by Prue Leith
‘Do you want to say a word to the chefs?’ asked Sean.
‘Not now. They’ll be dashing around trying to get ready. I’ll try to pop in afterwards.’
Just then Kate appeared, obviously searching for someone. She spoke to a waiter checking a table, and looked around. She was in pristine whites, wearing no make-up. She looks about fourteen, thought Oliver.
Oliver called her name before she had seen them. ‘Kate. Over here.’
Kate moved swiftly through the tables, her stride surprisingly long for her height. She said, ‘Good evening, Foreign Secretary. Hello, Sean.’ She turned back to Oliver. ‘I hope you’re looking forward to dinner?’ She spoke pleasantly, but formally.
‘That rather depends on you, Kate. How are things back there? What’s the kitchen like?’
‘Well, it’s not great, but at least it’s a proper kitchen, not the usual temporary affair we have to deal with. We’re not allowed open flames in case we set the place on fire, so no gas. But we’ll manage. It’s a great menu. Lovely produce.’
Kate was being very correct, her expression attentive, but serious. Somehow he had expected her to be her usual lively self, a little jokey. I expect she’s nervous before such a big event, he thought. Poor girl, it must be pretty tense back there.
‘We’ll leave you to get on, Kate,’ he said. ‘Good luck.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ she said, and walked swiftly away, calling to Dennis. ‘Dennis, could we have a word about the soup tureens?’
At dinner, Oliver sat between the astonishingly beautiful and charming wife of the French President, and Angela Merkel, the German Chancellor. He was enjoying himself very much. His briefing on Carla Bruni had of course mentioned her whirlwind romance with Sarkozy and her past as a model, but had not prepared him for her intelligence and charm. And he liked Angela. They all made an effort to stay off European politics and had a merry dinner discussing everything from conceptual art to football.
Oliver was pleased. Of course the food was excellent. He had asked for something British and Kate had produced extraordinarily elegant versions of soup, roast lamb and jelly and custard.
In a moment of quiet when both his neighbours were talking to the men on the other side of them, he looked across at his boss. The PM had come to office only a few years ago with a thick head of brown hair and a square full face, his whole body exuding confidence and a desire to get on with things. But already the deadly mix of economic collapse, the scandal of rigged expenses by MPs, and the continuing horror of Iraq and Afghanistan had taken its toll. He looks, mused Oliver, fifteen years older, his face thinner, hair dulled with grey. As the PM caught his eye and gave him a tired smile, Oliver thought, why do I want his job so badly? It’s a killer.
The thought immediately provoked another, and he told himself that if the press exposed his necklace and Limoges china tax-avoidance troubles, he’d be lucky to have a job at all.
Wanting to shift his thoughts, he reached for the menu. As he read it, he remembered giving the dishes a thumbs up, and thought ruefully that since the disaster with the Lancaster House menu, when they’d nearly gone hungry, he had not dared fiddle about with Kate’s ideas.
‘And what are you smiling about?’ asked Madame Bruni-Sarkozy.
‘Well, as the host, I should not say this, but I was thinking the cook had done rather a good job.’
‘Cook? Is he not a chef?’
‘It’s a she. Kate McKinnon. And she says she prefers to be called a cook because a chef has to be the boss of a big kitchen and she usually works on her own.’
‘How astonishing!’
‘Astonishing? Why?’
‘I’m impressed you know so much about your cook. I don’t even know our chef’s name. Or the head gardener’s for that matter. I only know the head of security. Oh, and my driver.’
Oliver looked across to the door where waiters came in and out, hoping to see Kate. If he had time, he must go and tell the team just how good the meal had been. She’d be more relaxed now, flushed with triumph, on a sort of happy high, like footballers when they’ve won a game. It would be good to see her.
When, the other night after his own dinner party, he’d gone into the kitchen as usual, bottle in hand, to congratulate and tip the staff and have a drink with Kate, she’d already left. Her waitress was still there, and he’d pressed a couple of fivers into her hand, saying, ‘Kate not here?’
‘No, Sir, I’m sorry. She told me to say that she hopes everything was to your satisfaction, and that she had to rush off because she has to be up early for a lunchtime job in the country.’
