“How old Jack was when his daughter was born.” Sophie took the box from her, put it down and looked in it.
“I was twenty-one. Just about to graduate. Lauren’s mum sat her finals when she was six months pregnant. Our timing could’ve been better.” I smiled. Rebecca had done everything by the book, literally. She’d read pregnancy manuals and had lists of exactly what she should be doing and when; then she’d studied and studied some more. Neither of us had gone into meltdown or even been upset at the curveball that life had thrown us. In fact, we’d been pretty elated at the idea of a baby.
“Still time for more kids.”
I shrugged. I wasn’t averse to the idea. I also wasn’t desperate to go through the whole sleepless nights either.
“Leif gave you these?” Sophie’s attention had been redirected.
“He said to share them out with the staff or whoever wants them. He’s a nice guy. I hope the media are supportive.”
“They will be at first. Then they’ll start to sharpen their knives.” Simone looked at me. “Vanessa has put together a statement from us if we’re asked to comment. We’re also making a donation to a couple of charities – one for young adults whose parents are alcoholics and another that supports children who leave the care system. We won’t be the star of the show tonight, although your food should be.”
It was my menu. I’d done the sample dishes the week before and Simone had signed them off. It had almost been nerve-wracking, watching her eat what I’d prepared, as if it was a test. She was four years younger than me, but her career had been fast-tracked by her father, who I’d learned had been a Cordon-Bleu chef in France for most of his life. She’d had apprenticeships with some big names once her first marriage had ended. I’d ended up eating with her, sitting at a small table in the prep room, both of us covered with stains from stock which one of the young porters had knocked over by mistake.
It had almost felt like an impromptu date.
There had been a few comments from the other staff members afterwards, nothing critical. A few had said she seemed happier, less stressed. Cathy, one of the pastry chefs, said she’d never seen Simone smile as much as she was doing at the moment and that had given me a glow that heated up the fucking room more than the ovens.
“As long as everything goes smoothly and some of these people make reservations, I don’t care who the star of the show is.” I stood up, the first set of guests coming through.
Time to assume position.
A tasting menu, or rather two tasting menus, were more straight forward to serve than when we had the a la carte option and were catering for diners who each wanted something slightly different or a substitution. Leif or whatever his name actually was – Sophie had confirmed that Leif was a stage name – had kept it simple and in more ways than one.
We had just finished serving the fifth course, a deconstructed fish pie, when the atmosphere became muted with a side of tension. Simone had slipped into the kitchen, not able to go one evening without doing something that involved blending flavours.
“He’s about to do his announcement.”
She sounded almost nervous, something not associated with Simone in high heels.
“It’s all good.” It had been so far. His guests, the ones from his foster family especially, had been polite and seemed genuinely excited to be there.
“I know. I’ve had a lot of compliments about the food.” She was dishing up a portion of the Hoi Sin pork belly, a dish I knew would work well on the Tipsy Toad tapas menu.
“Good.”
The restaurant hushed as Leif stood up. There had been a microphone set up for him although I was pretty fucking sure he could amplify his voice enough so everyone could hear. The guy had played in some of the biggest stadiums in the world, this restaurant shouldn’t be too much of an issue.
There was a smattering of applause and a few hollers. He looked nervous and I wondered how it felt to be announcing that you were giving up a multi-million dollar career.
“Thank you to everyone for being here tonight and to Simone and the Mount Street Social for organising this. It is a celebration of sorts but I’m not one for big speeches: I’ve always preferred to have music to communicate. My foster family and my management team are already aware of what I’m going to say. To the rest of you, this might come as a surprise. As of last week, I stopped being a performer. My band is aware and is moving onto new projects. My management team anticipated this and are fully supportive. For the last two years I’ve been struggling with alcohol and it took a tighter grip on me than I wanted, than any of us wanted. This lifestyle isn’t conducive to battle with drink and the reasons behind it, so I’m stepping away from recording and performing. It’s been a privilege to have had the opportunities that I’ve been given but my mental health has to take priority. Thank you again for being here tonight. I’m sure you have questions and my publicist will work with you to arrange time for you to ask those if you don’t catch me tonight.”
The guy looked pale and if I’d ever had any want to be a rock star or anything in the spotlight, it was sucked out of me right then. Although if someone offered me the chance to play for any English national team, I’d still take it.
A woman from the media table stood up, partly hidden in the shadows.
“Does this have anything to do with the fact your father is the Shadow Home Secretary?”
Leif went even whiter.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a foster care kid – I was taken into the system after my mother overdosed. I’ve never known who my father was.”
The woman, probably some media hack, started to speak again, but one of the singer’s security team headed over and clearly said something to shut her up.
“Shit.” Simone’s word was a whisper.
“That’s a curveball.”
