The Piano Man Project (19 page)

Honey grimaced in sympathy at Mimi and pushed a pack of shortbread towards her. Patrick’s dramatic exit from the home had seen his seventeen-year-old apprentice, Skinny Steve, elevated to head chef overnight. Wet behind the ears and eight stone on a fat day, he was never going to be up to the job of caring for the delicate diets of a bunch of fussy elderly residents. It was Christopher’s job to sort out a replacement, but as he’d been last seen sitting on the pavement in a pile of sandwiches the day before, it clearly wasn’t on his priority list.

‘What will we do at dinnertime? It’s alright for me and Mimi, we’re as strong as oxes,’ Lucille said, her face pinched as she sipped the sweet tea Honey had made for her. ‘But some of the others are really frail, Honey. If they go without food, well … it just doesn’t bear thinking about.’

It was a problem alright, and despite her assertion Lucille and Mimi were nowhere near as strong as oxes, despite their sprightliness.

‘Okay. Look.’ Honey smiled at the sisters with more confidence than she felt inside, noticing that they’d already eaten half the packet of biscuits between them. ‘You ladies hold the fort here and I’ll nip across and make sure Skinny Steve’s on top of lunch.’

Skinny Steve wasn’t on top of lunch. He was in a complete flap, his usually pale face pink and sweaty.

‘I can’t do this,’ he’d said, staring at her wild eyed as soon as she’d walked into the kitchen. ‘There’s hardly any butter, and the bread’s still frozen!’ He looked up at the clock. ‘Lunch is due out in two hours. What am I going to do?’

He really was asking the wrong person, but Honey could see he was on the edge of a panic attack so held up her palms in a calming way.

‘Steve. Calm down. Take some nice, deep breaths. I’m here to help.’

His skinny shoulders sagged with relief as Honey almost felt him hand over the baton of responsibility to her. His face brightened considerably as he slipped gratefully back into his apprentice role and awaited instruction. Which would have been absolutely fine, if Honey had any clue how to run the kitchen.

‘So, err … is there a weekly plan or something we can follow?’

Steve nodded. ‘Yes. It’s …’ He glanced at the huge aluminium fridge door and the smile slipped from his face. ‘It’s here, but this is last week’s. Patrick usually changes it today.’

‘Okay. Let’s have a look. We can always follow it for this week too if needs be.’

Skinny Steve shook his head. ‘They’ll know,’ he whispered, nodding towards the door to the residents’ dining room as if they were a bunch of zombies from
Night of the Living Dead
.

‘Skinny Steve,’ Honey said, using his full title in the stern way a mother uses a child’s full name when they’re reprimanding them. ‘At this point it’ll be a miracle if there’s any lunch on the tables at all. Work with me here.’

He swallowed hard and squared his bony shoulders. ‘Okay.’

Honey reached for an apron off the pegs on the wall and slid it over her head. A search through the cupboards revealed several catering-sized tins of chicken soup, and there was a mountain of cheese. Chicken soup and cheese and tomato sandwiches. That wasn’t so bad, surely?

‘Come on. Let’s get this bread defrosted in the microwave. We’ve got sandwiches to make.’

Honey helped Steve clear the plates from the dining room after lunch, a small glow of pride warming her belly at the fact that between them they’d managed to supply food for the hordes without incident. It may not have been gourmet, but the plates and bowls were mostly empty and the residents were mostly full, so that had to be considered a good result.

She placed the last plates down in the kitchen and dropped her backside onto a stool.

‘That wasn’t too bad, was it?’

Steve looked up from loading the dishwasher and said something that horrified her.

‘What will we give them for dinner?’

The small glow of success popped like a pin-pricked bubble. ‘I have no idea. What does the plan say?’

‘Roast pork.’

Honey huffed. ‘Not a chance. What else can we do?’

She opened the huge fridge and stood contemplating its contents. Ham. Lots of ham. Vegetables. Cheese. Boxes of mince beef. Steve came and stood beside her.

‘I bet chef was planning cottage pie. He’s defrosted mince beef.’

‘Do you know how to make it?’ Honey turned to him with hopeful eyes.

Skinny Steve pulled a look of intense concentration that really wasn’t very attractive at all. ‘There’s definitely mash in it,’ he said eventually. Honey sighed. She knew that much already. Opening the vegetable drawers, she saw onions. And garlic.

