Taste of Love Read online

  "I suppose it was a bit grotty," she acknowledged. "But the food was always fine. At least I never heard of there being any problems." She very carefully avoided looking at him. He could feel the tension radiate from her body.

  "It wasn't absolutely dangerous," Matthew conceded. "I don't think you'd have been shut down on the spot if Health and Safety had come around. But you'd have had a little talk from them, and a repeat visit." He abandoned the pretence at dispassionate analysis. It didn't sit well with him anyway. "Actually, I thought it was a fucking disgrace. I'd never let any kitchen I worked in get that bad."

  She flinched as he spoke, and turned an icy glare on him.

  "Kindly don't swear at me. And I'm sorry the kitchen was not to your satisfaction. Perhaps you'd like to reconsider your position."

  "Not likely. You said two weeks, so that's how long I'm here for. After that, we'll talk."

  "Oh, very well." She hugged her arms tightly to her and cast her eye over the kitchen, looking as if she was just searching for something to find fault with. Then she flinched again.

  "What are those?"

  "Crabs." Matthew hefted the crate over for her to see. Janine squealed and leapt back.

  "They're alive!"

  "Of course they're alive. Did you think they came in little plastic-wrapped sticks straight from the bottom of the sea?"

  "No, but..." She turned so pale he thought she'd faint. "I didn't know. I hadn't really thought about it at all, I suppose. Please take them away. They make me feel ill."

  Matthew put them back on the floor and covered them with a spare crate.

  "You're awfully squeamish for someone who wants a restaurant career," he observed.

  "I don't want a career," Janine replied. She was holding on to the counter, as if struggling to steady herself. "I've already got one. I just feel I should continue what Nan started."

  "Great." That was just what he needed, another part-time owner. "Why not just sell the place?"

  "I couldn't," Janine said frankly. "Not as a going concern. It's too far in debt. The only choice I have is whether to try and turn it around or to close it down and pay what I can to the creditors. Which is mostly the bank, and they've got my Nan's house as security." There was a slight catch in her voice, but she'd turned away. He couldn't see her face. "I'll be fine. I'd be better off closing it now. But you said you thought there was a chance." She swung around to fix him with an accusing stare. "If you hadn't said that, and convinced me you meant it, I wouldn't have hired you. Are you telling me you've changed your mind?"

  Matthew shook his head.

  "I don't change that easily. I just didn't know things had got quite that bad."

  "Worse." She bit her lip hard: her teeth left a livid red mark when she let go. "I mean it could be worse." Her face and voice took on the cold, guarded quality he'd noticed before, the first time he spoke with her. What was she so wary of? He didn't know, and couldn't guess.

  "I talked to the kitchen staff," she said now. "John and Tommy. I told them to be here at nine this morning, so they should be coming in soon."

  "I expect them here at eight," Matthew said. "That's the only way to get all the prep work done in time for the lunchtime session."

  "Well, you can tell them so yourself." She flounced out of the kitchen, leaving a faint trace of perfume.

  Matthew swore -- quietly, to himself. They hadn't even had a chance to discuss the menu. He'd sat up half the night coming up with a new and improved version, and was eager to hear what she thought of it. Now he'd have to wait. There were three crates of fish to attend to, as well as crabs to boil.

  Sod it, he thought, and went after her anyway.

  She was sitting at one of the tables, resting her forehead in her hands. The linen tablecloth had once been a cream colour, but age and daylight exposure had yellowed it. A few stains, faded by repeat washes but lingering still, gave it a sordid air.

  "Are you all right?" he asked again. It was a stupid question, but he couldn't think of a better one. And he was worried about her. She looked fragile somehow, despite the upright bearing and toned muscles. She was in great shape, he realised as he looked over her figure. Almost like a dancer, or a gymnast. But she didn't move like one.

  "I'm fine." She raised her head and gave him a weary look. The skin on her face was pale, with a blueish tinge under the eyes.

  "No, you're not." Matthew sat down opposite her, dropping the sketched-out menu onto his lap. This wasn't the time, he sensed that instinctively. He'd learned, over the years, to listen to his intuition. It was what separated a competent cook from a good chef.

