I gather with my team in the white marble lobby. We sit in a circle in high-backed leather chairs around a low glass-topped coffee table. We shake hands and smile our introductions; a few light questions about where we are from, where we live, why we want to be here to break the ice and everyone seems a little more relaxed. I think of my first impressions of Bernie based on the gruff, dismissive way she introduced herself to me on my first day at Parklands and decide that I’ll do the exact opposite, which seems to be a reasonable strategy. Once everyone has settled in to their seats and knows who is who and where we’ll be positioned, I take out my paper folder and talk them through the menu, the service and timings. I want to let everyone know how to be the best they can be and how we are going to roll as a team.

‘Communication is key, you guys; if you are confused, speak up! If you are lost, speak up! If you are in trouble, speak up! And we will work together to sort it out, quickly and efficiently.’

I hand them each a printed copy of my kitchen rules that I hung up in my own little restaurant. I see them raise eyebrows and nudge each other in agreement. I keep watch as they read through, nodding and smiling to themselves. I’m not rushing this bit. If we stick to these rules, we’ll save ourselves a lot of tears and tantrums. There are a few knowing smirks. Yep, I can tell these guys know where I’m coming from and we’re all on the same page. This is a good bunch. I can feel it. But it’s always best to be clear, so we all get an idea of the tone, of the way things are going to work, the way that we are going to work together.

I stand to finish, mindful of the time and the amount of prep that we need to get underway. ‘My biggest nightmare would be that someone freaks out because they make a mistake or we turn on each other because of the pressure. ‘We know it is going to be crazy, right? We know it’s going be hard work. But we’re here for each other and I want you to promise to speak up if you need something, however big or small, the tiniest detail is still important.

‘Remember, tonight, it is not about me, it’s not about you.’ I think of Martha and the way her memories sustain her in her little Parklands bedroom. ‘It’s all about our guests. Let’s give the guys out there something they are not expecting, a real night to remember. We want them to go to bed smiling in their sleep because we created something special. We’re in this together. Let’s make it happen. Let’s make some memories tonight.’

My team look to each other and then to me, warm smiles breaking their lips.

Sara, the lead waitress, nods her head, raises her hand and they all follow. ‘A-game tonight, guys. Let’s go.’

And so it begins. This is it.

And somehow, I just know that it will be special. But special enough? That’s what we’re here to find out.

---

By eight o’clock, the dining room is starting to fill up and a sneak peek around the door makes my stomach flip. Limousines have pulled up outside, a red carpet leads the guests in through the main doorway. Ladies wrapped in fur stoles with long black gowns and glittering jewels air-kiss each other as they mingle and sip flutes of champagne. The candlelight flickers across the tables and in the dancing glow I catch a glimpse of my own childhood heroine Celia Sanderson arrive.

Pip wasn’t kidding when he said the movers and shakers of the industry were coming to test us tonight. Everyone who is worth their rock salt is here.

I decide that it’s probably best that I stop gawping at the guests and get back to work.

I can’t see Ben, which is a small mercy; his station is hidden from my view, on the other side, with a different entrance to the dining rom. But I can see Harry. Our ovens are side by side and we are sharing the same pass. He is like a hurricane, sidestepping and pirouetting frantically with fantastic speed. He is a hard ball of energy, charismatic but also frightening.

For the past few hours, he has done nothing but dominate his space and his staff with the erratic frenzy of a malevolent dictator. Firstly, the sommelier made the mistake of approaching him while at the oven – he had a question about oranges and had got momentarily in the way – and was so humiliated that, by the end of a long and relentless haranguing, his lips were pursed in disgust. Minutes later, Harry’s sous-chef committed a variation of the same offence, simply asking a question regarding the ever-changing menu and he was verbally tortured until, finally, he too was ordered out.

‘Go, get the fuck out of my sight. You are morons, how can I get to the next level surrounded by morons?’ Harry had wailed. But I watched him as he seemed to calm again, as if the outbursts were a valve mechanism for his own mounting pressure.

But that calm doesn’t last long, the smallest trigger proving enough to blow his top all over again.

‘What the hell?’

I watch now as he jabs a finger into the back of the line chef making the starter of pork snout with green radish and tomato micro-salad, dressing the rye croutons in advance.

‘Do you work for Subway? Pretend you’re the customer. Why would you want a soggy crouton?’ Harry slams his hand down on the counter. ‘And I told you to halve the tomatoes, not quarter them. Bin now!’ He picks up the tray of miniature plates and slides them all into the rubbish. ‘How many times? How am I supposed to do it all by myself? Step up! Step the hell up. It’s my way or the highway, you losers.’

Harry starts slicing furiously into the tomatoes, his mounting anger and frustration evident in the tight scowl on his face and the red tops of his ears.

To my surprise, he catches my eye and points his knife directly at me. ‘You two want to fanny about and stay cooking at the same average level, churning out pimped-up Marks and Spencer’s plates, then go work with her,’ he announces to his line chefs.

I take a deep breath and try to ignore him. I tell myself he’s just trying to goad me, distract me. I purse my lips into a tight smile as my mother would advise and I keep my head down, trying to stay focused on my station and refuse to be drawn into his temper.

‘There’s a reason women stay in the pastry section.’

I stop my own slicing as my hand is shaking and I don’t want to make a mistake. I need to pause, to steady and compose myself. He’s wasting my time. He’s been in my ear all day, but now he’s actually succeeding in holding me up. I can’t let this go. I can’t let him go on. I know he’s spoiling for a fight and I should rise above and be the bigger person, but I’ve had enough of him. I see that Sara has entered from the dining room and stopped in her tracks, a concerned look spreading across her face.

