A Blessing From The Obeah Man by Grace Celina

Author:Grace, Celina [Grace, Celina]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2012-10-12T04:00:00+00:00

The Club

It was a warm April night the first time I met Kurt Fleischer. A hint of summer in the warmth of the evening breeze - a sunset gently bleeding into the sky behind us as we stood on the terrace. I was at the launch of a new restaurant. Crashingly dull, as it happens - I was debating on whether I could bear to hang around until dessert. I shifted from foot to foot, easing the ache in the small of my back. And then I saw Kurt. With all that’s happened since, it’s amazing that it wasn’t the demands of my stomach that got me into all this. No, it was the insistence of another organ altogether.

He’s tall, you know; blonde, high cheek-boned; the very prototype of Aryan perfection. But you would know, of course, as he’s joined the ever-swelling ranks of celebrity chefs that clog up our televisions, exhorting us to watch our waistlines and titillate our tastebuds. You can peruse Kurt’s book in Waterstones; dine at his – our – restaurant (if you book a month in advance, three if you want a table on Saturday night). You can buy his range of gleaming knives and cleavers in John Lewis. And yet, only he and I and a few select others know the secret of his – our – success. Only The Club knows how delicious a game it all is.

He was the one who approached me, you know. I saw the gleam of his blonde hair as he moved through the crowd on that warm spring night, watched as he moved towards me. Could it be possible…? I flicked my gaze away from his face, back towards the eager grimace of my companion – Harry Capless, one half of this new gastronomic venture. He could tell I was bored, obviously, but as he was hoping for a blazingly positive review from me, he had little choice but to ignore my bad manners. I kept my eyes on him, aware of the blonde young man standing just in the periphery of my vision. He wasn’t hovering – he just stood there silently, waiting for me to notice him. I caught a faint whiff of his aftershave, a tang of clean sweat beneath it. He smelled good enough to eat.

Eventually Harry ground to a halt. I smiled dismissively and turned towards the blonde – Kurt, as I was soon to learn.

“Good evening, “ I said.

He nodded, unsmiling.

“Good evening. You are Geoffrey Lamb-Scott?”

I inclined my head graciously. He went on.

“You are writing for the Daily Telegraph, their restaurant reviews?”

“I am, dear boy. The Sunday Telegraph, to be quite accurate. But I’m afraid you have the advantage of me. Your name is…?”

“Kurt Fleischer. I am a chef.”

Oh Lord. I manage not to wince outwardly. Another young hopeful, another one desperate for a good review. For any review.

How desperate? I wondered thoughtfully.

“I wanted very much to talk to you about the article you wrote for Gastronome,” said Kurt. His smooth golden face was taut with earnestness.

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