Cooking the Books (26 page)

‘This is Corinna Chapman, a very good baker,’ said Irena. ‘I really should have a word with Will. Bye-bye,’ she said, and kissed me on each cheek. Simon sighted down over his tummy and smiled. He was a big man all over; wide cheekbones, hefty jaw, strong Cro-Magnon brow. Goliath must have looked like Simon of Simply Simon.

‘Always good to meet a baker,’ he announced. ‘Call me Simon. I cater the biggest events,’ he said complacently. ‘I should have had the contract for the feeding of the five thousand.’

This was evidently a stock witticism so I laughed obligingly.

‘Looks like a very good buffet,’ I said.

‘Come and taste.’ He took me by the elbow in a numbing grip. ‘Simply Simon aims for food which is acceptable to the most delicate tastebuds—children, for instance—but manages to infuse simple dishes with subtle flavours. We are particularly proud of these . . .’ He snapped his fingers at a verdant server, who rushed forward with a tray of little vol au vents. ‘Just a very pure bechamel with asparagus. What do you think?’

I selected and bit. Nice. Not exciting, but nice.

‘The asparagus flavour comes through very well,’ I told him.

‘I think so,’ he agreed. ‘You might have reason to employ us?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I told him. ‘I regret. I am working for Mait- resse at the moment, just while my bakery is closed for the holidays.’

‘Maitresse?’ he boomed. ‘Oh, dear. I’ll give you some advice.’ He leant down to my level. ‘Make sure you get paid in advance. That woman and her Sapphic slut cannot be trusted. Plus they serve crappy food to up-jumped social climbers,’ he added.

‘Good heavens,’ I commented.

‘Now, you are a beautiful woman of excellent figure,’ he said, gesturing to a server to fill up my glass. ‘Perhaps you would like to visit us? I could give you a lunch the like of which Maitresse could never offer.’

‘I’ll have to look at my appointment book,’ I excused myself. ‘Tell me, Simon, where is your main kitchen?’

‘Why, King Street, to be sure,’ he told me. ‘Until our new premises are finished. Do you like the uniforms? A pacific green, forest green. Nothing to wound the gaze. Unlike dressing your staff in the attire of a butcher. Blue and white stripes, indeed. Oh dear, it’s been so nice talking to you, but Antonio is summoning me.
Bon appetit
.’ He bulldozed his way through the gathering. I was a little short of breath. I found that Daniel had appeared at my side.

‘Why have I suddenly become attractive to men?’ I asked him.

‘What do men in women require?’ he quoted with Blake. ‘The lineaments of satisfied desire.’ He smiled his dark smile and kissed me. He tasted of asparagus. Simple Simon had got him, too.

‘How’s the detecting going?’ I asked.

‘I have been gathering opinions. This is the most gossipy mob I have ever met. If loose lips really sink ships, whole flotillas would have foundered tonight. You?’

‘So far I have been told that Julie is a Sapphic slut and Tommy sells crud to social climbers,’ I told him. The crowd was pressing us close together but that was fine with me. ‘That was Simply Simon, the behemoth over there with Antonio.’

‘His name was Goliath of Gath,’ murmured Daniel. My own response exactly.

‘And Tommy might be cast as David. Have you seen her?’

‘Behind the buffet,’ he said. ‘Talking to Bernie.’

‘Have you got enough info yet?’ I asked. The evening was beginning to be overwhelming. I have never liked large groups of people.

‘Let’s just circulate for a little longer,’ he suggested. ‘Then we can escape before the speeches.’

‘Good plan,’ I said, and we separated. Daniel went right, I went left. I noticed that the athletic accountants from Mason and Co were also here. That firm must do the books for all the caterers in town. Mr Mason was gobbling those attractive prawns and Tony was picking at a vegetable ravioli. Claire was not eating anything. All were drinking imported French water. Sparkling. Gah.

I fetched up in front of the striped buffet again. I reached for another canapé.

‘Try the little soufflés,’ suggested a woman beside me. ‘Are you Corinna Chapman? I buy your bread.’

‘I’m Corinna.’ I held out an unoccupied hand. We shook.

‘Tricia. This is my buffet. Do you like it?’

‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘Really excellent.’ Tricia preened.

‘We try to make the best for the client’s budget,’ she said. ‘The secret is, best ingredients, careful preparation, pay your cooks well.’

‘That’s sort of what Simon said,’ I remarked. She stiffened. Even blue and white stripes could not make this woman plump and rosy. She was as thin as a fashion model or scarecrow and the pink on those cheeks came from Max Factor.

‘Simon? A charlatan, and that’s putting it kindly. He’s worse than Maitresse.’

‘What’s wrong with Maitresse?’

‘Showy food, shameless self-promotion—same as Simply Simon. None of them really care about food. And none of them dare take a risk with it.’

‘Such as serving little soufflés at a buffet?’ I hazarded.

‘Like that.’ She nodded emphatically. ‘My food is pure alchemy—kitchen chemistry. Eventually the public will realise that the tired old recipes don’t cut it anymore.’

‘What if they prefer a pie and chips?’ I asked daringly. She drew herself up to her full height and snorted.

‘Well, if that’s their attitude, they don’t deserve my food.’

‘Quite,’ I replied. The soufflé was perfect. I wondered how she had managed to stop it from sinking.

‘Besides—’ she leaned closer ‘—I’m told that Tommy is due for a great fall.’

‘Like Humpty Dumpty? Why?’

‘Rats in the ranks,’ she said, and whisked away to coax someone else to try the canapés.

I was full of food, I was overheated and I wanted to get away. Just as I formed the thought, Daniel materialised at my elbow and led me out of the throng. As we finally managed to gain the street, which was relatively quiet, I thought about what Tricia had said. Rats in the ranks? Did Tommy really have a spy in her kitchen?

