these judgemental men didn’t even fancy her – she’d never sensed passion from a single one. They were convinced they saw insecurity in her, which would make her malleable. Grateful, even.
They were wrong.
She was afraid she’d be on her own for ever – like, of course – but she’d never have settled for one of those patronizing, almost paternal men, with their odd hobbies. One had bred and shown Burmese cats. Another played the flute in an amateur orchestra.
Sometimes she found it hard to believe that she had her current life, where she was loved and – sometimes – liked. Her blood ran cold at how easily it could have stayed baffling and out-of-reach.
What beggared belief was that nowadays she was sometimes described as ‘beautiful’. But that was all down to money. Without her highlights, her contact lenses, her Botox – yes, of course she had Botox, fillers too – without her personal trainer, her veneered teeth and her twelve-week blow-dries, she’d look like a capable, unlovable nobody, who existed only to ‘help out’.
TWENTY-FIVE
‘Great,’ Jessie said, staring at her screen.
Several heads snapped up.
‘No, it’s a good “great”.’ Jessie laughed. ‘Not a sarcastic one. For once! All the tickets for Hagen Klein’s weekend have sold! Seven weeks before he comes.’
This was good news on several levels. Jessie’s chefs – she aimed to book four a year – were now the lifeblood of PiG. The profits the ticket sales generated were gratefully received. But the bump the shops got from each chef’s visit was the real bonus.
Truth was, left to their own devices, the shops would barely break even. But every time a visiting chef demonstrated one or two of their signature dishes on a daytime-telly chat show, hundreds of new customers arrived into the stores, looking for the amchur powder or juniper molasses or whatever high-priced item it was that the maestro had used.
Jessie had been anxious about Hagen Klein – also known as the Chainsaw Chef. His Tromsø restaurant, Maskinvare, offered amazing food, sometimes cooked with power tools, but he was odd, unpredictable and he split demographics: his über-fans tended to be too young to afford tickets. But those who usually shelled out for PiG’s cookery school liked their bad boys sanitized.
‘The business is too dependent on chefs.’ Mason interrupted Jessie’s train of thought.
That was maybe the third time he’d uttered such a heresy and it wounded Jessie.
‘All that work you and Johnny do just to get one to commit,’ he said. ‘It’s not a productive use of your time. And what if a chef pulls out at the last minute?’
‘We’ve insurance for that.’ Jessie flicked a nervous look at Johnny. ‘Don’t we?’
‘I’ll check.’ He looked a bit sweaty.
‘You might want to drill down into the small print,’ Mason said. ‘We really need to have that conversation about your online store.’
PiG already had an online site, but in the last few weeks Mason had been pushing them to vastly expand its reach, to ‘entirely reconfigure the PiG brand’.
Ordinarily, Jessie considered Mason a little genius, but on this subject he was wrong. Entirely wrong. What made the bricks-and-mortar stores so special was the wealth of knowledge each staff member had to offer. Every one of them cooked with the same products they sold. They had insider tips and hard-earned advice, which an impersonal website could never replicate.
‘Jesus!’ Rionna said. ‘It’s twenty past twelve. The table’s booked for half past. Come on.’
They were meeting Erno Danchev-Dubois, a self-described food-trend consultant, in the nearby Radisson. The hotel was where they had all their meetings. The office was far too small.
‘Am I to come?’ Mason asked.
‘If you promise to say nothing more about a new website.’
Mason smoothed down his already immaculate clothing and Jessie couldn’t help smiling fondly on him. ‘Look at you.’
In his rolled-up chinos, checked waistcoat, white T-shirt and red dicky-bow, he was a sight to behold. He carried a fogeyish floppy leather briefcase and wore no socks under his black-and-white brogues. Even with his mid-century black-framed spectacles, the smiley little face underneath the neat quiff looked about fifteen.
Nerd Hipster, apparently. Erno was bound to adore him.
Erno was a rare beast. Food-trend consultants existed by accident rather than design. They had usually been educated in several countries, spoke at least four languages, knew everyone – and had fallen on hard times. PiG had four such individuals on a retainer to predict what trend or foodstuff might take off in Ireland next. But it was an inexact science and mistakes were made, sometimes