Nero didn’t know why he cared, but he did. More than he’d cared about anything in a long time.
The afternoon passed in a blur of deep-cleaning equipment, prep, and serving up the staff dinner. Service flew by in another haze of Lenny’s artistic anarchy, and before Nero knew it, his workday was over.
He left Lenny mopping the floor with Debs and Spanks and retreated to the office to record the wastage and complete the prep list for the following day. His phone buzzed as he was finishing up. He answered it with a grunt. “Bit late, ain’t ya? He’s been vandalising my plates all bloody night.”
Cass chuckled. “You got him in the kitchen, then?”
“Yep. Kept him close. Had him plating on main line.”
“He get on okay?”
“Not bad.”
“But not great?”
“He ain’t much of a cook, but he’ll do.” Nero absently shut down the wastage spreadsheet. “Might save you some dosh too. He’s got a way with the scraps.”
“That’s good enough for me—” Cass yawned. “I’m glad he’s well. He had me worried for a while.”
“Yeah? And how’s tricks at your end? You sound knackered. Two boys too much nookie after all?”
“Piss off, and no, it ain’t that. I’m just tired, man. Swear down, the less I work, the longer I sleep. What’s up with that?”
“Dunno. Got plenty for you to do here if you’re bored, though.”
“Very funny. I need you to come to Vauxhall this week. When are you free?”
Nero looked at the rota on the wall. “Wednesday? I finish at four.”
“That’s ’cause I’m covering dinner, you doughnut. What about Thursday? You’re not in till five, right?”
“Why you askin’ if you already know?”
“To give you a chance to duck out if you’ve got something better to do.”
Nero didn’t, though he had no real desire to tramp down to Vauxhall, even if it did mean spending time with Cass. “I’m in. What are we doing?”
“Oven planning. Tom found the firm to do it, you and I just need to decide where to put them.”
“I don’t know fuck all about bakery kitchens.”
“You know more than me, and you’ve helped plan every kitchen we’ve ever done. I’m can’t do this shit without you.”
It was sweet of Cass to say, but he could likely do whatever he wanted without Nero’s help. “What time do you want me?”
“Anytime, mate, but meet me at the warehouse at half nine.”
After giving Nero the address, Cass hung up with another weary yawn. Nero pocketed his phone and pushed back his chair with a yawn of his own. Cass’s fatigue had filtered through, and he’d had enough of Pippa’s for one day.
And what a day it had been. The lights were off in the kitchen, so Nero bypassed the bar where the staff were sharing a drink, and went upstairs, grabbed his weed tin, and headed straight for the fire escape. In the balmy evening air, he rolled a spliff. He’d kind of promised Cass he wouldn’t smoke weed on the fire escape anymore—Tom didn’t like it—but he didn’t care tonight. He lit up and blew herbal smoke to the inky night sky. Adrenaline and coffee were his best friends in the kitchen, but their combined buzz had long worn off by the end of the day, which made him all the more thankful that his bed couldn’t be any closer.
The weed buzz kicked in. Nero closed his eyes and let it seep through him, warming him like gentle, creeping lava. A beer would’ve helped it along, but he’d neglected to snag one in his hurry for weed-laced solitude.
“Nero?”
Or not. Nero opened his eyes. Lenny was hovering by the door, clutching two bottles of beer, and wearing those damn jeans again. “What’s up?”
“Nothin’. Brought you a beer. Debs said you drink Estrella.”
“Cheers.” Nero offered his joint. “Smoke?”
Lenny shook his head. “I don’t want to come out.”
“Fair enough.” Nero stepped closer and claimed his beer, then, against his better judgement, held his spliff to Lenny’s lips. “Blow it down your T-shirt or something.”
Lenny took a deep drag and blew the smoke through the open door. “I haven’t smoked weed in ages. Good job I’m still full from dinner or I’d be munching you out of house and home.”
Still full? Nero had cooked summer squash risotto for staff tea—not for Lenny’s benefit, of course—but Lenny had only eaten a small bowlful, and Nero’d had to leave the room to stop himself forcing more on him. Boy’s gotta eat. “Can’t eat what ain’t there, mate. Think we ate the last of my stash yesterday. Haven’t been shopping in yonks.”
