Sara comes back into the kitchen, a smile breaking her face. ‘Empty plate. He sends his compliments to the chef!’

I see a look wash over Jean that I’ve never seen before. He looks genuinely happy. Genuinely proud. He claps me on the back.

‘Good job! Great job. One last course, I know it has been tough. I have been tough and you may think I’m not paying attention, Katie, but believe me, I always pay attention. You are a very special chef and you have impressed me. If anything, I’ve learned from you, from your self-control. You stayed. I know you were supposed to go, but you stayed. Thank you.’

That would mean the world to me had it not cost me my meeting with Rachel.

Although Jean-Michel is more relaxed with the dessert, he still scrutinises it before he lets Sara take it from the pass. I have to say Georgia’s skill is incredible, and she’s pulled out all the stops. When she said she wanted to be part of this team, she wasn’t kidding. She’s given her all and the way this is going, it looks like she’s the last part of the puzzle.

It leaves the pass and Sara swans out through the double doors, a trio of deliciousness in hand.

Jean-Michel leans back against the wall and presses his hands into his face, breathing out all his tension. ‘So there it is, we have done all we can do. Katie, you need some time. Why not take maybe three days? Visit your family.’

I thank him. It’s like he’s read my mind. I’m going to need some time off to try and make it up to my sister, how exactly still remains to be seen. But I’ll think of something, something really special. Things are looking up; just this one last course between me and the life I’ve been trying to create since forever.

No sooner have I started to daydream about being back in my home, hugging my dad, hanging out with Alice and actually sleeping for more than five hours at a time, than Sara bursts through the doors, her face stricken. She slides a full plate of the trifle dessert back across the pass to us.

‘Took a forkful, looked at it like he’d never seen it before, like he was actually going to cry and then he just dropped his fork to the plate, called me over, asked for the bill and his coat.’

Ohmygod.

Oh my GOD.

‘What do you mean? What is going on?’ Jean-Michel starts to shout. ‘You, what have you done?’ He lifts the plate and I’m afraid that he’s going to throw it. Georgia is trembling. I stand in front of him, two steady open palms held up in an attempt to reason.

‘Jean-Michel, Georgia is the best pastry chef I’ve ever seen. I have every confidence in her.’

He presses his fingers to his forehead. I hand him a fork. And we both take a mouthful. And then a second. And then a third.

Jean-Michel nods. ‘C’est parfait.’ He plunges a finger right down to the bottom of the sherry trifle, sniffing it before putting it in his mouth. ‘Je ne comprends pas.’ And then he shakes his head, lifting his eyes to mine, confused. ‘You are telling me that he didn’t even taste it?’ he asks Sara.

She shakes her head. ‘I watched the whole thing. Not one bite.’

I can see the fury flood into Jean-Michel’s chest, up his neck and into his face. He throws down the fork and wrings his hands in his apron.

‘Saboteur! He is trying to ruin me! He thinks he can destroy me like this! Non! I cannot allow it! I will not allow it!’ He grabs the dessert plate and races out into the dining room, me chasing after him but barely able to keep up.

Jean-Michel storms over to the gentleman at the top table, one arm already in his coat, and slams the plate down in front of him.

‘You will make a judgement of me without even tasting? You think you know so much that you don’t even need to try the food now? You know nothing! Why do I care for you and your judgement? Why do I care for you and your stars when here—’ He beats his chest where his heart is. ‘I know that I have more knowledge, more expertise, more passion than any of you. Why should I listen to the opinion of someone who is less than me?’

The gentleman is clearly taken aback but he retains his composure. He takes a slow sip of water and then straightens his tie. His composure provokes Jean-Michel even further.

‘How dare you send it back to the kitchen uneaten? Slapping me in the face! You owe me an explanation. So tell me! Tell me what is the problem with this dessert?’

Every other diner has now stopped eating, stopped breathing and has turned to witness this grand eruption. I move forward to try and get in between the gent and Jean-Michel, so that I can apologise to him. And just as I do so, he turns to take his bill from Sara’s hand.