Onions, garlic, and minced beef. Maybe … just maybe …

‘Have you ever made bolognese, Steve?’ she asked.

He paused, then nodded. ‘There’s definitely minced beef in it.’

Honey wiped her clammy palms on her apron and reached for the beef, hoping like hell that she could remember what she was doing. She’d spotted tins of tomatoes and bags of pasta earlier in the store cupboards. With the right wind behind her, there was an outside chance that she might just be able to pull this off.

It was after eight in the evening by the time Honey pushed open the door at home and let herself into the lamplit lobby. She was exhausted, but still buzzing with elation that the residents had, on the whole, declared her spaghetti bolognese a roaring success. It might not have included pancetta and other fancy ingredients, but the basic taste had been there and this time she’d skipped the red wine and made sure to season it properly. The results had made for a more than passable dinner, enjoyable even, if the fact that Billy had eaten two and a half platefuls was anything to go by. Dessert had been even less designer; strawberry magic whip from the corner shop, but even that had seemed to charm the residents with its nod towards wartime austerity treats.

She glanced longingly towards Hal’s door. He’d as good as fed those residents today.

‘Hal?’ she said, her voice small in the cool lobby. ‘Hal?’

He didn’t reply, as ever, but she told him none the less. She told him of the fracas on the pavement yesterday, and of Patrick’s shock resignation from the kitchen. She told him of Skinny Steve’s burnt toast breakfast, and how she’d felt obliged to step into the breach. Even in the silence, Honey could practically hear Hal thinking that it was yet further evidence that her girl guide complex was alive and kicking. She told him of her forage through the cupboards for lunch, and then she told of her bolognese success, almost laughing with relief when she added on the bit about the magic whip.

‘God knows what I’ll do tomorrow though. Skinny Steve is taking care of breakfast while I open up, but he’s relying on me going over there again by ten o’clock. I don’t think they’ll be as pleased with bolognese two days on the run, will they? I definitely saw chicken breasts. What the hell can I make with a huge bag of chicken breasts, Hal?’

He didn’t answer. Honey had known he wouldn’t. She wasn’t even sure whether she’d told him about her day to impress him or annoy him. After a few minutes she trudged across the hallway to her own flat and microwaved herself a ready meal for one before she fell into bed, all in.

‘Bake them.’

Honey stopped dead in the lobby the next morning, halted by the sound of Hal’s voice through his door.

‘Hal?’

‘The chicken breasts. Lay them on trays over some tinned tomatoes and garlic, add herbs if you have any. Remember to season them. Cover with foil and cook low and slow during the afternoon. Did you get all that?’

Honey could feel her heart beating too fast.

‘Lay the chicken over tinned tomatoes. Add garlic and seasoning. Cover and cook,’ she repeated slowly.

‘Serve with boiled rice and vegetables,’ he said.

Honey walked towards his door and laid a hand on the cool wood. She turned her ear and concentrated; could just about hear him breathing.

‘Thank you,’ she said softly.

‘Just don’t kill any of them,’ he said. ‘It’ll badly fuck with your Mother Teresa complex if one of them chokes on a chicken bone.’

Hal listened to her leave and slid down to sit on the floor in his hallway. He’d been relieved to hear her key in the lock last night, even though he’d never acknowledge that he’d noticed she was late home from work. And then she’d stopped by his door and told him about her day, another sequence of unlikely events that made him hold his head in his hands and wonder how she, and those around her, made it through each day alive. One day the heroine on the front of the local paper. The next day dating random men because they happened to play the piano. And then somehow cooking dinner for thirty OAPs even though she could barely cook for herself. Honey seemed to get up each morning and approach life like a beautiful, haphazard firework; the distinct possibility of disaster balanced against the high probability of brightening someone’s day. She’d brightened his day yesterday just by being in it, and he’d returned the favour by providing an idiot-proof way to cook the chicken. It seemed like a deal weighted heavily his way.

‘Skinny Steve forgot to re-cover the chicken again after he’d checked it so it all went a bit dry, but on the whole, it wasn’t too bad.’

‘I’d have fired Skinny Steve on the spot,’ Hal said that evening, listening once more to Honey regale him about her day. She’d come in around eight, late again, and this time when she’d come to his door he hadn’t ignored her. She sounded tired, and his curiosity had got the better of him. She was cooking, and he was a chef, after all.

