We exploded into a fit of giggles and applause, as Chef did a twirl.
‘I stand corrected,’ Cal said, still laughing, ‘you can cook . . . something.’
‘Wow.’ I put down the pan triumphantly. ‘Did you just admit you were wrong? Has that ever happened in your entire life?’
‘There’s a first time for everything.’
‘Looks like I’m going hungry.’ Sky sighed, watching Chef remove the pancake from his head and throw it in the bin. ‘I better go upstairs and get some breakfast in the dining room.’
‘It will be the best breakfast you ever had!’ Chef yelled across the kitchen, as Sky got ready to leave.
‘I don’t doubt it.’ She smiled.
‘It’s been nice talking to you,’ Cal said quickly. ‘Hope the tour is a big success.’
‘Thanks. Hey,’ she said, flashing him a gleaming smile, ‘you should come to my party if you’re free. It’s before I fly back to LA.’
Cal gulped. ‘Huh?’
‘Flick’s coming, if she’s not still grounded. You should come too. Right, Flick?’ she said, turning her attention to me. ‘Don’t you think he should come?’
‘Um –’
‘It’s OK,’ Cal said quickly, reading my expression, ‘thanks for the invite, though.’
‘Well, feel free to come along if you change your mind.’
Sky waved and breezed back through the kitchen, thanking the team for having her before disappearing up the stairs.
I felt awkward as Cal began clearing up the pancake ingredients. I tried to think of something to say to break the uncomfortable atmosphere – something like how the party would be rubbish anyway and he wouldn’t be missing out. But something stopped me as I formed the words in my brain and I felt . . . guilty. Maybe because he’d been nice about my spectacular culinary skills.
‘Hey,’ I said quietly, picking up the butter, ‘you should come.’
He lifted his eyes to meet mine but didn’t say anything.
‘I’m serious,’ I insisted, sensing his confusion. ‘You should come to the party.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’ I shrugged.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah. It will be . . . fun. BUT,’ I added sharply, making him jump, ‘on the condition that you stop making that stupid joke about us dating.’
‘Deal.’
He smiled at me and I smiled back.
‘Right, then.’ He rolled up his sleeves. ‘You hungry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ He grinned, taking the butter from me. ‘Because I make a mean pancake.’
The forks came back to haunt me. But this time, a week since my kitchen experience, I was ready for them.
I was pretty confident that learning which fork went where on a place setting would be easier than having to pluck a pheasant, which by the way is DISGUSTING . . . and at the same time, very satisfying. Chef even said I was a natural at it, a comment I was sure to repeat to Mum that evening. She came in to find me lying on the sofa with my feet up and a cold compress on my head, and went, ‘Ah, so you really did spend the day in the kitchen,’ in this knowledgeable voice, like some kind of wise wizard.
