A Sprinkle of Sabotage by Fiona Leitch (bill gates book recommendations TXT) 📗

that’s just not how I do stuff. I don’t go around admitting to having feelings, for God’s sake. I am a world-class bottle-upperer. Usually.

‘Is that helping?’ asked Tony. It was so nice to have someone talking to me with such concern in their voice. He was very close, and he had that frilly shirt on again. I shut my eyes and then had to wrench them open quickly as an image of Tony ascending, Mr Darcy-like, from the depths of the ornamental lake floated across my mind. Only this time there was no small dog or pondweed spoiling the picture, his shirt was fully unbuttoned, and the six-pack underneath was so well defined it was practically a twelve-pack. And there was definitely a bit of chest hair lurking there, in my subconscious…

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, and I forced myself to smile at him, although by now I wasn’t sure how I was feeling, or who I was feeling it about. Pull yourself together, you daft tart, I told myself sternly.

‘Yeah, I’m just annoyed with myself,’ I said, truthfully enough. ‘I knew that hot plate would still be warm, and I still leant over it like an idiot.’

He carefully turned my arm around so he could look at the dull but angry red skin on my forearm. He pursed his lips as he inspected it, then looked up and smiled.

‘I think we might have to amputate it,’ he said. ‘Probably from just below the chin.’

‘If it gets me out of washing up, I’m game,’ I said. He laughed and let go of me, stepping back slightly as he did so. I felt a twinge of disappointment mixed with relief.

‘You’ll live, Nosey. Us Penstowians are made of sterner stuff than that.’

‘It’s just a flesh wound,’ I said. ‘Tough as old boots, me.’

‘Not quite as smelly though.’

‘Not quite?’

‘Well, it is proper hot in here, innit? You’re sw— I’m sweating like a pig.’

‘Nice save,’ I said. ‘Anyway… I’ve got to finish cleaning up the breakfast stuff before I can start lunch prep.’

‘You mean, get out my way, Tony?’

‘Something like that. You filming this morning, or do you just enjoy dressing like Long John Silver’s camp younger brother?’ I pretended to look him up and down with disdain, but actually those tight trousers and the shirt were surprisingly alluring…

Tony laughed. ‘Faith says I looked just like Mr Darcy when I rescued the dog yesterday,’ he said. My heart leapt.

‘Did she?’ I sniffed. ‘I didn’t know there was a dog rescue in Pride and Prejudice. Is that the version where he’s an RSPCA inspector?’

‘You know, you’re not as funny as you think are,’ said Tony.

‘I’m still hilarious, though.’

He laughed. ‘Yes, dear, you’re hilarious.’ He looked out across the counter as, from outside the truck, came sounds of movement. ‘Uh-oh, it sounds like Lucy’s on the warpath. I’d better go. She wants everyone on their best behaviour today, because Mike Mancuso’s going to be here.’

‘And Mike Mancuso is…?’

‘The producer. One of these old-school Hollywood types, by the sounds of it.’

‘A poor man’s Charlton Heston with a big mouth?’

‘Haha! Yes, going by the way Faith was talking about him.’ He looked out again, and then turned back to me. I re-arranged my face – I’d been thinking you and Faith seem VERY cosy – just in time. ‘Are you all right now?’

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Thank you. Now off you go before you get into trouble!’ I opened the back door of the truck and held it for him. ‘Mind the stairs. Oh, and what we talked about before – the Scooby Doo scenario – be careful, yeah? I think they’ve struck again. Busted some lights this time.’

Tony raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? I’ll keep me eyes peeled for anyone suspicious. But with Mike Mancuso around, hopefully they’ll be too scared to strike.’

I shoved all thoughts of Nathan’s new job and Tony’s (possibly hairy) chest to the back of my mind and finished clearing up, then started peeling and chopping veg ready for lunch. I thanked the absent Gino for his menu plans; I wasn’t following them exactly, but it was good to have some ideas to work from. A pasta dish, a vegetarian option, salads, and either a curry or some kind of meat and two veg dish. And chips, always chips.

I love cooking, always have, always will. But I had to admit that this hadn’t been the type of cooking I’d had in mind when I’d retrained as a chef. I hadn’t exactly imagined myself working in a Michelin-starred restaurant; the hours aren’t conducive to maintaining a healthy family life, plus there aren’t many (any) establishments quite on that level in Penstowan. But I supposed that a part of me had wanted that; I had wanted the opportunity to experiment with new ingredients and complicated recipes, and I’d wanted to cook the sort of food that would blow people’s socks off (in a good way) when they tasted it. But everyone’s hosiery was safe from my tuna pasta bake, and you don’t get an OBE for Services to the Culinary Industry by serving chips with everything (even if they are golden and crispy).

I sighed as I scraped all the peelings into a plastic bin (they were going to a local farm as food for the pigs). I shouldn’t complain; it was less messy than rounding up drunks on a Friday night in Clapham, and it was certainly safer, hot plates notwithstanding. And the cast and crew seemed to appreciate the food that I dished up for them.

‘Hello?’

I jumped as the voice disturbed my thoughts, and looked up. A round-faced man with spectacles and a big smile peered across the counter at me. ‘Delivery for Gino Rossi?’

‘That’s me,’ I said. The delivery man raised his eyebrows, as I clearly didn’t look like a Gino Rossi, but didn’t say anything. ‘What’ve you got for me?’

‘Just the one.’ The delivery man lifted a big insulated polystyrene box up onto the counter. ‘Sign here, please.’ I