‘You’re getting soft in your old age,’ Harry said, with a grin.
‘And whose fault is that?’
Russ hadn’t always been so gentle, having come up himself in kitchens where screaming abuse had been the norm and he’d grown used to ducking flying pots and pans. The chefs he’d trained under hadn’t reserved their contempt for their staff; some had even made successful careers off behaving like arseholes to everyone, including paying customers. The worse they were, the more they’d been able to charge and the longer their waiting lists for a table.
Russ had never chucked a pot, but he’d been a shouter and the younger, angrier version of Harry had given as good as he’d got. But Harry had worked through the worst of that anger with the help of the youth counsellor Russ had insisted he have as a condition of his employment, and after a particularly fraught night in the kitchen he’d plucked up the courage to speak to Russ. They’d been sharing a cold beer in the back yard when Harry had asked him if they could turn the temperature down a bit. Russ had been taken aback at the question, but after a long, silent contemplation over the rest of his beer he’d apologised and promised to do better. Things hadn’t changed overnight, but they’d both been quicker to laugh than shout and the whole crew had benefited from the more relaxed atmosphere.
Russ nudged Harry’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about this lot, I’ll look after them. Go on, you’ve got a party to get to.’
‘Mum and Dad won’t care what time I show up.’Probably wouldn’t care if I didn’t show up. Harry shoved away the unwelcome thought that belonged more to that angry kid he’d once been and not the calmer adult he was trying to become. Heunderstood the choices his parents had made but it didn’t mean he could forget the hurt he’d experienced in the process.
Russ raised his eyebrows, almost as if he could hear Harry’s internal monologue. Sometimes it was a pain in the arse working for someone who’d taken you firmly under their wing when it felt like everyone else had turned their back. With a wry laugh, Harry held up his hands in surrender before reaching behind his back to untie the straps of his apron. ‘Okay, okay, I’m going, I can tell when I’m not wanted!’
‘First time for everything!’ a voice called out and everyone, including Russ, burst out laughing.
‘Shots fired!’ Harry exclaimed, clutching his chest as he stared at Rehan, eyes rounded in mock hurt.
The normally shy junior currently responsible for the fish station looked almost as shocked as Harry. They rotated the juniors every couple of months to make sure they all gained a full experience of all the different roles in a professional kitchen.
‘I was going to do the clear-down in the morning and let everyone off early tonight,’ Harry continued, ‘but I might be too wounded.’
‘Oh, Rehan, now look what you’ve done!’ Sammy, the sparky little dynamo who was currently in a floating role, where she helped her colleagues at whatever station was busiest, tossed a balled-up tea towel across the kitchen.
Rehan dodged the missile then bent to scoop it up from the floor. ‘It was only a joke,’ he protested. ‘Sorry, Harry.’
Harry let the lad squirm for a few more seconds as he headed towards the back door and tossed his apron in the hamper there, followed by the black bandanna he wore to keep his hair out of the way. Placing his hands on his hips, he shook his head. ‘Rehan, Rehan, Rehan, how am I ever going to teach you to be a proper banter merchant when you back down so easily?’ A cheerand hoots of laughter rang around the kitchen as a broad grin broke out on Harry’s face.
Rehan groaned and covered his own face with his hands. ‘I can’t believe you got me again.’ He was laughing, if a touch embarrassed, as he dropped his hands.
‘Does that mean youaregoing to do clear-down for us in the morning?’ Danni asked, pretty eyes wide in eager hope.
‘Of course it does. I wouldn’t play you guys like that.’
A cheer went up from the group.
Russ clapped his hands together. ‘Right, you lot, one final push to get these desserts out and we can call it a night.’ As the rest of the team turned obediently back to their stations, Russ caught Harry’s eye. ‘What are you still doing here?’
With a laugh and a wave, Harry let himself out of the back door. Part of him was reluctant to go – it didn’t seem right to leave early on such a busy night – but his parents were expecting him. He’d already missed so many family occasions due to his unsociable hours and his mum had made a special point of asking him to go, regardless of how late he finished. It would be a nice surprise for her to have him show up while the party was still in full swing.
3
Having hurried through her shower and the rest of her preparations, Kat entered the large kitchen-diner to find her mum standing in front of the oven, her back to the room. ‘Smells good,’ Kat said, more as a peace offering than anything else.
Her mum shot her a quick smile over her shoulder then turned around when she clocked what Kat was wearing. ‘Changed your mind about the dress, then?’
‘I decided it was more jeans and boots weather.’ Kat hated the way her mother could still make her feel – and sound – like a sulky teenager sometimes.
‘You look very nice. Get some plates, will you? Your nan’s china, please, and the crystal flutes from the cabinet. Champagne can’t be guzzled out of glasses from Ikea, can it?’
Royal Dalton and Waterford crystal seemed a bit over the top for a quick drink and a few nibbles but Kat crossed the room to the large Welsh dresser that held what passed for family heirlooms in the Bailey household. All she needed to do was get through the next half an hour or so. Her parents would be asleep by the time she got back from the party and she’d already packed her case so she could be gone before they were up for breakfast.
Kat had just finished laying everything out on the kitchen island when her father swept into the room. Beaming from ear to ear, he was rubbing his hands together like he’d won the lottery. As if Gavin Bailey would do anything as wasteful as bother with a lottery ticket. When Issy had included a scratchcard in the gifts she’d given Kat for her sixteenth birthday, her dad had lectured her for ages about the odds of winning and how Issy might as well have chucked the pound she’d spent in the sea. When Kat had won £25, she’d thought he might blow a gasket.
Tonight, though, he was all smiles as he opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Dom Perignon. ‘Isn’t this nice? The three of us all celebrating together!’ he declared as he ripped the gold foil off the neck of the bottle.
‘Celebrating what?’ Kat asked in a suspicious tone, knowing from experience that her father’s idea of what was worth a celebration often did not align with hers.
‘All in good time!’ The wink he gave her as he tapped the side of his nose did nothing to alleviate her sudden concern.
