The next morning, with The Cider Kitchen due to open for the first time that evening, Caroline was feeling much less amenable towards her new chef. She slammed down the phone in the small back office and considered chucking it out of the window. Bloody Gino! How could he have been so irresponsible? She looked around the cluttered, tiny space, wondering how the hell she was going to deal with twenty covers and no chef. She glanced at the clock on the wall opposite the desk; eight hours until the doors opened.
Gino had been effusive in his apologies in between bouts of retching. He’d assured her that most of the prep work had been done the day before; the chicken was marinating in the meat fridge for one of the main courses and the scallops for one of the two starters just needed flash frying. The tiramisu, thankfully, were prepped and ready in one of the other fridges, just needing a sprinkling of cocoa powder before they were served. But that didn’t excuse the fact that her apparently brilliant head chef had had a pint too many in Weston Super Mare last night, an ill-advised kebab from a highly dubious mobile van and was now suffering from a violent bout of food poisoning. Of all the times he could have done it this had to have been the worst.
But what was she going to do? She had every faith in her new front of house team and she still had Joe the kitchen porter and Erin the pot washer, but they couldn’t be expected to cook. Any agency would charge her extortionate rates for a chef at such short notice. Exhausted already from the preparations and feeling uncharacteristically close to tears, she looked out the back at the yard behind the restaurant and despaired.
‘We’re not open yet,’ she called irritably as she heard the front door of the restaurant open. Too late, she realised that probably wasn’t the best way to greet a potential customer. ‘Sorry,’ she added, a beat too late. ‘Can you come back later?’
‘Well, I could, but I didn’t think you’d want me booking a table on your opening night.’ Jonathan, holding another bunch of freesias, poked his head around the office door.
‘There’s not going to be an opening night at this rate,’ Caroline snapped.
‘Why not? What’s happened?’
‘My sodding chef’s got food poisoning.’
‘Shit.’ Jonathan said. ‘That’s rotten luck.’
‘Luck’s got nothing to do with it,’ Caroline crossed her arms. ‘He had a dodgy kebab last night and has been throwing up since about six a.m., I ought to sack him on the spot, but it’s too late to get anyone else in.’
‘So what are you going to do?’ Jonathan put the flowers down on the desk and looked straight at her.
Caroline scowled. ‘I haven’t got a frigging clue.’
‘Right.’ Jonathan’s back straightened. ‘Leave it with me.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Caroline’s heart lurched between hope and irritation. ‘You’re no chef and the agency fees for a temp would be astronomical. We’re finished before we even open.’
‘Oh, don’t be so defeatist, darling,’ Jonathan replied. ‘Fill me in on what needs doing and I’ll make a couple of calls.’
‘No. I can sort this myself.’ Furiously, Caroline grabbed her diary and flipped through to the list of names and numbers of people who’d booked tables that night. ‘We’ll just have to cancel and reschedule the opening for another night.’ As she rifled through the pages she jumped as a warm hand closed over hers.
‘Now you’re just being silly.’ Jonathan’s voice was calm, gentle, and it nearly reduced Caroline to tears. He took her hand away from the diary and held it for a moment. Caroline was torn between snatching her hand away and wanting him to hold it forever.
‘What are we going to do, then?’ Caroline said.
‘As I said. Leave it with me. I’ll get us a chef, I promise.’ He let go of her hand and delved into his pocket. Pulling out his phone, he dialled quickly. ‘Vern? Is Emma working tonight? No? Great. Can you give her a ring and ask her if she’s free to come over to The Cider Kitchen in about an hour? All right. See you later.’ He turned back to Caroline who stood bemused, still clutching her diary.
‘Who was that?’ Caroline asked.
‘Vern, the landlord at The Stationmaster. His daughter’s at catering college.’
‘How do you know?’ Caroline said. ‘Do you keep tabs on every woman over the age of eighteen in this sodding village?’
‘What do you take me for?’ Jonathan replied with mock outrage. ‘I was in the pub the other night and overheard Vern talking about how amazingly well Emma was doing and how she was looking forward to having this week off as she’d been working so hard. I thought she might appreciate the pocket money.’
‘We can’t afford to pay her,’ Caroline groaned. ‘I’ve got virtually no funds left from the budget you allocated. Which isn’t enough, by the way.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Jonathan smiled. ‘After tonight, you’ll be fine. And I’ll sort it with our finance department.’
‘How do I know she’s any good?’
‘I trust Vern,’ Jonathan said flatly. ‘And frankly, darling, you need to learn a bit about not looking too closely at the dental records of free equines, if you catch my drift.’
‘I’m the manager of the restaurant, Jonathan!’ Caroline knew her voice was rising but she couldn’t help it. She’d gone from hope to despair so quickly and now Jonathan was expecting her to rhapsodise over some trainee whom she’d never even met. ‘You might own the business but I’m the one who makes the day to day decisions. I think I’m entitled to be a bit wary.’
‘Then be wary, Caroline, but please, think about it. What choice do we have?’ Jonathan reached across to one of the freesias he’d put on her desk and idly fingered its bloom. ‘From where I’m standing, very little, unless you want to postpone the opening night.’
A heavy, expectant pause descended. Caroline found her eyes drawn to the sight of Jonathan’s fingertips caressing the fragile petals of the freesias. She knew he was right. She didn’t have a choice. It just made her hopping mad that he had swanned in and saved the day, since she was the consultant on this project and should have been able to come up with a solution without him.
‘OK, OK, you win.’ She dragged her eyes back up from Jonathan’s hands to meet his gaze. ‘It’s lucky I’ve had control over Gino’s menu choices – I know exactly what goes into each dish, I just need someone to cook it.’
‘There you go,’ Jonathan said. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’ Now I suggest you get that coffee machine on and get yourself organised for a meeting with Emma. You’ve not got long until the doors open for business and I think you’re going to need every minute.’ He headed towards the door.
‘So, you’re just going to sod off again now, are you?’ Caroline said. She suddenly felt very small and alone seeing that he was, indeed, leaving her.
‘Well, I had hoped you’d say thank you before I left,’ Jonathan said coolly, his eyes unreadable.
‘Thank you,’ Caroline said meekly. She usually knew just how far to push people, but Jonathan was especially difficult to read.
‘I’ll see you at opening time,’ Jonathan said. Then, relenting a little, ‘good luck.’ He gave her a brief smile. ‘I’ve heard nothing but good things about Emma Leadbetter. You might consider offering her a permanent job if she works out tonight.’
As he walked back out of the restaurant, Caroline steeled herself and set about finding Gino’s notes and recipe cards, ready to brief Emma on what would be required. She hoped she had long enough.