Natalie put down the last piece of croissant she’d just picked up. ‘What?’
‘It’s Phil. He’s being a bit weird about this whole cookery-lesson thing.’
‘It’s only making a risotto. And if he’s a little bit rubbish, it will just endear him to the viewers.’
‘I know, but he gets in a bit of a flap when he has to do something that’s outside his comfort zone. He’s used to running his company, being successful… I suppose he’s not very good at not being good at things.’
‘Thanks for warning me. I’m sure he’ll be fine once he’s in the kitchen. Now get that coffee down you and we can go.’
‘Okay.’ Cate downed her remaining cappuccino in one. ‘I’ll see you later then. And thanks again about Mum. I really can’t believe it.’
‘I’ll meet you at the restaurant.’ Natalie gave Cate a kiss on the cheek before setting off in the opposite direction.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Lucia: everything was in place; nothing was left to chance. Today was going to be a good day. Cate worried too much. There was no way a successful businessman like Phil was going to have a meltdown over a simple bit of cooking.
38
Phil refastened the ties on hisRistorante Nicoapron.
‘Tutto bene? All good?’ Nico Facetti, the owner and head chef, beamed at them.
‘All good.’ Phil hoped he sounded convincing, confident even.Come on, Phil, you can chop some vegetables.
Nico twisted an onion. ‘We do not cut that way, we cut this way. And we keep the handle of the knife like this – and then it is simple.’ The blade sliced up and down so rapidly, Phil was amazed the guy had any fingers left. A pyramid of evenly chopped cubes materialised on the wooden board. Across the stainless-steel counter, Cate’s face was a picture of concentration.
‘Shall I try now?’ Cate said, picking up a short-handled knife.
‘Certo!’
Cate wasn’t half as fast as Nico but she chopped neatly and she’d remembered all the celebrity chef’s hints and tricks to complete the job without her eyes pricking with tears.
‘And now you,signore.’
Phil took a knife from the bewildering array of kitchen implements.
‘Ah, no. That is the knife for the cutting of the fish.’
‘Of course.’ Phil hadn’t even started cutting the onion and he was already messing up. He created intricate marquetry with the finest of chisels so why did the prospect of using paring knives and wooden spoons, spatulas and graters feel as cumbersome and unnatural as swimming in a ski suit? The steam from the other end of the kitchen where black-uniformed staff were beavering away, and the heat and bright lights from the camera crew were making him sweat. He looked around. The make-up girl with her ever-ready powder puff had disappeared.
What a chump he must look, dithering over such a simple task. They probably wouldn’t even use this bit of film; no one tuned intoLuxe Life Swapto see a red-faced, middle-aged man prepping veg. He took a deep breath and began chopping.
‘Bravo, Phil! You see, it is easy when you have the correct technique.’ Nico spoke in the same tone of voice Cate had used when they’d been struggling to house train Ted. ‘And now we check on our beautiful fish stock.’
Phil nodded. When he’d agreed to take part in Mandy Miller’s iconic show, he hadn’t signed up for this. He couldn’t cook, wouldn’t cook – unless you counted making things on toast. But at least there was no chance of setting a pan ablaze with the oily Nico getting right up into his personal space. He’d almost forgotten the humiliation he’d felt in that school cookery lesson. There had been so many humiliations before he was blessed with Evan’s protection.
The rugby pitch was flooded, afternoon sports lessons cancelled and the headmaster had decided he wasn’t going to leave a whole year group to their own devices. To the horror of their motherly school cook, the kitchens were commandeered. They’d never had a cookery lesson before but everyone else seemed to take to it except for Phil.
Phil didn’t know how he’d managed to set that pan on fire. He could still hear his classmates’ giggles turning to panic as the cook fought to put out the flames, the ear-splitting ring of the fire alarm. Everyone had been forced to stand outside in the cold and the rain, moaning and bitching that it was all his fault. They were still making snide remarks on the rugby pitch the next week and he’d got in such a state that he’d somehow sent the ball down to his own try line instead of kicking it into touch.
He didn’t care about being good at cooking or sports for their own sakes. He cared about being picked on, bullied, isolated. Failure told people you were weak. Weakness made you a target. All these years later, he could still feel Mr King’s hand on his thigh, his minty breath in his face. That oh-so-soft voice whispering in his ear, ‘Who do you think they’d believe, Philip? You or me?’
‘Phil!’
Cate’s voice snapped him back to his task.
‘How much stock did you say?’ They must be adding the stock now, mustn’t they? Even he could recognise a ladle.
‘No stock yet. First, we must add the white wine.’ Nico sloshed some into Phil’s pan, clearly deeming him incapable of doing it himself. ‘Aah, the smell – mmm,delizioso!’