  He'd wanted to be more than a good chef, once. He'd wanted to be great. That's why he'd gone to London, trained at the best schools, worked his way around some of the most renowned kitchens both in London and in Paris. But somewhere along the way he'd lost the drive. He got careless at first, then sloppy. Finally, with good but not glowing references and the haunting sense of having disappointed his mentors, he'd listened to his mother's pleading and gone home.

  He'd found a town in decline. Just holding on, as so often throughout its history. Scraping a living of sorts from what sea and land might bring.

  And he'd stayed. Not from any great desire to do so, but because there didn't seem to be anywhere else he could go.

  "You're not fine," he said. "I can see that in your eyes. What's the problem?"

  She laughed at that, a cold brittle laugh only a breath away from tears.

  "Do you want the list?" She waved a hand in front of her face, dismissively. "Sorry, I didn't mean to say that. It's not your problem at least, any of it. Just life, you know. Nan died and my job's shot and my Mum's not here and -- " She broke off. "Sorry," she said again. "Just too many things all at once."

  "What's wrong with your job?"

  "It doesn't matter. Besides, this is all I ever wanted." She flung out a hand to indicate the fading wallpaper and dreary tablecloths. "My Nan's restaurant. It was going to be her and me, making a success of it. And it never happened. And now the whole thing will have to close and -- "

  "It won't close." Matthew put the revised menu on the table in front of her. "It'll just be a little bit different. I came up with some ideas last night."

  Janine wiped her eyes and studied the scrawls that ran down the length of a torn page of A4 paper. She squinted, then frowned.

  "I can't read it," she said.

  "It's obvious." Matthew pointed to each item in turn. "Grilled skate with lemon butter. Fried plaice with capers. Baked monkfish with red pepper."

  "It sounds a bit too simple," Janine said doubtfully. She pulled a dainty white handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her nose with delicate movements.

  "Simple is good," Matthew explained. "People want simple. Look, you're going to get two classes of customer here. Locals and tourists. Locals don't want anything too fancy -- they'll come for the atmosphere, and to eat something tasty that they wouldn't necessarily cook at home. Tourists want local produce cooked with respect, so they can feel they're getting authentic flavour. Nobody's interested in derivative fake-London stuff from the eighties."

  Janine winced.

  "I suppose so," she said.

  "While we're about it," Matthew went on. He pointed to the stain on the tablecloth. "This kind of thing has to go. We can't serve good food in lousy surroundings. People won't come for that. Why should they, when they can go to Greens or the White Horse or the Magpie and get excellent food in a great setting? We need our food to match theirs, and we need the décor to match theirs as well. I'm thinking lots of white space, clean lines, maybe some black and red for accent. No crummy tablecloths or forty-watt lightbulbs in fly-encrusted shades. It's disgusting."

  "This place is nothing like that." He'd gone too far, he could see it. She was all fired up again. Her grey eyes blazed like guns in some American film. "It's cosy and friendly. I want to keep it like that."

  "It's dirty."

  "It's not!"

&n
bsp; "Don't be stupid." Matthew slapped the stained tablecloth with his hand, hard enough to make her jump. She really was touchy, this one. "Does this look like clean linen to you?"

  "I'm not stupid." Her voice was coated in ice, cold enough to form a layer of frost all over his skin. "Not in the least. And I can see that little stain as well as you can. It's not a problem."

  "Not a problem? Customers see that, and the next thing they're wondering if we ever wash the plates between sittings."

  "I'll put some lemon juice on it."

  "You'll need a vat of lemon juice if you're going to treat every single cloth."

  "Then I'll get one. Anyway, what's your suggestion? Formica tables?"

  "Nothing wrong with formica. Cleans up quick and easy between every cover. Add a thorough scrub between sittings and you could eat straight off the surface, without bothering about the plates."

  "That's hardly any more hygienic. In fact, it sounds pretty disgusting to me."

  "Why? This is just prejudice talking."

  "I'm not prejudiced."

