“Why are you today?”
“’Cause that’s my job, to fill in the gaps.” Nero laid the trifles on the counter. “But I got you to help me, right? There’s chocolate and shit over there. Do your worst.”
Nero left Lenny to it and set about making sense of the rest of the dessert menu. Half an hour passed before he thought to check on Nana Dolly’s trifles. Or, at least, Lenny’s interpretation of them. “That a trifle or a stand at Chelsea Flower Show?”
Lenny poked out his tongue. “Piss off. You gave me free rein.”
True enough, and Lenny had clearly taken his loose words to heart—chocolate, edible flowers, the bundles of spun sugar Nero had butchered earlier, it was all there. Arranged by anyone else, it would’ve looked like a dog’s dinner, but Lenny’s light touch had, as usual, produced something magical.
Nero sighed. “Stick them in the fridge and come whisk this meringue for me. It’s doing my bloody head in.”
Lenny did as he was told and took a balloon whisk to the bowl of egg whites and sugar Nero had been glaring at. Belying his slender wrists, he made short work of producing a cloud of snowy meringue. “What’s this going to be?”
“Not sure yet.” Nero tossed in corn flour, vanilla, and cider vinegar. “I’ve got about ten minutes to figure it out, though. Any ideas?”
So far, Lenny had showed little enthusiasm for the eclectic array of food he’d seen at Pippa’s, only eating what Nero shoved in front of him, but he studied the bowl of sweet meringue mix with a new light in his eyes. “What’s the meringue thing called that’s all marshmallowy?”
“Pavlova?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Can we make that?”
Cracking out the piping bag was one of Nero’s least favourite kitchen tasks, but he couldn’t think of a sensible reason to say no. He fetched the kit they needed and piped tiny individual meringues onto lined trays. Ten minutes in the oven and twenty to cool, and his part was done. Then he let Lenny loose with the decoration, a task that kept him occupied for more than an hour.
By then, Nero was distracted with running the rest of the dessert section, only yelling at Lenny when he needed an order of his precious pavlovas. Time slipped away, stolen by a busy dinner service, and it was gone nine when Steph came to the pass to ruin Nero’s night.
“A guest wants to speak to you.”
“Me? What the fuck for?”
“To tell you how awesome their meal was.”
“Let ’em tell Debs. then. She probably cooked it.”
Steph smirked. “Actually, they want to tell you how amazing your cheesecake was. Sorry.”
Liar. Nero wiped his hands on his apron, then took it off in a halfhearted attempt to appear presentable as Steph disappeared briefly, only to reappear a few seconds later with the guest in tow.
The guest was a sweaty posh dude, half-sloshed and obsessed with touching Nero’s arm. Nero shot Steph an irritated glare—are you fucking kidding me?—then dug deep for his most amiable smile. It took ten minutes to get rid of him, and even then Nero had to escort him back to his table. Bellend.
Nero returned to the kitchen, hoping Lenny hadn’t been swamped by orders in his absence. But Lenny was nowhere to be seen when he reached the dessert section, and his pavlovas had gone AWOL too.
Fuck’s sake. Nero growled and glared at the stacked screen of orders that had come on while he’d been gone: four tables, each wanting half a dozen desserts. Working through them kept Nero busy, but he couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder every time he sensed movement behind him. An oven opened, a fridge slammed, the back door closed—Nero saw and heard it all, but there was no sign of Lenny.
The last order called for three of Lenny’s pavlovas. He came up blank on the dessert section, so he called Debs to watch over his baked plums and went to the bigger walk-in units at the back of the kitchen.
He found Lenny in the last one, sitting on a box of lemons, his head in his hands. The tray of pavlovas was safely on the shelf behind him, but something stopped Nero grabbing them and leaving Lenny to whatever freak-out he was clearly having. Ice cream melting on Pippa’s achingly trendy gooseberry crumble? Nero didn’t give a shit.
He took a seat on a crate of sweet potatoes and nudged Lenny with his elbow. “Whatcha doing in here?”
“Nothin’.”
“Uh-huh. Don’t look like nothin’. I only hole up in here when I’m hanging out of my arse.”
“You don’t come to work hungover.”
“What makes you think that? You think I’m some kind of saint?”
Lenny didn’t deny it. “You love your job.”
