Cooking the Books (24 page)

‘Ah,’ said Daniel softly. ‘
Behold, I shall save her that halteth, and gather her that was driven out: I will get them praise and fame in every land where they have been put to shame
. Pity that it hasn’t come true. But we can live without praise and fame, as long as we are allowed to live.’

‘Indeed,’ I agreed. There was silence for a while. ‘That was a very good denounce,’ I commented.

‘Those prophets, they had passion. Of course, we don’t know what they had been ingesting. Apart from despair.’

‘Yes, there was a theory that St John the Divine was eating magic mushrooms when he had all those visions in Revelations.’

‘He was probably dining with Ezekiel. Now there was a man with really interesting visions. Dry bones. Burning fiery chariots. Which brings us no closer to finding out why the child was named Zephaniah.’

‘No, but it’s interesting,’ I said. ‘Think how he would have enjoyed the present weather!’

Daniel laughed.

Then with rumbling and complaint, the storm moved on. I opened the French window and a gush of cold sweet air flowed in. The lights, however, remained off.

‘I think we might as well go to bed,’ suggested Daniel.

‘You’re always saying that . . .’ I said.

‘Yes, I am, aren’t I?’ He smiled at me in the flickering light. I kissed him and blew out the candles.

Morning announced itself by all the lights coming on at once. It was six am and a clear windy day. I switched off all the lights and did the usual morning things. Daniel, who had had his first night’s sleep in ages, was making more coffee as I ventured down to the bakery and found that the Mouse Police had been foraging somewhere wet. They were lying side by side on their flour sacks, licking each other dry, beside a mound of bedraggled prey. Even the rats had found last night’s weather impossible to avoid. I disposed of them and fed the cats and put on the mixers.

‘Did you lose power last night?’ asked Bernie, coming in through the alley door.

‘Yes, for hours. It only just came on again. You?’

‘Sure did. My dad is furious. I never have managed to teach him to hit “save” often enough. Lost pages of calculations.’

‘Poor man,’ I said, which was as sympathetic as I got in the morning. ‘Bread is on, what have you got to do today?’

‘They liked the cupcakes so much that they’ve asked for them again,’ she said, putting down an armload of those flat white boxes. ‘I made a lot more sugar roses. It’s a good sign, isn’t it?’ she asked me. ‘That they wanted more of them.’

‘It’s an excellent sign. Good, you can get on with the cupcakes. Use that oven, I don’t need it.’

Bernie seemed disposed to chat, which was not my idea of a civilised morning. But nothing to be done about it so I half-listened as I kneaded and rolled. Kneading is a trance-inducing pastime. It ought to have some sort of mystic philosophical school or at least a mantra. You can become one with the dough.

‘So what did Daniel report about the crew?’ asked Bernie artlessly.

‘I can’t tell you that,’ I said shortly. ‘Discretion is his watchword.’

‘Oops, sorry,’ she said, biting her lip. ‘What shall we talk about, then?’

‘How about some hush?’ I suggested. ‘Quiet and contemplation.’

Bernie shut up and I went back to kneading. I myself broke the silence after half an hour or so.

‘What’s the news on the pastry cook’s leg?’ I asked. Bernie jumped. Like most of Gen Y, she isn’t used to silence. I should suggest that she bring her iPod. Jason always had an iPod.

‘She’s getting better, but she isn’t able to stand for long periods yet. Why, don’t you like this job?’

‘I could do without it,’ I told her. She stared at me.

‘If you say so, Corinna,’ she said, and put on the mixer.

Cupcakes were made and set out to cool. Icing was happening. My bread came out of the oven shiny and smelling delightful. I zoomed upstairs briefly to kiss Daniel and steal one of his English muffins, toasted to a turn, with blood orange marmalade. Yum.

‘Are you going back to the studio today?’ I asked.

‘Oh, yes. Can I catch a lift with you?’

‘Certainly, in about an hour. And I warn you, you will not like our driver’s musical tastes.’

‘As long as he can drive, I don’t care,’ he said, biting into the other half of his muffin before I could steal it. Horatio, satisfied with his dab of butter, was sitting on the newspaper, having a thorough wash. This meant that Daniel would not read anything which might upset him. A service which Horatio provides without charge. He is a generous cat.