‘My apologies if I’ve upset you,’ he says in a calm, measured voice.

I offer a nervy but gracious smile, thankful for his understanding, and I find myself drawn to his face. I don’t know him, I’m sure of that, but there is something so familiar about him. The almond shape of his dark eyes, his strong jawline… It’s like I’ve seen him before and vaguely recognise him but can’t quite place how or where. But I don’t have too much time to dwell on this as the situation still feels very fraught, like it could get a lot worse before it gets better.

Jean-Michel takes an angry step in front of him, blocking his exit. By now, he is beyond listening to me or anyone. He is in a blind rage, screaming and shouting and ranting. It isn’t just this incident. It’s everything, the pressure he’s put himself under, the pressure he’s put his marriage under, the pressure he’s put us all under. No one can live like this and stay sane. But right now, in full view of all these strangers, I need to stop him, get him to calm down. I used to avoid confrontation, run from it, but then there was Bernie and Harry and times that called for someone to stand up speak out and bring things to a stop before they escalated further. But how on earth can I tell Jean-Michel to calm down?

I look around, but there isn’t anyone else who can step in. Not his wife or Pip or Octavia. I am the grand chef. Most of the other diners are now looking concerned and uncomfortable, shuffling in their seats and waving for their coats. Some are taking out their phones, getting ready to film. This is getting worse by the second: viral footage of Jean-Michel in meltdown mode with a Michelin inspector within weeks of opening will be the nail in the coffin of this restaurant. And of both our careers. And what will Jean-Michel do then? What will I do then? I shudder at the thought. This needs to end now.

I lower my voice, try to put on my most soothing, hushed tone and place my hand gently on the small of his back. I’m actually touching Jean-Michel. This is like sticking your hand into a shark tank. But for a second, it does cause him to pause, to take a breath, to run his hand up to his eyes. And I look toward the inspector and make eye contact, to de-escalate, to somehow explain with my eyes that this isn’t about him, this is Jean-Michel battling his own paranoid demons. But something else happens instead.

I know him! I know this man! I remember who he is and how I know him. This man, this guest, standing in front of me is someone I’ve seen before.

In a frame, on Martha’s mantelpiece.

‘Leo Rosenblatt?’ I ask.

He looks at me startled. ‘Yes?’

I can see the confusion in his eyes, trying to scan where on earth he’d ever have met me before.

‘I knew your—’ I stop. Rephrase. ‘Your mother Martha was a wonderful friend to me.’

Jean-Michel jolts upwards, looking stunned, his face rippling with conflicting emotion. He looks to me and I nod my assurance.

‘Sir Leo Rosenblatt. He’s not an inspector.’

Jean-Michel pales. A look of horror sweeps over his features.

‘But… You had wine, sparkling water. The way you are dressed; you are dining alone.’

It dawns on Leo what’s happened, that there’s been a grave misunderstanding. And he takes Jean-Michel by the elbow. ‘Chef, I am dining alone because my mother booked this table for us both to come together, weeks ago. But she passed away. And I have many regrets. Many, many regrets. So when it came to dessert, always her favourite, it reminded me of moments we enjoyed together and how much I miss her – and how I took those moments for granted and now there is nothing I can do to get them back.’

Leo swallows and holds the back of his hand to his lips a moment.

‘I loved your food, but I couldn’t even manage one mouthful of the dessert because it was too painful for me to do so. I’m ashamed of how I left my mother alone, when she needed me.’ Leo closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose as if to stem a memory. ‘My apologies for the upset I have caused.’

And that’s the moment that Jean-Michel takes off his apron, and hands it to me.

‘It is me who is ashamed. Please, accept my deepest apologies.’ He bows and then walks out the front door of his own restaurant into the street, without looking back once. Leaving us all behind in stunned silence.

When I eventually get to my room, at 2 a.m., after apologising again to Leo and the rest of the diners, taking all their details and offering them a complimentary meal to make up for the ‘incident’ and then finishing off the rest of the service without Jean-Michel, I text my sister the same words.

But I get no reply.