Recipe for Disaster (30 page)

'Fuck off. I never want to see you or talk to you again.'

'I know, but you've got to let me explain –'

'Well, you should have done that right at the start and
saved yourself all the bother because I still would have told
you to fuck off!'

'If you would only let me tell you –'

'Save it! I know it all anyway! You were looking to write
a nasty little piece about how restaurants are just a big con,
charging customers a fortune for meals which cost a few
pence to make! About how chefs are arrogant bastards who
treat their staff like shit! No wonder you were always in the
kitchen – you were probably hoping to catch me out
scraping a bit of mould off a steak before serving it up to
some unsuspecting punter. I hope you've got it all written
down – all the tantrums, all the times I've made you work
ridiculous hours without a break, and do you know the best
thing of all? I'm so pathetic that even by doing all that I still
can't make the bloody place pay! I've really got my
comeuppance, haven't I?'

Kate was silent. This was all so close to what she had
originally set out to do she didn't know where to begin to
defend herself. But she had to try.

'You're right,' she said at last. 'That's how it started. But
that's not what it turned into. Oh, for God's sake, please
turn round and look at me. I can't talk to your back!'

'Why not? Is it too full of knives?'

'I deserve that. I was just looking out for a good story –
it's what I do! But then I realised there was a better story in
the passion and dedication you bring to your craft.' Kate
had never told anyone she loved them before. She had had
no practice for it, but even she knew it wasn't a good
moment for it. 'I didn't mean things to turn out this way,'
she finished off miserably.

Where had Jake heard that before? Oh yes, every time he
had got himself involved with a woman. He was such a
schmuck! He must have a big sign on his head asking
women to treat him like shit. Well, it wasn't surprising
really, given that he had just made such a spectacle of
himself in front of half the county.

'Well, funnily enough, they have. All the wrong ingredients
have gone into this dish and it really doesn't taste very
nice. I won't be trying it again. But then you are a shabby
little liar and I am a gullible fool. You seem to have lots of
friends in there – get a lift home with one of your media pals.
Goodbye.' He prised himself off the wall and hoped that Kate
couldn't see how dejected he looked as he walked away.

He was going round a roundabout for the third time
having no real idea where he was going and getting some
funny looks from other drivers when his phone bleeped.
Pulling into the nearest lay-by he saw there was a text
message from Tess. Poor girl! He'd forgotten all about her!

'Cum bak. Al is not lost.'

'It is. Wil cum bak 4u tho. Sory.'

'Grif wil give me lift hom but cum bak aniwa. No muni lef
on fone. Hav to explain.'

But Jake didn't reply and Tess was left staring at her
phone with frustration. She didn't have enough call time
left to explain how much everyone had loved his outburst.
They were thrilled by the fact that he had spoken
passionately, from his heart. Also, the fact that he was good looking
made for excellent television. In fact, the producer
reckoned that Jake was such a treat people would be
clamouring for more.

It was late when Kate got back home, having endured a lift
home with Tess and Griff. She liked them both but just now
it was torture having to be around a couple who were
obviously getting on so well.

She sat in the back of Griff's ramshackle Mini, a miserable
gooseberry to two people who were doing things the right
way. There was no lying or trickery going on here, just a
guy and a girl who liked each other. She hated them for
making it seem so easy. She hated herself. She was so
arrogant, so sure of herself, except in the things that really
mattered.

She ran up the four flights of stairs instead of taking the
lift so she could pretend it was the exercise that was making
her shaky and dizzy.

'What you need is a nice cup of tea and a sit-down,' she
said out loud. Then she winced because that was what
Godfrey always said at the end of a shift, and his words
brought all the happiness of the last few weeks flooding
back and she wasn't a part of that any more.

By nine o'clock the tea had gone cold. But, looking down
at the cup, she realised she had made a pot of hot water.
The teabags were still on the worktop. Kate had thought
that if she sat down she might be able to see her way clearly
out of this awful situation. She was good at getting out of
trouble. She liked a challenge. But she wasn't able to think
at all because going round and round in her head, loudly,
were the words 'shabby little liar'.

At ten past nine she said to herself: 'You've been called
things before. Get over it.' But she couldn't.

At nine thirty she felt so desperate she had to phone
Lydia. What you needed in a time of crisis was a sympathetic
female to mull things over with.

She got the answer phone.

'Lyd – I don't care if you are screwing Brad Pitt. Ring me
back immediately.'

At nine forty-five: 'Ignore previous message. Sorry. But
ring back anyway.'

The trouble was, she thought in what she hoped was a
rational way, the trouble was . . . he had looked so . . .
betrayed.

She could have coped with the anger. They both had hot
tempers. And it had all started because she was doing her
job, a job she loved and was proud of, thank you very much,
Jake. She wasn't just a nasty little hack, she was a
professional.

Rubbish! She had really hurt him and his anger was just
a mask to keep the damage hidden.