  They glared at each other, both searing hot with rage. Matthew took a deep breath. He couldn't afford to lose this job, too. Not when he so badly wanted to stay. Although right now, he wanted nothing so much as to wring this damned woman's neck.

  "We can talk about that later," he said, trying to sound conciliatory but missing by a mile. "I just want your approval for the menu."

  Janine nodded. Her cheeks, which had glowed with anger, subsided into their customary creamy pallor.

  "Yes," she said. "All right. We'll try out your new menu. And we'll talk about the décor some other time."

  "Soon," Matthew warned. "Things need to pick up fast, if you're wanting to turn the business around. We're into the slow season now."

  "I know that." Her grey eyes were cold as the North Sea beyond the harbour. "I'm still thinking about the possibility of closing down over the winter."

  Matthew felt a chill in his heart. He'd need to find some other job then. Leave the area, most likely. And he didn't want to do that -- not now.

  "If you do," he said, "what are the chances of you being in a position to open up again in the spring?"

  "I don't know." Janine stared at her fingernails. Matthew had no idea why -- they looked pretty normal to him. "I'm busy thinking about that, too."

  ***

  Janine rummaged through the cupboards. Behind her was a pile of napkins and tablecloths that was growing by the second, dwarfing Snowdon already. They were supposedly clean, but now that she inspected them closely, she could see that Matthew was right. Every one had old stains, discolouration, something that made it look less than fresh.

  In her work as a physiotherapist, she knew how important it was to keep hygiene standards high. Benches, towels and white coats must not only be clean, but spotless. It gave the patients confidence.

  She'd never really thought about the fact that the same thing applied in catering. She'd always loved the homelike atmosphere of her Nan's restaurant. When she was little, she'd spent hours prodding at every spot she could find, just curious to see what it was and what it might do. They had never done anything, of course. But she was convinced then -- she could only have been a few years old -- that at least one of them was a magic button, and that if she could only find it and press it, amazing things would appear.

  She almost laughed now, to remember it. Where on earth had she got such a crazy idea from?

  She stuffed the linen into large bin bags and began the Herculean task of dragging it all back to her Nan's house. She had to make three trips. Fortunately it was only a few minutes' walk. Once she had it all back at the house, she started on the job of squeezing lemons.

  She'd got good at the intricacies of stain removal. Her mother wasn't very interested in housework, so the only way it had got done while Janine was growing up was if Janine herself did it. With two younger siblings and herself to care for, she'd been kept busy. She'd learned a lot, too.

  "You're such an angel, darling," her mother would say, stroking Janine's hair affectionately. "Whatever would I do without you?" Janine, basking in the glow of affection, promised herself she'd work harder still. Harder and harder, until she was the one who made sure her mother went to work in clean clothes and everyone sat down to a cooked dinner every night.

  She'd never minded. Perhaps at times, she'd felt a little resentful. But it was so nice to be wanted and needed, so wonderfully satisfying to know that she was doing a good job.

  She got the same satisfaction out of helping her patients. Most were elderly and had problems with mobility, usually as the result of falls or arthritis. It was wonderful to be able to give them back some measure of the independence they valued so highly. To see them walking where before they'd needed a wheelchair, to see them manage without sticks or bandages when they'd thought themselves crippled for the rest of their lives, was the most inspiring feeling she could imagine. It made all the hard work worthwhile.

  Janine loaded up the washing machine with the first batch of lemon-soaked fabric. The smell, sharp and exhilarating, filled the kitchen.

  A knock on the door startled her. The door opened, and Mrs Sutcliffe peered in.

  "Are you there? Oh, I see you are. I brought you some bread and milk, I thought you might be running out." She stared at the pile of damp linen. "What are you washing?"

  "Tablecloths," Janine explained. "From the restaurant. Some of them needed a bit of treatment. Thank you so much for the bread and milk." She didn't mention that she'd bought some only that morning, nor that she preferred a brown loaf to a white one and full-fat milk to semi-skimmed. It would be ungracious to complain, when Mrs Sutcliffe was being so very kind.

  "I'll put this in the fridge for you." Mrs Sutcliffe began to weave her way through the lemony heaps.

