‘I started off as the kitchen porter,’ I continue. ‘Actually’ – for some reason I decide to launch into the whole thing – ‘I was at uni studying history and got the job as a part-time thing after spending my entire student loan in the first week.’ I pause to shrug apologetically. ‘I thought I could buy friends with alcohol, which it turns out, you absolutely can!’ He laughs politely as I keep going. ‘Anyway, the only place that would look at my CV – or lack thereof – was La Rita’s near my college. I was washing dishes for twelve hours at a time, but for some reason I was immediately mad about the whole thing and desperate to become a chef. I quit after a term of uni, having missed just about every single lecture and seminar, and that little Italian promoted me to a trainee and set me to work.’
‘That’s a nice story,’ he smiles teasingly and I bask in his attention. ‘But A’Diva must be pretty different from what you’re used to.’
I nod. ‘In hindsight, I feel slightly tricked by my last bosses. They were so sweet and kind. They always insistedeveryone went home at a decent hour and had proper days off. This place has been quite a shock to the system.’
‘I think you’ve got what it takes, though,’ Paul tells me generously and I feel instantly better. He has a calming, reassuring presence. It’s good to be around. ‘We haven’t been open long, but the staff turnover has been insane.’ He grins. ‘If you’ve lasted a week, you’re already doing a whole lot better than most.’
The sound of the outer door opening jolts me out of our intimate conversation. Loud voices begin their arrival down the corridor towards us.
Paul turns to me quickly. ‘Can I take you out for a drink some time? It would be nice to get to know you more. I’ll even buy you a sherry.’
I frown. ‘A sherry?’
He smiles broadly. ‘It’s a brilliant drink! Very underrated. You get very drunkveryquickly and it’s like a shot of Haribo straight to the veins.’
‘I don’t know if Iwanta shot of Haribo.’ I try to picture it. ‘And isn’t sherry a bit… grandparents? No? And y’know, a bit… feminine?’
He looks mock-appalled. ‘That is very gender-normative of you, Esther. If girls can be astronauts and murderers, I can drink sherry and talk about my feelings, OK?’ I nod, shame-faced, as he continues proudly. ‘You cannot undermine my masculinity. I am incredibly confident with my sherry choices and will not be embarrassed by you or anyone, thank you.’ He pauses. ‘Plus, you’ll see, it’s delicious. You’ll be aconvert in no time.’ I laugh and he leans in, eagerly. ‘So? Do you want to go out some time?’
I open my mouth to answer, just as the air vacates the room.
It’s him.
The head chef has arrived. He’s never been here this early before! He sweeps in, his presence instantly filling the space around us. The smells around him are richer, the sounds clearer, the colours all brighter.
Poor, eager, kind Paul is suddenly no more to me than a vague outline in my peripheral vision.
My hero and leader zooms in on me out of nowhere. He has barely glanced in my direction and he’s suddenly in my face. So close. My breath catches in my chest.
‘Esther Adams!’ He smiles an insanely sexy smile and I hold back a gasp. He knows my name. The head chef knows my name! How is this possible?
‘Yes, Chef?’ I try to say through my thick, swollen tongue, trying not to look at his huge arms and shoulders.
There is a rumour that he once lifted a commis chef clear off his feet – with only one hand! – and threw him across a prep counter. All because he’d drizzled dressing on the wrong side of a plate.
I want him to throw me across a counter. Oh god, I want that so badly.
‘Little Esther Adams,’ he booms again, his eyes flashing as he tastes my name. ‘I need you on salads today. Get me a coffee and I’ll talk you through it. You know where the French press is, don’t you?’
‘The French press?’ I reply like an idiot child with a head injury. He looks at me, amused, and I add quickly, ‘Of course, Chef, sorry, Chef!’ I leap up as he glides away to get his whites.
As I head for the cafetière, I at last remember Paul.
‘Shit.’ I am flustered, turning back to him. ‘Sorry, Paul, um, what were you saying, er, mate?’
The light has gone from his eyes as he answers. ‘Never mind. Good luck with the salads. You’ll do great. I believe in you.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘OK, enough of this!’ Sofia stands up, stretching herself to her full height. ‘We can’t see anything over here. We must get closer.’
‘What?’ I shrink down in my seat. ‘Absolutely not! No! Sit back down, Sofia!’ She doesn’t. In fact she’s leaving, and so are my traitorous friends, Bibi and Louise, both scrambling to follow our elderly neighbour as she heads out of the café door.
‘You must take risks in life!’ She is already sailing away and into the road. ‘As long as people won’t get hurt, you musttry!’
‘But people might get hurt!’ I cry, leaping up to follow.
She does not stop, but waves her hand in the air dismissively. ‘Bof! What people would get hurt?’
