Chapter Text
“You really don’t need to be here for this, mother,” Anthony tried to keep the smile on his face and the frustration out of his voice. Judging by her narrowed eyes, he’d failed to keep his tone light and easygoing.
Where was Benedict when you needed him? Off somewhere, no doubt, being easygoing .
“I am perfectly capable of interviewing staff, Anthony,” Violet said, lifting her chin, “I staffed this restaurant while you were still in nappies.”
Anthony grit his teeth. “I know,” he managed, “I didn’t mean- I only meant, mother, that - as the sous chef will be working closely with me most of the time - you needn’t stay if you don’t want to. If you’re busy.”
“What you mean ,” Violet said, crisply, folding and re folding the cloth napkin on the table before her, “is that because your father left the restaurant to you, it is none of my business what happens to a place I poured the better part of my life into.”
His head, already throbbing lightly, began to feel like it might explode. He massaged his brow, fishing a blister pack of ibuprofen out of his chef’s coat. He popped two of the pink tablets and washed them down with a mouthful of liquid anti-acid to calm his roiling gut.
“When…” he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It would be better not to say it. It would hurt her. It would cause a fight if he said it. He’d have to field the calls from Ben and Daff and Colin all demanding he apologise. He couldn’t help it, the angry words bubbling up his throat like bile as his grip on the table turned his knuckles white. “Why didn’t he leave it to you then? Why’s this place falling apart around us? Huh?”
Violet’s aggrieved inhale made him wince. He shouldn’t have said it. It was true but it wasn’t fair and it wasn’t worth it and he was exhausted and he had an interview and a whole dinner service to get through. He braced himself for the fight, preemptively thumbing the paracetamol in his other pocket.
“Hi? Sorry, the door was open,” a voice cut through the tension in the room and Anthony’s eyes snapped up. “I’m a little early. Kate Sharma, for the Exec Sous position,”
She stuck out her hand, forthright and unflinching, and - god help him - he took it.
_________
“I got the job!” Kate cradled the phone to her jaw.
“Of course you did, Didi!” Edwina squealed, “you’re the best chef in the world. They’d be stupid not to hire you!”
“You’re biased, Bon,” Kate chuckled, “but thank you, that means a lot. Even if you do have the palate of a five year old.”
“Hey!” Edwina protested, “you leave my turkey dinosaurs out of this, thank you! Mum, Kate got the job!”
“I’m so proud of you,” Kate heard Mary’s distant voice, growing louder - judging by Edwina’s annoyed squeak, Mary had squished up into her space, crowding around Edwina’s old, cracked iPhone like it was a heat source in a blizzard. “we have to celebrate!”
“I’m going to be here late, I think,” Kate bit her thumbnail, trying not to feel guilty that she wasn’t home. This job, these hours… it would be an adjustment, for all of them. They’d grown so used to her working from the garage, her catering set up just one door and a stretch of concrete away if they needed her. “I’ll bring home some leftovers; we can have late night cake if you’re still up,”
“You know someone will be,” she could practically hear Mary’s eye roll through the phone, “apparently the only way to prepare for your A-levels is to lurk in the kitchen at two in the morning like a goblin,”
“Hey!”
Kate chuckled, “You’re a cute goblin at least, Winnie,” the hair on the back of her neck rose and she whirled around. He was there, smoking a cigarette against the back wall of the restaurant, looking … sinful. A white t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders and his biceps, a mess of chestnut curls, an apron (she was big enough to admit she had a bit of a thing for emotionally unavailable men in aprons which , in her line of work, was not ideal) slung around the tapered muscle of his waist.
Kate bit her lip. She was really going to have to get that under control; lusting after your boss wasn’t a great look. And he wasn’t her shift manager at Starbucks - one word: apron - and she wasn’t 19 anymore. This was her dream role in her dream kitchen and she wasn’t going to let her wayward libido fuck it up, no matter how many sexy aprons the handsome - and definitely emotionally unavailable - head chef wore!
Passions flared in the kitchen, sure, but she was a professional and, beyond that, she was always more stubborn than she was horny and she absolutely refused to fuck this up.
Her fingers itched; she needed to cook something, chop something … let her mind melt away in the fevered calm and clarity of a busy service. She could probably break down a whole cow with all the pent up energy vibrating through her.
