Love at First Slice, page 1
LOVE AT FIRST SLICE
MANDY BAGGOT
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Playlist
More from Mandy Baggot
About the Author
Also by Mandy Baggot
Love Notes
About Boldwood Books
1
‘Damn it!’ George yelled, racing over to the tap with her bloodied finger.
Cuts were an occupational hazard, but this time she’d been slicing up chillies. Sliced pepper, sliced finger, and now the spicy contents of the Mexican plant felt like they were burrowing to her core. This was typical. She was under pressure, she was rushing to get things finished and her mind was on another job. Sometimes multitasking was just plain dangerous.
‘Bugger!’ George roared angrily as she continued to hold her finger under the tap.
What she really wanted to say was fuck, really, really loud. She wanted to stand in the middle of the kitchen and release the word from her mouth with the ferocity and venom of a wronged banshee or, maybe, P!nk. She took a deep breath and tried to swallow down the feeling. Nope, it was still there.
‘You all right? Or are we having flesh sandwiches again?’ Marisa asked, raising her low-lighted head to look at her boss.
‘Have you finished buttering yet?’ George questioned in reply.
She wasn’t in the mood for sarcasm, particularly sarcasm with a thick Welsh accent and plenty of attitude. Marisa had already pissed her off singing badly to Beyoncé all morning; she didn’t need her questioning her ability right now.
‘No, like there’s loads.’
‘Well, stop worrying about what I’m doing and get on with it. Or it’s only thirty minutes for lunch,’ George told her.
‘That’s like totally not fair; in fact, I think it’s against the law,’ Marisa remarked, jabbing her knife into the margarine tub.
Nothing had gone right today. George was short of supplies, the radio couldn’t find a decent station and they were behind schedule. She could also feel a headache coming on. It always started in her ears, a build-up of pressure like she was at thirty thousand feet, then the pain would slowly move to the back of her head and spread until it had enveloped her entire skull. Then she couldn’t think, let alone function. She needed ibuprofen washed down with a nice cold beer. There was a six pack of bottles in the fridge. They were Mexican too. How ironic was that?
It was only 3.00 p.m. though and having beer would be wrong when she was so busy. She needed to stay focussed; she needed to regain some momentum on the order they were finalising. And drinking beer in the afternoon was highly unacceptable in front of someone as impressionable as seventeen-year-old Marisa. She already knew Marisa dabbled in alcopops and needed little encouragement. She caught her once, snogging the lad from the butchers outside the Co-op, a half empty bottle of WKD in her hand. At 10.30 a.m. George had laid out Butcher Boy when he’d suggested she ‘fuck off and mind her own business’. Marisa was frogmarched back to George’s and a gallon of strong Costa Rican poured down her neck before she was taken home contrite and hickey ridden. She hadn’t mentioned the alcohol to Helen and Geraint. She knew the evidence of intimacy would be enough to warrant a severe ear bashing for the girl. In truth, George sympathised. She’d been there, done that, worn the rock band motif tshirts, but she wasn’t that person any more. She’d turned a corner a long time ago; she was responsible now and awfully grown-up. Thirty-four, in fact.
She let out a sigh and ran her uninjured hand through her short crop of blonde hair. There was still so much to bloody do and Marisa was back to singing. Adele this time. The myth that all the Welsh had voices to die for wasn’t true. In Marisa’s case, she had a voice to die by and that was verging on being kind. The passion was there but the execution wasn’t even debatable. George looked at her watch; thankfully, Helen was due back any minute.
The phone rang and Marisa bounded over to it like an overeager puppy, catering hat askew on her head, hair flapping wildly, chewing gum close to spilling out of her mouth.
‘Hiya, Finger Food.’
George cursed under her breath and shook her head in irritation. Every day, she had the same conversation with Marisa. Greet the potential customers in a friendly yet professional manner, state the company name, try not to sound like you’re chewing gum even if you are. And do not say ‘hiya’ unless you’re referring to a fee agreement or something on a very tall shelf. Marisa changed grip with the phone and succeeded in wiping egg mayonnaise all over the handset.
‘Tonight? A hundred people? You have got to be joking,’ Marisa exclaimed, her Welsh accent becoming broader and thicker by the second. She almost sounded like she could round up sheep. Without a dog.
George turned off the tap, rushed over to the telephone and relieved Marisa of the call. She shook her cut and burning hand around, hoping the air would cool it.
‘Hello, this is George Fraser, the owner, sorry about that – foreign staff. Can I help? Tonight? Yes, we can do tonight. A hundred people at the Hexagon. OK, hot or cold? OK. Yes, that’s not a problem. As it’s short notice I would usually charge an additional fee, say – oh – could you clarify that amount, my phone line’s been playing up and – yes that figure is absolutely fine. We’ll see you tonight, bye.’