Back to the bakery, where Bernie was to be discovered reading my accounts. While they are public documents available to be read by anyone who wants to pay the search fee, this was cheeky. She jumped again and slammed the day book shut.

‘Something I can help you with?’ I asked.

‘I was curious,’ she admitted. ‘You’re doing well.’

‘Thank you. I have no debts to service and very loyal customers. I buy the best raw ingredients, which is expensive, but shows up in the product.’

‘I see,’ she said.

‘Thinking of opening your own business?’ I asked.

‘I would love to,’ she admitted. ‘Maybe in LA.’

‘You’re travelling?’ I could not decide whether to be offended or amused so I settled for interested.

‘With . . .’

‘Ethan?’ I asked. Bernie blushed right up to her immaculate white cap.

‘That’s where he’s going next,’ she said. ‘To make a film for Spielberg. He’s only doing
Kiss
because he adores Tash. He says he’ll take me. It’s so exciting.’

‘Bernie . . .’ I wondered what to say next. This man is not to be relied upon? Don’t put your culinary eggs in one basket? Trust not in princes? None of them sounded right. I shrugged. ‘Tell me what sort of shop you want,’ I said.

The rest of the morning’s work was accomplished as Bernie told me all about the small but select patisserie she would establish in Los Angeles; the Middle English recipes she would translate into modern, up-to-the-minute cakes, the number of stars who would patronise her shop, the fame, the fortune. By the time she asked me for my recipe for Bosworth Jumbles the strains of ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ were already echoing down the alley.

So we loaded up and, with Daniel, set off for Harbour Studios. I wondered if I could properly ask Sister Mary to say prayers for that pastry chef’s health and her speedy return to work. I was getting very tired of Harbour Studios and all who sailed in them.

All was as usual as we carried the cakes into the kitchen. Tommy checked them off on her list. Today was quiches and pies, so I started on my pastry while Daniel drifted around the kitchen, first lending a hand with the salad people. I noted that he had his own knife, a Global by the look of it. Good knives. You can’t work in a kitchen unless you have a good knife. Apart from anything else, a blunt knife is much more likely to cut you. Strange but true.

Today the atmosphere was calm. Daniel had that effect on nervous people. Unlike the prophet Zephaniah, who must have been uncomfortable company. Why saddle an innocent child with such a name? Must have been religious reasons. After my recent brush with an extreme form of fundamental Christianity I found any suggestion of this unsettling. Better I should think about Georgie Porgie and get on with my puddings and pies.

And not consider Bernie and Ethan and the next line, about kissing the girls and making them cry. Why should kissing the girls make them cry? Kicking them would make them cry, but kissing them?

My hands, unregarded, had been mixing and kneading. Soon I had all my packets of pastry wrapped in cling film and in the fridge to cool down. Breakfast was being served so I took a tray and exited into the studio.

Now that I had been informed about the various crew, they were easy to identify. There was Ali, scowling at Harrison. Devoutly straight, being ogled against his will. The makeup artists were working on some of the cast. Ms Atkins, for example, was muffled under a smock and a towel. I could only identify her by her beautiful feet in her red-heeled shoes. Kylie and Goss were also in chairs, being decorated. There was a hum of conversation. Ethan was eating scrambled eggs and talking about camera angles to his assistant Samantha, who looked sullen. It was unwise of her to fall for Ethan, but he was very attractive. He dominated the crowd by his size and his air of benevolent confidence. He saw me and smiled and my whole day improved. Even though I knew he was a heart-breaking swine.

A very good-looking heart-breaking swine, however. I was surrounded by beautiful people. All of whom needed to be fed, so I went on with feeding them. By the bains-marie I found Emily, who was trying to hold a cup of hot coffee to her mouth. Her hands were shaking. Tears brimmed in her eyes.

I took the cup out of her grasp before she scalded herself. ‘Emily, what’s wrong?’ I asked quietly.

‘She’s going to fire me,’ she whispered. ‘What shall I do then?’