Harry claps his hands together and cracks his neck.

‘Very interesting reading about your restaurant, Katie. Do your team know that you’ve already tried and failed? Closed down. NO leadership. NO business acumen. Didn’t have a handle on your staff or your books. The problem with you is that you’re too afraid of not being liked. On top of the fact that you have NO imagination. I saw your menu: boring. That’s why you haven’t made any mistakes yet, because everything you do is old hat. No disasters but no fireworks. Your idea of originality is a ten-second Pinterest video that you copied.’

Oh you bastard. I’m not here to lose to Harry. Or because of him.

I wipe my clammy hands down my apron. Despite my greatest effort to stay cool, I’m fuming, even my hands are burning up with rage. I can feel all eyes on me. If I stay quiet but look so obviously worked up, then it will look like Harry’s won, or worse still, it will look like he’s succeeded in intimidating me. I’ve got to stand up for myself, and for the line chefs and for all the other staff he loves to terrorise. My brigade will lose faith in me if I cave in to this, and without them behind me, I’m finished. I’m the only other chef in here at this time in a position to take him on, and this has to stop right now.

‘See, nothing more than a withering look… that’s exactly what I’m talking about, right there,’ he says with a smug smile as he turns back to his station. He thinks he has had the final word.

I can’t let him have it. I’ve held my tongue before. But this is different. This is a time to stand up and speak out.

‘Harry.’ I take a deep breath to steady the tremor in my voice and I take a step towards him.

‘I’m busy so I’m going to keep this short. And I get that this concept may blow your mind but I am here because I’m as good if not better than you.’

He snorts. ‘Better than me? Don’t make me laugh, neither you or sailor boy are better than me.’

‘Is that so? Then why did you turn up Ben’s oven during the selection? Why would you sabotage his dish?’

Harry squints at me and his mouth closes again, he swallows back.

‘You’d do that despite your confidence in your own ability?’ I take another step towards him. ‘See this is what confuses me about you, Harry. All this time you’ve been screaming and shouting and agitating everyone and everything, treating all of us like we are snivelling, loathsome insects who deserve to be degraded and humiliated, but I’ve been watching you.’ I walk right into his station so we are now face to face. ‘You’re hyper because you can’t decide on what you want or who you are. All this shouting is just masking that.’

I pick up his menu and point to the grill. ‘Look here, you’ve already changed your mind at least a hundred times. After all the drama and indecision, you are revising yet again – adding dishes, redoing others, embellishing them with caviar, truffles, foie gras. You introduced a venison main on roasted beets halfway through the day. Then an hour later, you add cabbage, then a purée of roasted parsnips along the plate rim. Then you change the scallop dish. “What about quail eggs on top, fried in goose fat?” Then: “And white truffle on top?”’

Harry runs his fingers through his hair grabbing it at the scalp, his lips gaping like a caught fish gasping for air.

My eyes are fixed on his. ‘Harry, you are giving us all a fucking headache.’

I turn to the line chefs. ‘For the record, he told you to quarter those tomatoes the first time, boys, I heard him, so you’re not in the wrong. If you do want to join my brigade, you are more than welcome.’

Harry’s eyes drift behind my shoulder, his face is now purply red. Except for the blotches of grey. His hand drifts down towards his chin but he pinches at his neck.

I turn behind me to follow his gaze. It’s Jean-Michel and Octavia, standing together and looking grave. I realise they’ve heard every word.

Uh oh. I don’t know how this is going to go now. Another blow up? Another meltdown? Another stand off? Or are we all going to be kicked out and sent packing?

The two line chefs step from Harry’s station to mine. Then one by one, all his other staff follow until he is standing alone.

Jean-Michel shakes his head. ‘Quelle catastrophe. You cannot continue without a brigade. It appears they have abandoned you.’

Harry swivels in utter disbelief. There is no one left to work with, no one left to shout at. He bites at his fist a second. No one steps in, we all just wait for his next move.

Octavia tuts at him like a naughty schoolboy. ‘Oh Harry, you came to win but have only succeeded in defeating yourself. Let this be a lesson to you. Truly. Learn from this.’

With a sharp breath through his nose, Harry rips off his apron, throws it on the ground and storms through the swing doors.

And he’s gone.

All eyes are now on me. Octavia’s hand is clutching at her necklace and Jean-Michel is massaging his forehead, his eyes clenched shut. Are they going to expel me now? Has standing up to him made me look a tyrant, unable to manage my emotions, to stand the pressure? Have I come across all wrong? In their eyes, have I acted a little more similarly to Harry than I thought? What if Octavia and Jean-Michel think that I’m the loose cannon, the wild dog?

What if they think I’ve cracked under the pressure? That I’m the one without a handle on my temper? I decide not to face them but just to keep my head down and get on with the job. I’ve not got the time or the mental energy for anything other than the task at hand: running this kitchen. So I straighten my hat, glance up to the clock and call for everyone’s attention.

‘The show must go on. Harry’s brigade, please divide yourselves up between Ben and me. The more the merrier, you are very welcome and we appreciate the extra pairs of hands. It’s one hour till service, whatever happens behind the scenes, back here in the kitchen, the bottom line is that we still have guests to serve. So let’s get to it.’

I put my head down and start chopping, avoiding meeting Octavia or Jean-Michel’s gaze.

Seconds later, Pip bursts through the doors, phone in hand for Jean-Michel. I hear Octavia clear her throat, and despite my best efforts, I sneak a glance upwards to try and read her expression, her body language, try to get an idea where I now stand in light of what’s happened.

And she winks at me. And that’s all I need to know.