CATHERINE GEORGE - Bargaining With The Boss

‘But I like doing it, Pa,’ she protested.

‘I know.’ He patted her cheek, then kissed it. ‘Because you are bored, no?’

She grinned at him, put the containers in the car and slid behind the wheel, not troubling to contradict what was, her father knew well, the simple truth. She was bored. It was time she begged a Saturday off to spend a weekend with Vicky.

To Eleri’s relief the address was a ground-floor apartment in one of the austerely beautiful Regency houses in Chester Gardens. Where a lift was involved the delivery was more complicated. She rang the bell, and after a short wait the panelled door swung open to reveal a tall, all too familiar figure.

James Kincaid stood transfixed at the sight of her. ‘Eleri?’

‘Who is it?’ called a voice in the background.

‘The dinner you ordered,’ he called back, looking embarrassed as he took one of the insulated containers from Eleri. ‘The kitchen’s along here.’ He hurried a shell-shocked Eleri along the hall and into a high-ceilinged room with a black and white tiled floor and state-of-the-art equipment. He shut the door behind them and thrust a hand through his hair, his discomfiture so obvious Eleri forgot her own in her amusement.

‘I apologise for this,’ he said gruffly. ‘Believe me. I had no idea.’

‘Neither did I. Look, could I put the oven on for the main course, please?’ she said, deliberately businesslike. ‘Or you can put it in the microwave. I’m afraid I have to assemble the first course, but it won’t take long. It’s only a salad.’

‘Please don’t bother—I’m sure we can manage,’ he said curtly. He went over to a large convector oven and switched it on. ‘I’d better use this, I suppose. What temperature do I need?’

‘Medium. But don’t leave the dish in too long. Could I have a big round serving plate, please?’

James hunted in a cupboard and gave her a plate, then watched uneasily while Eleri sliced beef tomatoes and rounds of buffalo mozzarella cheese with the knife she’d brought with her. She arranged them in concentric circles on the plate, drizzled virgin olive oil over them, tore up a handful of fresh basil leaves and sprinkled them over the finished dish.

‘There,’ she said, smiling brightly. ‘Insalata caprese . Would you put it in the fridge, please? I’ll leave you to slice the focaccia when you’re ready to eat.’ She unwrapped a flat loaf coated with onions and rosemary, then put the dish of pasta in the oven.

‘Eleri—’ began James.

‘Please,’ she said swiftly, ‘just let me get away as quickly as possible.’ She bit her lip, her face suddenly hot. ‘Though I’m afraid you have to pay me first.’

James fished his wallet out from a back pocket and handed over the not inconsiderable sum required for his evening meal. Eleri took the money and gave him change, all in a silence so tangible it fairly simmered in the air.

‘Normally one of our staff does this,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘He’s broken his ankle, so I’m filling in. If you order anything in future it’s customary to give Luigi a tip.’

‘For pity’s sake, Eleri, I thought you’d black my eye if I offered you a tip!’ He smiled ironically. ‘It seems a totally inadequate and irrelevant thing to say, but thank you.’

‘My pleasure,’ fibbed Eleri dryly. ‘Nice kitchen,’ she added, then stiffened as the door opened and in came a tall, slender blonde in a dress Eleri had coveted in a glossy magazine.

‘Dinner? How splendid. Wasn’t I clever, James, to think of getting it sent in?’ She smiled radiantly at Eleri and spoke loudly and very distinctly. ‘Thank you so much. Do you speak English?’

Eleri was suddenly possessed by a demon. ‘A leetle, signorina,’ she said, avoiding James’s stare. ‘I ’ave prepare the insalata, and the pasta ees hotting in the oven.’

‘Perfect. Have you paid her, James?’

‘Yes,’ he said, fixing Eleri with a cold, glittering stare. ‘But I forgot to give her a tip.’ He held out a five-pound note. ‘Please accept this for your trouble, Signorina Conti.’

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