make-up she wore remained in place, accentuating the depths of her smoky grey eyes and drawing attention to the cranberry pout of her lips.
Her resolve hardened.
No one earned a first class honours degree by accepting refusals. No one achieved anything of worth by simply allowing people to stand in the way. She was going to make a success of Sweet Temptation with Charlotte and Donny and part of being a success would involve pushing herself to break artificial boundaries imposed by those around her. Standing a little taller than before, and making sure every step she took landed with powerful force, Trudy left the washroom and marched back across the dining room to take her seat at the table.
She had a plan.
‘Are you OK, hon?’
‘I’m OK,’ Trudy told Charlotte. She considered the remains of the muffin that waited for her. She tore off a crumb and contemplated it thoughtfully. ‘I’m OK. But I’ll say goodnight to you two now.’
‘Are you going somewhere?’ Donny asked. ‘We don’t mind going with you.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Trudy told him. ‘I just figured you two might want to leave. I’ll be staying here until the pâtissier agrees to speak with me.’
Donny rolled his eyes. He glared at Charlotte. ‘Don’t tell me she’s going to make a scene.’
Charlotte shook her head. ‘No,’ she assured him. ‘Trudy’s not going to cause a scene. Not again. Not like the Wilkinson incident.’ Turning to Trudy she said, ‘Please don’t do this, hon. Not now. Not today.’
‘Please,’ Donny agreed. ‘Tonight of all nights, we should be out celebrating. I’ve got us tickets for Stanzas.’
Trudy set her jaw. There was no sense explaining that Charlotte and Donny were bringing money and business acumen to their proposed partnership whilst she was only able to contribute the same culinary knowledge they had all learnt whilst studying together. It was an argument they’d had before and she didn’t want to sit through it again. She simply wanted to talk with the kitchen staff and discover the identity of the mystery ingredient from the muffin. Once she knew what it was she would be able to work on reproducing something similar in her own kitchen.
It wouldn’t be an identical muffin.
She wouldn’t steal the recipe.
But she would be able to include that maddening, unidentifiable ingredient.
‘I’ll be waiting here until the pâtissier agrees to speak with me,’ Trudy explained. ‘I’ve got no intention of causing a scene. And once the pâtissier has told me everything I want to know, I’ll catch up with the pair of you and we can continue celebrating.’ She frowned and added, ‘Does it have to be Stanzas?’
Donny looked set to argue but Charlotte held up a hand to silence him. She reached into her purse and withdrew a series of notes.
Trudy allowed her friend to pay. This meal was Charlotte’s treat. Charlotte could afford the extortionate prices charged at Boui-Boui. Or, to be more accurate, Charlotte’s parents could afford the extortionate prices. As this really was a day for celebrations, Trudy didn’t mind taking advantage of their generosity.
Donny picked up Trudy’s mobile from the table and squinted at the screen. ‘You’re low on power.’
‘I have a spare battery in my bag. If there’s an emergency, if I need anything, I can give you a call.’
He squeezed her shoulder. The gesture was reassuringly fraternal. She caught the refreshing zesty scent of his CK1 cologne. It was a smell she knew and trusted and she caught herself smiling as she inhaled. The smell of Donny was always comforting.
‘Congratulations again,’ Charlotte said, pecking Trudy lightly on the cheek. ‘The first was deserved. You’re one of the most talented chefs I know.’
‘I will make this work for us,’ Trudy promised. Her gaze went frantically from Charlotte to Donny and then back again as she tried to impart the sincerity of her claim. ‘I will make this work for us. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I don’t doubt it, hon.’
And then Charlotte and Donny were gone and Trudy was alone at the table.
The maître d’ appeared by her side. If she was puzzled to find Trudy alone her expression didn’t register any surprise. ‘Will there be anything else?’
Trudy gestured at the plate before her.
‘I’d like to speak with the pâtissier responsible for this muffin.’
The maître d’ frowned. ‘I thought I made this clear before. The restaurant policy is quite specific on this matter. Patrons are not entitled to recipes or private discussions with members of the kitchen team. It’s simply not our policy here and I apologise if –’
‘I’ll wait,’ Trudy said. She put the final crumb of muffin into her mouth and then smiled against the thinly concealed glower worn by the maître d’. Chewing quickly before swallowing Trudy added, ‘Please may I have another of these citrus and blueberry muffins whilst I’m waiting?’
An hour passed. The maître d’ paused three times at Trudy’s table. Each time she paused the exchange they shared was always identical.
‘May I get you anything else?’
‘I’d like to speak with the pâtissier.’
‘I’ve already explained that’s not possible. Boui-Boui’s policy is explicit.’
‘Then I’d like another muffin, please.’
A second hour passed. The world beyond the windows of Boui-Boui turned dark as the summer’s evening faded to night. The diners around Trudy finished their meals, paid and passed on complements to the chef, and then meandered towards the exits.
The trade, steady throughout the evening, began to falter.
Waiters and waitresses passing Trudy’s table eyed her with mixed expressions of pity, panic, bemusement and unease. They had clearly been discussing her in the kitchens. She was undoubtedly considered to be the mad woman on table thirteen. She clearly had some bug up her backside about muffins and recipes. She was a loose cannon worth watching in case she went properly crazy.
Untroubled by their opinions, Trudy closed her eyes and savoured the moment. Boui-Boui had an international reputation for excellence. William Hart, restaurateur, chef and culinary legend was the owner. Hart had delivered a seminar at Trudy’s university and she could still remember his dulcet tones as he reverently discussed the need for every chef to understand the core elements of the profession. He had spoken for an hour and it had been one of the most memorable lectures that Trudy had attended. To find herself sitting in Hart’s celebrated restaurant, trying to unravel the mysterious flavours contained within one of his kitchen’s creations, was almost like some form of surreal graduation prize. If she had been given a choice between this situation, or going out drinking with Donny and Charlotte at Stanzas, Trudy knew that she would have chosen a solitary seat in Boui-Boui every time.
‘We’ll be closing in fifteen minutes,’ the maître d’ announced. Her crisp voice cut through Trudy’s thoughts. It was sharp with tones of clinical authority.
The restaurant was virtually empty. Aside from herself the only other patrons were a solitary couple sat in one corner near a window. They held hands across a table decorated with empty plates, half-drained coffees and a single rose.
One petal had fallen from the rose to the floor.
‘The head chef has given