A Bitter Feast(35)

She spun round with the basket, still dripping hot oil, in her hand. “Keep your hands off me.”

“Whoa, whoa, sorry.” He backed away, holding up his hands. “Just a little joke.”

“Not. A. Joke. You do that again and you really will be sorry.”

Fergus had looked up from his plating. “Shut it, the both of you. I told you I didn’t want any of that shite in my kitchen.”

She was furious, the blood pounding in her ears. “Then tell this arsehole to keep his fucking hands off me. I’m just doing my job.”

Fergus looked from one to the other. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking—she’d learned she often couldn’t read him. What the hell had she just done? “You.” He pointed his tweezers at Guy. “She’s right. You are an arsehole, and she’s been doing half your work. You’re fired.”

“You can’t do that.” Guy sounded more incredulous than indignant.

“I can. Get your kit and get out of my kitchen.”

For a moment, Viv thought Guy was going to punch Fergus. Then he shook his head. “You’re off your nut, you know that, Fergus? Who’s going to work sauté?”

“She is. Now bugger off. I’m not telling you again.” Fergus turned back to his plating.

Guy took a step towards Viv. “You bitch.” Spit sprayed her face. “You are so going to regret this.” Then he turned on his heel and shoved his way out of the kitchen, knocking into Mikey, who was on garde-manger, and very nearly making him lose his grip on a tray of veg.

More orders were piling up at the pass.

Ibby said, “But, Chef. I’m on grill. I should be—”

Fergus lowered his voice. “You’ll do fryer as well. Get those orders up now.” Fergus wasn’t a shouter, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a ferocious temper. Viv had learned that when he dropped his voice, you had better watch out.

“Yes, Chef,” she and Ibby said at the same time, but Ibby gave her a venomous look.

Shit. The bastards. Moving to the sauté station, Viv poured oil in the pan. Her hands were shaking. She’d been sure she’d be the one walking. Why hadn’t Fergus fired her? She placed the waiting scallops in the pan, pressed them with the spatula. She must do this right.

By the time she’d passed the finished scallops to Fergus, concentration on the task had begun to slow her racing heart. Fergus pressed a scallop with his finger, nodded, and began adding them to the plates. A wave of relief made Viv feel light-headed, but she forced herself to focus on the orders. Within half an hour, even with a man down, service was running smoothly. Even Ibby seemed to have got over his sulks and together they made a good team.

By the end of the night, customers were coming to the pass to thank Fergus—or if they were female, to look at Fergus, Viv thought with a roll of her eyes.

When they’d closed the kitchen down, Viv went, as usual, to get her coat and bag from the little basement office. Their space was too cramped for a locker room. The blokes changed in the storage cupboard off the walk-in. Viv had taken to just changing her shoes and switching out her chef’s jacket for a sweater in the tiny staff toilet. Tonight she was too tired even to do that. She was pulling her coat off the hook when Fergus stuck his head round the door.

“Oi, Viv. Come for a drink.” Most nights after service, Fergus and the rest of the blokes would go to one of the clubs on the King’s Road and drink until the wee hours, but Viv had never been invited. Nor had she wanted to try to be one of the boys—that way lay pathetic.

“Oh, thanks, Chef, but I’d better—”

Fergus stepped all the way into the room and said quietly, “Listen, I don’t want you walking out of here on your own tonight, okay? Just a precaution.”

Oh, hell. Guy. Viv had forgotten all about him. She frowned. “You don’t think Guy would—”

“He’ll get over himself, or at least he will when he gets another job. But meanwhile there’s no sense in being stupid.”

“Oh, right.” Now that she thought about it, Viv did not want to walk out of the restaurant’s dark back entrance by herself. “Okay.”

“Get changed, then.” Fergus went out, leaving Viv to contemplate going to a club in the trainers she’d worn to work that morning, with a woolly jumper over her checked kitchen trousers. Oh, well, what the hell. Why not? She was still so buzzed with the service adrenaline that she’d never be able to sleep, anyway.

They left the restaurant together, all except John, who’d begged off, rather to Viv’s relief as she didn’t fancy dodging another groper. The night had turned a deep, sharp, biting cold, and their breaths puffed out before them as they walked. Fergus fell into step beside her, matching his long stride to hers, and for the first time she felt comfortable in his presence outside the kitchen. Their footsteps were barely audible on the pavement. Ahead of them, Ibby and Mikey were arguing over the latest football results, but even the sound of their voices seemed muffled by the cold.

When she could see the lights of the King’s Road ahead, she said into the silence, “Why did you fire him, and not me?”

She sensed Fergus shrug beneath his heavy coat. “Simple. You’re a better cook.”





Chapter Ten