“This morning. I make a loaf pretty much every day. In fact, I’m going to start tomorrow’s if you don’t mind.”
She shook her head and said nothing. I felt her eyes watching me as I took out the ingredients; flour, yeast, the seeds I was adding for the extra crunch. It felt both strange and normal to have Simone in my kitchen. Cooking was the one big thing we shared – I had no idea if there were others - but having her watch me in my own home felt as intimate as stripping off in front of her.
It was also opening myself up to be judged. She was an award-winning, Michelin-starred chef: I was merely one of her employees, a single dad and a family that carried enough stigma to invent a new genre.
“I can’t bake bread. Not at home.” Her words were a fracture in the quiet.
“Really? Why’s that?”
“There’s only me. I can’t bring myself to make something that I’ll end up throwing away.”
“Nothing to do with the carbs?” She was too slim. One nasty bout of flu and I knew she’d be struggling to recover quickly.
“Nothing to do with carbs. Do you really go through a whole loaf most days?”
I laughed. “No. But I use the leftovers for bread and butter pudding or to make croutons; I hate waste.” For reasons I wasn’t going to share right now.
“I can tell. You’re good for overheads.” She gave me a smile that looked tired, not dissimilar to Lauren in terms of needing rest. But she wasn’t Lauren and I couldn’t boss her into taking days off to look after herself.
“When’s the last time you had a holiday?” That I could ask.
Simone shrugged. “I spent a week in Italy last year.”
“Did you lie on a beach in that time or sight-see?”
She laughed. “I spent the time with Gino Mele.”
“In a kitchen?”
“And I went to Spain. The Catalan region.”
“That was about four nights. And it was to sample food and work with a chef over there. I remember that one. When’s the last time you spent two consecutive days away from both restaurants? Apart from when you were abroad.”
“You know it doesn’t work like that.”
“Sim, what happens if you’re sick? And you will get sick if you don’t look after yourself.”
Her eyes were wide when I turned to look at her and she looked even more slight than she had before. Long straight dark hair, large-doe eyes, cheekbones that were high enough to have made her a contender for a model and skin that I felt the urge to touch.
“Do you want a hot chocolate?” I’d feed her instead, even if it was marshmallows.
“Why not? Then I’ll get out of your hair. I’m sure you don’t want your boss hanging around.” Her tone suggested she was trying to keep it light.
“What do you do when you’re not working? Do you see your family? I know you’re friends with the Callaghans – they seem good people.”
“I don’t have any family. It was me and my dad when I was younger. He pretty much disowned me after I married my first husband. After we divorced, he responded to a couple of phone calls but we hadn’t really gotten along when I was younger. He died three years ago of cancer – mesothelioma. We did make up at the end which I’m glad of. I’m friends with Vanessa and… shit, you don’t need to hear all this.” She ended on a forced laugh.
“You work a lot. I’m interested in what you do in what little time you have. My life consists of work, the gym and being Lauren’s taxi driver. Plus, a little bit of family stuff.” Or a lot of family stuff.
“I try to go to the gym. I make it about twice a week. I was better at it before Van was pregnant as she used to drag me to classes and try to set me up with some of Jackson’s – her husband – training buddies.” She sounded embarrassed.
“You weren’t interested?”
“No.”
One word. No explanation.
She was attractive, fucking gorgeous when you looked past the whole manic boss exterior. I had no idea why she was single, or didn’t have a stable full of bed warmers at her disposal, unless she was happy being single.
