Page 62 of Love in Tune

Laying the spoon down slowly, she shook her head.

‘It really hasn’t helped much,’ she croaked, reaching once more for the tap.

‘What are we going to do?’ Skinny Steve whispered, looking stricken. ‘It’s almost two. If I don’t have something on the table at half five they’re going to lynch us.’

Honey briefly considered mentioning that she wasn’t, in point of fact, kitchen staff, and running for the hills, but she’d seen Skinny Steve sprint just now and had no doubt he’d tackle her and bring her down before she made it as far as the door. Besides, he was desperate, and she wasn’t hard-hearted enough to desert him in his hour of need. Which kind of left them both with a monumental problem. They had to serve dinner for around thirty people in just over three hours and didn’t have a clue between them how to do it.

‘Do you think the agency could send a replacement in time?’ Steve asked.

Honey really doubted it. She crossed the room and swung the fridge door open, feeling a sinking sense of déjà vu about the whole situation. The last time she’d done this she’d managed to pull off a coup, but that wasn’t likely to happen twice in one lifetime. The chiller offered up very little in the way of inspiration, definitely nothing that looked like it might save their bacon. Although there was actual bacon …

‘Do they eat bacon and sausages?’ she asked.

Steve screwed up his nose. ‘Some of them. Bacon gets stuck in their false teeth. Or they don’t have any teeth.’ He shrugged apologetically.

‘And sausages?’

He looked more hopeful. ‘Yeah. We could do sausages.’

‘With …’ Honey tried to coax him into creating a dish. He was the more experienced cook of them both, he did this every day.

‘… Mash!’ Skinny Steve practically shouted, lighting up like a just-plugged-in Christmas tree. ‘Bangers and mash!’

Honey grinned, relieved at yet another disaster averted. ‘Now you’re talking. Get some potatoes, there’s peeling to be done. You do peel potatoes for mash, right?’

You know that warm glow of pride you get when you do something really well and everyone tells you you’re a marvel? It wasn’t quite that good, but by Honey and Steve’s standards the sausage and mash feast followed by their trademark magic whip pudding was a roaring triumph. It was only as they were gathering in the dishes afterwards that Steve checked the kitchen calendar and went a sickly shade of green.

‘Oh no,’ he muttered, making Honey look up from stacking the plates.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s Old Don’s birthday tomorrow. There’s a party at three o’clock.’

‘A party?’ Honey repeated, her tired brain hurting with the effort of more frantic thinking. ‘As in a party that needs party food? Like sandwiches, and sausage rolls and things?’

‘And a birthday cake,’ Steve mouthed, the look of a hunted deer back in his eyes.

‘Can you bake?’ Honey asked, already knowing the answer before he shook his head. She was no Mary Berry either, despite having watched every series ofThe Great British Bake Off. She freely admitted to having taken more notice of Paul Hollywood’s baby blues than the technicalities of baking, an oversight she now bitterly regretted.

‘Shit.’ She dropped onto the nearest stool. ‘We’re sunk.’

Steve looked like a defeated featherweight boxer, all slumped shoulders and downturned, dejected lips.

‘I’ve had enough of all this,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m sorry, Honey. I know this is bad of me, but I quit. I can’t do this.’

‘What? No!’ Honey stood up and grabbed the lapels of the tracksuit top he’d just dragged up his arms. ‘Steve, you can’t do that to me! Or to them.’ She jerked her head towards the dining room. ‘Please, we’ll sort something out. I’ll buy a cake from the supermarket. We’ll get another chef in soon, I promise.’

‘Honey, we need one here first thing in the morning, and it’s not gonna happen.’ He shrugged. ‘They pay me minimum wage for this. It’s too much shit for too little pay.’

Honey’s mind raced, and then she made a rash and desperate offer. ‘What if I promise you that there will be a chef here tomorrow? Someone to take over and teach you again, like Patrick did?’

Fragile hope lit his teenage grey eyes, making Honey feel like the Child Catcher trying to lure him to stay with lollipops.

‘You promise?’ he said.

She nodded, closing her eyes briefly and hoping like hell that she’d be able to come good.

‘I promise. Just be here on time in the morning, okay?’

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