‘I have, after many years experimenting with exotic Asian flavours, perfected what will become my Kamasan signature cocktail,’ he began. ‘You might think this looks like a Bloody Mary. But no!

‘This is a triumph created from our home-made tomato-based vegetable juice, with a generous dash of beetroot juice, sambal terasi for depth and flavour, fish sauce for saltiness, fresh lime juice, a dash of fresh ginger juice, heaps of good vodka, a shot of extra dry vermouth – or a good very dry sherry – a teaspoon of Moringa, and instead of the predictable celery stick as a swizzle, we bash the end of a stalk of lemongrass and let the emerging oil add another layer of Asia-ness.

‘And we’re not done yet! On top we sprinkle some crunchy freeze-dried rendang and finish it off with what I reckon is the world’s greatest flavour maker . . . the zest of a kaffir lime. That’s the great smell wafting towards you . . .’

He lifted a glass and held it high. ‘And here we have the Kamasan Kamikatsi! Here’s to the Kamasan and all who sail in her!’

To laughter, cheers and applause, he tilted a glass and drank.

‘Cut! That’s stupendous. You’re a natural,’ said Steve with a broad grin. ‘Man, I’ve got to try one of those. C’mon, Grace, you have a try too!’

‘That’s utterly delicious,’ declared Grace, taking a sip. ‘Well, I guess we can call it a wrap.’

When he was free, Grace took Andy aside and explained what had transpired in the kitchen. Andy rolled his eyes.

‘Bugger. Emile’s probably trying to keep off the coke and whatever else while he’s here, and he’s taking out his frustrations on the staff. I don’t quite know what to do next. He’s had one “consultation” and a warning. But we need him. He can’t get out of his contract and he’d lose his job, not just here, but with Stephano’s whole group, if we fired him. He’s just such a damned amazing chef. Is the guy he attacked okay? Who was it, do you know?’

‘I’m not sure. I didn’t catch his name.’

Andy frowned. ‘All right. Keep this quiet, if you don’t mind. Not sure how we’re going to manage it. I feel like I’m trying to keep a saucepan lid on top of a volcano.’

*

Waking with the dawn sunlight, Grace stretched luxuriously then, as she did every morning, checked her email for news from Lawrence, Mr Judd or Mr Jamison. This time, there was an email from Mr Jamison. Grace sat up in bed and quickly opened it.