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Her resolve hardened.
No one earned a first class honours degree by accepting refusals. No one achieved anything of worth by simply allowing people to stand in the way. She was going to make a success of Sweet Temptation with Charlotte and Donny and part of being a success would involve pushing herself to break artificial boundaries imposed by those around her. Standing a little taller than before, and making sure every step she took landed with powerful force, Trudy left the washroom and marched back across the dining room to take her seat at the table.
She had a plan.
‘Are you OK, hon?’
‘I’m OK,’ Trudy told Charlotte. She considered the remains of the muffin that waited for her. She tore off a crumb and contemplated it thoughtfully. ‘I’m OK. But I’ll say goodnight to you two now.’
‘Are you going somewhere?’ Donny asked. ‘We don’t mind going with you.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Trudy told him. ‘I just figured you two might want to leave. I’ll be staying here until the pâtissier agrees to speak with me.’
Donny rolled his eyes. He glared at Charlotte. ‘Don’t tell me she’s going to make a scene.’
Charlotte shook her head. ‘No,’ she assured him. ‘Trudy’s not going to cause a scene. Not again. Not like the Wilkinson incident.’ Turning to Trudy she said, ‘Please don’t do this, hon. Not now. Not today.’
‘Please,’ Donny agreed. ‘Tonight of all nights, we should be out celebrating. I’ve got us tickets for Stanzas.’
Trudy set her jaw. There was no sense explaining that Charlotte and Donny were bringing money and business acumen to their proposed partnership whilst she was only able to contribute the same culinary knowledge they had all learnt whilst studying together. It was an argument they’d had before and she didn’t want to sit through it again. She simply wanted to talk with the kitchen staff and discover the identity of the mystery ingredient from the muffin. Once she knew what it was she would be able to work on reproducing something similar in her own kitchen.
It wouldn’t be an identical muffin.
She wouldn’t steal the recipe.
But she would be able to include that maddening, unidentifiable ingredient.
‘I’ll be waiting here until the pâtissier agrees to speak with me,’ Trudy explained. ‘I’ve got no intention of causing a scene. And once the pâtissier has told me everything I want to know, I’ll catch up with the pair of you and we can continue celebrating.’ She frowned and added, ‘Does it have to be Stanzas?’
Donny looked set to argue but Charlotte held up a hand to silence him. She reached into her purse and withdrew a series of notes.
Trudy allowed her friend to pay. This meal was Charlotte’s treat. Charlotte could afford the extortionate prices charged at Boui-Boui. Or, to be more accurate, Charlotte’s parents could afford the extortionate prices. As this really was a day for celebrations, Trudy didn’t mind taking advantage of their generosity.
Donny picked up Trudy’s mobile from the table and squinted at the screen. ‘You’re low on power.’
‘I have a spare battery in my bag. If there’s an emergency, if I need anything, I can give you a call.’
He squeezed her shoulder. The gesture was reassuringly fraternal. She caught the refreshing zesty scent of his CK1 cologne. It was a smell she knew and trusted and she caught herself smiling as she inhaled. The smell of Donny was always comforting.
‘Congratulations again,’ Charlotte said, pecking Trudy lightly on the cheek. ‘The first was deserved. You’re one of the most talented chefs I know.’
‘I will make this work for us,’ Trudy promised. Her gaze went frantically from Charlotte to Donny and then back again as she tried to impart the sincerity of her claim. ‘I will make this work for us. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I don’t doubt it, hon.’
And then Charlotte and Donny were gone and Trudy was alone at the table.
The maître d’ appeared by her side. If she was puzzled to find Trudy alone her expression didn’t register any surprise. ‘Will there be anything else?’
Trudy gestured at the plate before her.
‘I’d like to speak with the pâtissier responsible for this muffin.’
The maître d’ frowned. ‘I thought I made this clear before. The restaurant policy is quite specific on this matter. Patrons are not entitled to recipes or private discussions with members of the kitchen team. It’s simply not our policy here and I apologise if –’
‘I’ll wait,’ Trudy said. She put the final crumb of muffin into her mouth and then smiled against the thinly concealed glower worn by the maître d’. Chewing quickly before swallowing Trudy added, ‘Please may I have another of these citrus and blueberry muffins whilst I’m waiting?’
Chapter 3 (#ulink_be148b95-0021-5d6e-9d81-4f85ffdb7ab3)
An hour passed. The maître d’ paused three times at Trudy’s table. Each time she paused the exchange they shared was always identical.
‘May I get you anything else?’
‘I’d like to speak with the pâtissier.’
‘I’ve already explained that’s not possible. Boui-Boui’s policy is explicit.’
‘Then I’d like another muffin, please.’
A second hour passed. The world beyond the windows of Boui-Boui turned dark as the summer’s evening faded to night. The diners around Trudy finished their meals, paid and passed on complements to the chef, and then meandered towards the exits.
The trade, steady throughout the evening, began to falter.
