a low cough. ‘I was wondering if my mother was awake yet. We had agreed to catch up about her plans for the day.’
Ah. So that was why he had phoned. He was worried about how his mother was.
Okay. She got that. As long as Rob remembered that she was the person who had invited his mother to stay in Dee’s room overnight, for the simple reason that she liked Adele Forrester and the poor woman was in no fit state to face the press.
And definitely not because her son Rob had looked desperate.
‘As of ten minutes ago your mum was snuggled under Dee’s duvet and snoring lightly. That cold medicine and champagne combination make a very effective knock-out potion. It may be a while before she surfaces.’
‘Fine. See you in an hour. Try and get her up in time. Ciao.’
And then he put the phone down on her. Unbelievable!
Lottie glared at the handset in disbelief for a few seconds before shaking her head and returning it to the wall bracket.
That man had no manners whatsoever.
Lottie sniffed and picked up her spatula and got back to work filling an icing bag with the luscious soft-cheese-and-orange-zest icing for the mini carrot cakes that were already lined up in their cases and waiting for a soft swirl of Lottie’s special recipe topping.
The cheek of the man. Just because he was a celebrity chef with his own TV show and food awards up to his armpits did not mean that he could simply order her about and expect her to say, ‘Yes, chef,’ like one of his kitchen brigade!
Lottie tossed the spatula back into the bowl and squeezed the piping bag down until she had formed a perfect swirl in the bowl.
But at least one good thing had come out of it all. Robert Beresford, international chef and gossip-columnist golden boy, had promised to turn up for the fundraiser at the hotel. And she was going to hold him to that, no matter what happened.
‘Oh, can I lick the bowl out? Please? You know I cannot resist your icing! Mmm, delish.’
Lottie chuckled as her friend and part-time waitress wiped her fingertip around the scrapes of icing left in the glass mixing bowl and popped it into the mouth. ‘Oh, that is so good,’ Gloria moaned. ‘When are you going to give me the recipe, woman? My girls would love me for ever.’
Lottie threw her head back and laughed out loud. ‘What are you talking about, Gloria? Your three girls already think you’re a goddess because you work here and go home loaded with edible swag every afternoon. And what about that handsome husband of yours? How did the chocolate melting-middle brownies go down last night?’
‘Go down? Oh, yes. I am going to need a regular supply, if that boy has the stamina to keep up with me,’ Gloria replied with a waggle of her eyebrows.
Lottie glanced quickly at the tables, then leant across and wiped the icing from Gloria’s cheek. ‘You are terrible! And setting a bad example for the customers.’
Then she flicked her head towards the counter. ‘How are we doing out there? Ready for the carrot cakes?’
‘Girl, we are always ready for that carrot cake. Pass them over and turn the oven on to make the next batch. They’ll be gone in an hour. And before I forget, the gals have been asking me about the Bake and Bitch club meeting next week. What special treat do you have lined up?’
Lottie winked and started washing up. ‘Wait and see, Gloria. You are just going to have to wait and see.’
* * *
Rob stared out of the floor-to-ceiling office window at the overcast sunless skies of central London in June. It was hard to believe that only thirty-six hours earlier he had been eating barbecue in the glorious Californian sunshine with his restaurant brigade.
His eyes felt heavy, gritty, and ready to close, but just as Rob rolled back his shoulders his talent agent, Sally Richards, finished the call on her mobile phone.
‘Good news. The first reviews and photos of the exhibition are all looking brilliant. The only photographs I have seen are when she left the hotel for the event last evening. Adele smiled sweetly on the way out and gave them a lovely wave before jumping into the limo. Not a word about her staggering home early the worse for wear. So relax, Rob. You got away with it.’
‘By the skin of my teeth and through the back door. What a nightmare,’ he replied and then covered a yawn with one hand.
‘So are you ready to rock and roll? Because I have to tell you, I have a tube of under-eye concealer in my bag and you need it more than I do. Did you get any sleep at all on the flight? Eight hours, wasn’t it? Nine?’
Rob snorted a reply to the one talent manager he had used since he first stepped out from his dad’s Beresford hotel chain and started making a name for himself.
‘That was the New York leg of the journey. I had to stop en route from California to check up on a few things at the Beresford New York office. Then the traffic was horrendous. So I missed my flight to London and had to battle with the usual airport media scrum. So all in all just about a typical day’s travel in the crazy world I live in.’
‘Hey. That’s why you love it so much!’
Rob looked around and blinked at Sally a few times before collapsing down on the leather sofa with a grin. ‘If you say so, but these past few months have been a nightmare, Sally. My mum...well, you know my mum. Hates medics. Always has done. She promised me that she would start taking the medication as soon as she finished the final piece for this exhibition, but I don’t know. I called her from the airport yesterday and she sounded high as a kite. But last night she was so doped up with cold medicine it was hard to know what was going on inside her head.’
Rob ran his hand back and forth over his mouth and chin. ‘It’s been eight years since her meltdown at the last exhibition. Eight years, Sally! And the press are still baying for something juicy to say. I thought that if I came here I could provide some sort of diversion. You know what they’re like. Why bother with a clever artist with a fading reputation when she has a TV celebrity as a son? Who knows? If we goad him enough we might be able to set off some of those fireworks and get some photographs to sell to the highest bidder. And they have the perfect ammunition to do it with.’
Sally walked around and perched on the edge of the desk.
‘Did you manage to keep it together?’
There was something in Sally’s tone that made Rob sit back on the sofa and look up. ‘Barely. I would not give them the satisfaction. So don’t give me that look. I played nice and did not punch anyone, no matter how much I wanted to. Happy? Because I know that voice. There’s something else going on here. Fire away. Let’s get it over with.’
‘Observant as ever.’ She smiled and paused long enough to reach across the desk and pass a bundle of printed sheets across to Rob, who glanced at them once before tossing them onto the sofa cushion.
‘You cannot be serious. I’ve just finished filming the final TV series and it practically killed me fitting everything in. I’ve done the interviews and press calls and earned that money. And now they want me to do another series? What is that all about? We’ve been down this road before, Sally. Mum needs me to be close at hand. Travelling across the States then flying back to get her through this exhibition has been tough on both of us. She needs me to be in California. And I really need to get back to work in the Beresford kitchens. Sean has hardly seen me this year and I have been relying way too much on the chefs I trained. Time to get back to doing what I do best. Working with food and creating amazing dishes for the Beresford hotel chain.’
Sally raised both hands in the air. ‘I did what you asked me to. I made it clear to the production company a year ago that you have had enough of the restaurant makeover show for TV. One more series and that’s it. But the audience figures are soaring higher month on month, Rob. Viewers cannot get enough of you. Look at the numbers, Rob. This is crazy money. Sign the new contract and you don’t need