‘Yes.’
‘And were you the reason he left?’
‘Of course not! I was just here by chance.’ It wasn’t quite by chance. Her mother had been worried and invited her. She took a breath. ‘He’d ordered most of the food for the banquet and all of the staff from an outside caterer. Not the chicken, he had bought frozen chickens for the main course. But everything else. And they let him down. So he walked out. I think he was drunk.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘I can’t tell you why he was drinking, but I know he was drunk because he smelt of alcohol when he pushed past me and there was an empty bottle of brandy in the rubbish.’ Ambrosine had found that, but Meg felt mentioning her would only complicate matters.
Justin Nightingale didn’t speak for a few seconds. ‘He hasn’t done that before as far as I know.’
‘He’s a friend of yours then?’
‘I know him. I’ve worked with him. He’s a half-decent chef.’
‘Just not keen on his job,’ said Meg.
‘How would you know?’ Justin demanded.
‘He wouldn’t have ordered in half the meal from outside caterers if he was interested in cooking.’
‘He probably didn’t have staff he could rely on.’ Justin was trying to imply this was somehow Meg’s fault, she realised.
‘That’s because he’d sacked them all.’
‘But not you, apparently? And what’s your job? You’re wearing whites but you’re not a chef, obviously.’
‘Why obviously?’
‘Geoff isn’t a chef who’d tolerate a woman in his kitchen.’
Meg opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t think of a suitably outraged reply.
‘I’m not either,’ he went on. ‘So thanks for your help.’ He gave her a patronising smile. ‘I’m sure the waiting staff will be glad to have you.’
Meg took a deep breath. ‘I have not got up at five in the morning to be dismissed by a man I’ve never seen before.’
‘Why did you get up so early?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? I’m taking the meat off chickens so I can make coronation chicken for the lunch!’
‘Coronation chicken? Dry and boring.’
‘Your precious Geoff chose the menu! And besides, coronation chicken isn’t dry the way I make it,’ said Meg.
‘How do you make it?’ He seemed distracted from his tirade for a minute.
‘It’s a Rosemary Hume recipe. You simmer it in wine and stock. Keeps it moist.’
He seemed interested. ‘And it works?’
‘Yes. Ah! Here’s the man from the dairy.’
A young man with a shock of dark hair and rosy cheeks came in with a small churn. ‘Here’s the cream. I’ll get the milk and extra eggs now,’ he said.
‘What do you want all that cream for?’
‘Bread-and-butter pudding.’
