Masters & Lovers Box Set One

"That was pretty unrestrained for your usual tastes," I comment.

He shrugs. "She loves it doesn't she...."

True....

"You feeling better now?"

He stretches, then scratches at his hair. "Yeah, loads. Sorry for being a bad-tempered bastard earlier."

"You've already apologised. You don't need to do it again. Everything will be fine tomorrow. You'll see."

*****

Useless.

That's how I feel.

This whole spa hotel business is Michael's project. I wander around aimlessly, trying to find something useful to do with myself, but.... .... That's what staff are for.

Michael, having recovered from his ill-temper of the day before is calm, collected and completely organised. As he is busily putting up signs for extra parking around the front and sides of the hotel. I try to help, but I'm simply in the way. He's polite enough, but I can see I'm getting on his nerves.

So, I head for a shower and to change into something respectable enough for the wealthy friends and acquaintances of the Haswells. The guest list for Michael's 'Grand Opening' has drawn heavily from the 'Great and the Good' of the City, most of whom of course know Richard and Beth.

A useful bonus from having a billionaire investor....

And much as I wish Michael well in his project, I can't wait for the day to be over.

Not that I don't like the 'friends' Richard and Beth, but there's something about a lot of them that makes my teeth itch. Richard is well accustomed to this sort of thing and Beth, so far as I can see, has taken to it like a duck to water. For myself.... I feel a bit like Charlotte about it. It's a necessary evil, having to deal with so many people one would prefer not to spend so much time with.

But that's business....

How formally should I be dressed?

Michael can wander around in sweats and a tee-shirt and look good....

.... and appropriate....

I would look like a hobo....

Suited and booted then. Look like the part of the businessman.

So, making my way to the house, I pass through the lobby and to the rear, away from the public areas, heading for the exit. Passing the kitchen, I hear cursing....

.... Quite imaginative cursing and in a female voice. Tucking away a couple of choice phrases for recycling, I push through the swing doors to investigate. "Problem?"

It's Sally, the head chef, a likeable woman who has already demonstrated her competence at the 'practice run' with the wedding reception only a few days previously.

She whirls as I enter, brandishing a large plastic bottle. I step hastily back before the bottle is launched my way, but she relaxes as she recognises me. "Oh, it's you Mr Alexanders."

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"Problem?"

"Blasted supplier," she spits. "Sent the wrong stuff. It was supposed to be horseradish." She waves the bottle at me. "Normally I'd make it from scratch, but with the staff all new to the job, I was taking a few short-cuts. "What did they send?"

"Mayonnaise." She stands, hand on hip, sucking at her teeth as she surveys busy operations the length of the kitchen.

"What was it to be served with?"

"The mackerel." She thumbs across to a heap of fish, currently under a crackle of ice.

I scratch an eyebrow. "Why not whip it up with cayenne and capers and serve that instead?"

She snaps her fingers and jabs a forefinger to me. "I like that." She revolves, yelling across the kitchen. "Sonia, bring me the capers." Then she looks around. "Where's Sonia? She should be at her station by now." "Not seen her, Chef," comments a lad on the next counter as he draws a filleting knife across a steel.

A head pokes through the doors; Kelly from reception. "Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but Sonia just rang in sick."

Sally's fingers drum a galloping-horse beat on the counter. "Oh, crap."

Her gaze runs over the kitchen and there is a sudden rush of activity as everyone there tries to look fully occupied.

"What was Sonia supposed to be doing?" I roll up sleeves and snatch an apron from behind the door.

Sally awards me a calculating look. "Canapes; guacamole tartlets with a tomato side-dressing, scallops and chorizo, fillet of beef on Parmentier potatoes, and salt and chilli fried king prawns. You reckon you can handle that?"

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"Happy to help."

She raises brows but points. "Recipes and photos are on the pin-board over there. That's your reference."

Humming a happy little tune, I head for the fresh produce shelves, picking out tomatoes and lemons, mentally stoning avocados and weighing guacamole in my head.

On the way back to the bench, I snag the cards and photos and lay them out, deciding the best order of work, then start by making the pastry for the tartlet blinds, laying out my ingredients in orderly fashion then rummaging in the drawer. Sally is watching me....

.... It's her kitchen.....

"What are you looking for?"

"Cling-film for the pastry."

"It's on a roll on the wall over there."

Pastry made, I wrap it then set it to rest in the fridge. I put water on to heat, and assemble the next set of ingredients, for the tomato dressing.

After a few minutes, Sally glances across to me again, watching me skin tomatoes. "I thought, Mr Alexanders, that you were an architect or an engineer or some such?" "That's right."

Her head tilts. "But you've worked in a kitchen before?"

"That's right. A long time ago, but yes."

She clicks her tongue. "Just goes to show, you never can tell." Then, eyeing me as I shift weight from one leg to the other, "Billy, go find a high stool for Mr Alexanders."