All the cycling must be paying off in terms of speed and fitness as I arrive at Parklands twenty minutes early. That’s certainly a first, so I call up to see Martha straight away.

She claps her hands and shifts up in her bed soon as I enter her room.

‘Peppermint tea?’ I offer.

‘Yes, please,’ she says as she plumps her hair for me, batting her eyelashes theatrically.

‘You are looking very well!’ I tell her. ‘New hair?’

She slides a soft, waxy hand over her freshly coiffed, dyed bright red ’do. ‘Zoe did it for me this morning. Isn’t it gorgeous! I feel like Rita Hayworth. And that was always Oskar’s secret crush.’ She giggles, looking fondly at the photo by her bedside.

‘Any particular occasion? Another handsome doctor caught your eye?’ I tease.

‘Much, much better!’ she laughs, widening her eyes with excitement. ‘My son and grand-daughter are coming to see me! It’s been ever so long, it certainly feels that way. But he promised he’d be here for my birthday this weekend. He’s never missed one. So that’s what really lifted my spirits. I can’t wait.’ She raises up her hands and wiggles her fingers. ‘I just can’t wait to get their beautiful faces in my hands and smother them with kisses. Once I get to do that, I don’t care what happens! He can take me for a hot dog for all I care.’

I laugh, thinking of Martha’s high-end palate and imagining her grappling with a saucy hot dog in her finery. I open up my bag, slide out my notepad and begin scribbling down three courses that I’ve been brainstorming the whole cycle ride over here.

‘Can I run something by you, Martha?’

She takes a sip of her tea and meets my eyes. ‘Of course, my darling, anything.’

‘What do you think of my menu? Tomorrow is the big day. I need something that’ll really blow them away. Show them what I can do and make an impression. What do you think?’ I fill her in on what’s expected and who I am up against. Harry’s got a bold, daring, confronting style. With him I’m expecting the unexpected, nothing we’ve seen before, dry ice, sharp angles, new flavours… and that could be anything. Some rare, exotic reptile poached to perfection? Tempura grasshopper? I just haven’t a clue what he’s going to do. When cod sperm is his starting point, I know I’m up against a wild card.

‘Sounds like a wild dog,’ says Martha, sipping her tea. ‘A mini Jean-Michel in the making. Not necessarily a good combination, two huge creative egos along with fiery tempers. It won’t be long till they will clash, mark my words. Jean-Michel may not even know it himself yet but he needs someone who can keep calm, stay focused as well as be a great chef. I think you’ve got the edge on Harry; don’t be intimidated by his puffed chest and loud noises.’

She slides her glasses up her nose and starts to read aloud.

‘So, three courses, taster size. The guests will sample from all three of you and then vote after each course, is that right?’

I nod. ‘Exactly. It sounds so simple, so straightforward on paper. But I’m not just cooking for guests; I’m cooking for chefs, for critics, for industry moguls who know how to scrutinise every mouthful. I have to exceed their expectations and then I’ve got to make sure that exceeds the efforts of Harry and Ben. This is tough; this is probably the toughest thing I have ever done.’

Martha slowly follows the words with her finger as she reads them, pausing and then moving backwards and then forwards again. I don’t want to rush her but I’m desperate to know what she thinks. I sip my tea and wait. Martha’s an amazing resource: a seasoned, well-travelled diner. In my father’s words, I’d do well to sit up and pay attention to what she’s got to say.

She takes off her glasses, placing them back on her bed side locker. She takes a deep breath through her nose before flattening her hands down on the bed and pursing her lips.

‘So, you’ve given everything you have to get this far. You’ve made it past Jean-Michel and you are facing the final pass, and from your own admission, against some tough competition.’ She shakes her head. ‘They are not there to eat food. They are there to experience your food, your story. So, I think that’s what we’ve got to give them.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘At the moment, these dishes all seem technically enchanting, but I don’t know how much I’m learning about Katie Kelly here. You’ve got cocotte of vegetables with smoked orange peel, foie gras soup with sarawak pepper, and white root vegetable tart with beetroot syrup and purslane. And for dessert a Montélimar Nougat glacé, persimmon with clementine and orange in a rosemary syrup. Why this menu? You could choose anything, tell me, why this?’

