Minnie composed a blank expression, trying not to react. A few of the other commis chefs looked on sympathetically; they knew Rob went too far with Minnie. The first week she’d worked there, a few of them had gone for a drink after their shift. Rob had made a pass at Minnie after a few too many beers. She’d pushed him away as politely as possible, but Rob wasn’t the kind of guy who could brush off a perceived slight. He acted as though any woman working in his kitchen was another ingredient in his pantry, to be used as he saw fit.

‘If you’re packing on a few extra pounds, it’s not my problem, Minnie,’ Rob hissed. ‘If you’re going to overwork the crème like an amateur, you’d better taste every batch before it leaves this station.’

Minnie had tasted it; it wasn’t overworked. She cleared up the mess and picked up a new piping bag. If she could endure one more week she’d move out from Rob’s rotation, maybe then life at the restaurant would get easier.

‘Don’t let him get to you,’ whispered Danna, giving Minnie’s elbow a squeeze as she walked past. Danna worked in the fish section and hardly ever spoke to Minnie. She was Norwegian, aloof and as ambitious as the rest of them. If she was being sympathetic then it must have looked bad.

At ten to midnight, Minnie had just plated up two miniature puddings for table fifteen. Rob breathed down her neck as she added the final garnish, a delicate holly leaf and a sprinkle of edible gold glitter. He glared at them and made a low growling noise. Even he couldn’t find anything to fault and they were now too busy for him to be inventing problems.

‘Service!’ Rob called to the serving staff on the other side of the line.

Minnie was almost done, her shift ended at one o’clock. She needed a shower, she needed to sleep, she needed to not see another miniature crème-patissière-filled Christmas pudding for a very long time.

She started cleaning up her station, wiping down the surfaces and collecting utensils for cleaning when she heard Rob’s voice screaming across the kitchen.

‘Minnie, did you send a pudding to table fifteen?’ Rob strode across the room towards her, holding his hand – balled into a fist – out in front of him.

‘Yes … ’ she said, nervously.

He opened his hand, pointing at the remains of a pudding in his palm. Inside, was a tiny, chewed piece of clear plastic.

‘Just been sent back. Plastic in your piped filling.’ He spoke slowly, relishing every syllable.