  "Please don't," Janine pleaded. She didn't want Mrs Sutcliffe to discover the existing pint of milk. She lunged forward to take the container, but her foot snagged on a tablecloth. There was a startled moment as she saw Mrs Sutcliffe topple backwards, and then the old woman thumped onto the floor in a scatter of creamy cloth.

  Janine dashed forward.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry! Are you all right?"

  "You're a very clumsy girl." Mrs Sutcliffe sat up, looking aggrieved. "Your Nan told me that when you were little, you were always tripping over things. Sometimes she couldn't tell which bit of you was up and which was down. Now you'd better help me stand up, and don't go pushing me over while you're about it."

  "I'll try my best." Janine bit down on an acrimonious response. The snipe about her Nan rankled with her, and she was really annoyed with Mrs Sutcliffe for barging in so presumptuously in the first place, let alone get tangled up in the washing and perform such a spectacular fall. Some nasty injuries could happen that way. Janine had to treat enough of them to know. But she struggled to maintain a kind and sympathetic expression, the one she held on to at all times in front of her patients, and aided Mrs Sutcliffe's efforts to stand up.

  But it didn't happen. With a yelp, Mrs Sutcliffe slipped sideways, nearly taking Janine down with her. The full weight of the old woman's body slammed down on Janine's arm and wrenched the muscles of her back.

  "I've hurt my ankle." Mrs Sutcliffe was breathless with either pain or fear -- or anger. "Help me to a chair."

  Janine got her seated, and took a close look at the stockinged foot held out for her perusal. It was slightly swollen already, probably from water retention. She checked it against the other foot -- no obvious difference there -- then gently removed Mrs Sutcliffe's sensible black shoes and made a proper examination.

  There was no doubt about it. The ankle was badly twisted, and could not be used.

  "You'll have to lie down on the sofa," Janine said. "Until we can get someone to help carry you next door. I'll get you an ice pack." She waded through tablecloths towards the freezer, where an elderly bag of frozen peas waited. Janine wrapped the bag in a wet tea towel, and arranged the cold compr
ess against Mrs Sutcliffe's suffering ankle.

  "Stay there," Janine instructed. "I'll have to make sure we can get you safely into the other room."

  "Silly girl," Mrs Sutcliffe replied, petulance sharp in her voice. Janine ignored it. Pain did make people crotchety, as she well knew. She busied herself with clearing a path through to living room, then knelt against the chair and braced herself.

  "Put your arm around my shoulders," she instructed Mrs Sutcliffe. "Then slowly transfer your weight to me. Don't make any sudden movements. I don't want you to slip and do yourself any more damage."

  They made it through to the next room, despite Mrs Sutcliffe's grumbling. Janine made her comfortable on the sofa, then picked up the phone.

  "Is there someone I can call?" She thought of Matthew, but he was at the restaurant, and working hard in the kitchen. He wasn't likely to answer the front-of-house phone. It would be quicker to walk there and tell him what had happened. She put the receiver down. "What's Matthew's mobile number?"

  Mrs Sutcliffe would have none of it.

  "Phone my daughter. She's in Scarborough -- it's not far. She'll have to come home and look after me." Mrs Sutcliffe read out the number with a glib ease that suggested she used it as often as soap.

  "Stella?" she said when Janine handed her the phone. "It's Mum. Listen, dear, I've sprained my ankle and I need you to come and look after me. No, I can't ask Matthew to do it. He's busy at work. Now don't be silly, you know that little job of yours isn't important. No, of course I don't have anyone else to look after me. Well yes, there's that Janine girl from next door, but she won't do. She's the one who made me fall over in the first place. It can't wait until the weekend, dear, I need your help now. That's right. Good girl. I'll see you in an hour, then." She handed the receiver back to Janine. "You'd better make me a cup of tea," she demanded. "My daughter won't be here for at least an hour."

  "I'd be happy to look after you myself if it's difficult for her to come home," Janine said, straining not to show how little she meant it.

  "You!" Mrs Sutcliffe gave her a contemptuous look. "I told Stella, it was your fault I hurt my foot in the first place. Now run along and bring me a cup of tea."