THE SPACE BETWEEN THE buildings is awash with darkness. Deep, peaceful, inky black. Lace wades through it without making a sound. Halfway across she stops and looks up into a vault of blackness. After a while she can make out a few silver stars, barely there, like glimpses of other personalities.
She feels much better. All afternoon she’s been so deep in sleep that what happened this morning seems quite unreal. ‘Tomorrow,’ Geoffrey had said gently, extracting a promise, reminding her that change lies in wait. But at this moment, after sleep, she doesn’t mind. She’s caught in the web of the present; it holds her close, stays with her at every step.
Out of the dark, into a milky white world. She glides down a corridor and through some swing doors onto a chequered plain of tiles stretching all the way to stainless steel bench tops. She’s only ever seen the kitchen through the serving hatch: a place of chaos, clashing noise and stress. Now it’s empty, clean and orderly. Utensils are hanging in rows, pans are stacked, cloths are folded; it looks like an operating theatre between disasters.
I’ve decided on a different philosophy. (This is what she’ll say to Geoffrey, as he avoids looking at her to put her at ease, clicking his pen and dusting Pookie-hairs from the arms of his chair.) I’ve decided to live in the present; too much looking back is making me ill. (This is what she’ll say, before he can open his mouth and suggest that she’s transferred to a less open, more protective environment.)
She sits on a high stool with her back to the wall. Her heart is slow and steady, restored by solitude and sleep. ‘I need to live quietly, minute by minute,’ she will assert, ‘avoiding any possibility of sense of impending crises. It’s the only way to move forward.’
‘A deliberately unconscious approach to living.’ Geoffrey, already in tomorrow, seems to understand. He watches her swinging from one minute to the next, checking that she can manage it. After a time he gets up and opens the door. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says to the person waiting in the corridor, ‘she’s going to be fine.’ And the waiting person — someone who’s never lost confidence in her — replies, ‘Of course she will!’
It’s restful arriving here early and being alone. At first the kitchen had seemed silent, but now she’s aware of a low hum: refrigerators and drink coolers, doing their thing. High in one corner a ventilation fan is clicking, letting in small puffs of the night.
Voices! She stiffens, her spine grating against the cold wall.
‘I insist you keep a sharp eye — no pun intended — on the knives.’ Geoffrey pushes through the doors.
‘I’ve already told him that.’ Dr Mallory sounds peremptory, more like someone who’s been married for a decade than someone just engaged. ‘Any potentially dangerous equipment must be wielded by Donovan alone.’
‘Message received.’ Donovan pulls a few clips out of Dr Mallory’s hair, causing her to slip back into her more attractive dishevelled-fiancée state. ‘I’ve done these demonstrations in remand schools — even in prisons. There’s never been a problem, and the therapeutic benefits are enormous. Relax!’
‘Relaxing is exactly what we can’t afford to do.’ Faced with nonchalance not his own, Geoffrey grows hawkish. His shoulder blades jut like wings through his threadbare jacket. ‘The success of an open institution like ours depends on subtle but constant vigilance.’
Before their entry, Lace was at rest, almost her old self. Now, as voices bounce off the walls and personalities bristle, her heart starts racing. She stares at her wrists; any moment the quiet pulse will flare into panic. The stool scrapes under her. Stay in the moment, she wills herself. Stay in the moment.
‘Lace! You’re here already?’ Dr Mallory sounds irritated, as people do when they’re caught off guard by someone else’s presence.
It seems that Lace has spoken her exhortations aloud, as the three newcomers are all staring at her. ‘What was that you said?’ Geoffrey’s eyes are even more far-seeing than usual; he could swoop on a mouse from a height of a hundred feet.
Lace shakes her head and her hands fly to her cheeks, the classic gesture of dismay.
‘Early for the demonstration?’ Donovan gives her a blazing smile. ‘I think you’re going to enjoy it. Next month I’m joining the team at a restaurant on the Côte d’Azur — tipped for a Michelin star. Are you French, by any chance? You look French.’
