She must have been a sight to behold.
Calling himself to order, he opened his notebook, thinking he would prioritize his workload for the rest of the day. In the kitchen the cooks bobbed and weaved. Suleiman slid on an oily patch but saved himself and earned a cheer.
Gabe held his pen over the page. His mind became fogged. Impossible to pick out a single thought. His wrist locked and though he wanted to write any old thing, to begin the process, he could not make a mark.
He froze in the face of the endless tasks ahead. Would it make any difference if he remained at his desk, not moving, not speaking, not thinking? The world could go on without him, on its own relentless course. He stared at the page and admired its blankness; he wished that he too could be blank.
'Shoot me,' said Oona, 'if I forgettin' someting.' Her voice began to bring him round. It was like listening to a saucepan lid lifting on the boil, a little escape of steam. 'You lookin' a bit sleepy there, darlin'. I goin' make us a niii-ce cuppa tea.'
Gabriel threw down his pen, his energy abruptly restored. He looked at Oona and clenched his fists beneath the desk. Rage gripped him by the throat. He fought to draw enough breath. It occurred to him that he would, perhaps, drop down dead of anger. Gripping the sides of the desk as though he would turn it over he struggled to gain control. A nice cup of tea! Didn't she know there was work to be done? Were they to put their feet up with a nice cup of tea?
Incredible. The woman was out of her mind.
'Chef ?' said Oona.
There was a hell of a lot to get sorted. Gabe caught sight of a stack of suppliers' brochures on the floor. He had piled them there when he started the job, meaning to sift through and discard as many as possible. There had never been the time. No time like the present, he decided, jumping up. He was immediately diverted by a flyer pasted on the wall: Kondiments King, it read, We've Got Sauce! A grotesque tomato man with stick legs and arms grinned out, ketchup spouting from his head. The flyer was spattered and smeared and curling up at the edges. Why had he not taken it down immediately? He ripped it off the wall and tossed it on the floor. The patch of crumbling plaster which was revealed began to flake and fall. Gabriel looked round wildly, kicking over the brochures as he turned. There was fungus growing in a tiny damp patch over the skirting board. He began to rub it off. There was clutter on top of the filing cabinet. A tennis ball, one glove, a meat thermometer, a box of paperclips, a plastic box, a tin of lipsalve, two yellowing copies of the Sun. Who the hell kept making this mess? He cleared it all off, on to the floor. Too many things on the desk. He scraped everything into the drawers and closed them. He sat down again to an empty desk, feeling better. He could have a clear run at things now.
Barely had he noticed that Oona was gone when she returned with two mugs of tea. She looked at the littered floor but said nothing. She squeezed herself into the chair.
Gabe shoved the debris aside with his foot so it formed a kind of snowdrift against the back wall. 'Right,' he said. 'Bit of a tidy-up.' He took a sip of tea. There was a tremble in his hand as he raised the mug. What he needed was an early night. Tomorrow he'd be right as rain. 'How we fixed on the lunch service?'
'Chef,' said Oona, 'we fixed just fine. Suleiman, love him, havin' a few problems with the fresh custard. All this lumpy business. Have to pour it down the drain. The next lot look even lumpier and Suleiman, you know he so serious, he stirrin' and stirrin' and the lumps coming bigger and bigger, I say, "Suleiman, you got to let it alone. Sometimes a ting just ain't meant to be." '
'It's a question of temperature,' said Gabe, back, more or less, on an even keel. 'Of being precise.' His father was dying. He had to deal with a dead body. He had to deal with the police. His job was high pressure, his girlfriend was away
Calling himself to order, he opened his notebook, thinking he would prioritize his workload for the rest of the day. In the kitchen the cooks bobbed and weaved. Suleiman slid on an oily patch but saved himself and earned a cheer.
Gabe held his pen over the page. His mind became fogged. Impossible to pick out a single thought. His wrist locked and though he wanted to write any old thing, to begin the process, he could not make a mark.
He froze in the face of the endless tasks ahead. Would it make any difference if he remained at his desk, not moving, not speaking, not thinking? The world could go on without him, on its own relentless course. He stared at the page and admired its blankness; he wished that he too could be blank.
'Shoot me,' said Oona, 'if I forgettin' someting.' Her voice began to bring him round. It was like listening to a saucepan lid lifting on the boil, a little escape of steam. 'You lookin' a bit sleepy there, darlin'. I goin' make us a niii-ce cuppa tea.'
Gabriel threw down his pen, his energy abruptly restored. He looked at Oona and clenched his fists beneath the desk. Rage gripped him by the throat. He fought to draw enough breath. It occurred to him that he would, perhaps, drop down dead of anger. Gripping the sides of the desk as though he would turn it over he struggled to gain control. A nice cup of tea! Didn't she know there was work to be done? Were they to put their feet up with a nice cup of tea?
Incredible. The woman was out of her mind.
'Chef ?' said Oona.
There was a hell of a lot to get sorted. Gabe caught sight of a stack of suppliers' brochures on the floor. He had piled them there when he started the job, meaning to sift through and discard as many as possible. There had never been the time. No time like the present, he decided, jumping up. He was immediately diverted by a flyer pasted on the wall: Kondiments King, it read, We've Got Sauce! A grotesque tomato man with stick legs and arms grinned out, ketchup spouting from his head. The flyer was spattered and smeared and curling up at the edges. Why had he not taken it down immediately? He ripped it off the wall and tossed it on the floor. The patch of crumbling plaster which was revealed began to flake and fall. Gabriel looked round wildly, kicking over the brochures as he turned. There was fungus growing in a tiny damp patch over the skirting board. He began to rub it off. There was clutter on top of the filing cabinet. A tennis ball, one glove, a meat thermometer, a box of paperclips, a plastic box, a tin of lipsalve, two yellowing copies of the Sun. Who the hell kept making this mess? He cleared it all off, on to the floor. Too many things on the desk. He scraped everything into the drawers and closed them. He sat down again to an empty desk, feeling better. He could have a clear run at things now.
Barely had he noticed that Oona was gone when she returned with two mugs of tea. She looked at the littered floor but said nothing. She squeezed herself into the chair.
Gabe shoved the debris aside with his foot so it formed a kind of snowdrift against the back wall. 'Right,' he said. 'Bit of a tidy-up.' He took a sip of tea. There was a tremble in his hand as he raised the mug. What he needed was an early night. Tomorrow he'd be right as rain. 'How we fixed on the lunch service?'
'Chef,' said Oona, 'we fixed just fine. Suleiman, love him, havin' a few problems with the fresh custard. All this lumpy business. Have to pour it down the drain. The next lot look even lumpier and Suleiman, you know he so serious, he stirrin' and stirrin' and the lumps coming bigger and bigger, I say, "Suleiman, you got to let it alone. Sometimes a ting just ain't meant to be." '
'It's a question of temperature,' said Gabe, back, more or less, on an even keel. 'Of being precise.' His father was dying. He had to deal with a dead body. He had to deal with the police. His job was high pressure, his girlfriend was away
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