“Love you both,” Kate turned quickly away when his eyes met hers, grateful that the heat in her cheeks would not betray; score another one for melanin. “Give Newton a kiss for me. See you tonight!”
She turned back, reluctantly, and met his eyes again. Making eye contact with him was like a glancing blow, knocking her back a step and jolting the air out of her lungs.
It felt like…. Before years of kitchen service had deadened the pain receptors and turned her hands to asbestos, she had experienced the moment where your hand closed around something searing hot. There was that moment, before you realised it hurt, before your fingers reflexively released the burning thing. That’s what it was like, to meet Anthony Bridgerton’s eye.
He cleared his throat, “Didn’t mean to listen in,”
“No government secrets, just my family,” she shrugged, “I assume leftovers are fair game? My kid sister is deep in exam season and requires sustenance,”
Anthony’s smile was about ten orders of magnitude more devastating than she’d bargained for. Fuck.
“Yeah,” he flicked his ash, “we use the brioche for next day’s French toast, and we incorporate what we can into family - avoid waste, you know, but … yeah, have at it,”
“Great,” she nodded, wondering if her mouth had ever felt this fucking dry.
“Just…” he paused, shaking his head, “if a kid called Colin comes in, don’t bank on any leftovers. He’s a vacuum cleaner.”
“Friend of yours?” She smirked.
“My brother, actually,” he took a thoughtful drag of his cigarette, the amusement in his eyes making him yet more handsome, the prick.
“Ah, yes. One of the famous eight,” she nodded sagely, realising her mistake half a second too late when his eyes lit up and he flicked his smoke away, advancing on her a step.
“Sharma, did you look me up?” He seemed entirely to pleased with himself.
She scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Of course I did. Due diligence,”
“Bullshit,” his dark, moody eyes were boyish; sparkling. “Bullshit! Finding out about my siblings? That’s a deep cut. You’d have to really do your research,”
“I … I was a big fan of your dad,” she said, watching the delight in his eyes mellow and warp in strange ways, like plastic on fire. “I … actually, my dad was, and I kinda … anyway, he had all his cookbooks. He mentioned you all… in the foreword,”
There was a silence. Something inside him was deciding whether to melt or burn.
“No one reads the goddamn foreword,” he said, finally.
She snorted, “You never met Roshan Sharma,” she fidgeted, remembering her father’s smile, the sweep of his black hair - shot through with silvery grey, by the end - and how he’d hug her every time she arrived home, with his hands curled away from her, over her shoulders, so he didn’t get onions or garlic or whatever he was chopping on her. “He fucking worshipped your dad,”
“He wasn’t the only one,” Anthony said, a hard little smile forcing its way across his face. His eyes were unfocused, a little cloudy, somewhere far away.
He shook his head, brushed his hair away from his face with a harsh - almost brutal - hand, and seemed to return to himself.
“Ok, Sharma,” he clapped his hands, “let’s see what you got,”
He walked into the kitchen like a man possessed and - god help her - she followed.
________________
Earlier that day: the job interview
A transcript:
Violet: (very strained) hello Kate. Please, do come in.
Kate: Thanks. Here’s my CV. I printed it just in case, you know… technology. Anyway.
Anthony: …
Violet: Very thoughtful, Kate. I can never get those gadgets to work!
Anthony: your CV is impressive.
Kate: thank you.
Anthony: not a compliment. It’s a concern. Your CV is impressive but it stops being impressive right around here… why?
Violet: Anthony!
Kate: I think managing a catering company single handedly and surviving a pandemic is pretty impressive
Anthony: you were on track for an amazing career and then you pivot to birthday parties. Forgive me for being a little concerned-
Violet: Anthony, stop-
Kate: (unintelligible)
Anthony: what was that, Ms Sharma?
Kate: nothing
Anthony: I distinctly heard something. Don’t be shy, Ms Sharma, do share with the class.
Kate: I said, you were on track to have a great career too, until you weren’t.
Anthony: (scoffs) yes, well, my father dropping dead did ruin my career trajectory a little
Violet: I really think-
Kate: I know. And guess what? So did mine. So excuse me for eking out a living catering birthday parties while, you know, grieving and keeping my family going. Fuck you and fuck this job. This was a mistake. Lovely to meet you Violet.
(Silence)
Anthony: can you start tomorrow?
Kate: I can start tonight.
Anthony: two week grace period?
Kate: fine. Show me where to put my knives.
FIN.