Audrey waited for me to drop Fritz back off at the flat and then walked me down to the kitchen. Chef was running around trying to prepare everything for dinner and, after a brief word with Audrey, he welcomed me to his team and pointed at the pile of dirty pots stacked next to a large sink in the far corner.
‘You’ll be out of everyone’s way there.’ He smiled, with a wink at Audrey.
I shot them both a dirty look before Chef gave me the thumbs up and sped off to season a sauce. Audrey put her hand on my shoulder.
‘It’s not that bad,’ she said soothingly. ‘I’ll be back for you in an hour. Try to stay out of trouble until then.’
I shook her hand off and stropped over to the sink, eyeing up the repulsive neon orange washing-up gloves. I held one of them up for inspection.
‘Ew.’ I sniffed and looked around. A young chef was rushing past holding a ladle. ‘Excuse me!’ She came to a screeching halt.
‘Yes?’
‘Are these the only gloves you have?’
‘Sorry?’
‘For the washing-up,’ I explained impatiently. ‘Don’t you have any other types? Any other colours?’
‘No, those are the ones we all use.’
‘Fine.’ I slapped the gloves down on the side. ‘I just won’t use them.’
‘Uh.’ She looked about, unsure. ‘We . . . we have to use them. It’s health and safety.’
‘They’re disgusting. I’m not using them.’
‘Put those on, please, Flick, no argument! You don’t want me to report bad behaviour to the boss, do you?’ Chef appeared out of nowhere. ‘Ah, there you are, Sasha. I’ve been waiting on that ladle. Come along, we mustn’t disturb Flick. She has a big job with those pots.’
Sasha shot me a sympathetic look before she scurried after him holding up the ladle dutifully. I should have known Chef Kian would find this all one big joke; he always liked a good laugh at my expense. I carefully slid on the orange gloves and, letting out a long drawn-out sigh, I leaned forwards to work out how to turn on the large rinsing tap.
‘Well, well, well, look who it is.’
I reluctantly turned to face Cal Weston, who was grinning gleefully at me, a spoon in one hand and a bowl of strawberry mousse in the other.
‘It’s been a while since you graced the kitchens with your presence.’
‘Stalking is a crime, you know,’ I said angrily, reaching for the washing-up liquid. ‘It’s sad that you just follow me around.’
‘I was here first. If anyone’s following anyone, it’s you following me.’
‘Why are you even down here? Don’t you ever go home?’
‘The kitchen is the best place to be. It’s the land of free food.’ He took a large mouthful of mousse. ‘We used to hang out here all the time before you got too good for it.’
‘I did not get too good for it, I just got a life.’ I began to scrub the biggest pot in the pile. ‘Unlike some people I know.’
‘Ouch! You are such a hothead.’
‘I am NOT a hothead,’ I seethed. Cal always teased me about being a hot-tempered redhead, even though I continually corrected him that my hair wasn’t red, it was auburn. And at least my hair looked like it had been brushed once in a while, unlike the bird’s nest he was sporting on top of his head.
‘I heard on the grapevine that you have an appointment with Prince Gustav,’ he commented.
I scrubbed harder at the stubborn grease around the side of the pot. ‘That’s right. He’s trying to suck up to me so he can get an invite to the Christmas Ball.’
‘Oh, the Christmas Ball. Nothing to do with you having to apologise about hiding in his wardrobe then?’
I ignored him and concentrated on my impossible task. The washing-up was going to take me all night at this rate.
‘I need a favour.’
I laughed, not bothering to look up. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’
The sincerity of Cal’s voice took me by surprise. I turned to look at him and saw he was watching me carefully, an earnest expression on his face. I put down the pot, turned off the tap and folded my arms, pretending not to care that the washing-up liquid mixed with water and grease was now dripping from the gloves down my clothes.
‘What favour?’
‘It’s for a competition I’m entering.’ He put down the bowl and got out his phone, showing me the website page for Young Journalist of the Year. ‘I need to write a feature that will stand out. The winners are announced just before Christmas.’
‘So? What’s that got to do with me?’
‘An interview with Prince Gustav would definitely stand out. Maybe you could mention it to him when you go for this meeting,’ he said hopefully.
