The Northern Lights Lodge

by Julie Caplin

  Over his shoulder Lucy spotted Alex coming their way, almost as if he’d known she needed reinforcements. Just the sight of him had her lifting her chin and adopting a pseudo-sympathetic but firm smile. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We can’t have the cameras or the crew in the kitchen during service. Environmental health would shut us down.’

  ‘Lucy, Lucy, babe, we’re miles from anywhere. What are the chances? You think those little health inspectors are going to come all this way to make a surprise visit. And,’ Clive’s eyes gleamed, his head bobbing and weaving like a bonkers cobra, ‘let’s live a little dangerously. Dance in the face of rules.’ Lucy’s eyes darted to Bob’s, worried that Clive might be in on the act, and was grateful to see Bob’s eyes slide away in denial.

  ‘I’m not worried about an inspection.’ It hadn’t even made it onto the list of things she had to worry about. ‘I’m concerned that one of you could get hurt. Step back into the stove and knock over a pan of boiling oil. Be at the wrong end of a sharp knife.’ Her saccharine smile had Alex and Hekla pinching their lips. ‘Or a piece of your equipment could get damaged. The floors get very slippery in there, condensation, grease. And during service you’ll find it difficult to keep out of the way. I’d hate for a frying pan to inadvertently smash the lens,’ she lied. Actually, maybe that was a good idea.

  Clive’s eyebrows drew together and he nodded sagely. ‘Hmm.’ He turned to Bob, stroking his pretentious wispy goatee. ‘What do you think?’

  Bob shot her a considering look, before shaking his head. ‘We bugger up the kit out here and we’re stuffed.’

  With a wince Clive agreed.

  ‘Let’s hope the aurora borealis play ball tonight. Last night was another complete bust. Although that Jane woman is quite a character. If only she had a life-threatening disease, she’d be pure primetime gold.’

  ‘What wankers,’ spat Lucy under her breath to Alex’s amusement, as Clive and Bob scuttled off. Quite how Lucy managed to keep the shocked disapproval from her face, Alex had no idea, he was in complete agreement with her assessment of Clive’s character, but he had his own problem to deal with.

  When Clive had mentioned the guest, Jane, again, the penny had dropped, sending his stomach into freefall. Paris. That’s where he knew them from. In fact that’s where he’d met them. They’d helped Nina in the patisserie. They were at the official opening. Complete bollocking hell. What were the chances?

  He’d had quite a long chat with her and Peter, her newish husband, at the patisserie as they ate Nina’s amazing Anglo-French patisseries. It all came back to him. Nina adored them both and, even over-cautious, grump Sebastian seemed very fond of Jane. They could easily reveal who he really was – not a barman that’s for sure.

  Grimacing he followed Lucy into the kitchen where several industrial fridges hummed quietly in the brightly lit space along with spotless stainless-steel shelves and surfaces.

  He was going to have to keep a low profile over the next few days and keep out of their way and, he glanced at Lucy, out of hers too. Guilt twinged low in his stomach. He had to remember that he was working for Quentin and his boss had good reasons for him being incognito. And as Quentin had so pointedly reminded him, nice guys finish last. This was business after all.

  Without missing a beat, Lucy had opened up the walk-in larder and peered in before slamming the door shut. ‘I don’t suppose we can convince anyone that beans on toast is an Icelandic delicacy.’

  Hekla looked at her blankly but Alex, following her into the room, forced a laugh he was far from feeling.

  ‘Nice idea. But I don’t think that’s going to work. Shame as I love them.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Especially with haggis.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. I don’t suppose you know how to cook?’

  Alex pulled a face at her words. He’d spent most of his life working in hotels and kitchens where there was always food on tap. He knew the basics and when it came to flavours and combinations, he knew plenty but cooking was not something he’d done much of. ‘Sorry, no. I’ve never really needed to cook.’

  ‘What about you?’ asked Lucy as they both turned to Hekla who held up both hands in horrified surrender. ‘Nrr.’

  ‘That’ll be a no then,’ sighed Lucy, turning her back on them. Alex watched her as her shoulders drooped and she opened a couple of cupboards before pulling out a large bag of pasta.

