His Horizon - Con Riley Page 0,60
his way, inspecting each component. The sauce was butter-rich and glossy, the meat a pink shade of perfection. He leant over it and sniffed the base notes of fresh herbs and garlic with a top layer of truffle, flecks of it speckling the edge of the bone-white china. “What did he say when you served him? What didn’t he like about it?”
Rob said nothing for a long second. His confession was reluctant. “He hasn’t even seen it.”
“Why not?” Jude dragged his gaze away from a meal that looked more than good enough, in his opinion, to see that Rob’s hands were fisted, knuckles as white as the serving dishes he’d picked up at auction. Was he panicking right now, imagining that everything in this kitchen would end up at the same destination, his pots and pans getting snapped up for pennies, if Guy’s review was scathing?
That wasn’t going to happen.
The Anchor had survived one storm already, lost her first crew in another. What she needed right now was someone trained to hold their breath and then come up swimming.
“Rob,” he barked. “What is it that he wants exactly?”
“Th-the dish I cooked to win the contest.” He still didn’t make eye contact.
Jude pushed the plate back towards him, exasperated. “Well go and give it to him then, for fuck sake. No point it getting cold in here if this is exactly what he ordered.”
Rob didn’t move a muscle. Jude took another deep breath. “Either you take it out to him, or—” he looked over his shoulder for Louise, but they were alone in the kitchen. “Or I will. This is what he asked for, right? We practised together, so I know this is exactly what you cooked in the final.” He dipped a spoon into the saucepan and tasted. “It’s good, so he can’t slate it. It’s already won one contest.”
“It didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?”
Outside, the hallway clock struck the half-hour.
In the kitchen, Rob turned oh-so-slowly to face him. “Win.”
“What?” Jude struggled to make sense. “Rob…?” Forming the right question was impossible while Rob looked wretched, pale when his cheeks should be heat-flushed. Rob pulling his phone from his trouser pocket didn’t make anything clearer.
“Look,” Rob slid the phone along the stretch of counter between them.
“At what? Why?”
“Please.” At last, Rob met his eye for the briefest of moments. “Please, just look.”
Jude picked up the phone and did as Rob asked, scrolling through a photo album showing a very familiar dish, the meal Jude had planned to cook for the contest final that he hadn’t turned up for, already far from London by then. “Did you take a photo of one of our practice runs?” He zoomed in. “Hang on. This isn’t how I plated it.”
“No.” Rob’s swallow was audible. “It’s how I did.”
“When?” Jude repeated the question. “When, Rob?”
“During the contest. The final,” he said hoarsely. “This is what I served the judges.”
“You cooked my dish.” Jude floundered, gaze darting between the phone and the plate that now sat on the counter, cooling. There was no way of mistaking Jude’s simple sea bass dish for Rob’s flashy creation. “You served mine instead of your own?”
Rob’s nod came with another quick swallow.
“Why?”
Rob’s head shake was just as swift, a flush now staining his throat, crawling upwards so fast Jude could track its scarlet progress.
Jude put down the phone before he succumbed to the urge to throw it. He shoved it too hard instead, ignoring Rob’s wince as it slid close to the bench edge. “This is what he’s waiting for, out there? Why didn’t you— Fuck it. I haven’t got time for this.” Jude broke off and crossed the kitchen, yanking open the huge fridge.
Carl’s gift of that morning might be their lifeline.
“Jude? I can explain.” Rob sounded shakier than Jude had ever heard him, but he had too much to process right then to answer. If he tried to they’d all drown, Guy leaving before they had a chance to wow him.
“Jude,” Rob repeated as Jude lumped the crate over to the sink, already weighing up which fish to fillet, and yes, thank God, there was some samphire and mussels.
“Please—”
Jude couldn’t look directly at him. He thrust the samphire in Rob’s direction. “Wash this, then wash it again. Make sure to get all the grit off.” He plucked mussels out of the crate too. “Tell me we still have fish stock.”
“Yes.”
Jude closed his eyes. “Then it’s not hopeless.”
“You’re gonna cook for him?”
“No.” He pulled a filleting knife from the magnetic strip on