I burst out laughing and swivelled back to the sink, turning on the tap and picking up the pot again.
‘What’s so funny?’ he asked, shoving his phone into his pocket.
‘Well, for one thing, you’re a teenager, so the chances of Prince Gustav giving you an exclusive interview are slim. And for another thing, you’ve spent the whole day – no, wait, the last few years – being rude to me, so I’m not going to risk looking like an idiot in front of him for you.’
‘I think you managed to look like an idiot in front of him all by yourself today,’ he snapped.
‘I know, why don’t you write a feature about hanging out at a hotel for no reason, getting in everyone’s way and annoying everyone in sight?’
He didn’t say anything as I reached for more washing-up liquid, squirting as much as possible across the pot until the sink was full of bubbles.
‘Forget I said anything,’ he said quietly, picking up his bowl and turning away.
‘Cal, wait.’
He stopped.
‘Don’t say anything at school about me washing-up, OK?’ I shook some bubbles off the gloves. ‘It’s not exactly a great look.’
He glared down at the floor and shook his head before walking off. I had no idea if that meant he’d tell people or not, but I wasn’t that worried. Even if he did it’s not like anyone would listen.
My arm got tired from all the scrubbing so I turned off the water and pulled off the gloves. I wiped my brow and looked down at my handiwork. Somehow I had managed to splash water everywhere and I hadn’t even finished one pot. How does anyone have the time for this sort of thing?
I looked at my phone in case I had any messages: none. I put it down on the side and looked around to find something else to distract me. I spotted a door a few metres from where I was and remembered that it used to be some sort of pantry. Chef would always find me sitting in there in my pyjamas, stuffing myself with chocolate. I smiled as I remembered how I used to try to pretend I’d accidentally locked myself in there, but the chocolate all over my hands would give me away. Chef found it hilarious and would slip me a cookie before sending me back upstairs to bed.
I checked that no one was looking in my direction – they were all busy running around, paying no attention to me. I crept over to the door and pulled it open. Just as I remembered, it was lined with shelves bursting with baking supplies, and at the back there was a massive chocolate cake. Moving forwards to inspect the cake properly, the door, which had been propped open with the back of my foot, shut behind me. I tried the light switch but the bulb must have been broken. I went to push open the door again but it wouldn’t budge.
Oh no.
I threw all my weight against the door but it was firmly shut. I cursed myself for leaving my phone on the side; I could have really used the torch.
‘Hello? Chef ?’ I called out, pressed against the door.
No one came.
Feeling my way to the back of the pantry, I sat down and waited. I put my head in my hands. This was a disaster. Chef would tell Mum and who knows what sort of job she might give me next? Spider catcher? Shower cleaner? Listen to Matthew talk about the room booking system? I shuddered and hoped that that Sasha person might come this way again looking for another ladle, realise that I was gone and put two and two together. She seemed nice. A problem-solver.
After a few minutes of nothing happening, the thought crossed my mind that I might actually die in this pantry.
How depressing.
In order for that not to happen any time soon I would need sustenance and I could smell the chocolate cake on the shelf, right next to my head. I carefully felt for the silver tray that it was sitting on and pulled it out to place it gently on the floor. There was no doubt that this cake was for some kind of occasion or event – Chef wouldn’t just be keeping a cake in here for no reason. I would have to make sure I didn’t spoil it. I remembered that when I’d seen it from the door, there had been some kind of message on the top layer, spelled out in small white chocolate buttons. With my eyes adjusting to the dark, I could make out the white buttons scattered across the top. I began to pick a few off, careful not to take too many, confident that Chef wouldn’t notice a few less chocolate buttons. They were delicious.
Suddenly the door swung open and light poured into the room. ‘And in here, Boss, is the polo team cake itself !’
I heard gasps and then my mum’s voice broke the silence. ‘Flick?’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Chef, aghast. ‘Some things never change.’
I blinked up at them. ‘Finally! I was running out of oxygen.’
I scrambled to my feet.
‘Someone needs to fix that light,’ I instructed. ‘And what is the point of having ugly washing-up gloves for health and safety, if you have dodgy doors that lock people in pantries?’
‘You just turn the handle,’ Chef explained, looking confused.