  Where were they going to get another chef at such short notice, he thought to himself. He’d have been on the phone to Reykjavik by now, trying to find agency staff to fill in. He looked at his watch.

  Lucy caught him. ‘Reykjavik is an hour and a half away even if they could find us a chef at this short notice. I phoned two agencies.’

  ‘Oh!’ Was she some kind of mind reader?

  ‘You had that less than impressed look on your face,’ she said, making him even more convinced that she must have a touch of clairvoyance. ‘You reminded me of an old boss. Always waiting to catch me out.’

  Her words were the perfect reminder that this was exactly the sort of scenario that Alex should be reporting back on; how she handled things, how she responded to a crisis and how she managed her staff.

  He had to look away and he opened the fridge, which was fully stocked. Sometimes she was scarily perceptive. His stomach turned over, tightening in a hard knot of unease. Just because he hadn’t outright lied to her, didn’t make his deception any better. But Quentin was his boss and he was adamant he didn’t want any of the staff here to know who Alex really was. One wrong word from Jane or Peter and the game would be up.

  ‘Surely you’re not going to try and cook,’ he said, raising a curt eyebrow. That was an insane idea.

  ‘What do you suggest?’ she asked sweetly.

  ‘Bar snacks. Sandwiches. Grills. Pizza.’

  Lucy gave him a disdainful look. ‘People are on holiday. They’re expecting a proper meal. Not pub grub.’

  ‘You are going to cook?’ He asked trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice. She was mad.

  She looked at him, sudden sharp intelligence in her eyes. He watched as she slipped the band from the loose pony tail at the nape of her neck and gathered her hair up again, tilting her chin. For a moment he was struck again by the smooth white skin of her long neck. Unable to stop himself he watched her quick hands, as she scooped her hair into a new higher ponytail and pulled it tight with an I-mean-business-yank. The style emphasised her face in profile, the high, sharp cheekbones and the slight pout of full lips. Lips? Why was he looking at her lips? He shouldn’t have kissed her the other night. Hell, he shouldn’t have gone for coffee with her afterwards, but Hekla had rather forced the issue, insisting that his car was the only one free and Lucy had to pick up the paintings that day.

  Dammit. Getting involved with his target was not part of the job description. And listen to him. Target? Did he think he was Jason Bourne now?

  ‘Have you got any other suggestions?’ Her crisp voice cut into his thoughts as Lucy turned to Hekla. ‘Can you go and get my laptop?’ She gave a grim smile. ‘We need to simplify the menu. Make things that can be pre-prepared and heated on demand. I need to Google some recipe ideas.’

  ‘Lucy, don’t you think…’ The sudden hint of determination in the set of her lifted chin made him pause. With a sigh, he pulled out his phone from his pocket. ‘I’ve got something better than the internet. I’ve got a Sebastian.’

  ‘Is that like an Alexa?’ asked Lucy, the teeth worrying at her lip, belying her brisk voice.

  Without thinking he lifted a finger and pushed it gently against her lower lip. ‘You keep doing that. You’re going to make it sore again.’ For some crazy reason, he couldn’t have explained if he tried, he stroked her lip with the pad of his finger as if trying to soothe the pain away. She stilled, her mouth parting and as he felt the quick, hot exhalation of her breath, his groin tightened. He had to stop this inadvertent touching her. He’d done it the ot
her night with that insistent little furrow above her nose.

  ‘It’s already sore,’ she said, her eyes darting to his, widening slightly, before her teeth immediately returned to the same spot, grazing his finger. As if he’d been burnt, he withdrew his finger.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said rubbing at her mouth, ducking her head, ‘bad habit. I can’t seem to help it. Please tell me your Sebastian has teleporting skills and can be here in five minutes.’

  Alex laughed at her sudden humour, relieved the potentially awkward moment had been extinguished.

  ‘None of the above, but he’s a mate and moreover, a chef.’

  ‘Do you still want the laptop?’ asked Hekla her head turning this way and that following their conversation as if she were at a tennis match.

