Page 17

“Are you saying you didn’t like it?”

“I’m not saying that at all,” Gemma said. The truth was the exact opposite. She had taken one bite of that sausage sandwich, and her taste buds had been set alight with the explosion of flavour. This wasn’t the way that George did them—bread, lightly toasted, butter, and a bit of sauce slapped in the middle.

This was another level, but how or why Kent had managed it she didn’t know.

“What did you change?” she said again.

“Did you like it? Yes or no.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a plain sausage sandwich. That’s what people expect when they come here. Nothing fancy.”

“That’s hardly fancy,” Kent said. “All I did was caramelise some balsamic soaked red onions, purée them down and add them to the brown sauce. It’s good, right? Really good.”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s good or not,” Gemma said, feeling like she was hitting her head against a brick wall. “What matters is that it’s not the way people like it here.”

“How do you know?” Kent said. “They liked the poached eggs with pesto, and I bet you would have kicked up a fuss if I’d told you I wanted to do that too, right?”

Gemma wasn’t going to warrant that with a reply.

“We’re talking about the sausage sandwich. You’ve changed something that is a staple. That people love, and I do not approve.”

Was this where he pulled his executive manager line, she wondered? She would love to see him try.

“Look,” he said, his voice measured and calm. “Your customers all loved George. I get that. But they also know that George is gone and a new chef has come. Your customers also, we can assume, love sausage sandwiches. Now, if you can forget the fact that you obviously despise everything I do?—”

“That’s not—” Gemma started, but Kent’s gaze shut her down. After all, it was probably true.

“Let’s forget that I am involved in this in any way. I want you to answer me objectively: was that sausage sandwich better, worse, or the same as the one you normally serve? And answer truthfully.”

Gemma hated him.

She hated how he could look at her with his unwavering stare like he didn’t need to blink at all. And she hated how his lips pressed together, almost as if he was holding back a smirk. But most of all, she hated how he knew he was right. And he was. He was right.

“Fine, keep your bloody balsamic onions, but you’re not changing anything else,” she said.

CHAPTER 24

As annoying as the start of the day had been, the rest of it went by with relative ease. As soon as the customers started arriving, they were all Gemma focused on. The only time she would see Kent was when she took an order through to the kitchen and when he rang the bell for her to take it to a customer. At such times, she didn’t need to have any conversation with him at all. That wasn’t the case with the customers, though. One woman, a woman in her early sixties called Margaret, came in almost an hour later than usual. She was typically a very well-dressed lady whose makeup skills were far better than Gemma’s and who never appeared to miss a hair appointment. But, Gemma noticed, there was a solid inch of root growth on her hair, and her nails were bitten down to the quick.

“Is everything okay?” Gemma asked after taking Margaret’s standard order of a black Americano and a cheese scone.

“Yes, sort of, no, not at all really,” Margaret said. “My mother’s in hospital again, and it doesn’t look good.”

“Oh Margaret, I’m so sorry.”

Gemma remembered all too well the stress that Margaret had been under when her mum first fell ill. They had been living together at the time, and Margaret would often comein, pushing her elderly mother’s wheelchair. But the stress and strain of caring for her had become too difficult, and eventually they decided a nursing home was the best option. During those first few weeks that Margaret had come in alone, Gemma made a concerted effort to always sit with her for as long as she could manage, just to make sure the table didn’t feel too big and empty on her own.

“It’s been coming for a long time,” Margaret replied, “but it doesn’t make it any easier, you know. And this back and forth to the hospital is mentally exhausting, you know.”

Gemma nodded sympathetically, though, in truth, she didn’t actually know at all. Her mother had passed away when she was only seven, and she had been raised mainly by her grandparents. But they were still a sprightly pair in their late sixties who she sometimes felt went on more holidays in one year than Gemma had done in her entire life. But she knew that someday, she would likely have to face what Margaret was going through.

“You go sit down. I’ll bring your drink and scone over,” Gemma said. “It’s not too busy if you want to sit and talk about it for a bit.”

Margaret smiled gratefully, but she shook her head.

“No, not today, but thank you for the offer. Today I think I’m just going to read,”

“Well, I’ll get you this, then let me know if you need anything else,” Gemma said. Five minutes later, Margaret had a book open on the table in front of her, although from what Gemma saw over the next half an hour, she didn’t turn the page once.