Читать книгу Rosie’s Travelling Tea Shop: An absolutely perfect laugh out loud romantic comedy - Rebecca Raisin, Rebecca Raisin - Страница 10

At Billingsgate Market the briny smell of seafood hardly registers. I dash to the fishmonger, rattle off my order, too distracted to make the usual small talk. John, the guy with the freshest seafood this side of Cornwall, notices my jittery state.

‘What’s up, Rosie? There’s something different about you today.’ He gives me a once-over as if trying to pinpoint the change.

‘Oh,’ I say, mind scuttling. ‘I haven’t had any tea.’ My other great love. Making hand-blended teas for various moods. Wake-me-ups. Wind-me-downs. And everything in between. If I ever leave my job, I have a backup plan at least … tea merchant!

John cocks his head. ‘You don’t look like you need it though, Rosie. You look alive.’ He shrugs. ‘And utterly different from this fella.’ He points to a dead flounder whose glassy eye stares up at me as John lets out his trademark haw, while I flinch slightly at being compared to deceased marine life. He bags my order, promising to courier it on ice to Époque immediately.

Do I look alive?

As I make my way to the butcher to confirm my weekly order, it occurs to me. Shouldn’t I be puffy-faced, red-eyed, fuzzy-headed from tossing and turning all night? Instead, I feel this sort of frenetic energy because I realise that I’m about to do something very out of character, bold and brave, and completely unexpected – what that entails, I’m still not quite sure, but the desire is there and I’m about to implement a huge change. Shriek.

I’m steadfast Rosie, I don’t do change.

I’m going to prove to the world that I’m not staid. Not stuck in a rut. I’m going to surprise even Callum, by doing the opposite of what he expects because I know if I don’t move on fast, I never will.

Being predictable has its disadvantages, and it’s time I shook things up a bit. Jumped, as it were, into a new reality.

What that is though exactly, remains to be seen …

When I think of my once heart-melting, lovely, red-headed husband my lungs constrict, so I push him from my mind as quickly as possible. As I walk, I repeat the mantra do not fall apart, hold yourself together, and promise myself I can wail in privacy later.

I visit the butcher at Borough Market, then the French boulangerie, and finally our fresh produce supplier before all my jobs are done and I’m ready to prepare for lunch service.

When I arrive at Époque, I find the restaurant manager crunching numbers, a steaming espresso in front of her untouched. I’ve always liked Sally; she’s a sassy, funny Glaswegian, who chain smokes and is fantastic at her job.

‘Coffee?’ she says absently, fiddling with paperwork.

‘And a chat,’ I say, dumping my bag on the bench and joining her at the table.

‘That sounds ominous.’ Her eyes dart to me before she bustles to the coffee machine, which spits and hisses under her hand.

A headache looms. Am I about to make a huge mistake? I’ve been yearning for change for such a long time, but it’s hard to tell if it’s a lie I’m selling myself. Callum might have pushed me to act, but I’m not being impetuous, am I?

As worry gnaws away at me, outwardly I remain calm and busy, unwinding my scarf and taking in the restaurant. It’s not often that I’m front of house. When I first started at Époque the décor was art nouveau, then it went on to have various makeovers, and right now it’s industrial chic. Any successful London establishment must move with the times, so the in crowd doesn’t become the out crowd.

And the kitchen is no different. I’m always looking for the next foodie sensation, the dish that will blow patrons’ minds, get us write-ups and reservations booked solid for the next six months.

You name it, I’ve tried it. Molecular gastronomy, sensory gastronomy, multi-sensory gastronomy. While it’s all very theatrical, and a feast for mind, body and spirit, there’s times I just want to cook up a big, hearty bowl of comfort food without any flourishes – real, honest meals that will fill your belly and warm your heart. Alas, that’s never going to happen in a Michelin-starred establishment like Époque.

Sally returns and places my tiny cup down. ‘So, talk,’ she says, staring me down. It’s her no-nonsense attitude I love. She doesn’t mince words, and you always know where you stand with her. Do her right, and you’ll have a friend for life. Cross her and forget working in London again. Sally’s been around forever and knows everyone there is to know in the industry. We get on well because she accepts me for who I am, a cookery nerd. That, and she’s partial to my twice-cooked fromage soufflé.

‘I’m officially handing in my notice,’ I say, surprised by the confidence in my tone. With that sort of voice, I could almost fool myself into believing I know what I’m doing! What the hell am I doing?

Handing in my notice?

I hope my brain will catch up with my mouth, sooner rather than later.

Sally purses her lips and nods. ‘And you don’t think this is a knee-jerk reaction to what that despicable excuse for a husband has done to you?’