Oliver had felt a little cheated. Damn it, he enjoyed his ritual drink with Kate. Didn’t she?
When the speeches were finally done (he only had to welcome the illustrious guests and introduce the PM who made a mercifully short speech with, unusually, a couple of not too leaden jokes) and coffee had been served, the top table led the walkout to the Watching Chamber where more drinks were on offer. He went walkabout among his guests, smiling and clapping shoulders, shaking hands and bowing (he could not quite kiss a hand, but he was good at that formal duck of the head).
When the room was almost empty Oliver slipped into the kitchen to find Kate. She was busy wiping down a table and laughing at something one of the other cooks had said. She saw him, and her face immediately sobered. She put down her cloth, wiped her hands on the cloth tucked into the waist of her apron, and came over.
‘Congratulations, Kate. That was a triumph.’ He took her hand and pressed it warmly. He would have liked to give her a hug to emphasise his pleasure at her pulling off something so impressive but he restrained himself.
‘Show me round, Kate, I’d like to meet the team,’ he said.
‘Of course. Certainly, Sir.’
She called the cooks and porters over.
‘This is Jeffrey. He’s actually a tour guide, but he moonlights as our driver and porter. He saves us a fortune on the scraping bench.’
Oliver, bemused, pumped Jeffrey’s hand.
‘The what?’
‘If you aren’t careful when scraping the plates, the silverware ends up in the garbage,’ Jeffrey said.
‘And these,’ said Kate, ‘are my most faithful cooks. Sandra is the pudding queen, she used to work for Raymond Blanc. Tom is meant to be the larder chef, doing starters and canapés, etc, but tonight somehow he was on sauces and veg as well. And this morning he was helping Grace make the rolls. And this is Grace, terrific baker.’
Oliver shook their hands and talked to them all, including the two apprentices from Westminster College. He asked questions, listened to the answers, and genuinely enjoyed it. He was good at small chat, he knew; it was one of the things that made him a successful politician, but he faked interest as often as really felt it.
When he had met them all he pulled his folded menu out of his pocket and consulted it.
‘I thought the food was absolutely first class,’ he told them. ‘It can’t be easy in an unfamiliar kitchen and for so many people. But it was perfect. You did us really proud. Thank you.’
There were gratified smiles all round, especially when he went through the dishes, discussing the samphire from Norfolk in the scallop soup, and where in Wales the salt-marsh lamb came from. He asked, ‘How do you keep it so beautifully pink for so many people?’
Tom said, ‘It’s because we slow cook it,’ at the same time as one of the apprentice lads said, ‘It’s the combi-oven. Brilliant piece of kit.’ And then the plump baker, Grace, said in a thick Glasgow accent, ‘It’s because we rest it twenty minutes before we carve it.’
Oliver turned to Kate. ‘All three,’ said Kate. Oliver noticed with satisfaction that she had actually smiled. She was obviously proud of her team. Maybe, he thought, she was more relaxed now dinner was over.
‘And I’ve never had parsnip fritters,’ he said.
‘Did you like them?’
‘They were absolutely scrumptious. They were a hit with
Madame Sarkozy and with the German Chancellor too. And the elderflower jelly! Sandra, that was amazing. Gives a whole new meaning to jelly and ice-cream.’
He wanted to see how the kitchen worked and was pleased by Kate’s obvious pride in her job. She’d looked severe, even frosty, when they’d arrived but she was cheering up. He commented on the orderly way she’d arranged the kitchen and asked, ‘Where do you get all this kit? Surely you don’t own it?’
‘No, certainly not. Most of it, the heavy stuff, belongs to Hampton Court. But the Pacojet – that’s the thing that whizzes rock solid ice-cream into a just-made airy texture – and a lot of the trolleys for shifting hired stuff and provisions, are mine …’
Oliver feigned interest in Kate’s beloved ice cream machine, and in the mobile plate-stacks that allowed a hundred odd plates, all decorated and ready to go, to be stacked in a space that would only take three or four laid side by side.
