Page 62 of Taste

“Creepy.”

“Nah, just someone who is grateful. There are lovely people out there, Finn. Oh, and there’s this new barista in the coffee lounge. Seth was having kittens, prancing around, pretending to help guests when all he wanted to do was have an opportunity to talk to her. Very pretty, apparently, and single according to Facebook.”

“Oh. Interested is he?”

“Definitely.”

“And is she?”

“Maybe. We asked her to come out with us on Monday, just to keep Seth happy. They seemed to get on well.”

We drove in silence for a bit, other than sound of air flowing in through the sunroof.

“There are some nice places up there. York is nice, you’ll like it. Harrogate. Pretty town.”

“We can go there tomorrow. Have tea and scones and all that. Be proper tourists.”

“The place we’re staying at sounds really lovely.”

“It is. My gorgeous friend Lucy, who runs it, is a fabulous chef. We’ll be treated like kings.” He was trying hard to cheer me up, but I was becoming more and more frazzled.

The road blurred as he chatted on, telling me stories I’d heard a million times, discussing spice blends and suppliers and other things I would usually take interest in but now couldn’t.

“I ordered a set of frames for your recipes,” I said the next time he paused for breath. “You know you talked about framing copies of Mrs Hussein’s recipe cards for the entrance alcove?”

“Dear Mrs Hussein.” His face lit up just thinking about her, though I saw the sadness there too. Mrs Hussein had passed away shortly after her stay with us. We hadn’t known at the time, of course, and it wasn’t until a few months later that Mark had received a thick envelope in the post. Mrs Hussein had left him her treasured recipes in her will, accompanied by instructions that her daughter-in-law had meticulously written out. Just that gesture had put Mark in a grief-stricken slump for days, crying with anger over the unfairness of the world. But the fragrant lamb stew Mrs Hussein had inspired was now a staple on the menu, and the dish was aptly named ‘Mrs Hussein’ as well. She had certainly left her mark on the world; she even had a small section in our restaurant brief.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “She would have loved that. Fame and fortune.”

“I still think you should get Ben to submit that dish to the Taste of the Year competition.”

“It’s not our dish. It’s hers.”

“Yours.She left it to you. And Ben would win for us, hands down. It’s bloody gorgeous, you have to admit.”

“Who would have thought? Mrs Hussein could have become a renowned chef instead of stitching up post-operative patients. Life does move in mysterious ways. “

“It does.”

It did indeed, and after many hours of endless motorway and a dire two-hour traffic standstill, we were navigating the narrow lanes of North Yorkshire, where every road sign, every turn of the road, edged the fear in my chest one step closer to becoming a black hole that would swallow me from the inside out. I didn’t want this. I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do anymore.

I wasn’t sure of anything at all by the time we turned down the lane that had once been a dirt track of gravel but was now a proper asphalted road. The stone walls either side of us felt like they were caving in on us in our stupid tiny car, The hedges were overwhelming, and I felt like a child trapped in a tunnel, except there was no shining light at the end to welcome me.

I knew he knew, because he drove slowly, one hand on the steering wheel and one hand in mine.

“I’m going to stop at the crossroads ahead, on top of the hill,” he said. “You need to get out and get some air.”

I couldn’t even answer back, my throat once again constricted by fear. I had once dealt with an out-of-control world champion boxer in our rooftop bar. He’d been high on drugs and tried to smash my face in, and that was somehow something I hadn’t even thought twice about. I’d dealt with stabbings and drunkards, had abuse hurled at me from every angle at work, yet here I was, tumbling out onto the grass verge of the road leading to the farm where I’d grown up, but instead of feeling like I was home, I promptly threw up into over the drystone wall.

“I used to be able to jump over this in one go if I ran fast enough.”

His hand rested, comfortingly heavy, on my neck. “Just breathe.”

“I don’t want to be here.”

“Neither do I, but this? This is how we move on.”

“Can we just…go?”

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