“Bet you don’t have to much, though, right? Living above a restaurant must have its perks.”
“Not really. Just means the twats downstairs bang on my door every time they run out of butter.”
Lenny giggled, soft and light, like a feather that grazed Nero’s soul, and took another drag on the joint. “Don’t see how they dare. Everyone seems terrified of you.”
“Yeah? Why are they so fucking annoying, then?”
“Aw, come on. You can’t find everyone irritating.”
“Give it a few days. You’ll see.” Nero brought the joint back to his own mouth. “Speaking of which, you’re not on the rota yet ’cause I didn’t know you were coming. Any days you can’t do?”
Lenny snorted. “Not likely. My schedule’s pretty blank.”
“Don’t spread that around. You’ll end up working seven days a week if people figure out you ain’t got nothing better to do.”
“That’s okay. I had fun today.”
Bless him. Nero had heard that chestnut before from other rookie chefs who’d worked a couple of easy weekday shifts, only to find them weeping in the bogs by Saturday afternoon. “Leave it with me. I can have a word with Steph if you want some front-of-house shifts?”
“No!” Lenny shook his head. “I can’t work out front. I can’t . . . Fuck, I just can’t, okay?”
“Suit yourself. Don’t bother me.” But as he said it, Nero realised it wasn’t true. The fear in Lenny’s previously playful gaze was back, and he didn’t like it, and he liked the remorse that came next even less.
Lenny scrubbed a hand down his face. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m in such a weird place right now, I don’t know what’s going on in my head.”
“You might not figure it out stuck in that kitchen. It’s sent far saner blokes than you round the bend.”
“I don’t mind being nuts. I . . .”
Nero waited, though his gut told him Lenny wouldn’t finish the sentence.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?” Lenny said finally.
“You want to tell me?”
“No.”
Nero finished his smoke and dropped it in his empty beer bottle. “Don’t really matter, then, does it? Get some sleep, mate. My ugly mug’s gonna be the first thing you see for the rest of the week. If fate wants us to talk, we’ll talk.”
Nero surveyed the exterior of the old warehouse in Vauxhall. The unit was close to the river, with good views over the water. If the finished bakery could bag some outside seating space, they’d be laughing. Or, at least, Urban Soul would.
He shoved open the rusty door, searching for Cass, who he was due to meet in twenty minutes, though he was almost certain that Cass would be late. Outside of the kitchen, Cass and mornings didn’t get on, and Nero prepared himself to face the spooky inside of the derelict old warehouse alone. It didn’t bode well that the place was unlocked—
“Morning, mate.”
Nero jumped a mile. “You’re not Cass.”
Jake Thompson, Nero’s third boss, grinned. “Nope. Good job too. Could you handle two—crunchy twats—of him?”
“Two crunchy twats? Probably not.”
Jake’s smile widened, reminding Nero that Cass wasn’t the only owner of Urban Soul who was devilishly attractive. “Making fun of my tics again?”
“As if. Just don’t call me a pirate cun
t, eh?”
“Dick bag.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Nero punched Jake’s arm. It was good to see him, and Jake’s Tourette’s aside, their foulmouthed exchange was fairly typical. “Where’s Cass?”
“Fast asleep. His snooze button was doing my head in, so I switched it off and left him in bed. I did swipe his kitchen plans, though. Want to take a look?”
“Kitchen plans? Already? This place is a dump.”
The warehouse was a shell of dust, rubbish, and broken glass. But it was the Urban Soul way to make something out of nothing, and Nero’s curiosity outweighed his cynicism.
He took the plans from Jake and unrolled them on the floor, weighing them down with his phone and wallet. “Pizza ovens? How’s that gonna work with a sandwich shop and a jazz café?”
“We scrapped the jazz café. Too poncy, even for Tom. I think the sandwich thing is a dead end too. The markups are too high.”