But Oliver had seen enough now, and would have liked to sit down with Kate for a drink and a chat. He dutifully thanked the porters and then followed Kate back into the dining room to speak to Dennis and the butlers and waiting staff.
‘That was excellent, Dennis. Were you happy?’
Of course he wasn’t. He didn’t exactly toss his head, but he managed, Oliver thought, to convey huge frustration, sacrifice on his part, and resigned tolerance about lesser mortals, all with a lift of an eyebrow and pursed lips. Really, the man should have been an actor.
‘Shall I say we coped, Foreign Secretary, under difficult circumstances. I am glad you were satisfied. The Prime Minister conveyed his congratulations, I am happy to report.’
‘But you have a problem with our performance?’ Kate’s head had come up, she’d turned squarely to Dennis, but her voice was neutral.
Damn, thought Oliver, now we’ll be treated to the story of Dennis saving the day in the face of everyone else’s incompetence. Sean, at his elbow, must have sensed his irritation.
‘If there were any problems,’ his PPS said briskly, ‘I am sure you know the proper channels. Julian Hobhouse will let us know if the department can help in any way, but I saw him earlier, and he was delighted with the whole event.’
Mercifully, Kate’s telephone rang and she took it from her apron pocket and looked at the screen.
‘Would you forgive me?’ she said, turning away to take the call.
Good, thought Oliver, as he once more thanked the waiting team, dismissed them with a firm thank you, and then turned back towards Kate, obviously trying to get a taxi, and failing.
‘Forty minutes? But I need it straight away. No, that’s too long. But thank you.’ She put the mobile in her pocket and turned back to Oliver.
‘Problem?’ he asked.
‘No. I’m fine.’
‘I’ll give you a lift.’ Oliver found he was smiling. It would be nice to share the journey back to London with Kate.
‘No, thank you.’ She said it almost sharply. Really, what was the matter with the woman? He was not going to eat her.
‘How did you come?’ he asked. ‘Didn’t you bring your van?’
‘I’ve got a new one now. A shiny new transit van. And yes, I came down in it, but one of the porters will be taking it home to Surbiton. He has to unload hired stuff nearby in the morning. But I’ll be fine. One of the others will give me a lift.’
‘Kate, don’t be an idiot. I’ve got a driver and an empty car. Sean came down independently so there’s room for you – and another one if they don’t mind cuddling up with my detective.’
She shook her head, her curls bouncing with the vigour of the shake. ‘No, honestly, Oliver, I’m OK.’
‘Kate, I have an empty car. I told you.’
She looked round, as though trapped. ‘But I don’t want to hold you up. I’m not ready yet.’
‘How long will you be?’
Oliver could see she was in two minds. ‘Can you give me a second just to check where we’ve got to?’ she said. ‘I really don’t think I can leave soon.’
Oliver was puzzled, and marginally annoyed. Kate was making a simple offer into a big deal. ‘Kate, I just heard you saying to the taxi service you wanted a cab straight away.’
Kate didn’t answer that, just frowned. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she said. ‘I’ll just see if there are any other stranded cooks or porters who would like a ride in a government limo. And I must fetch my knife box. I don’t trust anyone with that.’ She went back to the kitchen. Oliver thought, I bloody hope she doesn’t round up any stray bods. I’ve done my stuff with the cooks. And the porters. I’ve been on parade all evening. It’s enough.
Dennis appeared with Oliver’s briefcase and raincoat. ‘The car is outside now, Sir,’ he said.
‘Ah, thank you,’ replied Oliver, taking the mac and case. ‘I’m just waiting to see if Kate wants a lift. She’s disappeared into the back somewhere. Do you think you could see if she’s coming?’
Dennis face was a picture of distaste. Oh dear, thought Oliver, it’s obviously well beneath his dignity to carry messages to a cook. Oliver could not resist baiting him a little. ‘Dennis,’ he said, ‘is something wrong? You look as though you’re chewing a lime.’
Dennis shook his head. ‘No, Minister, nothing.’
‘Well, in that case I’m sure you will not mind fetching Kate. There’s a good chap.’