I glanced down at the door handle. I could have sworn it hadn’t been there before. But then I didn’t remember searching the door, just pushing against it. Whoops. Oh well, I’d better run with it.
‘It’s broken,’ I insisted. ‘Anyway, I’ll get back to my washing-up now. I was really getting into it.’
I darted past Mum to the sink and began to battle with the washing-up gloves again. After a few moments, I heard footsteps behind me.
‘Flick, would you mind turning round for a moment, please?’
I grimaced at Mum’s stern tone and slowly swivelled to face her.
The cake had been placed on top of the work surface and Mum was standing on one side of it with her arms crossed and Chef was standing on the other with his hands on his hips, a team of young chefs gathering behind him.
‘Hey, everyone.’ I waved my glove slightly overenthusiastically, spraying Chef with water. ‘Oops, sorry.’ I laughed. Chef did not laugh back. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve.
‘What’s up?’ I asked innocently.
‘Well, you see, Chef and his pastry team have been toiling long and hard to create this splendid cake for Great Britain’s polo team. They have an important tournament coming up and they’re holding a party for it this evening here at the Royale, in the ballroom.’
‘Cool.’ I nodded. ‘Good luck to them.’
‘Interesting choice of words,’ Mum said calmly. ‘Chef, would you be so kind as to inform my daughter what the top of the cake said after you painstakingly arranged mini chocolate buttons to spell it out in an intricate calligraphy style?’
‘“Good Luck, Polo Team”,’ Chef grumbled.
‘Thank you, Chef. Flick, did you, by any chance, help yourself to some of the chocolate buttons when you were stuck in the pantry for all of five minutes?’
‘I may have had a few,’ I admitted. ‘I didn’t know how long I was going to be in there! I thought I might starve!’
Sasha let out a giggle and I smiled at her gratefully. Anything to lighten the atmosphere. She stopped quickly though after a sharp look from Chef.
Mum continued. ‘Could you come over here and read what it now says on top of Chef ’s “Good Luck, Polo Team” cake?’
I began to pull off the washing-up gloves. ‘Actually,’ Mum said quickly, ‘I wouldn’t bother taking those off. Come on, come over here and read it out.’
I shuffled towards them and leaned over the cake to see what all this fuss was about. When I saw what had happened, I burst out laughing. Mum and Chef shared a look of irritation.
‘Well?’ Mum prompted, as I clutched my stomach from laughing so hard. ‘Read it out.’
I attempted to stifle the overwhelming giggles. ‘Good lu–’ I couldn’t hold the laughter back. ‘Good luck, p–’ I couldn’t breathe I was laughing too hard. ‘Good luck, p–’ Tears were now streaming down my face.
‘Felicity.’
My mum’s fierce tone snapped me out of it immediately. I wiped my eyes before whispering what was now written across the cake.
‘Louder, please,’ Mum demanded. ‘The chefs at the back didn’t quite hear you.’
I took a deep breath. ‘“Good Luck, Poo Team”.’
Sasha erupted into infectious giggles. Chef stared at her until she stopped but when he turned his back on her I could see her shoulders still shaking.
‘It looks like you ate a rather important “L”. It is lucky Chef has the time to redo it before he brings it up to the ballroom in a few minutes, after I’ve finished giving my speech to the guests.’
I looked down at my feet, my jaw aching from trying not to laugh.
‘Right.’ Mum clasped her hands together. ‘Chef, if you could kindly put the finishing touches to the cake, I would like to have a serious word with my daughter.’ She paused. ‘For the second time today.’
Chef began to bark out orders and the kitchen burst into life again. Just before she rushed off to find some more chocolate buttons, Sasha grinned at me. At least I cheered someone up.
Mum waited until we were on our own before she spoke again.
‘I would hate to extend those two weeks of being grounded to two months.’
‘Two months?’ I gasped. ‘Mum, you ca–’
‘Flick,’ she interrupted sharply, ‘I should have thought you might have learned by now that telling me what I can and cannot do does not help your case.’
I pursed my lips.
‘Two strikes,’ she said firmly. ‘Strike three and it’s two months. Understood?’
I nodded.
‘Excellent. And you’ve gained yourself an extra hour down here.’ She pointed to the sink behind me. ‘Those pots won’t wash themselves.’