It’s 6 a.m. I’m standing on the balcony of my penthouse room. In an oversized, super-soft bathrobe, watching the world wake up beneath me. I moved my bits and pieces out of Alice’s over the weekend and finally, into a bed of my own. A suite of my own. This morning’s sunrise was a staggering display of radiant colour. Bright streaks of red, pink, and orange slowly overcame the dark blue and purple of the twilight sky and then all blended perfectly into each other. Mighty reds and flaming oranges splashed the clouds with endless rays of pink. I’d hardly ever seen anything so gorgeous. I’ve never been so high up, never had such a broad and clear view of the London skyline. I can’t believe this has happened to me. I can’t believe that I’m going to wake up like this every day. And then button up into my Marchand London whites and join Jean-Michel downstairs for a day of magic. Whatever I’ve loved lost and left behind, however much it hurt has brought me to this point. So now, I’m forward-facing. This is a new dawn and I’m ready to make the most of it.

Everything feels altogether new and exciting and achingly beautiful from up here. It’s still so early, the city is just rousing, softly, slowly, and there’s a special, subdued quiet that only us early risers share. A handful of road sweepers, joggers and coffee-sipping office workers zip across the otherwise deserted streets. Every one of them oblivious to me, watching them from up here, like a queen in a castle. The sun itself is just peeking out of the horizon, and its brilliant rays already shining brightly are beginning to warm the air. A thrilling feeling of awe sweeps over me. The trees beam as if they are wearing golden crowns and I let the soft amber glow of the sunshine pour through my fingers and onto my upturned face. This is it. I can’t wait to begin.

---

Jean Michel is in a neon vest and shorts when I enter the dining room. I take my seat beside him at the table by the window and say good morning. He is still sweating from his run, a towel hangs around his shoulders and he has two phones, a laptop, a newspaper, a triple espresso, a tube of tablets, a box of vitamins and a single boiled egg laid out in front of him.

He knocks back the espresso, throws back two tablets and a handful of vitamins, swallowing with intense concentration, both eyes scrunched tight. He makes a very low, almost primal sound through his closed lips. Banging on the table to an unknown beat, he breathes deeply, then he opens his eyes, smiles and wishes me good morning back.

Right. Today is going to be interesting.

‘So, your first day, Katie. Excited?’

‘Very!’ I tell him. ‘This is a dream come true. I’m so happy to be here, Jean-Michel.’ I take out my cardboard folder. ‘I’ve got lots of ideas, so I thought I’d bring them along and see what you think?’ I start to spread out all the different handwritten menus I’ve designed. ‘I was also thinking maybe some theme nights? A bit like a pop-up, where we can feature new techniques or showcase new ingredients, that kind of thing? Something to make us stand out from your standard fine-dining experience.’

Jean-Michel nearly chokes on his egg. ‘Standard fine dining? You know this is a paradox.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean “standard”, I meant usual or expected… Sorry, nerves, I just got muddled… We can scrap it, I was just brainstorming really, you know, trying to think outside the box and all that,’ I tell him nervously.

Jean-Michel finishes chewing his egg. Slow, deliberate bites. All I can do is sit here and wait till this egg mastication ends and he gives me a green light to resume talking to him. Once he finishes, he dabs the corners of his mouth with a napkin and then tells me to tidy up my papers. Which I guess means, put all of my new ideas away. So I do. Jean-Michel runs a tongue over his teeth and takes a long breath through his nose.

‘Katie, your enthusiasm is sweet. I like it. It is a good thing to dream and imagine and fantasise. However, here, now, you may be grand chef, but whose name is it above the door?’

‘Yours,’ I answer.

‘Whose name is on the top of every menu card?’

‘Yours.’

‘Whose name attracted you to come and work here in the first place?’

‘Yours.’

‘Exactement. So, as long as my name is attached to every tick of the clock in this restaurant, you follow my lead, comprends?’

I nod and close over my folder. I understand perfectly well. I may be Jean-Michel’s grand chef, but it’s still his kitchen and I’m the apprentice here.

He slides over one of the phones to me. ‘Here this is yours. Ensure it is charged at all times. This is your work phone. If I need you, this is the number I will expect to reach you. Bring it everywhere, keep it by your bedside, and answer it no matter what. Preferably by the second ring.’

