One
Amid the vibrant bustle of London’s Portobello Road Market, an unassuming restaurant lay ensconced between antique dealers and vintage clothing stalls. In perfect harmony with the market’s spirit – equal parts tradition, innovation, and authenticity – it beckoned with understated charm, a quiet steady presence amid the ever-shifting crowds.
The Fork even most of the third had been stimulating. But the sixty seconds between 4:30 and 4:31 yesterday had lodged in her mind like a splinter buried too deep to remove. Now it was throbbing painfully with the memory of something she could neither forget nor face.
Fiona’s eyes flicked towards the master of ceremonies; Ruben was laughing and posing for selfies at the Chef’s Table. Further along the polished stainless-steel bar, two middle-aged women, wide-eyed with excitement, were eagerly trying to catch his eye. ‘Chef! We’ve seen your videos!’ called out one, waving her phone in the air. He turned, grinned, and walked over with the poise of someone well-used to being the centre of attention. Resting his hands on the counter, he smiled at the customer. ‘Glad to hear it. What are you having this evening? We had a wonderful delivery of fresh fish this morning.’
The women swooned as the celebrity chef started talking them through the evening’s specials, his deep voice describing the lemon sole with thyme and brown butter sauce with such enthusiasm Fiona felt her mouth watering, and her irritation with his showboating melt away. She helped one of her team clear and relay a table, then, spotting empty glasses, fetched the correct wine from the central chilling bucket, wiped off the moisture with a cloth, and poured it out expertly, to the widest part of the glass . When she replaced the bottle in the cooling bucket, the satisfying clinkof glass against ice felt oddly final, like locking away a secret in an impregnable vault. But no matter how deep she tried to bury the memory, those sixty seconds kept floating back up.
Fiona shook her head to clear her mind, pulled out her notepad and manoeuvred between the cramped tables towards the Chef’s table, her movements graceful, but her shoulders tense. The stainless-steel counter – Ruben’s culinary stage – gleamed beneath the spotlights. Upon it, were the well-orchestrated props: heirloom tomatoes in earthenware bowls; baskets of garlic bulbs, both black and white, each one the size of a tennis ball. Along the counter’s edge, freshly made sauces stood sentinel in labelled bottles, their ranks as precise as soldiers awaiting inspection, transforming the counter into an alchemist’s workbench.
‘Ah, Fiona,’ Ruben said as she arrived, ‘perfect timing.’ He gestured at the two women, both still wearing the eager expression of the dedicated fan. ‘We need some advice on the ideal wine to match tonight’s scallop dish. What about a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc?’
Fiona’s face twitched, her eyes narrowing for just a moment. Tonight, she wanted to forget all about new world wines. Telling herself to be professional, she chewed at her lip, then managed a weak smile. ‘Of course. It’s an excellent choice –bright, crisp, with a mineral finish that will really lift the seafood.’ She looked up at Ruben, hoping to catch a glimpse of recognition for her skills, but he was already diverted; another customer was calling his name. Fiona wondered if he caught the flash of frustration in her expression before she refocused on the guests in front of her, advising them of the price of their wine choice.
‘Service!’ cried a junior chef. Plates clattered onto the serving counter, and Fiona swivelled to collect them. The hiss of a hot pan filled the room, steam rising as Ru seared a fillet of fish, the aroma of butter and thyme enveloping the air. The diners at the kitchen counter hunched forward, captivated by his cooking, hanging on every word as he explained the dish.
‘You’re amazing, Chef! Can we take a photo?’ a young woman asked eagerly, phone already in hand.
Ru flashed his trademark smile and obliged, leaning in for the snap. Fiona turned her back on the flurry of activity. She approached a table of regulars who had been coming here for months, knowing the service they would receive from Fiona and her team would always be personal, attentive, full of expertise.
‘Your usual bottle of white burgundy?’ she asked with a knowing smile, pouring expertly into each of their glasses. On the cusp of engaging them in conversation, another burst of laughter erupted from Ruben’s station, drowning out her words. Fiona glanced over to see the chef with a group of men, signing autographs on napkins as if he were a rock star. Ruben was basking in the attention, his focus seemingly more on the camera flashes than on their shared passion for creating something special together. Fiona bit back her irritation, knowing it was unfair of her to blame Ru for enjoying his newfound celebrity. He was a wonderful chef, and a brilliant promoter of their restaurant; it was Ru who had made it so successful. It was churlish of her to begrudge him his moment in the sun, when he had worked so hard for it.
As the night wore on, the energy in the restaurant swelled. Plates arrived at tables with bursts of colour – grilled sea bass with bright green herbs freshly picked that morning, warm, crusty bread with golden extra-virgin olive oil, and vibrant salads topped with edible orange flowers. The smells of roasted vegetables, caramelized onions, and grilling meat intermingled, making the space almost alive with flavour. Ruben, still centre stage, seemed animated by the buzzing atmosphere, chatting with customers between cooking, throwing in witty remarks that drew chuckles and applause.
At the Chef’s table, Fiona was pouring another glass of wine for a couple. ‘You’re so lucky to work with him,’ commented the man. ‘He’s incredibly talented, isn’t he?’
Fiona’s smile was polite, her tone light, but there was a knowing look in her eyes. ‘Yes, he’s very talented. But it’s not all glitz and glamour. There’s a lot more to running a restaurant than what you see on social media.’
