As if she had willed them from her thoughts, she heard both their voices, from somewhere on the other side of the cabin door. Her first instinct was to go out and join them, but as she opened the door, she overheard a snippet of their conversation.
‘I promise that it’s just sex, one stupid night,’ Jack was saying, his voice hard and unfeeling. ‘After we dock today, we’ll be back in separate rooms and I will barely see her.’
Sofia’s blood ran cold, and she shut the door quietly. She sat back down on the bunk, staring at the full coffee cup, and waited for the tears to fall, but her eyes were dry.
A light knock on the door. ‘Sofia, may I come in?’ she scoffed to herself quietly. Just hours before he had been inside her, and now here he was performing as ‘the gentleman’.
‘Give me a moment,’ she said flatly, quickly changing into her chef’s whites and pulling her hair back into a tight bun. She would shower later. For now she just wanted to get away from him as fast as possible.
She opened the door to find him leaning against the opposite wall. He smiled at her gingerly. ‘Are you off to cook breakfast already?’ he asked sheepishly. His arms were crossed and he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. She stomached a wave of disgust. How could he just stand there, as if last night had never happened?
‘Yes,’ she said stonily. She hoped he might say something else, but he just stared at his feet. She took it as her cue to leave and marched to the kitchen.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Over the course of the morning, Sofia experienced a range of emotions. When the disgust had subsided, it was replaced by a blinding anger. She could hardly concentrate on making breakfast. Her scrambled eggs were overcooked and oversalted. When Petra walked into the kitchen she tried to put on a brave face.
She handed over the plates. Petra eyed them, and then Sofia, suspiciously.
‘I’ve never seen you overcook an egg before.’ Petra put the plates down and her hands on her hips. ‘What’s wrong?’
That’s when the tears came. Petra enveloped her in a hug. ‘Tell me what happened, Sofia. It’s OK.’ But hearing the care in her voice only made Sofia cry harder. It reminded her of how cared for she had felt, in Jack’s arms, only hours ago.
As the tears dried hot and her cries turned to shaky breaths, Petra leant back, examining Sofia’s face, her own steeped in worry. ‘Please tell me,’ she begged.
Sofia took a ragged breath. ‘I slept with Jack.’
Petra’s arms dropped to her sides in shock. ‘Oh,’ was all she said.
‘I don’t really know what came over me, but it was a mistake.’ Now Sofia was feeling angry again, with herself. How had she let this happen? Hearing the words come from her own mouth, it seemed so obvious that Jack was right – it was a mistake, a slip-up, and it could never happen again.
Petra was clearly absorbing what she had just been told. Cautiously she said, ‘What does he think about it?’
‘He also thinks it’s a mistake. I heard him telling Captain Mary this morning.’ Sofia’s voice broke and more tears started streaming down her cheeks.
‘Oh, honey.’ Petra pulled her in again. ‘It’s probably for the best. He’s a lot of things, but boyfriend material is not one of them, and anyway you wouldn’t both be able to keep working here if anything else happened, and I don’t want to lose either of you!’ Petra was trying to lighten the mood and Sofia smiled weakly.
‘Sorry, I know this must be awkward for you, what with Jack...’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Petra batted away Sofia’s apology. ‘That stuff is ancient history. I’m more worried about these eggs.’ Sofia giggled half-heartedly. ‘There you go, that wasn’t so hard.’ Petra took Sofia by the chin and levelled it with her own. ‘Listen, Sofia, I know that this is going to feel like some awful case of history repeating itself, but it’s not. These things happen and the best course of action you can take now is to buck up, laugh it off, and fake it till you make it.’ Sofia nodded – maybe she could manage that?
‘Now, for the love of God make me some more eggs. I can’t possibly serve these up as they are.’ They both chuckled. Sofia wiped her eyes and resolved that, unlike last time, she wouldn’t let a man get the better of her and her work.
The second time around the eggs were silky, bright with fresh yolk and flecked with smoked salmon. ‘Now there’s the Chef Harlow I know,’ Petra said appreciatively, blowing Sofia a kiss as she walked out the kitchen. In a way it had been exactly what she had needed, to redirect her pride into her cooking, forget about workplace romance, and concentrate on being the best she could be. That was the point of all this.
Afterwards she sent out the crew breakfast. ‘Just tell them I’m not hungry.’ She hoped Petra would deliver the line convincingly. She couldn’t quite face up to sitting across from Jack yet.
Instead she decided to slave over a spectacular lunch – four courses, Milly’s calorie counting be damned. She was determined to try and send their palettes on at least an excursion if not a full-on adventure. For the first course, an orange, radicchio and fennel salad with an anchovy dressing, which they had enjoyed the last time she’d snuck it into a dish. For the second course, a gorgonzola and pear risotto, with candied orange peel. After that she would serve a duck confit. She thought back to her days at Lochland Fleet’s, his clipped, precise orders ringing out through the kitchen. Duck confit had been one of his signature dishes, one that had taken him years to perfect in Paris, where he had trained.
The key, he said, was the marinade. It had to be left to sit for at least twenty-four hours. In her time under Lochland’s tutelage, Sofia had discovered a different method. It involved less time, but she would have to massage the duck, in its marinade, at least every hour. It was more labour-intensive. The duck would essentially need her attention for the whole day. Today, she couldn’t think of anything better than clearing her mind of errant thoughts with a fixation on a duck leg.
At first Lochland had been unimpressed, bordering on incensed by the idea. He had scolded her, every time she broke rank and scuttled to the fridge to tenderise the duck. When it came time for tasting, Sofia had been a bundle of nerves, imagining what form his derision might take. She had never forgotten the feeling she had gotten when he put the fork to his lips, chewed and then smiled. It was pure elation.
The other students in her class grumbled when he sang her praises, complaining that he had told them how to prepare the duck the best way and weren’t they there to learn from him? From the best?
‘Indeed you can learn from the best but that does not mean you can learn tobethe best,’ he had said calmly, and then motioning towards Sofia. ‘True greatness, in the kitchen, as in life, comes from knowing, instinctually, when to follow the rules, and when to break them.’ It was the first time in her life that Sofia had been sure she was on the right path. Maybe it was the last time as well, she thought now, as she dug the heels of her palms into the flesh.
For dessert, she would keep it simple, but continue her orange flavour theme. The crème brûlée too would be flecked with zest. Sofia didn’t leave the kitchen all morning. In the steam, the sizzle, and the smells she could lose herself, laser her focus onto a singular slice of fennel, or spoonful of browning butter.
