Page 107 of When Lemons Give You Life

I unlock my phone and scroll through the photos: pages of kitchen records, inspection reports, budgeting and invoices, all neatly documented. Proof, lined up in pixels. I may have more bargaining chips than I thought, and I’m not afraid to use them, not when so much is at stake. A plan begins to simmer.

“Taste that and tell me it doesn’t blow the powdered stuff out of the water.” I step back from the stove, the rich scent of lamb and herbs rising in a cloud of steam. The stock bubbles, glistening and hot. I hand them each a spoon.

Nishan tastes first. “I had my doubts, but I can’t argue with that, mate!”

Scotty beams. “So much flavor from such simple ingredients!”

“Yep. There’s no reason you can’t be making big batches of this and freezing it each week. It’s got lots of health benefits for the residents too, being bone broth.”

They go about preparing the rest of dinner, a well-oiled machine now. A proper team with the correct goal.

At the end of the shift, I catch Nishan in the car park. “Mate, before you go, there’s something I have to tell you. I’m sorry to say I’m resigning; got some family health issues I need to focus on.”

His face sinks. “Oh. I’m sad to hear that. You’ll be missed.”

“Thanks, mate. One last thing—would you like to become the full-time weekday chef here?”

He cocks his head to the side. “Yeah, that’s what I applied for originally but just got the weekend.”

“So you’d be free to take on the full-time role?”

“Yes . . . but why are you asking?”

“I have a feeling a spot will open up, that’s all.”

We shake hands, and I turn to walk away.

“Martin?”

“Yeah?”

“You did good. I know I was hesitant at the start, but I see it now.”

“See what?”

“The worth.”

Back in my room, I bring out my notebook and the hit list of fake, chemically enhanced food I’ve been determined to exterminate. So far, we’ve ticked off instant mash, boosters, dream dessert powders, packet cakes and pasta sauce. I draw a big satisfying tick next to the stock.

There’s only one fake item left to get out of that kitchen.

Me.

69

Griff

The apple juice is deliciously cold. I take another swig then hand it to Scotty. The shift ended hours ago, but the aircon in my room is shot, so we’ve snuck back into the walk-in fridge to escape the unseasonal heat wave. I watch him take a long drink, recalling the first time we met. There’s still meekness in his eyes, but there’s something else too. Hope. Self-respect.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’ve got to go, Scotty. I have to donate. I’ve put my resignation on Allison’s desk.”

He watches me for a beat, breath misting faintly in the chilled air. “So . . . you’re going to come clean?”

“Only to whoever I have to, to get out of this joint. Not to Lisa.”

He frowns. “But don’t you think she’d want to know? I mean, she has a right to, doesn’t she?”

“She’s already mourned me. Let sleeping dogs lie. She deserves the chance to move on without the past dragging her under.”