  ‘Yes, that would be great as we’re going to need to produce a new menu. It will have to be a set menu. Alex would you mind phoning your friend while I make a full inventory of what we’ve got.’

  Suddenly she was all action, pushing a notepad and pen his way as he called Sebastian.

  Half way through his conversation, which he was relaying to Lucy, he said, ‘He thinks the langoustine salad is still a goer. He suggests making a salad including asparagus, peas, broad beans with some croutons. And do we have any pea shoots?’

  Lucy let out a pfft. ‘He has to be joking. Does he know we’re in Iceland? The nearest big supermarket is over an hour’s drive away and I’d be amazed if you’d get a pea shoot without forty-eight hours’ notice.’

  He was surprised when Lucy came to stand in front of him.

  ‘May I?’

  Without waiting for his answer, she took the phone from him. ‘Sebastian, hi. This is Lucy Smart.’

  As he listened to the conversation between her and Sebastian, he realised that Lucy obviously knew a little bit more about cooking than he’d first guessed. Even so, he’d seen enough episodes of Masterchef to know that cooking in a professional kitchen was a long way away from catering at home.

  After she’d finished her call with Sebastian, abruptly thrusting the phone back at him, she began to scribble copious notes, muttering to herself with the odd aside to him and Hekla who’d returned with the laptop. ‘Alex, please can you count how many langoustines there are?’ ‘Hekla can you weigh the lamb?’ Can someone count the carrots?’ ‘Is there more than one bag of rice?’ ‘Can someone start gathering up all the onions?’

  ‘Right,’ she said, standing up with a military air about her as if she were a general going into battle. ‘Got it. We’re going to offer people a choice of starter. Traditional Icelandic fish soup with rye bread or toasted sheep’s cheese rolled in walnuts with a bilberry coulis. Then a hearty lamb stew or a fish stew with baked carrots and turnip and potato dauphinoise. And for dessert it’s Skyr with fruit or cheese and biscuits.

  ‘With the exception of the toasted sheep’s cheese, everything can be prepared ahead of time. We’ll do waiter service on the starters, if you can manage that between the two of you. And I’ll man the kitchen.’ Lucy gave a quick grimace. ‘I think that’ll work.’ And then she added more firmly. ‘It’s going to have to.’

  The next two hours were a blur of chopping, frying and washing up as Lucy directed him, Hekla and Dagur, who’d been rounded up to help. Alex never wanted to see another one of the spiky langoustines again, which were absolute pigs to peel, but he had to admit the broth cooking on the stove smelled delicious. Lucy had focused on getting her lamb stew in the oven first and focused she was, it was as if she was another person. Organised, methodical and constantly checking on his and Hekla’s progress, tasting and stirring like a professional.

  ‘No, chop the onions a little smaller.’ ‘Slice the potatoes thinner than that.’ ‘More lemon juice.’

  At last, the lamb was baking in the oven and the ingredients for the fish stew which wouldn’t take anywhere near as long were all chopped and prepped.

  ‘Phew,’ said Lucy wiping at the damp strands of hair around her face. ‘We’re just about there. Do you two want to take a quick break and put on your waiting kit?’

  ‘What about you?’ he asked, she had to be knackered. They hadn’t stopped and she’d worked with single minded dedication that had him in awe.

  ‘Can’t. I need a dry run at the starters, see if I can make them look presentable. Besides no one’s going to see me,’ she gave the sweat circles under her arms a quick uncertain glance and then, with a worried look, said, ‘and you’ll have to put up with the pong. If I have time I’ll nip and put on a clean t-shirt.’

  Even with lank limp hair, sweat glistening on her forehead and the baggy blouse now sticking to her, outlining a slight frame and clinging to her boobs, she crackled with energy that made him suddenly feel a bit restless and a bit antsy as if he wanted to kick something. He grabbed a tea-towel and wiped up a slick of water, turning his back on her, quashing the sudden urge to sweep her off to bed and kiss the living daylights out of her. Where the hell had that come from? Surely just some kind of Stockholm syndrome; they’d survived a crisis together and it was that psychological alliance post trauma thing.