Waiters and waitresses passing Trudy’s table eyed her with mixed expressions of pity, panic, bemusement and unease. They had clearly been discussing her in the kitchens. She was undoubtedly considered to be the mad woman on table thirteen. She clearly had some bug up her backside about muffins and recipes. She was a loose cannon worth watching in case she went properly crazy.
Untroubled by their opinions, Trudy closed her eyes and savoured the moment. Boui-Boui had an international reputation for excellence. William Hart, restaurateur, chef and culinary legend was the owner. Hart had delivered a seminar at Trudy’s university and she could still remember his dulcet tones as he reverently discussed the need for every chef to understand the core elements of the profession. He had spoken for an hour and it had been one of the most memorable lectures that Trudy had attended. To find herself sitting in Hart’s celebrated restaurant, trying to unravel the mysterious flavours contained within one of his kitchen’s creations, was almost like some form of surreal graduation prize. If she had been given a choice between this situation, or going out drinking with Donny and Charlotte at Stanzas, Trudy knew that she would have chosen a solitary seat in Boui-Boui every time.
‘We’ll be closing in fifteen minutes,’ the maître d’ announced. Her crisp voice cut through Trudy’s thoughts. It was sharp with tones of clinical authority.
The restaurant was virtually empty. Aside from herself the only other patrons were a solitary couple sat in one corner near a window. They held hands across a table decorated with empty plates, half-drained coffees and a single rose.
One petal had fallen from the rose to the floor.
‘The head chef has given me permission to lock the doors with you inside.’
Trudy glanced at the maître d’. ‘You’ve spoken with the head chef? May I speak with the head chef?’
‘No. As I might have mentioned before, that goes against restaurant policy.’
‘Then I’d like another muffin, please.’
The maître d’ sighed. Her shoulders slumped as she headed towards the kitchen. A moment later a smirking waitress appeared and placed another muffin in front of Trudy. She had fuchsia hair and the name badge over her right breast was written in italicised script: Nikki.
‘They’re good, aren’t they?’ Nikki grinned.
Trudy nodded. ‘I’ve never had better.’
‘My friend Kali makes them,’ Nikki explained. ‘She’s pâtissier here at Boui-Boui and she was the one who showed this recipe to Mr Hart.’
‘Really? Has she ever told you what goes into them?’
‘What goes into a citrus and blueberry muffin?’ Nikki repeated doubtfully.
Before Trudy could say that wasn’t what she meant, the maître d’ had appeared and the conversation was cut maddeningly short. She escorted the fuchsia-haired waitress out of the room and back to the kitchens.
Trudy was left alone in the restaurant with her single, enigmatic muffin.
Each citrus and blueberry muffin had been baked in a pastel pink paper case. Trudy slowly peeled the paper away before sampling the sponge in small, savoured morsels. Over the past two hours she had grown so acquainted with unpeeling the muffins from their paper cases that the action felt like a well-practised ritual. Primed by some Pavlovian response, she began to salivate in anticipation of the tantalising taste as soon as she was teasing paper away from the sponge.
Something about the flavour was maddeningly familiar.
Emotionally she was detecting excitement and hope – not things she often associated with flavours. Her tongue continued to identify suggestions of vanilla but that was a common ingredient in so many pastries that acknowledging its presence did little to help. Trudy was still trying to work out the identity of that missing detail when the maître d’ reappeared in the main doorway.
The solitary couple had crept quietly from the room. Their table had been surreptitiously cleared without Trudy noticing.
She was now the only customer in the restaurant.
The maître d’ wore an overcoat over her uniform. She had one hand on a light switch. There was something about her posture that suggested absolute determination. And, whilst Trudy could see the woman was resolute, she did not think the determination of the maître d’ could be as strong or resilient as her own will.
‘I’ll be locking the doors now,’ the maître d’ explained. ‘This is your final chance before you get locked in here for the evening. Are you going to leave?’
Trudy drew a deep breath. ‘I’ll leave after I’ve spoken with the pâtissier.’
The lights went out. Before Trudy had a proper chance to realise she had been plunged into darkness, a stranger took the seat next to hers.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_033ccd7a-9f7c-5a06-a24d-2f630fa51c6d)
‘What do you want?’
Her heartbeat quickened. She had no idea who he was. Had she been left alone with the restaurant’s security detail? Her grand idea of remaining at the table, until the restaurant’s staff were forced to deal with her, no longer seemed like such a clever strategy. A slick sheen of sweat moistened her palms. Her mouth was almost too dry to talk. She started twice before finally finding the words.
‘These muffins,’ she began. It took every ounce of effort she possessed not to stammer. She willed herself to appear in control. Even though it was dark and even though she didn’t know who she was talking to, Trudy felt the need to exude an air of contained professional calm. ‘These muffins are delicious.’
‘I know. Everything I serve here at the Boui-Boui is delicious. Now, tell me, what do you want?’
It was too dark to see who he was. He was simply a suggestion of shadow against the blackness of the unlit restaurant. His voice had a northern twang to it that reminded her of the blustering heroes from hardy TV shows and gritty films. It was an accent that suggested the words were spoken by someone with no time to tolerate whimsy, artifice or fools. They were plain-spoken words from a plain-speaking man.
