Chapter 18 Charlie
CHARLIE
“Have we had a delivery from Phil?” Charlie asks George absently.
The split-second hesitation in answering what is surely an easy question instinctively sends Charlie’s shoulders up to his ears, as he waits for more bad news that he’s become adept at hearing.
“I had to decline the truffle,” George half mumbles, as if hoping he won’t be heard.
“It’s this week’s special,” barks Charlie, feeling that familiar sense of panic as he imagines diners—having bought in to the furor he’d stoked for the upcoming white-truffle season—turning up, only to be disappointed.
“I know,” says George. “But they didn’t smell as fresh as they should. Even Phil didn’t look convinced.…”
Charlie’s jaw spasms as he weighs up whether he’d rather serve substandard food or have disgruntled customers. “Get him back here,” he says, making a snap decision.
“But they weren’t good enough,” says George indignantly.
Charlie’s nostrils flare, but he attempts to rein his temper in. “It’s advertised on the website, it’s on the board outside, the menus have been printed … we stand to lose more if we pull it than if we serve it.”
He hates himself, even as he’s saying it—he has never compromised on food quality, not in his dad’s pub, not in the restaurants where he learned his craft, not even when they were run by someone else. So how does it make sense to concede on the number-one rule, now that it’s his own?
Because now there’s everything to lose, he says to himself, his eyes narrowing as he looks around at the starched white tablecloths, with place settings that sit expectantly, waiting for someone to pay to use them.
“Maybe we can come up with a dish that’s not so dependent on its flavor,” offers George hopefully. “A carbonara with a hidden touch, rather than the risotto with raw shavings.…”
Charlie can’t help but wonder whether any of it really matters when they’ve only got eight covers tonight—and who knows, they might have even less tomorrow. He stops himself from going there, knowing that road will only lead to him asking if anything really matters anymore.
“You owe me one,” says a disgruntled Phil as he walks in through the back door of the restaurant half an hour later and puts a box on the kitchen counter. “I was in a boozer ten miles away.”
“I appreciate it,” says Charlie, having thawed out during the therapeutic motion of prepping vegetables.
Phil tuts. “If I’d had them with me in the van, I would have got your missus to bring them back with her.
” He says it so casually—so blasé—that it takes a while for Charlie to catch up.
Yet still he looks at George and the commis standing there, assuming that he’s talking to one of them.
His brow furrows with confusion as Phil waits for a response.
“My missus?” he says, eventually.
“Yes, your missus, duh,” says Phil, slapping his own forehead in playful frustration.
“Where did you see her, then?” asks Charlie, having spoken to Freya no more than an hour ago when she called to say she was working late.
“In the Fleece in Cirencester,” says Phil, as if it means nothing.
Charlie drops his knife on the board. “Isn’t that a pub?”
“It’s also a really nice restaurant,” George butts in. “I took my mum there in the summer.”
They praise the virtues of the pan-roasted venison, but the chatter is muted by the deafening roar in Charlie’s ears. What’s Freya doing in a pub ten miles from home? And why has she lied about it?
“You sure it was Freya?” he asks, having to temper his tone. “Did she see you?”
“Yeah, it was definitely her, but I don’t think she saw me,” says Phil. “She was too busy talking to her friend.”
A tightness creeps across Charlie’s chest. “Was she?”
“Hey, I didn’t mean to cause any grief,” says Phil, as if suddenly aware of the minefield he’s stepped on.
Charlie smiles tightly, but his insides are coiled into a tight spring.
He wants to go home, to check if Phil might have got it all wrong.
He wants to find Freya sitting there, watching some inane soap on TV.
And if she’s not, he wants to wait for her to come in, so he can ask her where the hell she’s been.