A Bitter Feast(26)

“Got it,” Kit had told her, with more confidence than he felt. But it was an easy enough task, as long as he was careful. When the chef had gone into the main kitchen, he’d nibbled a damaged leaf before tossing it in the bin. It tasted slightly bitter, but really fresh, and somehow even more like salad than the produce from the veg stalls at Portobello Market. He wondered what she meant to do with it.

He was almost finished with the second pail when he heard talking from the kitchen. A woman’s voice he didn’t recognize said, “Viv! I came as soon as I heard. Oh, my God. I’m so sorry.”

“Christ, Bea,” said Chef Viv. “I can’t believe it. How could he? How could he do this?” She sounded near tears.

“I don’t think he meant to get himself killed, darling,” the person called Bea soothed. “For all his faults, that’s the last thing I can imagine.”

“But why here? And what was he doing with her, of all people?” Viv groaned. “Oh, that sounds terrible, as if I didn’t care about poor Nell. But, Bea, they want me to . . . to identify— I don’t know if I can—”

“I know, darling. I’ll come with you, don’t worry.”

“But what am I going to tell—”

The scullery door slammed open and Grace, the gangly kid with the glasses, came bursting in. “Mum? Mum?”

“In here, love.”

“Lady Addie says, do we need a spoon for each pudding?” Grace called without going into the kitchen, giving Kit a shy glance.

“No, just one is fine. They get to choose one pudding, not both. They can pass them round if they want.”

“Okay.” Grace grinned at Kit and banged out again.

“Do you need a hand in here?” came Bea’s voice again. “I’d better pay my respects to Addie and see what needs doing out there.”

“No, you go on. I’ve got things in hand for the moment. And I’ve a helper in the scullery.”

A moment later, a small, dark-haired woman popped her head round the kitchen door. “Oh, hello,” she said. “And who are you?”

“I’m Kit. Kit McClellan.” Kit wiped his hand on a tea towel and held it out to her.

With a raised eyebrow, the woman took it and said, “Ooh, manners. How nice. Viv certainly knows how to pick her labor.” With that, she went out onto the terrace. There had been something condescending in her manner that rubbed Kit the wrong way. Why did everyone think teenagers were boors?

Chef Viv came back into the scullery carrying a tray filled with foil-wrapped packets and began placing the packages in the scullery warming oven.

“What are those?” Kit asked.

“Flatbreads to go with the lamb and white beans. I made them this morning. We’ll keep them on low until time to serve them.” Coming over to Kit, she lifted the tea towels and examined his lettuces. “Great job.” When she smiled at him, he saw that her eyes were red-rimmed.

Kit didn’t know what she and Bea had been talking about, but obviously it was bad—someone had died. He didn’t feel he could ask, though, so instead, he said, “Who was that lady who just came through?”

“Oh. That was Bea. She’s my business partner. She’s in charge of front of house at my pub.”

“Oh, right,” Kit said, nodding. “And you’re back of house.”

Viv looked at him curiously. “You know a bit about restaurants?”

“I have a friend who’s a chef.” Wesley might say he was stretching it a bit, but then Wesley never gave himself credit. “And I like doing things in the kitchen.”

“Hmm.” Viv eyed him speculatively. “Do you think you could plate these greens for me? It will be a bit fiddly.”

“I can do fiddly.”

“Right, then. I’ll show you.” She went into the kitchen and came back with a tall stack of mismatched china salad plates. Taking one, she arranged a handful of salad leaves, placing them carefully. “See, some of them are darker or redder, so see if you can use those for accents, a bit like a painting. Why don’t you give it a try?”

Taking a plate, Kit did his best to copy her, hoping she wouldn’t notice his nerves.

“Very nice.” Viv tweaked a leaf. “You have a good eye. Just keep that up and we’ll have you working the cold line in a real restaurant.”

“What goes on this?” he asked, to cover his embarrassment at the compliment.

“You’ll see.” This time her smile reached her eyes.



Grace came in again from the terrace as Kit was beginning to run out of room on the scullery work top for the salad plates. “Wow,” she said. “My mum let you do that?”

Kit shrugged. “She said it was okay.”

“She never lets me do anything. She says I’m too young.” Grace sounded aggrieved.

“Would you like to help her?” Kit asked.

Frowning, Grace chewed her lip. “Well, yeah. ’Course I would. I get really tired of being told I can’t do things.”

“Part of being a kid, I guess.” Kit finished another plate and stepped back to check his handiwork. “How old are you?” he asked, glancing at her. Her glasses looked too big for her small face, and her hair was a tangle that could have held birds’ nests.