A smile crossed her face as she replaced the handset. The headache was easing a little; the painful hand was temporarily forgotten. Perhaps today was going to pick up after all.
‘Are you like totally insane? We have Archie Reeves’ sixty-fifth birthday party to cater for tomorrow and I don’t know about you but I’m kind of struggling with Katie Murray’s princess-shaped sandwiches for the party in like two hours,’ Marisa said, wiping her hands on her apron and planting them on her hips.
‘Marisa, I thought we talked about telephone answering again this morning. I thought we decided you were going to say “Good morning, Finger Food” or “Good afternoon, Finger Food” depending on the time of day. I thought we said that hiya was categorically banned,’ George said, looking at her young employee.
‘We did, but like I was trying to be efficient and hiya just comes out quicker.’
‘OK, well, telling a potential customer that they have got to be joking isn’t efficient; it’s bloody rude. Rude might be the trend right now if you’re Puff Daddy, or P Diddy or whatever he’s calling himself, but it won’t wash here,’ George told her.
Shit. She was starting to sound like her mother. It won’t wash here. What was she thinking? This was what the stress was doing to her. It was starting to make her talk like someone from the 1950s, or Nigella, pouting over her pert meringues.
‘I was just thinking time management, you know, getting to the point,’ Marisa answered defiantly.
‘You’re lucky we didn’t miss out on two grand.’
Despite the words she’d chosen, she had to hammer the point home.
‘Two grand! Jesus! Just for a hundred people! Is it for Elton John?’ Marisa exclaimed, her eyes bulging.
‘It’s an after-show party at the Hexagon; obviously, I’ll pay overtime. Could you call Callie, Alison and Bianca, see if they can help serving?’
‘Callie’s got glandular fever,’ Marisa replied.
‘OK, well someone else who’s helped us out before, but not Gina. I know it isn’t her fault she’s got a brace but she spat over everyone’s food at Mr and Mrs Wong’s wedding anniversary.’
‘She does do that a lot,’ Marisa admitted.
‘Right, so do you want me to help you with the sandwiches?’ George offered.
She could never be angry with Marisa for long and the news she was going to get a large fee had considerably improved her mood.
‘Why couldn’t the spoilt little madam have butterfly sandwiches instead of princesses? I can do butterflies and she had butterflies last year. She totally enjoyed picking all the wings off, knowing they took me bloody ages to stick on,’ Marisa moaned, scowling like an irritated child.
The back door swung open and crashed against the worktop as Marisa’s mother, Helen Thomas entered, two carrier bags swinging from each arm. She huffed and puffed and groaned loudly and George hurried to relieve her of some of the load.
‘Thank God I’m back. It’s murder out there. It’s market day, isn’t it, and you know what that means,’ Helen began unfastening her coat.
‘OAPs and job dodgers,’ Marisa remarked, not looking up from her sandwiches.
‘Yes, exactly, and b
‘Great, let’s stick the kettle on and then we can wrap this job up,’ George suggested.
She carefully carved the white bread to show Marisa how a princess was constructed out of Hovis’ finest.
Helen had worked with George since the beginning, some ten years ago. They had met at the local pub where Helen had worked in the kitchen providing the town with a combination of hearty pub grub (steak and mushroom pie) and fine dining (breast of ostrich, fine green beans and potato shavings in an oyster vinaigrette). George had treated The Bell as a second home back then. She had always gone in after college, always managed to find someone to buy her beer and had always won enough from hustling on the pool table to afford a meal. She knew Helen felt sorry for her back then and she had played on that. She could think what she liked as far as George was concerned; there were always others who thought worse, like her own mother. She was worse than The Boston Strangler in her mother’s eyes.
She’d qualified from college with a distinction and after helping Helen improve her own pastry making, Finger Food was born.
The business was George’s pride and joy. It hadn’t been easy building a company from scratch when you had no idea where to start. George had struggled at school, much to the horror of her parents, because apparently, Frasers don’t struggle at anything. But, despite their insistence that she retook her GCSEs, she enrolled on the catering course at college. Two years and a lot of hard work later, she achieved a hospitality and catering qualification. Cooking was something she had always enjoyed and, before things got complicated, she and her mother had cooked together all the time. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
Baking for buffets wasn’t the usual job of choice for a jeans-wearing, rock-music-listening, pool-playing chick. But, for whatever reason, it worked. When she was creating something new, she immersed herself in the recipe, focussed on making the ingredients gel together in new and unseen ways. She was concentrating on that moment with the food and nothing else. She could only manage to do that stood next to a hot oven with her hands in a mixing bowl.
But apart from the therapeutic reasons as to why she cooked, it was fun, she was good at it and she could see the money-making potential. She had a heart full of woe but a head full of ambition.