‘You’re joking. Steve’s all that stands between me and starvation for the residents. He knows more than he thinks he does when he just relaxes and trusts his instincts,’ Honey said. ‘He needs a proper teacher, that’s all. He could probably become a good chef in the right kitchen.’

Hal suspected it was encouragement and support from Honey that had given Skinny Steve a boost; he’d seen it time after time in professional kitchens. Chefs made by praise and chefs broken by criticism.

‘You should trust your own instincts too, Honey,’ he said. ‘They’re good.’

She didn’t reply, no smart comeback. In fact, he couldn’t be sure, but it sounded as if she might be trying to hide the fact that she was crying. He couldn’t stop himself. He reached out and closed his fingers around the latch of his door, on the very edge of opening it.

‘Are you crying?’ he said, for want of something more tactful.

She definitely was. ‘It’s your fault. You said something nice to me and I’m bloody knackered and Skinny Steve almost ruined dinner.’

Hal processed the three bits of information, and then sighed and swung the door open. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

He heard her snivel. ‘Yes.’

She followed him down the hall into his kitchen.

‘Should I make it?’ she asked, her voice small and laced with uncertainty.

‘Knob off. I can make tea. Go and sit down, I’ll bring it through.’

Hal made Honey a sandwich while he waited on the kettle, taking it all through and placing it on the coffee table when it was ready.

‘You didn’t have to …’ she said. At least it sounded as though she’d finished crying now.

‘Just eat,’ he said roughly, not especially proud of the chicken and brie salad sandwich he’d made her but glad to be able to offer something.

‘You make good sandwiches,’ she said after a while. ‘And nice tea.’

‘Feeling better now?’ he asked, even though her voice already told him the answer.

‘A bit. Thank you.’

‘Want some whisky?’

‘Best not,’ she laughed, and then she stopped laughing. ‘Know what I really would like, Hal?’

Danger. He could almost smell it; the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

‘Honey …’

Her hand moved to his knee, warm and firm, her fingers grazing the skin where the soft denim had split open.

‘I shouldn’t have asked you to come in,’ he said quietly.

‘And I shouldn’t have come to your door when you piss me off so much, but I did, so I guess we’re even. I can’t stay away from you, Hal.’

‘Try harder,’ he frowned, distracted by the slow stroke of her thumb over his kneecap.

She took a while to speak again. ‘I’ve been thinking about something. I have a proposition for you,’ she said, her voice brave and breathless.

He swallowed hard. ‘What kind of proposition?’

He heard her swallow even harder. Gather herself. ‘One night, Hal. No strings. No dates. One night, show me how good sex feels for everyone else.’

Fuck, fuck, fuck. How could you make your mouth say one thing when your brain really wanted to say something else? Hal couldn’t, so he said nothing at all.

‘I know you don’t want a relationship, and that’s okay because I don’t either. In fact I think we’d be bloody terrible together. I’m not asking you for romance, just sex. God knows why, but when you touch me, I feel more. More than I’ve ever felt with other men.’ He felt her shrug, as if it was a mystery to her. ‘My body likes yours, Hal.’ The break in her voice cracked his resolve, reached into the nooks and crannies of him. She’d moved nearer on the sofa, and he couldn’t move away because he wanted to move towards her instead. Instinct took the driving seat when she touched his jaw; he turned his mouth and kissed the softness of her palm. What kind of a man could refuse an offer like that? One no-strings-attached night with a beautiful, pliant woman? Especially a woman whose arms had slid around his neck, her lips a breath from his. He didn’t stand a chance.

‘Honey, we talked about this,’ he murmured, trying even as her lips brushed tentatively against his.

‘
You
talked about it,’ she sighed, stroking his hair as she opened her mouth a little.

‘It’s a bad idea,’ he said, even as his tongue touched hers, barely there and slow.

He heard her low sigh, felt her body lean into his.

‘You said,’ she whispered, as he moved his arms around her and held her to him. She fit him all too well, her curves melding into his chest. ‘But this feels too good to be a bad idea.’ Her breathing quickened in his mouth as she sank her teeth into his top lip, licking along it. ‘Just kissing you is better than sex with anyone else.’