The logic made sense. Sandwiches had to be fat to be good, which meant they were expensive to produce. Pizzas cost fuck all, especially if the dough was made in house, alongside a working bakery. The mixers could go over there, the workbenches—
Jake peered over Nero’s shoulder. “You look like you’re plotting.”
“Me? Not really, mate. Just trying to get a feel for the place. I don’t know much about pizzas.”
“You know a lot about bread making, though, don’t you? Cass told me you’ve worked in a big bakery before?”
Yeah . . . in prison. “I made cut-white loaves for Sunblest, not posh sourdough shit.”
Jake clicked and shook his head. “Aw, don’t give me that. You’ve developed all the bread recipes for the company so far, including a dozen sourdoughs, and you did the pizza bar at Rascal’s. Cass’s plans for this place are right up your street.”
Nero couldn’t deny that he did enjoy the art of bread making—real bread making, from scratch, with natural yeast and old-fashioned flour. It was an ancient art that was far better for his battered soul than dicing with chargrills and cleavers. Less dangerous for those around him too.
“There’ll be a flat upstairs eventually.”
“So?” Nero glanced up, half a mind on the Spanish pizzas he’d seen in Stockwell a few years ago. “Who the fuck wants to live in Vauxhall?”
“You, maybe?”
“Kicking me out of Pippa’s?”
Jake chuckled. “It’s not mine to boot you out of, but I wouldn’t worry about that. We just want you to be happy. I know you haven’t forgiven us for closing Pink’s.”
Nero pictured the tiny Covent Garden fish café that had been his pride and joy before a monumental hike in the rent had forced Urban Soul to pull the plug. “True that. And what you done with me since, eh? Got me running around like a fucking headless chicken.”
“That’s not—waffle tits—fair. You’re the one who won’t commit to anything.”
Nero grunted. “You spend way too much time with Tom.”
Jake flipped Nero the bird, his dark eyes shining with mirth, and Nero had to look away, unable to stomach the obvious love Jake had for both his partners. He didn’t begrudge it, but he didn’t get it. Two soul mates? Seriously? Cass deserved all the love in the world, but who the hell had time to do it twice?
Stop being a cunt. Just ’cause you’re dead inside.
“Cass said you were brewing the sourdough,” Jake said.
“Hmm?”
“Sourdough. Cass said you’ve started it.”
Truth be told, it had slipped Nero’s mind, and his first jar of bubbling yeast had died a death. “When do you think you’ll need it?”
Jake rolled his eyes, and Nero couldn’t tell if it was a tic or if Jake had seen straight through him. “The architect is coming next week, the builders at the end of the month. Tom wants it done in six weeks—which means the construction will take eight—so we’ve basically got three months until D-Day.”
Three months was a long lead time for an Urban Soul project; they’d opened the Stew Shack in three weeks. Nero and Cass could handle the kitchen, but the rest? The recruitment? The branding? Nah. “Have you got a name yet?”
“Dude, we’ve barely got a concept. Cass reckons the food will do the talking, but you’d know that better than me.”
Nero snorted. “Why don’t he just call it Dolly’s? After his nana?”
“’Cause what’s dead stays dead.”
Jake said it with a smile, but the words did odd things to Nero’s gut. If the dead stayed dead, why did they haunt his dreams?
Despite the sunlight flooding in through the large windows, the warehouse grew suddenly dark, the cobwebs and dust suffocating. Nero shoved his tingling hands in his pockets. “I gotta go.”
Jake stepped around him and gathered the plans from the gritty floor, passing Nero his wallet and phone. “Already? I was gonna buy you breakfast.”
“No, thanks. Got shit to do.”
Jake’s facial expressions often bore no resemblance to his actual emotions, so it was hard to tell if he was offended, and Nero didn’t much care. Jake was a mate, but Nero needed to go.
He left Jake in the warehouse and escaped outside, sucking down the muggy summer air until his head was spinning a little less, slowing to the dull carousel he’d lived with for as long as he could remember. Idiot. Just get the fuck off already.
If only it were that easy. Nero’s phone rang as he crossed the road to the Tube station. He pulled it from his pocket and squinted through the bright sunlight at the screen. Pippa’s. Great.
