Ashley Lister - Turning Up the Heat

Something wasn’t quite right with the flavour and she was determined to work out what was missing. It didn’t taste unpleasant. The sharp tang of the coffee and the blend of bittersweet spices seemed to be working effectively. Some of those who had tested the muffins – friends, kitchen staff and colleagues – said it was the best thing she had yet produced in the kitchen.

But it wasn’t quite the flavour Trudy wanted. The taste lacked the indefinable quality that would change it from enjoyable to an eating experience beyond incredible.

Her brow creased as she brooded on the problem.

She’d used her own pumpkin-pie spice: an even blend of ginger, allspice, nutmeg and cloves, combined with a subtle dash of fresh crushed cinnamon. She’d spent time blending the ingredients to an ultra-fine powder, ages grinding the cloves with a pestle and mortar. She’d worked on the cloves until her bicep throbbed from the effort. But she hadn’t begrudged a single moment of the hard work involved. Making her own pumpkin-pie spice was one of her favourite chores in the kitchen.

The results were like alchemy.

Aside from the task being so arduous that it made her feel like she’d enjoyed a good workout, the medicinal tang of the cloves provided a rich and intense scent that always filled the room. That fragrance alone would have been harsh but it was softened and sweetened by the rest of the aromatic ingredients. It was a labour of love, made easy by the fact that the bouquet of the pumpkin-pie spice was so easy to love.

But the muffins still weren’t quite right. Something was missing. Something extra was needed. Or something additional needed taking away. She didn’t know which. She just knew the flavour wasn’t quite right.

She stopped herself glaring at the muffin. Glaring at pastries seldom helped. It would be more productive, she knew, if she paid attention to the people around her in Boui-Boui, but that could be dangerous.

She glanced up from the muffin in time to see Bill squeeze three of the near-naked women more tightly into his embrace.

Trudy’s glare turned into a glower.

She supposed models were meant to be constantly smiling for the camera, but she thought these six women looked like they were enjoying their work a little too much. Their smiles were eager. The brunette kept grinning at Bill as though she shared a secret with him. One of the blondes, the one with a yin-yang tattoo on her shoulder blade, kept touching him on the backside.

‘For God’s sake, stop grinning, Billy.’

The call came from Harvey, Bill’s agent. He was sharing table thirteen with Trudy and her friends Charlotte and Daryl. Harvey was a handsome man of a similar age to his client, with a loud voice, a brash sense of humour and a shrewd eye for opportunity. He had become a regular visitor at Boui-Boui over the past few months and Trudy was beginning to understand why he was one of Bill’s oldest and closest friends.

He had a cheeky sense of humour.

‘Stop grinning, Billy,’ Harvey repeated. ‘If you keep grinning, your fanbase won’t recognise you. They’re not used to seeing you happy, you grumpy old bastard.’

Bill rolled his eyes. His lips thinned in exasperation. His front teeth settled on his lower lip, as though he was about to spit out a long stream of his familiar trademark swearwords.

‘If I don’t chuffing grin,’ he argued, ‘I’m going to look like a perverted old serial killer clutching grimly at his victims.’

Trudy tightened her mouth to conceal a reluctant smile.

Charlotte, sitting next to her, muffled a splutter of laughter in her wine.

Daryl, however, made no response. She seemed captivated by the bare breasts of one of the models. Tall and leggy, dressed in a waist-hugging scarlet Prada dress, Daryl would not have looked out of place standing alongside the models. Admittedly, her chest wasn’t as well developed as any of theirs but Trudy knew Daryl’s naked figure was superbly athletic.

Daryl wore a dreamy half-smile that suggested her thoughts were in the lewd and lovely dimension where she always seemed happiest. Daryl was bisexual, and shamelessly promiscuous. Her relationships were many and usually short-lived. Trudy didn’t dare imagine what she was thinking as she studied the models, but at that moment she almost envied Daryl the simplicity of her libido-dominated ambitions.

Trudy glanced at the models.

She caught herself staring at a pair of naked breasts. Hurriedly, she dragged her gaze away before anyone realised she’d been looking at erect nipples. Her cheeks were warm with the threat of a blush. She felt queasy with nervous apprehension.

‘I can imagine the ideal caption for this one,’ Harvey grumbled. ‘Thirteen tits on display at Boui-Boui.’

Charlotte giggled.

Trudy shot Harvey a reproachful glance.

‘I chuffing heard that,’ Bill growled. ‘And it’s not too late for me to find a new agent.’

Despite his display of grumpiness, Trudy knew Bill was enjoying some aspects of his recent success. He had been a Michelin-starred chef when they first met and now he had achieved celebrity status as an authority on kitchens and cuisine. He had a TV show and wrote cookery articles for two national magazines. He was regarded as an expert on all matters relating to restaurants and recipes and she knew he was savouring the deserved recognition.

Yet she was aware that he wasn’t enjoying every aspect of his success.

The muted mobile buzzed again. She ignored it.

She knew the artificiality of photo shoots and promotional publicity had begun to irritate Bill. The previous evening, on his return from the city, he had confided that all the fake poses and airbrushed pictures made him uneasy.

Trudy sympathised. She understood that such artifices flew in the face of his gruff northern honesty. But she also knew they were a necessity of his newfound celebrity.

She glanced at him, admiring the way he looked so commanding in a single-breasted white dinner jacket over an open-throated black shirt. He had a way of dressing that she always thought of as understated panache.

As he stood proudly between half a dozen stunning topless models, she could tell the smile on his face was false but she figured it was convincing enough to fool the photographer. It would probably be convincing enough to fool anyone who didn’t know him. But she did know him and she could see the small and telling details that would never be caught by a camera.

His fingers flexed and unflexed. She sensed that he wasn’t sure whether he should be touching the bare flesh of the shoulder beneath his hand; whether such contact would look intrusive and unsolicited or masterful and controlling. She didn’t envy him having to make such decisions.

Of course, if she’d been beneath his hand, Trudy knew that Bill would have shown no hesitation in being masterful and controlling. That was one of the many things she loved about him.

He caught her looking in his direction and smiled.

It looked like the first genuine grin he’d worn all day. It was certainly the first smile she’d seen him give this afternoon where the expression touched his eyes.

Instead of worrying about him, knowing that that would be of little use, Trudy quietly vowed to make sure his smile properly returned when they were alone in the evening.

It was Sunday and, under the new arrangement they had agreed, this was the one day of the week when they should have been spending time alone together. More importantly, it was one of the few nights of the week when they should both be sufficiently rested to make the most of their time together at the end of the evening.

There were a couple of boned and rolled sirloins waiting in the fridge. There was a bottle of matured Chivas Regal sitting in Bill’s office. And, once the whisky had been sampled and the steaks had been devoured, Trudy had grand plans for the evening.