‘Hold it,’ I said. ‘She hasn’t fired you yet. Don’t borrow trouble. And don’t despair even if she does. Here, eat some of these eggs. Just a mouthful or two. Come on.’ Emily complied. Poor girl. She was used to taking orders. I bullied the rest of the eggs down her contracted throat, then she was strong enough to hold the cup and gulp down her coffee. ‘There’s always time to despair,’ I told her. ‘You don’t have to do it yet. There, she’s calling you. Keep up your heart,’ I advised, and Emily sped across the set to Ms Atkins’ side.

‘That was nice of you,’ someone said into my ear. I jumped and spun, hand ready to box an ear. It was Tash, so I refrained. Milkmaids usually have powerful right arms, exercised by sup- pressing the rebellious instincts of creatures a lot bigger and heavier than they were.

‘It was nothing,’ I mumbled.

‘She’s already lasted longer than any other of Ms Atkins’ assistants,’ observed Tash. ‘She must have courage. Is that fried bread you have there? I could fancy a piece or two.’

‘All yours,’ I said, holding out my tray. ‘How is the production going?’

‘Slowly,’ she said. ‘We lost power last night and some things have to be rebooted. We’re getting on.’ Then she was dragged away to answer some urgent post-production questions from a woman dressed in the extreme of Goth chic who must be Marina, the editor.

I returned to the kitchen for another load and found myself tasked with refilling the chafing dishes. Tomatoes, mushrooms, little rolls of bacon and kedgeree with smoked cod, which smelt delicious. Various members of the cast surrounded me and thrust spoons into the pots without regard to safety or manners. Everyone was hungry this morning. That was probably a good sign.

Tash clapped and called for rehearsal, Ethan put away his little bottle of chilli oil and I went back to the kitchen to feast on the leftovers and see what else needed to be done. Tommy caught me as I came in.

‘Here’s your invitation.’ She shoved an envelope into my hand. ‘Sorry it’s such short notice. Do come, Corinna, and bring that gorgeous hunk with you.’

I opened it. Inside was an invitation to the awards dinner of the Caterers’ Association. This very night as was. I was about to bin it, then realised that this would be a chance to meet all of Tommy’s enemies at once. Provided I didn’t partake too freely of their bounty, I ought to be able to interview all of them. I had once overindulged at a Good Food dinner, their hospitality being legendary, but two glasses would see me through tonight. I hoped that Daniel did not have other plans.

I could go and ask him, of course. I wandered out into the studio where the actors were on set and the cameras were pointed, if not rolling. Daniel was sitting on a plastic chair out of the way of the action and I joined him.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked. ‘That was a very lavish breakfast.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, preening a little. ‘What are you doing tonight?’

‘Following Pockets, if he is out of the hospital.’

‘Well . . .’ I put the invitation into his hand. ‘Why not accompany me to this bash, which will allow us to meet all of Tommy’s competition?’

‘Wonderful,’ he said. ‘That will be an improvement on what I had in prospect.’

Then we hushed, because the rehearsal was beginning.

This plot—God knew which one would make it to the pilot—concerned a bride who was about to change her mind about the whole wedding. It was actually rather subtle, as far as one could tell when getting the story in little bits out of order. The reactions of the staff were interesting. Kylie and Goss, as Chloe and Brittanii, squeaked or delivered devastatingly cynical lines respectively (‘I say grab him while you’ve got him. You can always change your mind later.’). The personal assistant, Elton, playing Matt, camped outrageously. The geek Felicia delivered herself faultlessly of a long technological rave, including a joke pinched from
Red Dwarf
: ‘All I have to say is zero, one, one, zero, zero, one, one. And that’s my last word on the subject.’ Harrison romped athletically through the set in his bicycle shorts, raising the Unresolved Sexual Tension by ten degrees. And Ms Atkins as Courtneigh Yronsyde wheedled, coaxed and finally forced the bride to go ahead with the wedding—even though it was clear that this was not a good idea, her to-be husband was probably a serial killer, and she was sensibly reluctant—in the interests, of course, of Kiss the Bride’s profit margin. It was chilling. Ms Atkins was magnificent.