The Piano Man Project Page 0,75

relieved at yet another disaster averted. ‘Now you’re talking. Get some potatoes, there’s peeling to be done. You do peel potatoes for mash, right?’

You know that warm glow of pride you get when you do something really well and everyone tells you you’re a marvel? It wasn’t quite that good, but by Honey and Steve’s standards the sausage and mash feast followed by their trademark magic whip pudding was a roaring triumph. It was only as they were gathering in the dishes afterwards that Steve checked the kitchen calendar and went a sickly shade of green.

‘Oh no,’ he muttered, making Honey look up from stacking the plates.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s Old Don’s birthday tomorrow. There’s a party at three o’clock.’

‘A party?’ Honey repeated, her tired brain hurting with the effort of more frantic thinking. ‘As in a party that needs party food? Like sandwiches, and sausage rolls and things?’

‘And a birthday cake,’ Steve mouthed, the look of a hunted deer back in his eyes.

‘Can you bake?’ Honey asked, already knowing the answer before he shook his head. She was no Mary Berry either, despite having watched every series of The Great British Bake Off. She freely admitted to having taken more notice of Paul Hollywood’s baby blues than the technicalities of baking, an oversight she now bitterly regretted.

‘Shit.’ She dropped onto the nearest stool. ‘We’re sunk.’

Steve looked like a defeated featherweight boxer, all slumped shoulders and downturned, dejected lips.

‘I’ve had enough of all this,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m sorry, Honey. I know this is bad of me, but I quit. I can’t do this.’

‘What? No!’ Honey stood up and grabbed the lapels of the tracksuit top he’d just dragged up his arms. ‘Steve, you can’t do that to me! Or to them.’ She jerked her head towards the dining room. ‘Please, we’ll sort something out. I’ll buy a cake from the supermarket. We’ll get another chef in soon, I promise.’

‘Honey, we need one here first thing in the morning, and it’s not gonna happen.’ He shrugged. ‘They pay me minimum wage for this. It’s too much shit for too little pay.’

Honey’s mind raced, and then she made a rash and desperate offer. ‘What if I promise you that there will be a chef here tomorrow? Someone to take over and teach you again, like Patrick did?’

Fragile hope lit his teenage grey eyes, making Honey feel like the Child Catcher trying to lure him to stay with lollipops.

‘You promise?’ he said.

She nodded, closing her eyes briefly and hoping like hell that she’d be able to come good.

‘I promise. Just be here on time in the morning, okay?’

Skinny Steve shot her a small smile and left her alone in the kitchen looking longingly at the cooking sherry.

Hal heard Honey come in later that afternoon and listened to her footsteps as she stopped outside his door.

‘Hal,’ she called out. The fact that she called out at all surprised him, and her non-confrontational tone of voice surprised him even more. He’d seriously started to doubt that she’d ever decide that she wasn’t furious with him any longer.

‘Hal!’

She called his name again. It was hard to judge her mood; she sounded stressed, kind of worked up.

‘What is it?’ he said, trying for middle of the road, conversational.

‘I need to talk to you,’ she said.

There was something in the words she didn’t say that told him more than the words she did. He sensed her weariness, and that she didn’t really want to be at his door about to say whatever it was she was going to.

‘I’m listening,’ he said.

It sounded as if she was pacing outside his door.

‘I need your help,’ she said.

He really hoped that it wasn’t the same favour she’d asked for the week before.

‘Honey, I don’t think we should go there again,’ he said, trying to be gentle.

‘Get over yourself,’ she huffed. ‘This is about work.’

‘Work?’ he said, genuinely perplexed. ‘Your work?’

She was moving again, and then he heard her come to rest outside his door and slide down the wall. She really did sound all in.

‘Yeah,’ she sighed. ‘You know I told you about Patrick, the chef who hit the boss and then resigned? Well his replacement turned out to be incapable of cooking anything that didn’t include at least eight million chillies; the residents were in danger of internal combustion. Anyway, I tried to talk to him about it and he threw a wobbler and stropped off back to Mexico on an afternoon flight.’

‘Wow. He really didn’t like you,’ Hal said, impressed.

‘I