At first, she started making sandwiches and selling them at offices, on building sites and business parks: anywhere she could. She researched areas that already had a regular service and she undercut them where she was able. Then when she had the money to take on staff, she started catering parties. Gradually, the functions became more frequent and her customer base grew. It was then things really started to take off. She got a loan from the bank and used it to build a state-of-the-art kitchen as an annexe to her two-bedroom terrace. It had meant losing most of the garden but she didn’t really do gardens anyway and it was also an excuse to lose the hideous love seat her parents had bought her one Christmas. She didn’t know what was behind their thinking on that one; most of her boyfriends never made it to a second date, let alone got invited to sit in the garden.
In fact, she had only introduced one boyfriend to her parents and that was nineteen years ago. Her mother had hated him, but George had expected that. She hated everyone. George could have brought home Jesus himself and she would’ve commented on the state of his sandals. She forbade a fifteen-year-old George to see him and when that didn’t work, she tried to get his parents to forbid him from seeing George. Any male acquaintances she had had since didn’t last. She found meeting someone new was just full of empty expectation. You knew immediately if there was a connection or not and if there wasn’t, the best you could hope for was that he paid for dinner and he didn’t have a tongue like sandpaper.
But right now, she was happy on her own. She was in a good place. She loved her work, she adored Helen and Marisa and she quite enjoyed flirting with Simon, who worked at the bakery.
Simon was tall, dark haired and smelt of Hugo Boss aftershave. He had been trying to ask her out for as long as she could remember. The trouble was he was just too obvious. It reeked of desperation, even over the rather fresh cologne. He was nice enough, he was fun to banter with but that was it; there wasn’t anything. There was no spark, no charge in the air. And rightly or wrongly, she got bored rapidly; their conversations never ended with her desperate for more. Accepting a date would only raise his hopes. More importantly, as far as the business was concerned, she didn’t want to lose the 20 per cent discount she had worked so hard to get out of him. She could imagine things might turn nasty if she went out with him and then decided one date was enough. Which she would.
‘You’ll never guess what happened while you were out,’ Marisa spoke.
‘Don’t tell me Archie Reeves cancelled the birthday party! Please don’t tell me that; I’m liable to go round there and make sure he doesn’t make sixty-six! Five hours it took me to ice the cake. He hasn’t, has he?’ Helen asked, taking off her coat and shaking out her bubble-permed hair.
‘No, but you might want to sit down. George has taken on a catering job for tonight: an after-show party at the Hexagon. But there is an upside, wait for it, Mum: it’s two thousand quid!’ Marisa exclaimed.
‘Tonight! But we’re so busy,’ Helen remarked as she washed her hands and prepared to get back to bread buttering.
‘I know, but catering a party there could be really big. We do this well and we could get recommended for more of the same. And Marisa just said, it’s two grand,’ George reminded.
‘We’ve only got an hour or so to finish the food for Katie Murray’s party and then it’s—’ Helen began.
‘I know, Helen! I know what we have on. Look, if you don’t want the overtime, I’ll do it all myself. I want this job,’ George said with steely determination.
‘I don’t think Mum was saying that, were you Mum?’ Marisa spoke hurriedly, worrying her extra cash was evaporating.
‘No of course not, I just—’ Helen started.
‘Good, right, well Marisa I’ll get these sandwiches done and you get on the phone to your friends, rustle up some waitresses,’ George ordered, taking a deep breath.
‘I could ask my friend Shirley if you like; she enjoyed it last time and she was ever so good,’ Helen offered.
‘Oh God, not Curly Shirley! You two look like a couple of prize poodles entering Crufts when you’re together, you do. She’s the only person I’ve met with curlier hair than you!’ Marisa remarked.
‘I was complimented about my hair at the shop just now,’ Helen told her.
‘What shop was it? RNIB?’
‘Marisa!’ George exclaimed.
‘Don’t worry, George; the next time she wants to borrow money, I know what to say.’
‘Oh Mum, I didn’t like really mean it. I mean, your hair’s individual, isn’t it? Unique,’ Marisa said realising she had gone too far.
‘If you could ask Curly Shirley, that would be great,’ George replied.
A loud knock on the back door interrupted them.
‘That’s early if it’s Simon; he could have given me a lift back from town in the van. Half a mile I struggled with those bags. My hands are red raw. They look like overcooked saveloys, they do,’ Helen moaned.
‘You need to pass your driving test, Helen; at this rate, Marisa will be driving our van before you,’ George remarked as she went to the door.
‘Overtime will pay for more lessons, Mum,’ Marisa remarked, carefully cutting around the princess template with a sharp knife.
George opened the door and revealed a tall, slim, dark-haired man, wearing a beanie hat and a big smile.
