. If you survived with your
ambition and self-confidence intact, the world was your
lobster thermidor.

On the first day of term the entrance hall was crammed
with eager young cooks, polished like newly minted coins in
their pristine white chef's jackets, the sunshine glinting off
a positive arsenal of sharp knives. On the walls were
pictures of the college's alumni, some of them now familiar
faces on television. There was even an enticing aroma of
frying onions and garlic wafting across the room from one
of the classes already in progress.

Jake had had to sell his laptop and half his CD collection
to buy the set of knives the college insisted they use. He had
bought his chef's clobber from a commis who was leaving
catering to go into the army – he said he needed a rest. Jake
had used up a whole bottle of Vanish getting out the
bloodstains. Glancing idly round the room he reflected that
at least his gear had been in a real kitchen. Judging by the
look of the stuff some of the others were wearing, their
whites had only just come out of their plastic wrappers. He
grinned to himself at the thought of what some of these kids
would look like after the real world of a kitchen had met
their snowy aprons. One or two of them weren't even going
to last the first week, he reckoned.

Eavesdropping shamelessly, he was able to pick out the
kitchen virgins. Listening to them talk it was clear they had
picked up vast amounts of theory. They just hadn't done it
yet.

One of the advantages of growing up in south London
was that you developed a finely honed instinct for possible
trouble. There was always one boy in the playground who
called you mate, but then stole your dinner money. Jake
saw Harry and instantly recognised the type. He was
standing in the midst of a group of people as if he owned it.
He was perfectly balanced, legs slightly apart, unlike everyone
else, who was shuffling nervously from one foot to the
other. It was obvious Harry didn't do nervous. He was
telling a joke about some TV chef that made it sound as if
he knew him.

Harry laughed, throwing his head back and exposing an
immaculate set of teeth. He glanced round the room to
make sure everyone was joining in and for a brief second his
eyes met Jake's. Under the laughter they were cold and
calculating before he looked away. No one else seemed to
notice. Jake shrugged. He wasn't a schoolboy now; he could
take care of himself.

Of that year's intake of budding Marco Pierre Whites,
there were a number of casualties. One guy discovered he
just couldn't bear the sight of blood. He was nearly sick
when asked to cook something rare, and as for steak tartare
. . . A few were just too lazy to put in the graft, and one girl
was told to leave because, even after a year, she couldn't tell
the difference between basil and parsley.

Of the ones that were left, Jake and Harry rose to the top,
like the cream in a pint of milk. This incensed Harry, who
had been top of everything when he was at school and was
not prepared to share.

But charm was one of Harry's strongest weapons. He
quickly learned to temper his public-school drawl with
Cumbrian idioms from home. He called his mates his
'marras', a term they had never heard before and which
made them laugh. He was always generous about lending
things from his state-of-the-art chef's tool box, and he went
through the pretty girls like a knife through butter. The
combination of his good looks, charisma and invitations to
weekends at home in the Lake District was irresistible.

Every girl thought she was the one, until she was
dumped. Jake became so used to having hysterical females
sobbing on his shoulder that it was a bit like living through
Groundhog Day. He became skilled at dispensing cookery
and comfort at the same time. Typically his advice always
went: 'Yes, Pamela/Anne/Lyndsay, I agree it's awful. Here,
take this tissue and try not to drip into my jus/coulis/soup.'
Or, 'Yeah, he is a shit, but you refused to listen when I told
you this.' Or, 'Now, don't be silly. You don't really want to
kill yourself/him, so please put my knife/rolling pin/
sharpener back in my box.'

After they had got over the trauma, the girls would then
kick themselves for failing to notice earlier that Jake was
sexy too, with his heavy-lidded dark eyes and the smile that
could be tough or tender, depending on the occasion.

So another thing he had to become good at was
explaining (tactfully, of course) that there was no way on
God's earth he was ever going to go out with that bastard's
cast-offs. There was such a thing as pride, thank you very
much. Which made him a man of principle, but rather
lonely at night.

But most of the time he was busy doing the important
stuff: cooking, and soaking up the theory. He listened,
studied, copied and experimented until sometimes he felt
like a chicken someone had overstuffed and which had
exploded in the oven. But the more he learned, the more
he realised there was to learn. After work-experience
sessions at places like Le Gavroche and the Ritz, he took to
repeating every day, like a mantra, 'A chef is only as good
as his last meal.' By the end of the course, he was itching to
get back out there.

On their last day, there was a party and the college's own
version of a prize-giving ceremony. Klutz of the year went
to a guy named John, who had broken more plates than
anyone else and even managed to smash a silver salver.
Jake's mate Barney got Pudding of the Year. He had put on
three and half stones since he started and had got the job of
his dreams as a pastry chef on a cruise liner. 'If you go on
like this, they will have to reinforce the boat,' said the
principal. Barney just grinned and asked Jake if he was
going to finish that pudding.

'Joking aside, you have been a brilliant group this year.
Well, by and large. Anyone remember that girl who ran off
in tears during the first week, when she was asked to try
some tripe?'

'Dozy bitch,' muttered Harry, but too quietly for anyone
to hear.

'Well, someone spotted her the other day working in a
fast-food joint at Oxford Circus.'

There was a shocked and pitying silence.

'Now, I am sure none of you will be surprised that the
award for outstanding student has effectively been a two chef
race. During their time here, Jake Goldman and Harry
Hunter have proved themselves to be dedicated and
talented. I can assure you that the debate over this award
has been worse than a meeting of the UN. We argued like
fury among ourselves, but eventually, probably because we
finally ran out of booze – no, seriously – it was decided –
because we feel he had the ability to run a happy and
focused kitchen, as well as cook like one of the gods – to
present this award to Jake.'

Everyone cheered and threw their bread rolls at him.
Jake was astounded. He had never won anything in his life
and was always too busy trying to become a better cook to
get big-headed about his talent. The award took the form of
a little silver chef's hat. Guiltily, he wondered if he could sell
it. It would be the only way he could afford new chef's gear.

When he got back to the table, Harry made sure he was
the first one to stand up and shake Jake's hand. Anyone
watching them would assume they were the best of friends.
But when Jake looked into Harry's eyes, he shivered.

The principal banged a spoon on the table to get their
attention. 'Listen up, you lot. I said shut up! God, I am
really looking forward to seeing those cocky smiles wiped
off your faces on your first day at work. Anyway, this brings
me to my final announcement.

'It is my great pleasure to tell you all that really, both Jake
and Harry have come up winners tonight. The Capital, that
famous spot that none of us can afford to eat at, has – and
this has never happened before – offered both these guys
jobs. Well done, you two. That's a really remarkable
achievement!'

Jake could feel a large smile spread over his face. He felt
as though he was about to burst. This was the chance of a
lifetime. Harry grinned at the crowd, nodding regally, but
inside he was seething, and shocked at his very unfamiliar
feeling of humiliation. Being top – winning prizes – well,
that was his natural place in the world. But no one else
belonged there. And certainly Jake didn't.

Harry carried on smiling and talking, while his brain
feverishly started producing ideas for teaching Jake a lesson.
There were so many things he could do. All he needed was
an opportunity. He could wait. In the meantime . . .

'Let me shake your hand again, mate. I think we are
going to work very well together.'

'What a gent!' someone shouted, but Jake's delighted
smile quickly turned sour. His hand was hurting so much
he wouldn't have been surprised if Harry hadn't broken a
bone or two.