Chapter 20 Charlie
CHARLIE
“We’ve got an early walk-in,” says Mary, the ma?tre d’, coming into the kitchen from front of house.
Normally Charlie would be buoyed by the news, but right now all he can think about is the ticking time bomb that’s counting down the seconds until his world implodes. The clock firmly in Freya’s hands. He absently picks up the sharpening steel and runs his paring knife along its edge.
“I think it’s that Catherine Taverner woman,” says Mary.
Charlie looks at her with raised eyebrows, not knowing what the relevance is.
“She’s a councillor at Gloucester town hall,” she goes on. “She’s in the running to become the new mayor.”
Charlie groans inwardly as he contemplates another table of nonpaying diners, all under the pretense of “you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.
” But in essence, what it really means is, they swan in, with as big an entourage as their conscience will allow, eat the most expensive items on the menu, behave like entitled pricks, and leave without so much as a tip to share out among the waitstaff.
“Well, then we’d better make sure she gets looked after then,” he says, as he attempts to convince himself that perhaps she’ll repay his hospitality should he ever want to extend his licensing hours or submit a planning application.
“Yes, boss,” says Mary.
“Let’s get going, then,” says Charlie, washing his hands under scalding-hot water. “Aprons up.”
The four-strong team bustle around the kitchen, doing the very specific jobs they’ve been given to do, Charlie’s need for complete discipline leaving no room for error.
“Okay, so we’ve got one steak tartare, one duck salad, and two scallop,” he calls out when table three’s order comes in.
“Yes, Chef,” they chime in unison.
“Your phone’s ringing off the hook,” says Mary, bringing his mobile in from the office.
He’s inclined to leave it, but his mind is already full of the what-ifs that come with living with Freya. What if she’s somewhere she shouldn’t be? What if she’s with someone she shouldn’t be with? He pulls himself up. What if she’s collapsed and is in hospital?
Charlie can’t help himself from imagining the doctor calling to tell him that her body is shutting down. Your wife says she’s not taking any medication.…
She’s not.
So why are there high levels of Antabuse in her system? he’ll ask.
A panicked heat envelopes Charlie’s entire being. If she drinks alcohol with these, it could kill her, the doctor will say.
He plates up and snatches the still-ringing phone from Mary, going into his office for the privacy he’s convinced himself he’s going to need.
“Hello,” he barks, alarmed by the withheld number.
“Oh, hello,” says Anita, as if she’d forgotten she was calling him, incessantly.
Charlie grits his teeth and holds his tongue, not trusting himself not to unleash his anger.
“I just wondered if you’d thought anything more about what we were talking about,” she says into the silence.
“I can’t even remember what it was you said,” he says, playing dumb.
She laughs scathingly, the acrimony and bitterness sending chills down Charlie’s spine.
“Listen, I don’t doubt that you’re fundamentally a good man.…” She pauses, as if giving him a chance to agree. When he offers her nothing, she carries on. “But you’ve got yourself caught up in a bit of a mess.”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, as if denying it enough times will make her stop. He should know better than that.
“I’m actually trying to help you here, offer you a way out.”
Charlie rubs at his eyes, failing to understand how she can honestly think she’s doing him a favor.
“Marcus Harding’s wife has just been on This Morning to say that he’s getting stronger every day. His memory is improving and he’s communicating.”
“That’s great news,” says Charlie, overenthusiastically, hoping it will throw her off.
“Which means it’s only going to be a matter of time…,” she says, pushing on, unflinching in her attempt to derail him. “Do the right thing, while you still can, because once this all starts unraveling, it will be too late.”
Charlie swallows the threat, but it feels as if knives are lining his throat. “Why are you doing this?”
She takes her time to answer. “I don’t know if Freya’s ever told you this, but when she was thirteen, her piano teacher molested her.”
He goes to tell her he already knows the story, but he’s learned that it’s better to let Anita say what she wants to say. He can then decide whether he chooses to listen.
“Geoffrey Wilson, his name was, and he swore blind that he hadn’t acted inappropriately, taking advantage of her while I was in the very next room.
But I wouldn’t let it go. I grilled Freya, again and again, looking for an inconsistency, even though she was only a child.
Because I had to be absolutely sure—know in my hearts of hearts that she hadn’t misread the situation.
“But she didn’t falter. She repeated the allegations time and time again, word for word.
I spoke to his other students and found a girl who could collaborate Freya’s claims. He hadn’t assaulted her, but he’d made her feel uncomfortable by sitting too close to her on the stool and touching her hands.
“And then I discovered that he’d left a school in the North of England and moved his whole family down to London, to where no one knew him, to start a new job as a music teacher in an all-girls secondary school.
By all accounts, he was very flirtatious, and lovesick teenagers would leave him notes after class. …”
She sighs heavily and takes a breath, though Charlie knows it won’t be for long.
“And so once I had as much evidence as I could find, knowing that without it, it would only be Freya’s word against his, I went to the police. And I wouldn’t let it drop until they charged him.…”
“Why are you telling me all this?” asks Charlie.
“Because I will not let an abuse of justice go unpunished,” she says. “So if you’ve got a conscience, which I believe you have, you know what you need to do.”
The phone goes dead and he stands there looking at it, fearing he’s vastly underestimated what Anita’s capable of.
“Sorry, Chef, Catherine Taverner’s table have sent the scallops back,” says Mary nervously, as Charlie walks back into the kitchen. “Says they’re undercooked.”
Charlie shakes his head, as he forces himself to focus on the relative banality of the problems in the kitchen rather than the prospect of walking out of here to find police surrounding the restaurant.
“No way,” he says, almost to himself. The scallops are his dish.
He prepares each one, personally blending the peas, shallots, ginger, cream, and stock into the perfect coulis.
Searing the scallops just enough before they turn rubbery, before delicately placing them on a bed of mandolin-cut asparagus.
There is no way he would have sent it to the pass undercooked.
But as he cuts into one, there’s a drumming in his ears—the milky-white hue of the translucent mollusc too obvious to deny.
“For fuck’s sake!” he roars, as Anita’s words find their way into his psyche again.
He briefly considers marching the plate back out into the restaurant, ready to educate those who think they know better, that in actual fact, undercooked scallops are perfectly safe to eat, as long as they’re fresh and of a good enough quality, which his always are.
But he stops himself, refusing to allow her to get under his skin. He cannot afford to lose his reputation on top of everything else, kidding himself that it will matter, if Anita does what she’s threatening to do. So he composes himself and concentrates on what’s important in the here and now.
He can’t put the shellfish back in the pan without them tightening up, but tossing eight perfectly good scallops away is as good as waving goodbye to half of the night’s takings.
“Please apologize on my behalf,” says Charlie, as he melts butter in a new pan. “Let the guests know that their starters will be with them in a few minutes.” His jaw locks. “And they’re on me.”
“Yes, Chef,” says Mary, as Charlie tries not to calculate how much sixteen scallops will cost him.
The chatter in the kitchen falls unusually quiet as Charlie bangs utensils around and berates himself for taking his eye off the ball. He cannot afford to make mistakes. There’s too much to lose. He has to take control. Though whether that’s in the kitchen or life itself, he’s not sure.