As they used to sing at the end of
Play School
, it was time to go home. So we went.

I rose and dressed and did the morning things, still thinking about the conversation I had had with Daniel the night before. Tommy had enemies, all right. Rivals. Fierce ones. I had not known that the food business was so competitive. Only the niche marketers—like Irena—did not strive ferociously to force each other out of the field. Yet you would have thought that there was room for all of them. Still, I suppose there are a finite number of weddings in any given year. I burped. All that emotion and rich food had given me indigestion. Deciding that I would just stick to what I am good at—bread—I went downstairs to admit Bernie and begin the baking.

Bread happened. Cupcakes happened. Bernie’s first attempt at Bosworth Jumbles occurred. I was about to warn her that since she was working for Tommy her recipe might be considered Tommy’s property, but refrained. Surely that only happened to scientists and inventors. But with this strong sense of competition among the caterers, who knew? They were very good jumbles, anyway. Richard III’s martyred cook would have been proud. As I let the Mouse Police out through the alley door I saw someone lurking outside. It was Jason.

‘Come in,’ I invited. ‘Hungry?’

I had never known Jason when he wasn’t starving and this lure drew him inside. Bernie and Jason exchanged a long, cool look. I was forcibly reminded of two cats in disputed territory. At any moment there would be shrieks and claws and flying fur and bitten ears.

‘What would you like?’ I bustled between them. I make a pretty good shield. Another advantage of being a woman of size. ‘Rolls? Bread? Taste one of Bernie’s jumbles?’

‘Seed roll,’ he mumbled and grabbed. We both stood and watched him. He looked tired, I thought, but there were pupils in his eyes and he had not, as far as I could see, gone back on the gear. He was dressed in a clean pair of jeans and a T shirt with a rabbit on the front. ‘Yum,’ he said, reaching for another.

‘This is Bernie,’ I introduced her. ‘She works for my schoolfriend Tommy in the catering business. She wants to be a pastry chef,’ I added. ‘Don’t you, Bernie?’

‘Pastry is my life,’ she said. ‘Try a jumble.’

Jason took a jumble as requested and bit and chewed reflectively.

‘Pretty good,’ he said. ‘Maybe a bit too buttery.’

‘There is a lot of butter in the recipe,’ I told him. ‘It’s medieval and they had their own cows. Also butter was necessary because they didn’t have a lot of raising agents except eggs.’

‘You reckon you could cut down the shortening?’ he asked, taking another, purely in the interests of research.

‘Probably,’ said Bernie. ‘This is my first try. I’m going to have my own cake shop in Los Angeles. I hope.’

‘Sweet,’ said Jason, though I don’t know if he was talking about the cake shop itself or the dream. ‘H’lo, Corinna.’

‘Hello, Jason,’ I replied. ‘Want to sit in on the baking?’

I had said the wrong thing, as I always do in the morning. Jason stiffened, said, ‘I got a job already,’ and slunk out. The Mouse Police collided with his ankles on their way back inside and he stooped to stroke them before he vanished.

‘Boys,’ commented Bernie.

‘You said it,’ I agreed.

‘He’ll come round,’ said Bernie.

‘Why do you think that?’ I asked, hoping for some crumb of comfort.

‘He pinched another cake on his way out,’ she told me.

I agreed that this did sound hopeful and we got on with the work.

Daniel joined us for the trip to Harbour Studios. Today’s tune was Leonard Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah’. Whistled badly. The journey seemed longer than it was.

Daniel was intent, today, on being visible, so he went to join the breakfasters while Bernie and I carried in the bread and cakes and started on today’s menu. More pastry. I was probably getting more adept with pastry now that I was making so much of it. There had been no complaints, I thought, or Tommy would have told me all about it. In any case, pastry was just the envelope for the filling. All it had to be was friable enough not to break teeth and durable enough to survive handling . . .

What a world, this food world, I thought as I pounded and kneaded. Who would have thought that it would be so vicious, full of envy, malice and all uncharitableness?

I looked around the kitchen. The salad makers were slicing and chopping like fiends, under the lash of Lance the Lettuce Guy’s glare. As I watched one almost screamed at another, ‘Will you stop that bloody humming?’

Tension was high again. I caught Bernie’s attention and raised an eyebrow. ‘Another trick,’ she mouthed. ‘This one used chilli powder. Our chilli powder.’

‘Ms Atkins?’

‘Yes, and look out, here she comes!’ Bernie turned her attention to her icing and I tried to melt into my pastry as the red-suited woman stalked into the kitchen, dragged a chair into the centre of the room, and declared to Emily, ‘I’m going to watch them cook my breakfast. Then they can’t play any games with the food.’

The maker of scrambled eggs, a small plump girl with dark hair, quailed and dropped a spoon.

‘Of course, Ms Atkins, what would you like?’ asked Tommy briskly. Brisk might be the only way to get Ms Atkins out of the kitchen and back on the set where she belonged.

‘A lightly poached egg with hollandaise and spinach,’ she declared. Perfect modulation. Her voice carried to every corner of the room. Tommy nodded to Lance and to the egg-scrambler, who already had eggs poaching in their vinegary liquid. I thrust an English muffin into the toaster and Lance gathered the spinach, inspecting every leaf and nibbling a couple as quality control. The sauce maker began to whisk white sauce with cheese for the hollandaise. All the time, Ms Atkins sat and stared at us all.

It was unnerving. She had amazing presence. If HM the Q had dropped in for a snack, it might have felt like this did. Nervous. Luckily, I had no contribution to make to the royal meal so I kept making pastry. And pastry had not been implicated in the food-trickster’s little japes. Which was a relief. It was shared by Bernie.

‘At least there’s nothing wrong with the baking,’ she whispered to me.