“Not bad.”
“But not great?”
“He ain’t much of a cook, but he’ll do.” Nero absently shut down the wastage spreadsheet. “Might save you some dosh too. He’s got a way with the scraps.”
“That’s good enough for me—” Cass yawned. “I’m glad he’s well. He had me worried for a while.”
“Yeah? And how’s tricks at your end? You sound knackered. Two boys too much nookie after all?”
“Piss off, and no, it ain’t that. I’m just tired, man. Swear down, the less I work, the longer I sleep. What’s up with that?”
“Dunno. Got plenty for you to do here if you’re bored, though.”
“Very funny. I need you to come to Vauxhall this week. When are you free?”
Nero looked at the rota on the wall. “Wednesday? I finish at four.”
“That’s ’cause I’m covering dinner, you doughnut. What about Thursday? You’re not in till five, right?”
“Why you askin’ if you already know?”
“To give you a chance to duck out if you’ve got something better to do.”
Nero didn’t, though he had no real desire to tramp down to Vauxhall, even if it did mean spending time with Cass. “I’m in. What are we doing?”
“Oven planning. Tom found the firm to do it, you and I just need to decide where to put them.”
“I don’t know fuck all about bakery kitchens.”
“You know more than me, and you’ve helped plan every kitchen we’ve ever done. I’m can’t do this shit without you.”
It was sweet of Cass to say, but he could likely do whatever he wanted without Nero’s help. “What time do you want me?”
“Anytime, mate, but meet me at the warehouse at half nine.”
After giving Nero the address, Cass hung up with another weary yawn. Nero pocketed his phone and pushed back his chair with a yawn of his own. Cass’s fatigue had filtered through, and he’d had enough of Pippa’s for one day.
And what a day it had been. The lights were off in the kitchen, so Nero bypassed the bar where the staff were sharing a drink, and went upstairs, grabbed his weed tin, and headed straight for the fire escape. In the balmy evening air, he rolled a spliff. He’d kind of promised Cass he wouldn’t smoke weed on the fire escape anymore—Tom didn’t like it—but he didn’t care tonight. He lit up and blew herbal smoke to the inky night sky. Adrenaline and coffee were his best friends in the kitchen, but their combined buzz had long worn off by the end of the day, which made him all the more thankful that his bed couldn’t be any closer.
The weed buzz kicked in. Nero closed his eyes and let it seep through him, warming him like gentle, creeping lava. A beer would’ve helped it along, but he’d neglected to snag one in his hurry for weed-laced solitude.
“Nero?”
Or not. Nero opened his eyes. Lenny was hovering by the door, clutching two bottles of beer, and wearing those damn jeans again. “What’s up?”
“Nothin’. Brought you a beer. Debs said you drink Estrella.”
“Cheers.” Nero offered his joint. “Smoke?”
Lenny shook his head. “I don’t want to come out.”
“Fair enough.” Nero stepped closer and claimed his beer, then, against his better judgement, held his spliff to Lenny’s lips. “Blow it down your T-shirt or something.”
Lenny took a deep drag and blew the smoke through the open door. “I haven’t smoked weed in ages. Good job I’m still full from dinner or I’d be munching you out of house and home.”
Still full? Nero had cooked summer squash risotto for staff tea—not for Lenny’s benefit, of course—but Lenny had only eaten a small bowlful, and Nero’d had to leave the room to stop himself forcing more on him. Boy’s gotta eat. “Can’t eat what ain’t there, mate. Think we ate the last of my stash yesterday. Haven’t been shopping in yonks.”
“Bet you don’t have to much, though, right? Living above a restaurant must have its perks.”