  Lucy let rip with a string of curses and pressed her hand to her forehead. This was never going to work. The coulis was an absolute disaster, her second lot of bilberries was on the stove, and it had taken forever to chop this small batch of walnuts for her dummy run.

  Served her right for being so stubborn. Who knew toasting the sheep’s cheese rounds would be so damn difficult? She couldn’t even cut them evenly and as for getting the walnuts to stick, forget it. The third lot she’d pulled from the oven had dissolved into puddles of what now looked like baby sick. There was no way she could serve that.

  Slumping against the stainless-steel counter, she took a couple of deep breaths and looked around the kitchen desperate for inspiration. Dear God, what had she been thinking? Alex was right, just like he always bloody was. She should have stuck to beans on toast. She wasn’t a chef.

  ‘Can I help?’

  She whirled around to find Kristjan, the sous chef, in the doorway, his baby face alight with amusement as he scanned the scene of devastation. Piles of washing up were waiting by the sink, wayward walnut pieces were strewn across the floor and the smell of burning filled the air.

  ‘Oh shit.’ She made a grab for the forgotten pan of congealing bilberries which had darkened to almost black instead of deep purple.

  ‘I got Brynja’s messages and came straight back.’

  ‘Oh, Kristjan, it’s good to see you. Erik’s had an accident and…’ She waved at the plates of goat’s cheese.

  ‘You’re cooking them for too long and too high, and the slices need to be thicker,’ he said, immediately crossing to the oven and turning the temperature down. ‘And you should roll the whole cheese in the nuts before slicing. It’s quicker,’ he flashed her a quick smile, ‘and more practical.’

  Within minutes he had taken over, chopping walnuts with a blur of motion, rolling the cheese in them before slicing the rounds of cheese into neat, even proportions, leaving her to stand watch over the bilberries. He made it all look effortless, which after all was why he was the chef.

  In just half an hour, once she’d explained the proposed menu, he’d talked her through making the coulis while filling several trays with perfectly even slices of walnut coated cheese. She’d also had chance to catch up on the washing up and tidy up the kitchen while he tasted her lamb stew and, with a quick frown, added more seasoning, sprinkling in a generous handful of rosemary and bay leaves.

  Seamlessly he took over, slicing potatoes into fine pieces, altering the suggested fish stew to a pan-fried fish with scallops which he’d dug out of the freezer.

  ‘OK, what about the dessert?’ asked Kristjan.

  ‘We were going to offer Skyr and cheese and biscuits,’ replied Lucy diffidently.

  At his pained wince, she laughed. ‘I’ll take anything you can suggest.’

  He shot a quick glance at his watch. ‘I can make some
meringues and with the egg yolks, some vanilla custard tarts.’ He grinned. ‘You have to give your permission. Erik has been hoarding his special Madagascan vanilla pods.’

  ‘You have my full permission to do anything you like.’

  ‘I have lots of ideas … Erik,’ his face held a trace of frustration, ‘he doesn’t like to experiment. The menu hasn’t changed in five years.’

  ‘Feel free, as long as the guests are fed. Today you have free rein.’

  He beamed at her and rubbed his hands together with evident glee.

  ‘Then tonight, The Northern Lights Lodge’s guests will eat the best desserts this side of Reykjavik.’

  Lucy raised an eyebrow. Despite his arrogant claim he looked quite modest.

  ‘Trust me.’

  Alex brought the last plate through at the end of the night, reflecting it had been one of the best evening’s service he’d had since he’d arrived at the lodge, bearing in mind he was supposed to be running the bar and not waiting tables. He ought to be heading through to the bar right now. Lucy, to his surprise, was whizzing around the kitchen stacking plates in the dishwasher with a broad grin on her face, teasing a red-faced but happy Kristjan. As soon as he put the plates down she held up a hand for a high-five.

  ‘We did it. I think the punters loved it.’ She sighed and bent double. ‘And I never want to have to do that again. Talk about crazy.’

  ‘But you were brilliant.’

  ‘No, Kristjan was brilliant. Amazing. Incredible. Although, I never want to see a round of sheep’s cheese again.’