Monica Ali by In The Kitchen

Author:In The Kitchen [Kitchen, In The]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-03-03T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

GABE WATCHED ERNIE AND OONA SCUTTLE AND SHUFFLE TOWARDS THE prefab from opposite ends of the loading bay. Oona had a low centre of gravity; any lower and she'd be rooted permanently to the ground. Ernie looked distressed and distracted, which was how he always looked on the move. He needed a pillar to lurk beside, a rock to duck behind, a shadow in which to rest. It was a perpetual hazard of his porter's job that no sooner had he reached a place of relative safety than he was forced to break cover again. Perhaps it would be kinder to put him out of his misery, effect the 'restructure and redundancy initiative' outlined in Mr James's sickly little memo yesterday.

In swift light strides Gabe passed his executive sous-chef.

'Good Lord,' said Oona, as if Gabe had spread his wings and flown.

'Morning,' said Gabe, hurdling a packing crate. He jumped into the back of the cheese van.

'Hernie need a little bitta help,' called Oona, sing-song.

Gabe watched the pair converge at Ernie's hut. He owed Oona an apology. He'd filled out the wrong details for that birthday party and then given Oona a formal warning about it. Ernie and Oona both stepped into the doorway at once and became, momentarily, wedged in the frame.

Gabe turned away laughing and groaning. 'Crack troops,' he said under his breath. 'Top team.'

He picked up a Vacherin du Terroir and lifted the lid. He put it to one side.

He examined the Roqueforts next and they failed to inspire. It had been a week since he'd seen Charlie and he hadn't called her yet. The plan was to call her today. Give her a week to cool off and then ring her when she'd given up expecting him to call. Maybe she'd still be furious. Maybe he should have run after her straight away.

He used his penknife to slice a piece of Demi Pont l'Évęque. He held it under his nose. Why had he told her? This was the question he could not answer. He'd decided (hadn't he?) not to tell her. And then he told her. Just like that. He did it without thinking. But that was only an expression (wasn't it?), a manner of speaking. I did it without thinking. You dodge a fist without thinking. You step around a pothole without thinking. You breathe without thinking. You don't tell your girlfriend you fucked someone else without thinking. Anyway, he'd considered it, played the angles, rejected it as an option. Then he spoke and somehow it all came out.

It must have been in his mind to do it, to tell her. You can't speak the words without the thought. The thought comes first and the words give it shape. They follow along, however infinitesimally small the delay. So he'd decided to tell her. Why? He'd had that thought. Tell her, he'd thought. It was my thought.

But where did it come from? It wasn't my idea to think something stupid like that.

He was going round and round in circles.

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