‘Yes chef!’ replied Agnieszka, a Polish waitress with alabaster white skin and feline, blue eyes.

Penny spoke quickly but firmly. She had two more tables to plate up. ‘We’ve got the Sri Lankan King Prawn and Cod Curry,’ she said, using a cloth from her shoulder to wipe a small dollop of liquid from the side of the bowl. ‘This is Derbyshire Lamb Rump, that one is the Club Sandwich, and that one,’ she said, pointing to the final dish, ‘is the Pork Chop with Apples. Sides are seasonal veg, creamed savoy cabbage, and two portions of parmesan truffle fries. Thank you.’ She turned to her sous chef, Manuela. ‘How long on the sauce for the braised beef, chef?’

‘Thirty seconds, chef,’ Manuela replied, not looking up from the pan she was vigorously stirring.

Manuela was a small fifty-something-year-old Filipino woman who Uncle David had hired seven years ago for her quiet demeanour and steady work ethic. Penny had met her in passing over the years as she’d come to visit, but hadn’t truly understood Manuela’s capabilities until she took over from her uncle. It turned out Manuela had been running the kitchen more or less herself since last Christmas, when Uncle David started to slow down, so she thought like a head chef – making her the best sous Penny could have asked for.

Penny plated up another curry and pork chop, called service, and then started in on the last dishes of the day.

‘Bar One say that was delicious, chef,’ Agnieszka trilled, as she sailed by the pass carrying dirty plates she’d just cleared.

‘Ahhh, thank you!’ Penny replied, wiping sweat from her brow.

Hair stuck to the side of her face. She’d cut it all off just after moving, so that it was shoulder length, and now she had the last remnants of a fringe that – it turned out – hadn’t suited her. How many women would have to suffer the ill-fated ‘fringe after a romantic devastation’ before a less strident expression of malaise was found?

Penny added: ‘How many covers tonight?’

‘I’ll check with Charlie,’ Agnieszka said, her accent thick and delivery efficient. Penny adored her – she never complained, the customers loved her, and she didn’t take any shit.

Penny flicked off the lights opposite the cookers, instantly feeling relief from the heat.

‘That must have been more than seventy people we served tonight,’ Manuela instructed. ‘Maybe seventy-five.’

‘It felt like a hundred and seventy-five,’ replied Penny, slipping her foot out of her Croc so she could stretch out her ankle. ‘I still can’t get used to the leap from thirty or forty plates a day to this. This is kicking my ass.’

‘They’re all coming for you, Pen,’ Manuela grinned. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. You’re putting this place on the map.’