and lock the door.
Joe said “flight” was better than “fight” but I didn’t know for sure anyone was in there. So, tip-toeing, I entered and paused to listen. Nothing. I tried the light. It didn’t work. I headed into the bedroom – that was empty too and also remained dark when I hit the light switch. With a shrug I went back into the lounge and – oh my God! – gasped. Thanks to amber rays from the street lamps, I made out a figure, in the kitchen area. It was bald, therefore a man, who must have been hiding or bending down, before. Battling my adrenaline-rush instincts to do something mad, I swallowed hard. Don’t panic, Joe would say. Think it through. Stay calm. The man said something in French, walked around the kitchen units and came towards me.
I felt dizzy for a second, before getting a grip on my emotions. I reached down for my handbag. The thought crossed my mind to press that button but contacting Joe so soon into my mission would make me look a right wimp. Anyway, this bloke wasn’t much taller than me, plus his voice had no aggressive edge. I reckoned a good shot of pepper spray would give me time to bolt. And if he was gone, when I came back, I wouldn’t mention him to Edward – or the police –as I might let slip details about my secret mission. I couldn’t get Edward involved, nor let Joe down.
With a deep breath, I took the small bottle out of my bag and one, two, three… charged him, screaming. He put up his hands and kind of yelped as I sprayed his face. Shaking from head to toe I stumbled out of the flat and legged it down the stairs.
Chapter 6
‘Girl, you gonna take a piss or get off the pot?’
Meet Texan Cindy, second-in-charge to the head chef – brash, with the brains of JR Ewing and his Texan drawl to match. This was her way of telling me to hurry up. Tears streaming down my cheeks, I frantically chopped the onion.
This was Friday, my fifth day in the kitchen. And, um, ahem, yes, I’d not been chased and murdered by the intruder in our flat, last Sunday. It turned out he was the landlord. Due to an electricity fault, Edward had called him, assuming that the old man would have sorted things out during the day. But no – instead he left it until the last minute and ended up getting stained with blue spray.
How long ago that seemed, now. Five days working as dogsbody in a restaurant had been a MASSIVE learning curve. I winced and smiled sheepishly as, for the third time that week, I sliced my finger. Without taking her spoon out of a saucepan of glossy brown sauce, Cindy delved into the pocket of her white buttoned chef’s coat and took out a plaster. I wrapped it around the wound and with a quick glance at Jean-Claude, waited for some sarcastic words.
‘Don’t worry, he’s all hat but no horse, honey,’ Cindy said.
My brow furrowed, as I looked again at the kitchen boss, in his black and white chequered trousers (yes, chefs really did dress like that!)
‘What I mean is…’ She shrugged. ‘There’s a soft guy inside that fierce, Gallic exterior.’
‘Onions ready, Pudding?’ he boomed, in a mega thick French accent.
That was his name for me and I’d had a good mind to complain, as I thought he was referring to my generous curves. But Cindy insisted I had a “darn purtee” figure and that Pudding was simply a common derogatory term, originating from snooty French chefs who consider English desserts stodgy and tasteless.
Which made sense as JC – as everyone called him – was not remotely PC. Only yesterday he’d released a torrent of abuse when a vegetarian customer complained. He declared that anyone who didn’t eat meat had the palate of an amoeba and no right to moan. Wiping his hands on his white apron, forehead perspiring, the head chef came over and stared at me.
‘
Sacre bleu
! Tie ze hair up tighter tomorrow. Strands are all over your face.’ His nose wrinkled. ‘Eet ees unhygienic…’ He studied my chopping board. ‘Ze slices are too
Joe said “flight” was better than “fight” but I didn’t know for sure anyone was in there. So, tip-toeing, I entered and paused to listen. Nothing. I tried the light. It didn’t work. I headed into the bedroom – that was empty too and also remained dark when I hit the light switch. With a shrug I went back into the lounge and – oh my God! – gasped. Thanks to amber rays from the street lamps, I made out a figure, in the kitchen area. It was bald, therefore a man, who must have been hiding or bending down, before. Battling my adrenaline-rush instincts to do something mad, I swallowed hard. Don’t panic, Joe would say. Think it through. Stay calm. The man said something in French, walked around the kitchen units and came towards me.
I felt dizzy for a second, before getting a grip on my emotions. I reached down for my handbag. The thought crossed my mind to press that button but contacting Joe so soon into my mission would make me look a right wimp. Anyway, this bloke wasn’t much taller than me, plus his voice had no aggressive edge. I reckoned a good shot of pepper spray would give me time to bolt. And if he was gone, when I came back, I wouldn’t mention him to Edward – or the police –as I might let slip details about my secret mission. I couldn’t get Edward involved, nor let Joe down.
With a deep breath, I took the small bottle out of my bag and one, two, three… charged him, screaming. He put up his hands and kind of yelped as I sprayed his face. Shaking from head to toe I stumbled out of the flat and legged it down the stairs.
Chapter 6
‘Girl, you gonna take a piss or get off the pot?’
Meet Texan Cindy, second-in-charge to the head chef – brash, with the brains of JR Ewing and his Texan drawl to match. This was her way of telling me to hurry up. Tears streaming down my cheeks, I frantically chopped the onion.
This was Friday, my fifth day in the kitchen. And, um, ahem, yes, I’d not been chased and murdered by the intruder in our flat, last Sunday. It turned out he was the landlord. Due to an electricity fault, Edward had called him, assuming that the old man would have sorted things out during the day. But no – instead he left it until the last minute and ended up getting stained with blue spray.
How long ago that seemed, now. Five days working as dogsbody in a restaurant had been a MASSIVE learning curve. I winced and smiled sheepishly as, for the third time that week, I sliced my finger. Without taking her spoon out of a saucepan of glossy brown sauce, Cindy delved into the pocket of her white buttoned chef’s coat and took out a plaster. I wrapped it around the wound and with a quick glance at Jean-Claude, waited for some sarcastic words.
‘Don’t worry, he’s all hat but no horse, honey,’ Cindy said.
My brow furrowed, as I looked again at the kitchen boss, in his black and white chequered trousers (yes, chefs really did dress like that!)
‘What I mean is…’ She shrugged. ‘There’s a soft guy inside that fierce, Gallic exterior.’
‘Onions ready, Pudding?’ he boomed, in a mega thick French accent.
That was his name for me and I’d had a good mind to complain, as I thought he was referring to my generous curves. But Cindy insisted I had a “darn purtee” figure and that Pudding was simply a common derogatory term, originating from snooty French chefs who consider English desserts stodgy and tasteless.
Which made sense as JC – as everyone called him – was not remotely PC. Only yesterday he’d released a torrent of abuse when a vegetarian customer complained. He declared that anyone who didn’t eat meat had the palate of an amoeba and no right to moan. Wiping his hands on his white apron, forehead perspiring, the head chef came over and stared at me.
‘
Sacre bleu
! Tie ze hair up tighter tomorrow. Strands are all over your face.’ His nose wrinkled. ‘Eet ees unhygienic…’ He studied my chopping board. ‘Ze slices are too
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