“He had to leave. Something’s up with Jake.”
“Jake?”
“Yeah, he— Shit. Hang on.” Nero reached around Lenny and flipped some meat on the grill. “Damn it. This burner’s not fucking working right. Move over, will ya?”
Lenny moved out of the way as Nero jiggled the temperature knobs under the chargrill. His face was lined with fatigue and stress, and it was clear he didn’t have time to explain himself to Lenny. Though still, Lenny couldn’t help asking, “Do you have to work all day?”
“What?” Nero slammed the heel of his hand against the control panel. “Fucking thing. Yeah, probably. Can’t see Cass coming back. You gonna be okay?”
“Are you? I can—”
Nero waved Lenny away. “You ain’t getting lumbered with this shite too. I’ll be home as soon as I can. I promise, mate. I haven’t forgotten.”
Their eyes locked, and Lenny’s world centred, but the moment was fleeting, broken by a mayday call from another harried waiter, and Lenny knew it was time to go.
Reluctantly, he retreated from the kitchen and went back upstairs. In the flat, the walls seemed too close, but he couldn’t bear to go out and leave Nero behind. Instead of pacing, he spread out his work for the Vauxhall project on the living room floor. With Tom’s approval in place for the name and basic designs, Lenny had the go-ahead to work on the final art. The Stray Tiger title had originally come to Lenny’s mind for the eclectic pizzeria Nero had brought to life alongside the bakery, forgetting that it needed to encompass the whole project, but the more Lenny thought about it, the more it seemed to fit. Efe, the master baker charged with running the bakehouse, was much like Nero in temperament—fierce, strong, hardworking—and she’d wound up with Urban Soul after the breakdown of her marriage, a stray, of sorts, as much as the rest of them. The Stray Tiger—artisan bakehouse and pizzeria. Yeah. I like it.
Lenny spent most of the day designing the sign that would also become the project’s logo. Jake had promised to help him paint it digitally, and when it was done, Lenny found himself itching to see it plastered all over the once-derelict warehouse. He retrieved Jake’s business card from his folder and tapped the number into his phone, remembering too late that Jake apparently had other things on his mind today.
Jake answered with a low whistle.
Lenny winced. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“Nah, mate, nah. I’m all good.”
“Really? You sound fucked.”
“I am. Cass gave me a Valium.”
“For your tics?” It was none of Lenny’s business, but he’d never forgotten some of the case notes he’d read at uni before it had become obvious that he was in the wrong place, and the use of benzodiazepines to treat Tourette’s syndrome had been debated in one of his favourite textbooks.
“Yeah. They . . . um, got all nasty and shit. Couldn’t stop.” Jake’s medicated drawl was pronounced enough for Lenny to know he’d called at a bad time, but Jake spoke again before he could bow out. “So . . . what ya got for me? Tom loves the name. I love the art. Wanna see how you’ve pulled it all together.”
“I can send you a picture if you want?”
“Can you send it now?”
“Um . . . if you’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Text it over.”
Lenny snapped a picture on his phone and sent it to Jake. Then waited, tapping his fingers on the coffee table while Jake studied it, absorbing Jake’s Valium-mellowed buzzing tics. “Well? Do you like it?”
Jake popped, then laughed lazily. “I love it—fly him to the moon—I’d like you to paint the main sign by hand onto some reclaimed wood we’ve got, and then we can scan it and tweak it for the branding. Only trouble is we’re running out of time. How long do you need for painting?”
Lenny considered the murals he’d already painted on the walls and tabletops. “A few days? I need more paint, though, and somewhere to work now the bakery is up and running.”
“Uh-huh . . . um . . . Did Nero bring that rusty bus home yet?”
“I don’t know.” Lenny drifted to the fire escape and looked out, by now used to Jake’s chaotic brand of conversation. “I can’t see it outside.”
“If it’s anywhere, it’ll be in Cass’s old space by the launderette. There’s a shed out there Cass keeps car shit and tools in. Nero has a key . . . Oh and, actually, the wood is in there too. I chucked it in the other day.”
Fair enough. Lenny absently checked his wallet for the company credit card he’d been given for expenses. If he shot out now to buy paint, he could get started this afternoon. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Hmm? Oh . . . no. I’m fine, mate. Gonna sleep for a bit. Call me if you need anything, and take care of Nero, yeah? He’s working too hard.”
Lenny couldn’t argue with that. “I do try and look after him, but he’s shit at letting me.”