At ten o'clock there was a clap of thunder and all the
lights went out. It was a bit of a relief to find that the rest of
the building was out too. She had half thought it might be
Jake's God calling down some sort of retribution on her,
though a power cut was a rather pathetic sort of punishment.
Jake would have found the idea quite funny, except
that of course he wasn't there to laugh about it with her.

Five minutes later she realised that scented candles were
pretty and fragrant but bugger all use at providing any real
light. It was possible, however, to feel her way in the dark to
the vodka but hardly worth the fuss of trying to find a glass.

10.15 p.m. Betrayal? Ridiculous! This wasn't a cheesy
episode of
EastEnders
.

10.20 p.m. This is all his fault. He's a stuck-up prig who
thinks he's better than everyone else.

10.30 p.m. He is better than anyone else I've ever met.
It's all my fault.

10.35 p.m. If he refuses to speak to me, I will write to
him.

10.36 p.m. He'll probably tear it up and stamp on it.

10.40 p.m. I'll camp outside his bloody restaurant until
he's just got to let me in.

10.45 p.m. He'll probably throw yesterday's old soup
over me.

10.50 p.m. I'll die and then he'll be sorry.

Then she screamed because suddenly there was figure in
the room next to her.

'What the hell are you doing in the dark with the front
door wide open?' said Lydia.

'Power cut. Anyway there's enough light for me to drink
myself to death by.' She squinted at the bottle. It looked
depressingly empty.

'Hm, a crisis. Do you want to sober up or continue sliding
towards a coma?'

'Coma, definitely.' And she told Lydia all about it.

'Look, calm down,' said Lydia briskly. 'You should have
expected this. He's bound to be pissed off. He probably
thinks he hates you right now, but he'll come round. He
might even see the funny side.'

'And which side would that be, exactly?'

'I must say, I've never seen you in such a state over a man
before.'

'That's because I've never met a man like him before. He
turns my insides to jelly. I can't get enough of being with
him. And do you know when I found this out? When he told
me to fuck off! Oh, my God!' whimpered Kate, clutching the
vodka bottle as though it was a comfort blanket, 'I'm turning
into bloody Bridget Jones! I don't even know why I love
him! He is unbearably picky when he's working. He makes
an outrageous fuss about a tiny drop of sauce on the wrong
side of the plate but he hasn't got a single item of clothing
that hasn't got a hole in it. He seems incapable of shaving
himself properly, or he just doesn't care, and surely no sane
man would get so excited about a delivery of new saucepans?
Saucepans, for God's sake!'

Lydia went into the kitchen to make coffee. Kate had to
be restored to her usual sane and focused self. It was
actually rather unnerving to see her like this. But when she
came back Kate had fallen asleep. The lights came back on
so Lydia blew the candles out. Kate would have a hell of a
headache in the morning, but at least she wouldn't have set
fire to her hair.

It was only when Jake was standing in his flat that he
realised that he hadn't the faintest idea how he had got
there. He must have done the usual things – changing
gears, indicating, stopping at red lights (at least, he hoped
he had) but he couldn't remember any of it. So he got into
the shower, turned the cold tap on and stood there until
his teeth were chattering with cold. But even that didn't
seem to bring him round so he sat down on the bed,
rolled himself in the duvet and gave himself up to self-pity.
It wasn't an emotion he was used to, so it took him a
while to work out what it was. When he did, it was quite
comforting.

Just give in and give up, it seemed to be saying. You are
a loser. Everyone fucks you up sooner or later. Your
business is going down the pan and your love life? Well,
don't get me started on that!

But it did, anyway.

Sooner or later all the women you love dump you or
screw you up. Mostly, they find someone else first and you
are too stupid to know what's going on. Georgia probably
screwed Harry here, and you were too far up your own arse
to know what was going on.

Jake opened one eye, which was enough to take in the
appallingly scruffy and disreputable state of his bedroom,
and was forced to admit that only a complete idiot would try
to seduce a woman here. Of course Kate hadn't minded!
She was busy with other agendas. And there he was
thinking it was because she liked him!

Self-pity continued to whisper its poison in his ear.

You are so deluded you even thought you had a
connection with this woman. Well, you did, but not in that
way. She was using you. You were just a stepping stone. If
you looked in a mirror you could see the marks of her
footprints on your back.

Jake was just nodding agreement to all this when his
grandmother elbowed her way into his consciousness. He
could actually see her, not how she had looked just before
she died, but how she was when he was a small boy and the
centre of his life. She was in her kitchen, of course, and was
wearing a ridiculous apron that he had bought her for her
birthday when he was fourteen. It was designed to make
her look like a can-can dancer, and his mother had told him
off for it.

'That is a most unsuitable present for a woman of
seventy-five,' she scolded but Oma had thought it was a
hoot and insisted on wearing it.

She gave Jake's self-pity a withering glance. 'Bollocks,'
she said. Actually it was something long and involved in
Yiddish, but he knew it meant the same thing. 'So you've
had a setback. What are you – a man or a mouse? I'll tell you
what you are. You are a fighter, you are a survivor.
Goldmans don't give in, they pick themselves up and get on
with it.'

