The Secrets We Keep

THE SECRETS WE KEEP M. I. HATTERSLEY Published by Inkubator Books www.inkubatorbooks.com Copyright © 2023 by M. I. Hattersley M. I. Hattersley has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work. ISBN (eBook): 978-1-83756-155-1 ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-83756-156-8 ISBN (Hardback): 978-1-83756-157-5 THE SECRETS WE KEEP is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher. CONTENTS Inkubator Books 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 Inkubator Newsletter Thank You For Reading About the Author JOIN THE INKUBATOR MAILING LIST You will be the first to learn about new releases plus the many FREE and discounted Kindle books we offer! bit.ly/3dOTSW2 1 Even with four cups of strong coffee inside me, I’m struggling to focus. My skin is like paper and my teeth feel brittle and unclean. This, despite the fact I’ve flossed and liberally brushed them before tonight’s service. Missing sleep always hit me hard, even when I was a younger man, but add to that the bad dreams and all the other shit going on right now, and it’s left my mind swirling in a frenzy of confusion and unhelpful ideas. Unhelpful? Try dangerous. Try terrifying. I lean over the dish and complete the final touches – a selection of sea herbs that are applied around the side of the generous piece of wild turbot with a pair of medical tweezers. Stepping back, I force a smile for Pearl, my sous chef, who has been trying her best to follow the process. She smiles back, but the creased brows tell me she’s going to need both practice and guidance if she’s to master my signature dish. But it’s not her fault. Tonight I’m rushing and being sloppy, going against all my principles on how one should run a high-end kitchen. How we do anything is how we do everything. It’s a good rule for business. It’s a better rule for how to live life. If only I’d known that twenty years ago. “It looks beautiful, Chef,” Pearl says. “You’ve smashed it again.” “Do you trust you can handle this tonight?” I ask, ramping up the hopefulness in my voice. “Erm. Yeah. I might need some help with the champagne foam.” I nod. “Okay.” She’s not there yet. But that’s fine. She will be. It was never the plan for me to hand over the reins to her so soon, anyway. Mine and Jessie’s plan was we’d open the restaurant – me as head chef and her running front-of-house – elevate it up to the best standards possible, maybe get a Michelin star, get a rosette at least, then we’d get the right people in the top roles and take a step back. Enjoy the fruits of our labour. But that was ten years down the line in our original plan. Not three. There’s nothing like an unexpected pregnancy to ruin every single one of your plans. “Do your best,” I tell Pearl, stifling a yawn. “You need to trust yourself. You’re an excellent chef.” “Thank you, Rob – Chef!” she says. “I’ll do my best.” “I know you will. That’s all I can ask of you.” I pat her on the shoulder. She’ll need a few months of mentoring before the time is right for her. But a few months might be all we’ve got left here. And it’s not like I can afford to take a step back now, anyway. Baby Noah’s arrival three weeks ago might have thrown mine and Jessie’s lives into a tailspin, but the financial crisis, coming so soon after the pandemic, means the restaurant’s finances are teetering on a knife edge. There’s no way I can pay a head chef’s salary for Pearl and hire another sous chef for the foreseeable future. No matter how hard Jessie is finding it at home on her own looking after a three-week-old baby and our four-year-old, Fern – no matter how much she begs me to slow down and be at home more – I can’t do it. Not yet. I’m needed here. If I don’t make Fire and Ice work, we’ll lose everything. The restaurant, the house, our livelihoods. I can’t tell Jessie any of this, of course. I don’t want to worry her. She has enough to deal with. But don’t we all? I leave my station and walk down the short passageway that leads out into the dining room. I’ve always felt restaurants have a strange atmosphere at this time of night. We open in forty-five minutes and an expectant air hangs over the finely laid out tables and chairs. It also feels slightly sinister tonight. Like a tableau from an old film. That bit in the Shining when Jack meets the phantom barman. Or as if it’s the dining room on the Titanic, laid out for a dinner service that will never take place. But perhaps this is just how it looks when filtered through my current frame of mind. I walk over to the bar area and grab a coffee cup from under the counter. It’s a little dusty, but clean enough. I walk it over to the new industrial-sized coffee machine in black and chrome that stands proudly in the corner against the back wall. Proudly, but arrogantly. Mocking in its extravagance. We had it imported all the way from Italy and it cost more than my first car. I’m already regretting buying it. I made the final payment just before the first lockdown, and it lay dormant and unused for six months. All