I’m stumped. I was not expecting this reaction from Martha at all. I thought she’d be impressed! I find myself biting my thumb. She’s waiting for an answer. And I can tell by the look in her eye that she’s prepared to wait all night.

‘I chose it because I thought it sounded impressive, because I didn’t want them to think that I’m basic. I was taught how to prepare these dishes at college and I know I can deliver on them. They tick a lot of boxes in terms of skill and flavour and presentation.’

Martha hears me out and then grabs a pen from her bedside locker. ‘All very respectable reasons. And now, I want you to imagine you are writing a menu that tells me the story of you. Would this be it?’

This time, I shake my head.

‘Really think about it, Katie. What does it mean to you? Why these dishes for the most important cook-off of your life?’

I look down at my handwritten menu, lying flat on Martha’s bedspread. She’s right. Why have I chosen these dishes? I hate foie gras. I’ve never even been to Montélimar. And I’m not a big fan of nougat come to think of it. I think it tastes like stale marshmallow. A quiver begins in my right hand. Martha’s right. I realise that I chose them to show off, as a vanity. And I can do better than this. I can give much more. These dishes don’t mean anything to me. I may as well serve up Harry’s dishes if I’m just going to be in the business of replicating other people’s work.

What the hell am I going do? The final is tomorrow and now I haven’t the faintest clue what I’m going to cook, never mind how I’m going to cook it, plate it, present it. My left hand is shaking as well. I feel sick.

Martha hands me her silver fountain pen, turning over the piece of paper to a fresh side. ‘Now, don’t you panic. Take a moment to listen to yourself and you’ll find your answer. This is your chance to make your mark, Katie. Make it as exceptional as you are.’

Where do I start? With Rachel and I sharing a bag of pink toffee sweets that looked like melted Legos, Fruit Salads and Wham bars, tasting sharp and sour and sweet and sickly all at once. Or do I choose eggs Benedict, the first breakfast I made for Ben the morning after we ‘officially’ moved in together. Happy times: happy, joyous times. It’s quite overwhelming to review your life in food, in dishes and dinners, in tastes and smells and textures. The buttery crunch of popcorn during a sleepover, the merciful comfort of a bacon sandwich when hungover, the velvety warmth of a bowl of soup after running home from school in the wind and rain. The way tea was always sweet and silky when my mother made it. The sheer pow of excitement the first time I tasted fresh coriander or wild honey or a lychee. Or indeed, when Alice and I got smashed on lychee vodka. I smile at the thought, Alice singing in a karaoke booth after hours, without any words, perhaps without any music. Certainly without any shame.

She waits patiently as I scribble down my ideas only to cross them out and rewrite something completely different, making additions only to take them away again. And then, all at once, I know exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to plate up my story, shamelessly, fearlessly, proudly. And my hand starts to move across the paper, an even flow of perfect cursive, as if this menu has always existed somewhere forgotten, some place hidden. A menu that has been shelved in an old drawer in my head, a menu that’s been standing at the back of the dance hall, biding its time, holding out for a particular song, waiting to be invited to dance.

I scribble through everything I wrote before, and I write my menu, three courses, rooted in memory, in love and perfectly representative of me, my upbringing, my taste, my experience. My life, my heart on a plate.

I clear my throat. ‘I think I’ve got it now. Are you ready, Martha?’

She nods, patting her hair and smiling at me. ‘Absolutely, chef.’

I begin, sharing it with her, sharing who I am and where I’m from and what’s important to me.

Wild rabbit and leek turnover with piccalilli. (We always had piccalilli sandwiches on a beach day out, and it reminds me of sand in my toes, the sound of waves and laughter.)

