like to speak with the pâtissier.’
‘I’ve already explained that’s not possible. Boui-Boui’s policy is explicit.’
‘Then I’d like another muffin, please.’
A second hour passed. The world beyond the windows of Boui-Boui turned dark as the summer’s evening faded to night. The diners around Trudy finished their meals, paid and passed on complements to the chef, and then meandered towards the exits.
The trade, steady throughout the evening, began to falter.
Waiters and waitresses passing Trudy’s table eyed her with mixed expressions of pity, panic, bemusement and unease. They had clearly been discussing her in the kitchens. She was undoubtedly considered to be the mad woman on table thirteen. She clearly had some bug up her backside about muffins and recipes. She was a loose cannon worth watching in case she went properly crazy.
Untroubled by their opinions, Trudy closed her eyes and savoured the moment. Boui-Boui had an international reputation for excellence. William Hart, restaurateur, chef and culinary legend was the owner. Hart had delivered a seminar at Trudy’s university and she could still remember his dulcet tones as he reverently discussed the need for every chef to understand the core elements of the profession. He had spoken for an hour and it had been one of the most memorable lectures that Trudy had attended. To find herself sitting in Hart’s celebrated restaurant, trying to unravel the mysterious flavours contained within one of his kitchen’s creations, was almost like some form of surreal graduation prize. If she had been given a choice between this situation, or going out drinking with Donny and Charlotte at Stanzas, Trudy knew that she would have chosen a solitary seat in Boui-Boui every time.
‘We’ll be closing in fifteen minutes,’ the maître d’ announced. Her crisp voice cut through Trudy’s thoughts. It was sharp with tones of clinical authority.
The restaurant was virtually empty. Aside from herself the only other patrons were a solitary couple sat in one corner near a window. They held hands across a table decorated with empty plates, half-drained coffees and a single rose.
One petal had fallen from the rose to the floor.
‘The head chef has given me permission to lock the doors with you inside.’
Trudy glanced at the maître d’. ‘You’ve spoken with the head chef? May I speak with the head chef?’
‘No. As I might have mentioned before, that goes against restaurant policy.’
‘Then I’d like another muffin, please.’
The maître d’ sighed. Her shoulders slumped as she headed towards the kitchen. A moment later a smirking waitress appeared and placed another muffin in front of Trudy. She had fuchsia hair and the name badge over her right breast was written in italicised script: Nikki.
‘They’re good, aren’t they?’ Nikki grinned.
Trudy nodded. ‘I’ve never had better.’
‘My friend Kali makes them,’ Nikki explained. ‘She’s pâtissier here at Boui-Boui and she was the one who showed this recipe to Mr Hart.’
‘Really? Has she ever told you what goes into them?’
‘What goes into a citrus and blueberry muffin?’ Nikki repeated doubtfully.
Before Trudy could say that wasn’t what she meant, the maître d’ had appeared and the conversation was cut maddeningly short. She escorted the fuchsia-haired waitress out of the room and back to the kitchens.
Trudy was left alone in the restaurant with her single, enigmatic muffin.
Each citrus and blueberry muffin had been baked in a pastel pink paper case. Trudy slowly peeled the paper away before sampling the sponge in small, savoured morsels. Over the past two hours she had grown so acquainted with unpeeling the muffins from their paper cases that the action felt like a well-practised ritual. Primed by some Pavlovian response, she began to salivate in anticipation of the tantalising taste as soon as she was teasing paper away from the sponge.
Something about the flavour was maddeningly familiar.
Emotionally she was detecting excitement and hope – not things she often associated with flavours. Her tongue continued to identify suggestions of vanilla but that was a common ingredient in so many pastries that acknowledging its presence did little to help. Trudy was still trying to work out the identity of that missing detail when the maître d’ reappeared in the main doorway.
The solitary couple had crept quietly from the room. Their table had been surreptitiously cleared without Trudy noticing.
She was now the only customer in the restaurant.
The maître d’ wore an overcoat over her uniform. She had one hand on a light switch. There was something about her posture that suggested absolute determination. And, whilst Trudy could see the woman was resolute, she did not think the determination of the maître d’ could be as strong or resilient as her own will.
‘I’ll be locking the doors now,’ the maître d’ explained. ‘This is your final chance before you get locked in here for the evening. Are you going to leave?’
Trudy drew a deep breath. ‘I’ll leave after I’ve spoken with the pâtissier.’
The lights went out. Before Trudy had a proper chance to realise she had been plunged into darkness, a stranger took the seat next to hers.
‘What do you want?’
Her heartbeat quickened. She had no idea who he was. Had she been left alone with the restaurant’s security detail? Her grand idea of remaining at the table, until the restaurant’s staff were forced to deal with her, no longer seemed like such a clever strategy. A slick sheen of sweat moistened her palms. Her mouth was almost too dry to talk. She started twice before finally finding the words.
‘These muffins,’ she began. It took every ounce of effort she possessed not to stammer. She willed herself to appear in control. Even though it was dark and even though she didn’t know who she was talking to, Trudy felt the need to exude an air of contained professional calm. ‘These muffins are delicious.’
‘I know. Everything I serve here at the Boui-Boui is delicious. Now, tell me, what do you want?’
It was too dark to see who he was. He was simply a suggestion of shadow against the blackness of the unlit restaurant. His voice had a northern twang to it that reminded her of the blustering heroes from hardy TV shows and gritty films. It was an accent that suggested the words were spoken by someone with no time to tolerate whimsy, artifice or fools. They were plain-spoken words from a plain-speaking man.
His accent trilled softly against her ear like the rasp of a favourite blanket. Maddeningly, she knew his voice was one she had heard before and that she knew well. She racked her brains, desperately trying to think where she had heard it and how she knew this stranger.