I take it and see that all the contacts I need have already been entered: Jean-Michel, Pip, Octavia, suppliers, plumbers, staffing agencies, delivery drivers, you name it, it’s on here. This phone is my link to everything in this new world.

‘Okay. Now, this is the new taster menu I’ve created. Your thoughts?’

I take the heavy cream paper from his hand and read through the ten courses he’s selected. All are classic Jean-Michel signature dishes, except for the last one. I look up at him, blinking my disbelief.

‘You’ve got my trifle on there?’

He smiles. ‘You okay with that?’

‘I’m honoured, thank you. That means a great deal to me,’ I tell him, meaning every word.

‘Good. Onto our next point of business. Staffing. We’ve had some walkouts, you know the score. Oversensitive, overinflated egos that go running home to mama first time we forget to say they are wonderful. So, I need you to find me a new sous-chef. By Wednesday service.’

‘But I’ll need longer than that!’ I tell him. ‘By the time we put a job description out and then shortlist and interviews…. I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.’

Jean-Michel raises a finger to his lips to silence me. ‘You are the grand chef. You will find a way. Now, today – I need inventory of the entire kitchen; everything we have in stock, fresh and frozen, we need it itemised and uploaded to the central database before we let a single customer through the door.’ He stands from his chair and nods towards the phone. ‘Call me when you are finished.’

So I guess that means I’m doing it without him.

‘And I don’t want any shitty sous-chef, you know what I expect.’ And then he takes his newspaper under his arm, and he’s gone.

---

It takes me nine hours to inventory the freezer alone. And I still have the non-perishables to do. And I have no idea where to find a decent sous-chef in practically no time. And what decent sous-chef is going to drop everything on a Monday night to start work for Jean-Michel on Wednesday?

It’s impossible. He is impossible. He has his infamous reputation for good reason. I remember all those crying candidates back on day one of the selection, crying from ridicule but also frustration. He was impossible then and he’s impossible now.

And then this gives me an idea. I know exactly who would drop everything for this chance. I know someone who’s desperate for this call. Not only because it’s Jean-Michel but because it’s a sous position. That’ll take her out of pastry and the chance to show what else she can do, not just to him but herself as well. I just hope she doesn’t try her dehydrated turd dish on my watch. I laugh to myself and give Georgia Jacobs a call. Why not? It could work, chances are slim, but I’ve got to try because now that I’m grand chef, nobody else is going to solve this for me.

---

The next day, I arrive at St Mary’s just as the clock strikes visiting hour. I’m met at the doorway by the sturdy nurse in navy. In a low voice she tells me that Ms Rosenblatt passed away during the night. I can hardly take this in. On my last visit, over the weekend, Martha had seemed to be getting better, laughing and smiling like the Martha of old.

‘Martha’s died?’ I hear my own voice say the words again, questioning, disbelieving. ‘Last night? Are you sure that’s what you mean? Are you sure that’s right?’

‘She just slipped away,’ she tells me more than once. This nurse, The General as Martha had called her, was with her when she drew her last breath. Martha’s son hadn’t made it on time. I look around the ward, the plastic sheeting, the TV set on mute, a well-worn visitor chair, the beep of a heart monitor, the metallic slide of a curtain rail being pulled, and hear the hushed inflections of family members trying to make upbeat small talk with their bed-bound loved ones. This is all too familiar. All too heart-breaking. I remember being in a hospital just like this before: this dreadful news, these sights, and these sounds. The smell of antiseptic and boiled food. My vision is beginning to blur, to swim and melt with tears.

I find myself repeating the nurse’s words back to her, expecting her to correct me, to explain that I misunderstood. But she doesn’t, she tries to guide me out by the elbow but I stand still. Unable to lift the lead of my legs. The nurse nods again, this time keeping eye contact and adding how it was very peaceful, like she drifted into a dream.

‘Thank you,’ I say at last, with a tight, sad smile because I don’t really know what else to say. Because it’s best to remain composed, to hold yourself together… at least in public, until I am away from here. So I keep walking and don’t turn around. I don’t check the bed where Martha had lain, where we both had tea and trifle. Where quietly, selflessly, bravely, Martha had made her last birthday wish.

Quietly, selflessly, bravely. Just like my own mother did. She waited for me to go and then she left.