Mr. Carlos had called him into the cupboard-sized sanctum at the rear of the kitchen, which he dignified by the name of office, and had squeezed his ample buttocks into the carved desk-chair inherited from his grandfather. It was never a good sign. Here was Carlos imbued with genetic authority. A year previously he had announced that he had been born again. It had been a regeneration profoundly uncomfortable for the staff, and there had been general relief when, within nine months, the old Adam had mercifully reasserted himself and the kitchen was no longer a swear-free zone. But one relic of the new birth remained: no word stronger than “bloody” was permitted, and now Carlos himself had made free use of it.

“It’s no bloody use, Dean. Kimberley’s got to go. Frankly, I can’t afford her, no restaurant could. Talk about bloody slow. Try to hurry her and she looks at you like a whipped puppy. Gets nervous and nine times out of ten spoils the whole bloody dish. And she affects the rest of you. Nicky and Winston are forever helping her to plate up. Most of the time, you’ve only got half your bloody mind on what you’re supposed to be doing. I’m running a restaurant, not a bloody kindergarten.”

“Kim’s a good cook, Mr. Carlos.”

“Of course she’s a good cook. She wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t. She can go on being a good cook, but not here. Why not encourage her to stay at home? Get her pregnant, then you can go home to a decent meal you haven’t had to cook yourself, and she’ll be happier. I’ve seen it time and time again.”

How could Carlos know that home was a bed-sitting room in Paddington, that this and the job were part of a carefully worked-out plan, the putting aside each week of Kim’s wages, the two of them working together, then, when the capital was sufficient, finding the restaurant? His restaurant. Their restaurant. And when they were established and she could be spared from the kitchen, there would be the baby she so longed for. She was only twenty-three; they had plenty of time.

The news having been broken, Carlos had settled himself back, prepared to be magnanimous. “No point in Kimberley working out her notice. She may as well pack it in this week. I’ll pay her a month’s salary in lieu. You’ll stay on, of course. You’ve got the makings of a bloody good chef. You’ve got the skills, the imagination. You’re not afraid of hard work. You could go far. But another year of Kimberley in the kitchen and I’ll be bloody bankrupt.”

Dean had found his voice, a cracked vibrato with its shaming note of entreaty. “We’ve always planned to work together. I don’t know that Kim would like to take a job on her own.”

“She wouldn’t last a bloody week on her own. Sorry, Dean, but there it is. You might find a place to take the two of you, but not in London. Some small town in the country, maybe. She’s a pretty lass, nice manners. Baking a few scones, home-made cakes, afternoon teas, nicely served with doilies, that kind of thing; that wouldn’t stress her.”