He took the call, steeling himself for a barrage of Steph’s whinging. “What?”
A giggle-chuckle caught him off guard. “So you are always this grumpy?”
Nero stopped walking. “This again? I’m not bloody grumpy.”
“Right.” Lenny laughed harder. “You looked it this morning.”
“Thought you were asleep.”
“With you stomping around? Fuck no.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
And Nero wasn’t. Lenny was on his couch. If he didn’t like it, he could kip downstairs in the cellar, because there was zero chance of Nero disturbing him there. “What do you want?”
“Twenty fags. I was hoping you could bring me a box back. I’ll give you the cash.”
“Fine. I’ll be half hour or so, though.”
“I thought you’d be gone all day?”
“Bad luck.” Nero checked his watch. Ten fifteen. He’d been with Jake less than an hour—hardly worth the trip, especially as he’d failed to give Jake much insight into where to place the giant bread ovens. “I won’t be in long, if it’s any consolation.”
“Not really. Can I do anything for you in the flat?”
“Like what?”
“Dunno, washing or something?”
“Nah, mate. You’re all right. See you soon.”
“Bye, Nero.”
Nero hung up and stared at his phone screen, wondering why Lenny’s voice twisted his insides so much. He’d started walking again while they’d talked, but he drifted to a stop now, feeling somehow . . . lighter? What the actual fuck? Nero was used to trudging through life under a cloud of temper and sarcasm, his only shield between him and a world that had fucked him over more times than he could count, not spinning giddily because of the way a bloke he hardly knew said his name.
Still, the feathery skip in his chest was a welcome change from the usual dark stomp of reality, and Nero let it carry him home to Shepherd’s Bush.
Inside Pippa’s, he checked that the kitchen team was set up, then went upstairs. At first Lenny was nowhere to be seen, then Nero found him in the bathroom, sitting on the windowsill.
“What are you doing up there?”
“Catching the breeze.”
“In here? The window’s bigger in the bedroom.”
“I wouldn’t know, mate. I’ve never been in your boudoir.”
Lenny’s grin turned impish. Nero glared and left
the room, intending to get straight on with his work, until he remembered the cigarettes in his pocket. Fuck’s sake.
He went back to the bathroom. Lenny’s grin remained, even as Nero tossed the box in his face. “Your eyes flash when you’re pissed off.”
“I’m not pissed off.”
“No? Would hate to see you when you are, then.” Lenny slid off the windowsill. “Thanks for the fags.”
He slipped past Nero and disappeared into the living room. Nero breathed a strange sigh of relief and loss, but his conflicting emotions were short-lived. Lenny was back in a flash, brandishing a tenner and still that goddamned grin. “Thank you.”
Nero took the money and stuffed it in his pocket, rummaging around for change. He found a quid and flipped it in Lenny’s general direction. “No worries. I’m going downstairs, unless you need anything else?”
“Downstairs? To work? I thought you weren’t in till five?”
“I’m not in the kitchen until five. Got plenty of shit to do before then.”
“Like what?”
“What do you care?”
For a moment so brief Nero thought he’d imagined it, Lenny scowled, but then it was gone and he smiled again, though his eyes had lost much of their humour. “I was just being polite, mate. Don’t mind me.”
Lenny left the bathroom. A few seconds later, the door to the fire escape scraped open. Had Lenny ventured outside? If he had, it would be the first time he’d seen the sun since he’d been holed up at Pippa’s.
The urge to go and check was strong. Nero pushed it down and left the flat, grabbing his clean whites on his way out.
Downstairs, he changed in the staff room, then trudged to the kitchen, claiming the back corner sequestered for menu development. His meeting with Jake replayed in his head, and lacking the inclination to hoof it across the city to Greenwich to pinch more of their sourdough starter, he got to work brewing a fresh one of his own. Flour, water, a handful of grapes to kick-start the fermentation process—there wasn’t much to it, really. Nero mixed it up in a plastic oil drum and took it to the dry store. It would need culling and feeding every day, but for now, he was done.
Strays Page 4
