Chapter 21
J ude had taken the stairs up to the bedroom two at a time, but he descended so much faster, feet barely making contact as he lurched forward, intent on getting to the kitchen.
He only paused for a second at the bar doorway, catching sight of a happy tableau so far from his sister’s distress that he almost faltered.
How could Guy Parsons sit there as though nothing had happened, smiling as Susan showed him photos on her phone?
How could he tip his head back to let out a bark of laughter after declining Rob’s best effort?
Jude took a step back rather than interrupt the man who now listened as Susan spoke in hushed tones, his too-long hair falling across a forehead that creased as if affected by her story, his mouth a moue of concern that could pass for genuine if he weren’t actually a huge arsehole.
Of course, Ian taking some candid photos of him looking human for his column was his driver.
There was no point in insisting he try the food that Rob had worked so hard over; no currency in demanding. If there was any way to salvage this one chance to save the Anchor, he’d have to let it wash over his head rather than reacting.
He heard his dad’s voice then, as clear as if he stood beside him, teaching him how to survive in deep water.
He’d thrown him and Louise into the harbour over and over as kids telling them not to fight the current, and to save their energy for what really mattered.
Only this time, instead of their mum sitting on the harbour steps, cheering each time he and Lou broke surface, all he saw was the hallway clock—ten minutes gone already from Guy Parsons’ feed-me-excellence deadline.
Take a deep breath , his dad had ordered.
Tom’s voice was another remembered whisper.
It doesn’t matter if clients act entitled. Your job is to make each plate look priceless .
He could do that, he knew, after months of rich, demanding clients.
He could bend to Guy Parsons wild whims, even if Rob couldn’t.
Rob had his back turned when Jude pushed into the kitchen, a plate of food cooling on the bench beside him.
“What’s wrong with it,” Jude asked, brusque, already tying on his mother’s apron.
He yanked the plate 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 the wall.
It flashed in the bright new lights Rob had fitted.
“I mean, yes, of course, I’m gonna cook, but I’m doing it for Lou.
” He took a breath, breaking the surface of his confused anger.
“And for Carl and Susan.” Their acceptance felt precious; brand new and fragile, and he was so grateful for it.
He sliced careful and quick, the flesh of the sea bass white with a faint pink tint as he lifted it away in one piece.
Perfect. “Get some pans on the heat. Start a white-wine reduction. Enough for three portions.”
Rob worked beside him in dead silence, apart from a quiet “Ah,” when Jude fried off dried dulse, red seaweed flavouring the oil before he laid down each fillet.
He fetched the rest of the ingredients without speaking, passing him a bottle of brandy.
For once, he kept his cognac jokes to himself, head down as Jude added a splash to his pan.
He only said, “These are ready,” when the mussels opened their shells to reveal their tender insides.
Jude felt just as stripped bare.
Louise arrived, fresh makeup a poor coat of armour that strengthened once she saw what Jude had produced.
Her back straightened as she took two plates.
“If he turns his nose up at this, I’ll push him into the harbour.
” She inclined her head at the third plate.
“Could you bring that one, Rob? I never mastered carrying more than two at a time.”
Rob hesitated.
“Go on.” Jude piled pans in the sink, back turned to them both. “I’ll need to finish up here.” Water splashed the front of his apron when he turned on the tap, but Jude didn’t notice. He was too lost in thought, wondering what the hell had just happened.