The Piano Man Project Page 0,74

miss my mama. These people remind me I should go home and kiss her wrinkly cheeks again.’ He mopped his tears with the corner of his apron, which he then took off and slung on the stool. ‘I will go now,’ he declared. ‘This minute. I will go and see my mama.’

‘But …’

He held up both his hands to stop her speaking. ‘My mama. I will go now.’

‘In Chihuahua?’ Honey said doubtfully, and he glared at her with a curt nod.

‘But what about dinner?’

‘I made chilli.’ He waved towards the bubbling vat on the stove. ‘Skin and bones knows what to do with it.’

Honey could only presume he was referring to Skinny Steve, and furthermore she guessed that the only thing that chilli was going to be useful for was stripping paint. She watched helplessly as the diminutive chef slung a bag across his back and flounced out of the kitchen, flounced back and grabbed his bunch of chillies, and then flounced back out again, this time for good.

‘We can’t serve it like this,’ Honey said, having braved a tiny taste of the chilli on the end of a teaspoon. Prickles of sweat had broken out on her brow and she’d reached instantly for water. ‘Do you have any idea how to calm it down?’

Steve shook his head, his brows knitted together into a unibrow. After a full minute’s thought, he finally spoke.

‘No.’

Honey took a calming breath and tried to summon her inner Nigella. ‘Water, maybe?’

Steve shook his head. ‘Don’t think so. It’d turn into soup.’

He was most probably right, but he’d also given Honey another idea. ‘Soup? Do we have any tomato soup? That might work.’

Steve considered her suggestion, and then turned to rummage in the wall cupboards. Lining up four huge tins of soup on the counter, he turned back to Honey.

‘It’s worth a shot,’ he said. ‘Shall I put them all in?’

Honey nodded. Even her complete absence of cooking knowledge didn’t stop her from knowing that the chilli needed as much dilution as they could throw at it. She nodded encouragement at Skinny Steve as he tipped each can in and stirred the pot.

‘Now test it,’ she said.

‘Why me?’

‘Because you’re the chef,’ Honey exclaimed.

‘I don’t like chilli,’ Steve muttered, looking doubtful.

Honey sighed and picked up a spoon. ‘Move out the way.’

The consistency had certainly changed; it was way too gloopy and vivid red, horribly like road kill you’d avert your eyes from on a country lane. She wouldn’t want it for her own dinner, and she felt sorry for the residents come mealtime tonight. Dipping the spoon in, she gingerly put a little into her mouth.

Laying the spoon down slowly, she shook her head.

‘It really hasn’t helped much,’ she croaked, reaching once more for the tap.

‘What are we going to do?’ Skinny Steve whispered, looking stricken. ‘It’s almost two. If I don’t have something on the table at half five they’re going to lynch us.’

Honey briefly considered mentioning that she wasn’t, in point of fact, kitchen staff, and running for the hills, but she’d seen Skinny Steve sprint just now and had no doubt he’d tackle her and bring her down before she made it as far as the door. Besides, he was desperate, and she wasn’t hard-hearted enough to desert him in his hour of need. Which kind of left them both with a monumental problem. They had to serve dinner for around thirty people in just over three hours and didn’t have a clue between them how to do it.

‘Do you think the agency could send a replacement in time?’ Steve asked.

Honey really doubted it. She crossed the room and swung the fridge door open, feeling a sinking sense of déjà vu about the whole situation. The last time she’d done this she’d managed to pull off a coup, but that wasn’t likely to happen twice in one lifetime. The chiller offered up very little in the way of inspiration, definitely nothing that looked like it might save their bacon. Although there was actual bacon …

‘Do they eat bacon and sausages?’ she asked.

Steve screwed up his nose. ‘Some of them. Bacon gets stuck in their false teeth. Or they don’t have any teeth.’ He shrugged apologetically.

‘And sausages?’

He looked more hopeful. ‘Yeah. We could do sausages.’

‘With …’ Honey tried to coax him into creating a dish. He was the more experienced cook of them both, he did this every day.

‘… Mash!’ Skinny Steve practically shouted, lighting up like a just-plugged-in Christmas tree. ‘Bangers and mash!’

Honey grinned,