'But I loved her!' howled Jake. 'This was different; this
was the real thing, except it wasn't because it was all built on
lies.'

'Lies, schmise! No one is ever completely honest. It just
means she isn't perfect but then she is a human being, not
a doll.'

'She didn't bloody have to be perfect. I knew that
anyway. She always slops the sauce over the plate when she
serves food. She pretends to have given up smoking and
then nicks everyone else's. She hasn't bought a new bra in
two years because whenever she goes shopping she ends up
in bookshops. Not that she needs a bra anyway – I should
know, I – anyway . . . Her nose is always shiny at the end of
a shift and one of her eyebrows is definitely crooked. I
didn't care, but then I didn't know she had a crooked heart
as well.'

'And of course you know that, even though you didn't
give her a chance to explain –'

'Yeah, and I don't intend to. She's blown it and I never
want to see her again. Go away – you're not really here
anyway.' And he pulled the duvet over his head in case he
had any more hallucinations.

Great Grub
had become the most popular programme Lakes
Television had ever made and an incredibly boring conference
was arranged so they could work out why and how
to capitalise on it.

A young lad on work experience in the studio's canteen
could have told them. 'It was because he was honest. He
spoke it like it was. Respect, man!' But he was talking to
himself and an enormous pile of dirty saucepans at the time
so nobody heard him.

Jake couldn't have cared less anyway. He was far too busy
taking phone calls from people who had seen the programme
and wanted to eat at his restaurant in the simple
belief that, if the man could cook as well as he spoke his
mind, the restaurant was worth a visit.

When Jake explained that he had to lay his new carpet
first, several people even offered to come and give him a
hand if it meant they could get a table more quickly. He also
found he was a minor celebrity now. At the bakery, as he
stood in the queue for the now essential staff doughnut
break, someone asked for his autograph and a few people
in the street stopped him to offer their congratulations.
Jake hated it because it kept reminding him of the time he
had stopped being happy. He didn't want to think about it.
He wanted to pretend it had never happened but that was
impossible because Kate's absence in his kitchen was like a
gaping hole. He missed everything about her: the way she
always refused a doughnut because they were bad for you
and then scoffed his when he wasn't looking; her enthusiasm
for every dish he cooked – she would try anything
once, she said, because she trusted him – and her intelligent
questions about food. Well, that wasn't surprising, he
thought bitterly. She was a journalist. It was probably
second nature to her and something she did with everyone.
And there was him thinking it was because she was
interested in him! Well, he wouldn't make that mistake
again. He was off women for good. They only brought
trouble. Of course that meant he would end up a crabby,
lonely and bitter old man and would die alone, slowly,
atrophying among a pile of ancient
Hotel and Caterer
magazines and being eaten by rats, a fitting way for an old
chef to go.

Tess had warned everyone not to say anything about the
Situation (she thought it was so serious, it deserved a capital
letter), but it didn't matter anyway, because Jake went
round with such a black look on his face nobody wanted to
say anything to him. What was worrying was that he had
also lost his fire. They all looked back nostalgically to those
happy days of explosions over imperfect béchamel sauces
or pips in the pomegranate purée. He had turned into a
haggard, monosyllabic wreck and Godfrey was shaken to
his very core when Jake cooked a whole meal without
tasting or commenting on any of it.

'We've got to do something,' he said to Tess one afternoon
when they were clearing up after lunch. 'If he cooks
like this for that Restaurant Club man he's going to fuck it
up completely. Do you know he didn't even wince when I
dripped hot oil on him this morning? It must have hurt like
hell but I don't think he even noticed it.'

'Yeah, but we can't do anything because we're not the
problem. Kate is.'

'But I can't stand it for much longer. It's like working in
some hell dimension. I mean, it was hell before, of course,
but I knew where I was but now it's like he just doesn't
CARE!'

'You're right,' said Tess, slowly. Jake not caring about
cooking was like waking up one morning to find that the
sun had turned green. It just wasn't right. 'I just bloody
hope that bloody Kate knows exactly how much bloody
damage she's done,' she added, aiming a vicious kick at
Godfrey's mop and bucket on her way out.

Kate was at her desk, wondering why this most familiar of
places didn't feel like home to her any more. She could have
worked on her story in her flat but she hadn't known how
loud and mocking a silence can be when you have a guilty
conscience. But the reporters' room of the
Easedale Gazette
wasn't bringing her any comfort either. Normally she loved
the background of phones ringing, people talking,
reporters and photographers rushing importantly in and
out of the big room and sub-editors hassling her because
they needed a quick, four-line story to fill a gap at the
bottom of page five. She liked the fact that she could
distance herself from all this and dip in and out of whatever
she was working on without losing her thread. But today
she didn't have a thread to lose. She had been staring at a
blank screen for three-quarters of a hour and – nothing.
She had played thirty-seven games of solitaire, read all her
emails and even tried typing in a whole page of 'the quick
brown fox jumps over the lazy dog' because that sometimes
worked. But not today. She had lied to the most important
person in her world and God had punished her for it by
taking away her ability to write. She was like Samson after
his haircut.