Best end of new season lamb with a pine nut and wild garlic crust and tarragon gnocchi. (The first meal I prepared for my dad that made him really think ‘wow, this tastes professional’.)

Sherry trifle. (Reminds me of every Christmas, birthday or family celebration we had growing up. It had its own, exclusive cut-crystal bowl that nothing else could be served in. I loved licking the cream, layering the custard, finding the cherries, watching that that gorgeous oozy pink sponginess soak up all the sweetness. When I think of sherry trifle, I think of family gatherings, of times when I felt like everything had fallen into place and I was smiling. For real.)

‘Now, that’s more like it,’ Martha says. I realise that I’m holding my new menu with a rock-steady hand. ‘But I have an idea, Katie.’ She leans forward and snaps her fingers. Her eyes sparkle as I watch her nod to herself and find my eyes. ‘Golden rule: you should always put your guests’ enjoyment first. You are not cooking just to amuse Jean-Michel, or impress reviewers. Take care of the guest, focus on service, keep your goal clear and true and everything else will fall into place. You know what is the funny, contrary thing about your diners? All of them are rich, high achievers, each with celebrated talents in their own fields. They can pay for anything they want, nothing is denied to them. So give them something they are not expecting, something that they didn’t even know they wanted – surprise them, excite them, move them… They’ve been to a thousand meals just like this one so it’s got to make a connection with them, emotionally. Make it special. Something that deserves a page in their memory book. They will appreciate a gift even more than most. What do you give the person who has everything? Something they didn’t know they didn’t have.

‘Oskar and I were once staying overnight at a beautiful winery in Spain. It was breath-taking and the family who ran it were simply the most gracious people in the world. Barbidillo it was called.’ She thinks a moment and then a certainty brightens her face. ‘Yes, Barbidillo. I remember. Anyway, I could tell you everything about our meal there right down to the very last detail, you know why? Because we weren’t just served, we were welcomed, celebrated… But you know, what really made that meal was a little surprise. A little something that we were not expecting… that’s what makes the experience. That’s what brings the excitement. What they eat will not be as memorable as how you make them feel. The owner gave us a very special bottle of his finest Sherry. Versos 1891. A superbly rare mixture that contains an old family recipe. Very intense flavour. Incredible quality. Served in a beautiful inkwell bottle. It made us feel like the most special guests they’d have ever had. Here I am forty years later telling you of it! So, let’s take your sherry trifle to a new level. That’s always how I did my business, how I attracted and retained my clients. I would always surprise them with offering something a little bit more, a little bit special. And I think that’s what could make all the difference here, Katie.’

She’s really got me thinking now. She’s right. Utterly spot on. I watch as Martha points a red-painted fingernail to the corner of her room.

‘Go over there to my locker please. The one with the combination lock.’ She scribbles four digits on the notepad.

I open the combination lock and wait for my next instruction.

‘Now, if you look inside, in a small sandalwood box, you will find a set of keys with an address written on the tag.’

I nod as I open the box and hold up the keys she’s described.

‘Bring them here to me, my darling.’

Again, I do as she asks.

‘I want you to do me a favour. Do you promise?’

‘Of course, Martha, that’s no problem. It would be my pleasure to do you a favour after all the advice you’ve given to me,’ I tell her genuinely.

‘Good. Go to my house, Katie, and downstairs in the cellar, is a bottle of that sherry. In an inkwell bottle. It was a gift to me and now I want to gift it to you.’

I’m shaking my head. ‘Martha, I couldn’t possibly…’

She rests a hand on mine. ‘I want you to have it. And, you promised, remember? So please, for me, take it out of a dark and empty house and bring it to the table. Serve it. Celebrate it. Surprise them. Blow their socks off, Katie. Sometimes it only takes one small thing to make all the difference.’

And I concede. Because this one small thing, her faith in me, is making all the difference to what I’m beginning to believe that I can achieve.