His accent trilled softly against her ear like the rasp of a favourite blanket. Maddeningly, she knew his voice was one she had heard before and that she knew well. She racked her brains, desperately trying to think where she had heard it and how she knew this stranger.
‘What do I want?’ Trudy repeated. It was difficult to believe that the full details of her request had not been passed on to the senior kitchen staff. She brushed past that detail refusing to let her ire show. ‘Perhaps you might be able to tell me?’ she began excitedly. ‘Are you the pâtissier?’
Even as she asked the question she knew that wasn’t correct. The waitress had told her that the pâtissier was a woman called Kali.
‘No. I’m not the pâtissier. I’m head chef. This is my restaurant.’
Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. Whatever she had hoped to say suddenly seemed unimportant as she realised she was in the presence of a legend. She was briefly thankful for the darkness because it meant she wouldn’t be embarrassed by the fact that she was flustered with this discovery. She was in the presence of her idol.
‘William Hart?’
‘Yes.’
‘The William Hart?’
‘Unless he owes you money, yes.’
Her heart had been racing before. Now it thundered so loud she was sure he would be able to hear it in the darkened silence between them. ‘It’s an honour to meet you, Mr Hart. You came to the university and delivered a seminar. It was most inspirational.’
He grunted as though the matter was of no importance.
‘What do you want?’ In his broad accent the question came out as: Waz tha one? ‘It’s late, I’m jiggered and, whilst I’ve got no problems locking you in here for the night, I’d be better suited if you simply chuffed off back to where you’ve come from. Let those of us who work for a living get some shuteye.’
She tried squinting at him in the darkness. His dialect and unfamiliar word choices made it difficult for her to work out if he was angry or amused or possessed by some other emotion. If there had been better lighting between them she would have been able to read his eyes and establish if he was sincere in his threat to lock her inside the restaurant.
‘I wanted to learn something about the ingredients in your citrus and blueberry muffin.’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘Are you lakin’ with me?’
She shook her head and then realised he wouldn’t be able to see the movement in the darkness. ‘I don’t think I’m laking with you. I’m not fully sure I understand what that means.’
‘Lakin’?’ He sighed. ‘Are you joking? Are you playing with me? Are you having a laugh? Are you messing me about? Did you really spend your entire evening sat at this table because you wanted to know what’s in one of my blueberry muffins?’ He chuckled dourly and added, ‘I’ll tell you now, lass, the answer to that one was buried somewhere in the question.’
Trudy frowned. She could tell he was mocking her and she supposed her unorthodox behaviour did merit some level of derision. Nevertheless, she was determined not to be dismissed as a foolish blonde who hadn’t worked out that a blueberry muffin contained blueberries.
‘I recognise so many flavours in this product,’ she said quickly. ‘I can taste the organic, free range eggs. I can taste hand-milled wheat as well as blueberries and citrus zest.’ A revelation suddenly came to her and she said, ‘I’ve even worked out that those sugars that were initially confusing me are an acacia honey.’
He drummed his fingers on the table.
Her vision was beginning to adjust to the lack of light in the room and she could see the lines that weathered his face. His eyes were wrinkled by the suggestion of constant smiles. She could see he had raised one steel-grey eyebrow, as though encouraging her to continue. She wanted to believe he was grudgingly impressed with her abilities but the lighting in the dining area was too dim for her to read much from the shadows that cloaked his face.
‘Well done,’ he said drily. ‘You can taste flavours.’
‘But that’s the problem,’ she insisted. She quashed the urge to let him hear the impatience in her tone. ‘I can’t name all of them. There’s one remaining flavour that I haven’t yet been able to identify. That’s why I’m still sitting here. I need to know the identity of that missing ingredient.’
His smile glinted brilliant white in the shadows. The darkness made it impossible for her to see if there was any kindness in his eyes. The expression made her think of a shark on the scent of blood.
‘When I delivered my seminar at your school –’
‘University,’ she corrected.
He waved a hand as though the distinction was unimportant. Continuing without pause he asked, ‘Can you remember what I spoke about?’
She didn’t have to hesitate. The lesson he had imparted on that day had been one that matched her own beliefs about the ideals of cuisine. Goosebumps bristled at the nape of her neck as she remembered William Hart delivering his message to her and a lecture theatre of two hundred students. ‘I remember it vividly. You told us to respect the flavours.’ Her voice lowered to a reverential whisper as she repeated the words. ‘You said that a chef needs to be conversant with flavours. As conversant with flavours as a concert pianist is conversant with classical music. As conversant with flavours as a writer is conversant with works of great literature. You said that it’s the duty of every great chef to respect and understand every flavour in the kitchen. Respect the flavours.’
‘It sounds sexier when you say it,’ he admitted. ‘But, despite the respect you clearly have for flavours, you still don’t recognise that added flavour in my citrus and blueberry muffin?’
She started to shake her head and then stopped. It wasn’t that she didn’t recognise the flavour. She did know it – or something similar. Her chest began to swell as she realised why she had associated emotions such as excitement and happiness with the flavour.
Her heartbeat quickened.
