Page 45 of When Lemons Give You Life

28

Griff

My watch tells me that I have exactly seven and a half minutes to decide whether to go back. Should I risk it for the biscuit, or whatever it is “Martin” is meant to make for lunch? Soon, someone will listen to his voice message and find out. I got away with being missing this morning, but I can’t count on being so lucky a second time.

I look at my photo of the cooking roster. Technically, I could be showered, attend the shifts and, if I went straight back to my room for my breaks, be served my meals. Because it’s the weekend, there is very little chance that I’d be bothered in between. But could they really be that negligent?

As if in answer, a flash of crinkled pink skin whizzes past my door. It’s poor old Rob on his nudie run again—or nudie power walk, I should say. At least he’s exercising.

Six minutes . . .

My pulse quickens as Rob’s sister Mabel walks past. I lower my face and pull my beanie further down over my eyebrows, hoping she won’t recognize me without the chef whites.

“Hello, it’s Griff, isn’t it?” she asks brightly, probably unaware that I’m supposedly nonverbal. “I wondered if Lisa might be here.” She scans the room.

I give a small shake of my head.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen Rob, have you? He may have been naked?” She laughs, cleaning her glasses with her blouse.

I nod.

“Cheeky beggar! It’s been happening a lot lately. We’ve had the best morning though, that brekkie! I swear that was homemade hollandaise!” I suppress a smile as she looks down the hall. “Anyway, I’d better find him. Nice to see you. Let’s hope the new chef sticks around; we could really do with someone who cares in this place.”

And with a wave, she’s gone, her words ringing in my ears: Someone who cares.

Beau was the caring one. The thoughtful one. The one who would know exactly what to say or do when someone was in pain. Lisa has that knack too, though it’s wrapped in chaos and noise. In the world of kindness, I’m an imposter, more concerned with truffles and fresh barramundi than people. Except for Beau, of course. I would have given up caviar for Beau.

I could end it all now, but the hint of hollandaise lingering on my tongue stops me. There’s literally nothing left to lose. If anything goes south, I still have my exit.

I tuck pillows under the comforter, shaping them into the silhouette of a sleeping body. Chef whites and face mask on, I ease the door open and slip out again. A visitor asks me for directions to the bathroom, and the staff members make eye contact with me again. I’m a somebody once more.

After a quick survey of available ingredients in the kitchen, I decide to make pumpkin soup. Real soup, not the sad beige kind that comes powdered from a tin and smells like wet cardboard.

“Do you reckon I could help cook lunch?” asks Scotty, his eyes wide.

Nishan shakes his head from the far corner.

I pause. “No, sorry. Not today.”

“Right. Of course, I’m sorry, chef.” He retreats to the sink with his tail between his legs. He doesn’t argue, just starts wiping surfaces that don’t need wiping, his eyes fixed on anything but me.

I shouldn’t care. I’ve barked far worse at junior chefs who were probably being paid triple. But something about the slope of his shoulders tugs at a deeply buried nerve. That look—too eager, too hurt—takes me back to the kitchen I’d rather forget. A seven-year-old Lisa, hands coated in flour and egg, beaming beside a bowl of cracked-shell batter and a countertop covered in mess; me too tired or shut down to see the effort, telling her to get out.

I clear my throat. The bitterness in my mouth isn’t reflux: it’s regret. “Scotty.”

He turns, eyes wary.

“You ever roasted pumpkin before?”

He blinks. “No.”

“Well, today’s your lucky day.” I slide him a chopping board.

“What? Really? But you said—”

“Just don’t cut your fingers off, okay?”

He fumbles at first—poor grip, no confidence—but I guide him through it.