child,’ I hissed, sweeping Fritz up from the floor into my arms, and stomping to the door.
Mum raised her eyebrows. ‘You could have fooled me.’
Audrey waited for me to drop Fritz back off at the flat and then walked me down to the kitchen. Chef was running around trying to prepare everything for dinner and, after a brief word with Audrey, he welcomed me to his team and pointed at the pile of dirty pots stacked next to a large sink in the far corner.
‘You’ll be out of everyone’s way there.’ He smiled, with a wink at Audrey.
I shot them both a dirty look before Chef gave me the thumbs up and sped off to season a sauce. Audrey put her hand on my shoulder.
‘It’s not that bad,’ she said soothingly. ‘I’ll be back for you in an hour. Try to stay out of trouble until then.’
I shook her hand off and stropped over to the sink, eyeing up the repulsive neon orange washing-up gloves. I held one of them up for inspection.
‘Ew.’ I sniffed and looked around. A young chef was rushing past holding a ladle. ‘Excuse me!’ She came to a screeching halt.
‘Yes?’
‘Are these the only gloves you have?’
‘Sorry?’
‘For the washing-up,’ I explained impatiently. ‘Don’t you have any other types? Any other colours?’
‘No, those are the ones we all use.’
‘Fine.’ I slapped the gloves down on the side. ‘I just won’t use them.’
‘Uh.’ She looked about, unsure. ‘We . . . we have to use them. It’s health and safety.’
‘They’re disgusting. I’m not using them.’
‘Put those on, please, Flick, no argument! You don’t want me to report bad behaviour to the boss, do you?’ Chef appeared out of nowhere. ‘Ah, there you are, Sasha. I’ve been waiting on that ladle. Come along, we mustn’t disturb Flick. She has a big job with those pots.’
Sasha shot me a sympathetic look before she scurried after him holding up the ladle dutifully. I should have known Chef Kian would find this all one big joke; he always liked a good laugh at my expense. I carefully slid on the orange gloves and, letting out a long drawn-out sigh, I leaned forwards to work out how to turn on the large rinsing tap.
‘Well, well, well, look who it is.’
I reluctantly turned to face Cal Weston, who was grinning gleefully at me, a spoon in one hand and a bowl of strawberry mousse in the other.
‘It’s been a while since you graced the kitchens with your presence.’
‘Stalking is a crime, you know,’ I said angrily, reaching for the washing-up liquid. ‘It’s sad that you just follow me around.’
‘I was here first. If anyone’s following anyone, it’s you following me.’
‘Why are you even down here? Don’t you ever go home?’
‘The kitchen is the best place to be. It’s the land of free food.’ He took a large mouthful of mousse. ‘We used to hang out here all the time before you got too good for it.’
‘I did not get too good for it, I just got a life.’ I began to scrub the biggest pot in the pile. ‘Unlike some people I know.’
‘Ouch! You are such a hothead.’
‘I am NOT a hothead,’ I seethed. Cal always teased me about being a hot-tempered redhead, even though I continually corrected him that my hair wasn’t red, it was auburn. And at least my hair looked like it had been brushed once in a while, unlike the bird’s nest he was sporting on top of his head.
‘I heard on the grapevine that you have an appointment with Prince Gustav,’ he commented.
I scrubbed harder at the stubborn grease around the side of the pot. ‘That’s right. He’s trying to suck up to me so he can get an invite to the Christmas Ball.’
‘Oh, the Christmas Ball. Nothing to do with you having to apologise about hiding in his wardrobe then?’
I ignored him and concentrated on my impossible task. The washing-up was going to take me all night at this rate.
‘I need a favour.’
I laughed, not bothering to look up. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’
The sincerity of Cal’s voice took me by surprise. I turned to look at him and saw he was watching me carefully, an earnest expression on his face. I put down the pot, turned off the tap and folded my arms, pretending not to care that the washing-up liquid mixed with water and grease was now dripping from the gloves down my clothes.
‘What favour?’
‘It’s for a competition I’m entering.’ He put down the bowl and got out his phone, showing me the website page for Young Journalist of the Year. ‘I need to write a feature that will stand out. The winners are announced just before Christmas.’
‘So? What’s that got to do with me?’
‘An interview with Prince Gustav would definitely stand out. Maybe you could mention it to him when you go for this meeting,’ he said hopefully.
I burst out laughing and swivelled back to the sink, turning on the tap and picking up the pot again.
‘What’s so funny?’ he asked, shoving his phone into his pocket.
‘Well, for one thing, you’re a teenager, so the chances of Prince Gustav giving you an exclusive interview are slim. And for another thing, you’ve spent the whole day – no, wait, the last few years – being rude to me, so I’m not going to risk looking like an idiot in front of him for you.’
‘I think you managed to look like an idiot in front of him all by yourself today,’ he snapped.
‘I know, why don’t you write a feature about hanging out at a hotel for no reason, getting in everyone’s way and annoying everyone in sight?’
He didn’t say anything as I reached for more washing-up liquid, squirting as much as possible across the pot until the sink was full of bubbles.
‘Forget I said anything,’ he said quietly, picking up his bowl and turning away.
‘Cal, wait.’
He stopped.
‘Don’t say anything at school about me washing-up, OK?’ I shook some bubbles off the gloves. ‘It’s not exactly a great look.’
He glared down at the floor and shook his head before walking off. I had no idea if that meant he’d tell people or not, but I wasn’t that worried. Even if he did it’s not like anyone would listen.
My arm got tired from all the scrubbing so I turned off the water and pulled off the gloves. I wiped my brow and looked down at my handiwork. Somehow I had managed to splash water everywhere and I hadn’t even finished one pot. How does anyone have the time for this sort of thing?
I looked at my phone in case I had any messages: none. I put it down on the side and looked around to find something else to distract me. I spotted a door a few metres from where I was and remembered that it used to be some sort of pantry. Chef would always find me sitting in there in my pyjamas, stuffing myself with chocolate. I smiled as I remembered how I used to try to pretend I’d accidentally locked myself in there, but the chocolate all over my hands would give me away. Chef found it hilarious and would slip me a cookie before sending me back upstairs to bed.
I