As the door shut behind the last diners, Ruben took off his apron, mopped his brow and approached Fiona, his usually loose-limbed gait a little stiff, likely still fizzing from the evening’s adrenalin. ‘Busy night, the team did well,’ he said with a grin.
Fiona gave him a small smile and kept her voice soft. She didn’t want him to feel bad, but she had to say something. ‘Yes, they did do well. But what about you? You’re not just cooking anymore, Ru. You’re performing. And I wonder how long you can keep that up.’
‘Hey, come here.’ He pulled her into his arms. Being a foot shorter enabled her head to rest on his chest and she breathed in the comforting smell of him. Her nose, fine-tuned to detect the subtle aromas of different wines, picked up top-notes of lemon, rosemary, thyme and mint, over the not-unpleasant base notes of cooked oil and fried fish. She inhaled deeply and felt a small lump form in her throat. ‘Sorry, Ru. I shouldn’t deny your success just because I’m a failure.’
‘Forget it, Fi,’ he whispered.
Her voice thick with emotion, she muttered, ‘I can’t.’
He spoke firmly. ‘You must . You can’t be like this tomorrow morning. Come on – let’s go home and leave the team to do the final clear up for once. Their future depends on us. We need to prepare.’
She suspected his current preparation plans wouldn’t address their most crucial blind spot. ‘Ru, face it, things have changed. They won’t back us now.’
He laughed. It was a wonderful sound, throaty and self-assured, filling her with courage, and despite herself the corners of her mouth started twitching upward. He had never let her stay down for long. She questioned if he was right. Was she being too negative? Or was Ru just blustering, to boost her confidence? His was unshakable. He believed he would always succeed; on the rare occasions someone said no, Ru interpreted the word as a challenge, convinced that with time and effort, he would persuade them to change their mind. This time, though, his confidence was misplaced. Fiona was certain that the investors would still back Ru, but there was no way they’d back her. Not now that she’d failed to prove her worth.
Using a finger, he tipped her head gently off his chest. ‘Don’t dwell on it, Fi,’ he whispered, ‘you’ll get another chance, and the investors will understand. I will make them understand. We’re partners. If they want me, they must want you too.’ Then he kissed her, and all thoughts of her failure were temporarily quenched. She pulled away, giving a soft laugh. ‘Don’t do that when we meet the investors! We don’t want them suspecting we’re more than business partners, that we would let romance cloud our professional judgement.’
He chuckled, then took both her hands in his. ‘Well, that might be tricky ... after all, it will be a breakfast meeting.’
That made her snicker; for them, breakfasts were like dates: the only moment in the day when it was just the two of them, and they could relax together away from the constant drumbeat of work deadlines or the steady buzz of the restaurant kitchen.
A voice called out from the stoves. ‘Good luck tomorrow chef!’
Ru turned to wave at his team. ‘Thanks! And guys ... thanks for everything tonight, you all did brilliantly. See you tomorrow.’
They slipped outside, and walked hand in hand through the empty market, a warm summer breeze brushing against their skin. The low hum of trucks collecting the day’s discarded rubbish and the clatter of bottles being emptied into metal bins replaced the usual noise of vendors and tourists.
‘I spoke to your aunt Ivy today,’ said Ru. I thought we should get away this weekend, to celebrate.’
‘Ru! Don’t tempt fate,’ she scolded; sometimes Fiona thought his confidence bordered on cocky. Nevertheless, she would love to see her aunt Ivy, who had hung up her clerical collar just months ago and had time on her hands these days to spend with her favourite niece. They shared the same diminutive height and round freckled face, but that’s where the similarities ended. Unlike Fiona, Aunt Ivy didn’t give a fig for the trappings of success, and she rarely worried about the future. She had been Fiona’s sanctuary when her parents’ cold silence echoed through her childhood home, her steady lighthouse through the stormy waters of adolescence, and a font of wisdom through the maze of early adulthood. Perhaps now, Ivy’s presence would be the familiar balm it had always been, a gentle hand smoothing the ragged edges of her thoughts.
Ru squeezed her hand. ‘No ... hear me out. We both need a break. We haven’t had a holiday for over a year. The team can manage without us for a week. They’ll have to get used to it once the new restaurant opens, in any case. I’ve taken a decision. We are going down to Devon to stay with Ivy for a week. I’ve hired a car, and we can drive down after Friday night service. It will be fun, walks on the beach, dips in the sea ...’
Listening to his enthusiasm, she warmed to his plans; just being with Ru and Ivy for a week would recharge her batteries. Allow her to get yesterday in perspective. She took a breath, inhaling the mixture of scents in the market – mouldy wood from abandoned crates, and the sour tang of overripe vegetables left rotting in the bins. She wouldn’t miss those if they spent a week by the sea.
They walked in silence, the kind that settles between people who’ve known each other long enough to be comfortable with their own thoughts. The sounds of metal lids clanging shut, and the rumble of engines faded behind them, leaving only the soft shuffling of their steps. A stray newspaper page tumbled across the ground, rustling against Fiona’s bare ankles before skittering away into the shadows, carrying yesterday’s headlines into tomorrow.
She sighed. ‘What are we going to say to them tomorrow? You know ... about ...’
He grasped her hand. ‘Leave that one to me, pardner.’
His voice was so reassuringly firm that she felt the stirrings of hope. Maybe her failure wasn’t such a big problem after all? Perhaps she was overthinking things, as usual.