‘I am not a child,’ I hissed, sweeping Fritz up from the floor into my arms, and stomping to the door.
Mum raised her eyebrows. ‘You could have fooled me.’
Audrey waited for me to drop Fritz back off at the flat and then walked me down to the kitchen. Chef was running around trying to prepare everything for dinner and, after a brief word with Audrey, he welcomed me to his team and pointed at the pile of dirty pots stacked next to a large sink in the far corner.
‘You’ll be out of everyone’s way there.’ He smiled, with a wink at Audrey.
I shot them both a dirty look before Chef gave me the thumbs up and sped off to season a sauce. Audrey put her hand on my shoulder.
‘It’s not that bad,’ she said soothingly. ‘I’ll be back for you in an hour. Try to stay out of trouble until then.’
I shook her hand off and stropped over to the sink, eyeing up the repulsive neon orange washing-up gloves. I held one of them up for inspection.
‘Ew.’ I sniffed and looked around. A young chef was rushing past holding a ladle. ‘Excuse me!’ She came to a screeching halt.
‘Yes?’
‘Are these the only gloves you have?’
‘Sorry?’
‘For the washing-up,’ I explained impatiently. ‘Don’t you have any other types? Any other colours?’
‘No, those are the ones we all use.’
‘Fine.’ I slapped the gloves down on the side. ‘I just won’t use them.’
‘Uh.’ She looked about, unsure. ‘We . . . we have to use them. It’s health and safety.’
‘They’re disgusting. I’m not using them.’
‘Put those on, please, Flick, no argument! You don’t want me to report bad behaviour to the boss, do you?’ Chef appeared out of nowhere. ‘Ah, there you are, Sasha. I’ve been waiting on that ladle. Come along, we mustn’t disturb Flick. She has a big job with those pots.’
Sasha shot me a sympathetic look before she scurried after him holding up the ladle dutifully. I should have known Chef Kian would find this all one big joke; he always liked a good laugh at my expense. I carefully slid on the orange gloves and, letting out a long drawn-out sigh, I leaned forwards to work out how to turn on the large rinsing tap.
‘Well, well, well, look who it is.’
I reluctantly turned to face Cal Weston, who was grinning gleefully at me, a spoon in one hand and a bowl of strawberry mousse in the other.
‘It’s been a while since you graced the kitchens with your presence.’
‘Stalking is a crime, you know,’ I said angrily, reaching for the washing-up liquid. ‘It’s sad that you just follow me around.’
‘I was here first. If anyone’s following anyone, it’s you following me.’
‘Why are you even down here? Don’t you ever go home?’
‘The kitchen is the best place to be. It’s the land of free food.’ He took a large mouthful of mousse. ‘We used to hang out here all the time before you got too good for it.’
‘I did not get too good for it, I just got a life.’ I began to scrub the biggest pot in the pile. ‘Unlike some people I know.’
‘Ouch! You are such a hothead.’
‘I am NOT a hothead,’ I seethed. Cal always teased me about being a hot-tempered redhead, even though I continually corrected him that my hair wasn’t red, it was auburn. And at least my hair looked like it had been brushed once in a while, unlike the bird’s nest he was sporting on top of his head.
‘I heard on the grapevine that you have an appointment with Prince Gustav,’ he commented.
I scrubbed harder at the stubborn grease around the side of the pot. ‘That’s right. He’s trying to suck up to me so he can get an invite to the Christmas Ball.’
