The only good news was that Piers was a naturally talented cook. And often, to the irritation of the others, the one who would receive the most praise from Marcus.
‘It’s just ’cos he fancies him,’ I’d heard Tiffany, one of the cluster of posh English girls, bitching in the loo a few days ago.
I’d smiled as I washed my hands. And wondered if human beings ever really grew up, or whether life was simply a playground forever.
‘So, this is your last day, Sia.’ CeCe smiled at me as I drank a hasty cup of coffee in the kitchen the following morning. ‘Good luck with your competition thing.’
‘Thanks. See you later,’ I called to her as I left the apartment and walked along Tooting High Street to get on the bus – the Underground was faster but I enjoyed seeing London on the journey. I was greeted by signs telling me that my bus was being rerouted due to gas works on Park Lane. So, as the bus crossed the river to the north, we didn’t go the usual way. Instead, we went through Knightsbridge and sat with the rest of diverted London, before the bus freed itself of traffic, eventually taking me past the magnificent domed Royal Albert Hall.
Relieved we finally seemed to be on our way, I listened to my habitual music: Grieg’s ‘Morning Mood’ – so reminiscent of Atlantis – as well as Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet . . . both originally played to me by Pa Salt. I thanked God for the invention of iPods – with CeCe’s taste for hard rock, the old CD player in our bedroom had regularly vibrated to breaking point with clanging guitars and screaming voices. As the bus drew to a halt, I searched the street for a familiar landmark, but recognised nothing. Except for the name above a shopfront to my left as the bus pulled away from the stop. Arthur Morston . . .
I craned my neck to look back, wondering if I was seeing things, but it was too late. As the bus turned right, I saw Kensington Church Street emblazoned on the road sign. A shiver ran through me as I realised I’d just seen the physical embodiment of Pa Salt’s clue.
I was still thinking about it as I filed into the kitchen with the other students.
‘Morning, sweetheart. Ready to cook up a storm?’ Piers came to stand next to me and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. I swallowed hard. I was a feminist in the truest sense of the word – I believed in equality with neither sex dominant. And it was fair to say that I loathed being addressed as ‘sweetheart’. Either by a man or a woman.
‘So.’ Marcus appeared in the kitchen and handed each pair what looked like a blank card. ‘On the other side of your card is the menu you are to prepare between you. I will expect each course to be on your workbench and ready to be tasted by me at noon sharp. You have two hours. Okay, loves, good luck. Turn over the card now.’
Immediately, Piers swiped the card from my hand. I had to peer over his shoulder to get a glimpse of what we were to cook.
‘Foie gras mousse with Melba toast, poached salmon with dauphinoise potatoes and sautéed green beans. Followed by Eton mess for dessert,’ Piers read aloud. ‘Obviously I’ll do the foie gras mousse and poach the salmon, as meat and fish is my thing, and leave you to do the veggies and the pudding. You’ll need to get started on the meringue first.’
I wanted to say that meat and fish was my thing too. And by far the most impressive bit of the summer lunch menu. Instead, I told myself that one-upmanship didn’t matter – as Marcus had said, this test was all about teamwork – and busied myself with combining the egg whites and caster sugar.
As the two-hour deadline approached, I was calm and prepared, while Piers was frantically re-piping his foie gras mousse, which he’d decided to remake at the last minute. I glanced at his salmon still poaching in its kettle, knowing he’d left it in for too long. When I had tried to say something, he had brushed me off impatiently.
‘All right, time’s up. Please stop what you’re doing,’ Marcus called, his voice ringing through the kitchen, and there was a clatter as the other cooks put down their utensils and stepped away from their plates. Piers ignored him as he hastily moved the salmon onto the plate next to my potatoes and beans.
Eventually, having praised and annihilated the other five offerings in equal measure, Marcus stood in front of us. As I knew he would, he lauded the presentation and the texture of the foie gras mousse, winking at his favourite chef.
‘Wonderful, well done,’ he said. ‘Now on to the salmon.’
I watched him take a bite of it, then frown and look directly at me.
‘This isn’t good, not good at all. It’s way overcooked. These beans . . . and potatoes, however,’ he said, taking a bite of both, ‘are perfect.’ Again, he smiled at Piers and I cast my eyes towards my fellow chef, waiting for him to correct Marcus’s mistake. Piers averted his eyes from my gaze and said nothing as Marcus moved on to my Eton mess.
In fact, it looked rather like a tulip about to open, the meringue itself forming the vessel in which the ‘mess’ of strawberries – macerated in cassis liqueur – and Chantilly cream were hidden. There was nothing ‘messy’ about it and I knew Marcus would either love it or hate it.
‘Star,’ he said, having tasted a spoonful, ‘the presentation is creative and it tastes bloody delicious. Well done.’
Marcus then awarded first prize to us for the starter and again for the dessert.
In the changing room, I opened my locker with slightly more force than necessary and retrieved my street clothes so I could change out of my chef’s whites.
‘I’m amazed you kept your cool in there.’
I looked up, the words having just mirrored my own thoughts. It was Shanthi – a gorgeous Indian woman who I’d guessed was around my age. She was the only member of the group apart from me who hadn’t joined the others for drinks at the pub at the end of each day. Yet she was very popular within the group, always exuding a calm, positive energy.
‘I saw Piers overcooking the salmon. He was at the bench next to me. Why didn’t you say something when Marcus blamed you?’
I shrugged and shook my head. ‘It doesn’t matter. It was only a piece of salmon.’
‘It would have mattered to me. It was an injustice done to you. And injustices should always be set straight.’
I pulled my bag out of my locker, not knowing what to say. The other girls were already leaving, heading off for a final end-of-course drink together. They called their goodbyes as they left, until it was only Shanthi and me left in the changing room. As I tied my trainer laces, I watched her brush her thick ebony hair, then apply a dark red lipstick with her long, elegant fingers.
‘Goodbye,’ I said as I headed towards the changing room door.
‘How do you fancy a drink? I know a great little wine bar round the corner. It’s quiet in there. I think you’d like it.’