Dennis’s struggle between outrage at this affront to his dignity and an equal desire to please a cabinet minister was wonderful to watch, but at that moment Kate reappeared. She had changed out of her chef’s whites and was wearing a long coat over a short black skirt, her duffel bag over her shoulder and her knife box – actually it looked like a builder’s tool box – in one hand.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked. ‘One of the cooks says she can take me to Hammersmith. I can get a cab from there, easy.’
‘Kate, it will be a pleasure. I owe you a lift home anyway. You drove me home after that Admiralty House drinks party, remember?’
Dennis wanted to carry Oliver’s things to the car, but Oliver was suddenly sick and tired of the man. It was impossible to fault him on the job, the dinner had gone off like clockwork. But Dennis had his habitual bad-smell-under-his-nose expression, and Oliver gave him a brisk, ‘Goodnight, Dennis and once again, many thanks.’ Then walked fast to the car with Kate, his detective hurrying behind.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Kate, elated by the success of the dinner and thrilled by Oliver’s interest in the kitchen, could not maintain the cool exterior she had been determined to arm herself with. With a real sense of relief, like taking off uncomfortable shoes, she leant back in the soft upholstery of the Jaguar, and smiled.
She was at first embarrassed by the presence of the detective and driver in the front. And she had a problem keeping her voice normal. It might tremble, she feared, or go breathy. The other problem was controlling her thoughts: she longed for Oliver to touch her. Even a tiny touch, a quick hand on her shoulder, a finger on her wrist.
Oliver chatted to his driver and detective – Debbie and Jim they were called – with a friendly remark to Debbie about her children and asking Jim to put a Schubert CD on the player, and then turned to Kate and talked of this and that, mostly the event tonight.
When he wasn’t looking at her, Kate watched Oliver’s profile, alternately lit and cast into shadow as the streetlights came and went. She was acutely conscious of his closeness, of the smell of the car leather, the cool May air from her half-open window.
Kate relaxed, Die Winterreise working its reliable magic through expensive speakers. She wanted to stay just as she was – well, maybe with his hand on her neck – for ever.
But too soon they were at Ealing Broadway, and for the first time in her life she was tempted to leave Toby sleeping at Talika’s. She didn’t want to explain to Oliver that she would now carry the sleeping, and increasingly heavy, child down the long block from the restaurant to home. Why not let Oliver take her to her house? She could
collect Toby in the morning. Or when Oliver had gone home?
Once more she picked up the Kate vs Kate argument: Why wouldn’t he go home at once? What was she hoping? Surely not for a one-night stand? He’d just drop her at the door and drive on. And quite right too. It’s what she wanted.
They turned into the High Street leading to the old estate.
‘Oliver, this will sound a bit mad to you,’ Kate said, ‘but I have to collect Toby from my friend Talika’s, so can you drop me outside the Taj Amal Indian restaurant? On the right, past the lights.’
Oliver looked at her. ‘It’s gone midnight. Won’t he be asleep?’
‘Sure he will, but he’s so used to me picking him up, he hardly wakes.’
‘OK.’ Oliver sounded hesitant, but he drew up outside the restaurant and Kate took her keys from her bag. ‘I’ll help you.’
‘No. Please, Oliver, I don’t want you to. He won’t recognise you and he’ll wake up. And honestly, getting him into the car and out again will be more trouble than carrying him. Truly. Please, just leave me here.’
In truth she was more anxious at the prospect of waking Amal or Talika and having to explain Oliver’s presence to them.
He brushed her cheek in a quick kiss and Kate scrambled out of the car, anxious to get her goodbyes over with. She nodded and said a quick goodnight to the detective and driver in the front and let herself into Amal’s flat. She shut the door and climbed the stairs.
She managed to carry Toby downstairs without waking him, but it was a struggle, and certainly dangerous. Amal often carried Toby for her, saying she’d fall down the narrow stairs and break both their necks. When she got to the bottom she had to set him, grumbling on the stairs to free her hands to open the door. Then, holding the door open with her bottom, she reached in, picked up Toby, who immediately shut his eyes again and nestled into her shoulder. She sidled out of the door, letting the door lock behind her. He was really heavy now. This was getting ridiculous: she would have to get a babysitter so he could stay at home, or leave him all night with Talika.
