“Really?” said Konstantin, pouting. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay and have a quick . . .”

He had been about to say “cup of coffee,” in the hopes of staving off work a little longer, but Isla had been brought up to be very wary of strange men—there weren’t many on Mure, which was why they were all so terrifying.

“Get back!” she shouted. “Get away from me!”

“No coffee then?” protested Konstantin, as she stared at him menacingly, reversing out back into the corridor. He added impishly, “You know, it was you who turned up in my bedroom.”

Finally, Isla found her voice. “Piss off, you disgusting sex case!” she screamed. Then she turned and bolted back down the hall.

“Wouf!” said Bjårk.

Konstantin frowned, thoroughly awake now. He’d been called a few things in his life, but that seemed rather harsh.

“Sorry!” he hollered down the corridor, but it was too late.

Chapter 13

L isten to me,” commanded Gaspard.

Konstantin had made it down ten minutes later. Being unused to a uniform, he was wearing his trousers back to front. Isla moved as far away from where he was standing as she possibly could.

“The next time this happens, you will be doing all the potato peeling, you understand? For one week, two week, four week.”

“Yes, all right,” said Konstantin, who was confused. Surely they’d been friends yesterday in the bar.

“You do what I say in thees keetchen. Then all will be happy. Or you do not do as I say and boo-hoo there is absolute tristesse, you understand?”

Nobody did understand, but they could make a stab from his scary tone of voice.

Gaspard had been through a lot of restaurants and found his manner tended to make people scared of him and leave, unless they were good, committed, or—and this was very much what he was counting on at the moment—had absolutely nowhere else to go. He didn’t care which.

Modern-day restaurants, with their cost centers and portion control and budgets, didn’t suit him. But here . . . he’d sneered at the kitchen, but it wasn’t bad, not really—done by someone with money to spend. Here, there was a chance for him. And nobody was going to stand in his way this time, certainly not some posh teenage drunk and a clutch of locals who probably shared one eyebrow between them.

KONSTANTIN HAD ASSUMED Gaspard was kidding about the potatoes. He emphatically was not. The third time he took the skin off his knuckles—he’d never peeled one in his life—Isla finally got tired of listening to his strangled epithets and ransacking of the first aid box. His hands were a riot of blue bandages. Everyone else ignored him. After the potatoes he started washing pots as everyone else got to try out cooking stuff. This was absolutely rubbish and incredibly boring, and it took hours. He tried to catch the eye of the girl who’d been upstairs, but she was resolutely not looking at him. Gaspard just shouted. The blank-faced girl, Kerry, worked like a robot and ignored everybody. His hands were cut, red, and chafing from the hot water. He smelled absolutely terrible; the smells of food got everywhere. How could it be so hard and boring at the same time? He hated his stupid father with an absolute vengeance. He hadn’t even been able to tell his friends where he was going. Not only had they stopped his phone, they’d stopped his Wi-Fi. He was completely alone in the universe because of his stupid father, having to grovel and make himself filthy with a bunch of random dicks. It was a joke that had gone too far.