1 Chapter 1

Richie Morton dragged a couple of mis-matched chairs out of the storeroom at the back of the restaurant. One of them creaked badly and the other one got caught on the door hinges, dislodging a chunk of the freshly-painted woodwork. Cursing under his breath, he gritted his teeth and persevered, steadying the chair legs and setting them around the final table. He straightened up, glancing once more around the room. It was six o’clock in the evening, and he was due to open Bubble and Squeak, his new South London restaurant, in just over an hour. He was taking stock of the current status and, oh God…he could feel depression clutching tightly around his heart.

Get a grip, Richie. This was one of his greatest dreams come true. This was something he’d been working towards ever since he left University, and all through the tough years as a line cook, when he was often nothing more than a glorified pan washer, then several positions as sous chef, and finally the elevation to successful head chef. Or modestly successful, anyway. He couldn’t afford to be complacent. And now he had his own restaurant, with a mission to serve the best in European food, with special attention to British ingredients and traditional cuisine. What on earth could be wrong, tonight of all nights?

Richie sighed. Let me count the ways

Firstly, he was short of two place settings. He’d sent one of the temporary waiters out to the crockery supplier, stuffing his last bag of pound coins into the waiter’s fist to pay for it. So where was the bloke now? He’d never reached the supplier; he’d never come back to Bubble and Squeak. Needless to say, neither had the cash. And what else? The table flowers Richie had collected from the florist must have been forced to bloom early because they were already wilting, dropping shrivelled petals over the salt cellars. Also, the delivery of prawns that had been promised him since dawn today was obviously taking a slow mule train from the North Sea coast, because nothing had arrived yet. Oh, and apparently one of his two line chefs was currently lying drunk in a gutter at the other end of town—or so the man’s furious, cursing wife had said, when she rang to let Richie know.

And this was the grand opening night.

Richie thought he might weep. Or swear. Or—to hell with it—both. And he wasn’t the kind of man to give in to either under normal circumstances.

The phone rang in the back office behind the kitchen, and his whole body shuddered. Three rings, and then it abruptly stopped. A party of guests cancelling already? Another crisis with the suppliers? Greenpeace, with the rallying cry that they’d released the domestically-reared prawns back to the wild?

Maybe it was Ben, at bloody last. Richie had barely heard from his best friend for several days. And then he felt ashamed of his resentment. Ben would be working on the restaurant’s business plan, of course, trying his best to keep Richie’s finances afloat. Tonight, he’d at least be here in spirit, if not in the flesh. Richie shivered guiltily at the thoughts that phrase conjured up: of Ben’s very attractive, very sexy flesh. Dear God. Richie closed his eyes briefly, even more ashamed. Lusting after his best friend. How clichéd was that? It just showed he really needed to get laid, but his leisure time had been non-existent for months. If he could just get the restaurant launched, could just build a small but loyal clientele, could just make enough money to cover the next quarterly equipment hire when it fell due…

Yes, thenhe’d think about his libido rather than lease payments.

Richie had been at University with Benjamin Fitzpatrick, the third, and very bright son of a disgustingly rich family. They even had some far distant hereditary title from aristocratic Europe, though the family abandoned claim to it after an embarrassing incident to do with the onset of the Franco-Prussian war, which Ben never fully explained. Whereas Richie had struggled to pass the academic requirements for his Hospitality degree, despite being a fabulous cook, Ben had modestly sailed through Business Finance as the top student, apparently succeeding from nothing but night-before cramming. Handsome and witty, pursued by every eligible woman under fifty his father could find to throw in his way, he was a nice bloke as well, despite his reputation throughout the campus for partying hard. Veryhard. Richie had first met him one Saturday night, drunk in the park around the back of the student bar, with a couple of “new friends”—one male, one female—who both seemed keen on seducing Ben out of his clothing. Not that Ben had looked too disturbed at being ravished, but he threw the new friends off immediately at the sight of Richie.