‘You’ve heard already?’ That’s got to be a record, even for the likes of the London cookery establishment.

With an airy shrug, she tries to downplay it. ‘You know what it’s like. There were whispers about him a while back, but I didn’t think they had any substance, hence why I never said anything.’

Just how long has the affair been going on? Were they having mad, passionate, unscheduled sex, while I worked? My heart bongoes painfully inside my chest as though it’s preparing for an attack. I will myself not to give into it. He doesn’t deserve that. The rat. The pig. The cheating no-good husband. But oh, how it hurts.

‘So who is she?’ I hate asking but I need to know who he’s replaced me with.

Sally takes a cigarette from her purse and lights up, despite the restaurant being a strictly non-smoking venue and the fact there’s enough smoke alarms installed to have half of the London Fire Brigade here within minutes if they’re set off.

When she doesn’t answer I urge her on. ‘It’s OK, Sally, honestly.’

With a tut, she says, ‘I want to wring his scrawny neck! The things that guy has put you through.’

I’m not a fan of wandering down memory lane. What point does looking back serve? Sally’s never been keen on Callum; she’s of the opinion he rides on my coat-tails. And I suppose for a while he did. And once, early on before we were married, he did sort of try to steal my job from under me and Sally hasn’t forgotten that. I had until this very moment. Clearly I’ve used poor judgement in the whole choosing my husband department. Back then I had love hearts for eyes, and the world was a wondrous place.

‘Who is she?’ I prod.

‘Khloe,’ she says, with a reluctant sigh.

I shake my head. ‘Why is it always the chef de partie? What a cliché. And Khloe with a K, for god’s sake.’ I’d met the exotic-eyed vixen at an industry party, and she actually introduced herself as ‘Khloe with a K’. Who does that? Kardashians and husband-stealers, that’s who.

That means Khloe worked under him, literally and figuratively. The thought leaves a bad taste in my mouth so I sip the bitter coffee to wash it away.

Sally leans closer, surveying me, as if waiting for me to cry, for one solitary tear to fall, or my bottom lip to wobble, something – anything – that shows her I’m not a robot, but I use all my willpower to remain calm and keep telling myself he does not warrant such histrionics. I’m a professional, dammit, and I won’t be a sobbing mess at work. I suppose this control is what makes people think I’m aloof, steely, strange, when in fact it’s the opposite, it’s purely a protective instinct.

Inside my heart twists and shrinks, this pain probably doing me lifelong damage. Will my heart shrivel up altogether, leaving me as predicted – a lonely old spinster? Is rebound sex the answer? No, I will fall in love, not lust.

Hearing about Khloe firms my resolve. London is too toxic for me right now. I need to put some space between me and the city I’ve loved for so long.

Sally rubs my arm affectionately. ‘The whispers will die down, you just need to keep focused, keep working and ride out the storm. Don’t give up your career because of that snake in the grass. Please. You’ve worked harder than anyone I know. Don’t let that go to waste.’

I take a moment to decipher my feelings. Eventually I say, ‘It’s not just him, Sally. It’s everything. I’ve had this nagging feeling life is passing me by for a while now. I’ve been slogging it out here since I was seventeen. I’m in the prime of my life, and if I don’t look up, I’ll miss it. What Callum did might have been the catalyst, but it’s not the entire reason. I promise I’m not making this decision lightly or just because of him.’ As the words rolls off my tongue, I feel the truth in them. I’ve been unhappy for such a long time but put it down to overwork, life fatigue, the daily grind.

‘Listen, you’re giving me four weeks’ notice, right?’

I nod.

‘Take that time to think it over. I mean, really consider it. Instead of interviewing for a replacement straight away, Jacques can hold the fort alone for a month while you decide.’

Jacques is the celebrity chef de cuisine and won’t like having to wait in limbo for my decision. He’s an ogre to work under. In actual fact, I do his job so he can sashay about front of house before returning to the line and barking orders and cursing. As his star rose, I worked my way up behind him, and we have a sort of grudging respect for one another. While he has an ego the size of the Titanic, he lets me control the menu and I have complete freedom in the kitchen, even if he does take the credit.

‘Thanks, Sally. I appreciate that. But I’m quite sure, so you can start interviewing.’ No point pretending. They’ll need a sous-chef so things run smoothly, and while I’m not super friendly with Jacques, I do like the other staff and would hate for them to have to carry the extra weight of my absence.

After one of Sally’s breath-stealing hugs, I leave her and go to the kitchen to shuffle the fresh produce around and prepare the day’s menus, hoping the kitchen staff won’t pry, even though I bet they’ve woken up to gossipy text messages about me and Callum.

That’s the culinary scene for you.