Quick as a cat, Dr Mallory grabs Donovan’s elbow and redirects his interest. ‘Shouldn’t you start setting up?’ It’s nothing like a question and, obediently, Donovan submits. He retreats behind the large stainless-steel bench, leaving Dr Mallory free to turn her attention to Lace. ‘How long have you been sitting here by yourself? Is something wrong?’
Geoffrey, who’s been closely scrutinising Lace, joins the chorus. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
These sorts of questions demand automatic answers, voiced as strongly as possible. ‘No, nothing’s wrong. Yes, I’m perfectly all right!’
But yet again it becomes clear how difficult it is to tell the truth! Right now, for instance, it would be impossible for her to describe — to an edgy Dr Mallory, a watchful Geoffrey, and an ebullient chef she’s only just met — the mounting chaos around her. A few minutes earlier she was in a simple black-and-white world; now Dr Mallory’s red shoes are bleeding onto the floor, an orange watchstrap is flashing on Donovan’s wrist like a warning signal, and Geoffrey’s handkerchief streams from his pocket in a blinding blue torrent. Added to this, there’s a new, scorching feeling behind her, as if the wall has begun to crackle with heat. The skin on her neck grows tight and feels as if it’s blistering. Next it’s her forehead, and then the backs of her hands.
‘I’m quite okay,’ she says in a faint voice. ‘It’s just that my skin feels odd. Very hot, sort of prickly.’ She clutches the edges of her stool but lets go instantly: her palms are scorching.
‘Dry skin?’ queries Donovan, who’s perched a tall white hat on his dark curls. ‘Try olive oil and the yolk of an egg. Twenty minutes, total rejuvenation!’
Ignoring him, Dr Mallory peers at Lace. ‘You do look flushed. Perhaps it’s an allergic reaction? There’s been a different brand of soap in the bathrooms this week.’
Lace forces herself to meet Geoffrey’s eye. ‘It’s probably the soap, yes.’ She tries to give him the same confident look she once used on experienced Friday-night comedy-club audiences: she’s funny, she’s fine, she’s telling the truth.
Perhaps because Geoffrey has seen her not even twelve hours earlier sitting on a muddy railway path with her head in her hands, he doesn’t seem convinced that her current condition is caused by scented soap. ‘Please stay here,’ he says. ‘I’m trusting you.’ To Donovan, he says, ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to miss tonight’s culinary entertainment. I have to make some phone calls.’ And to Dr Mallory — well, it’s hard to hear what he says to Dr Mallory, because he shuffles her behind the ham-slicer and starts muttering to her very quietly.
Donovan beckons to Lace. ‘Any interest in being my assistant? I need someone to dice and stir.’
She stays at a safe distance and speaks with the clarity of the condemned. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not very good in the kitchen.’ Although Geoffrey and Dr Mallory are whispering, she manages to hear ‘rapid deterioration’ and ‘dangerous to wait’.
‘I admit you don’t look like the domestic type.’ Donovan swishes water over his hands. ‘Though glamour and culinary pursuits aren’t always mutually exclusive.’ Removing his hat, he runs his wet hands through his luxuriant hair, like a star in a shampoo advertisement.
Instantly Dr Mallory cranes out from behind the forest of industrial appliances. ‘Donovan! Please leave Lace alone.’ Trained professional, or insecure girlfriend? It’s difficult to tell with a large mincemeat funnel half-obscuring her face.
‘No problem,’ says Lace quickly. To Donovan she says, ‘Ask my friend Gibby to help you — he’s an excellent cook. He’ll be along any minute now.’ She feels nauseous with the effort of trying to hear what Geoffrey is saying about her, and of shielding Donovan from Dr Mallory’s wrath, and of preventing Dr Mallory from feeling insecure — and of walking the line between truth-teller and liar, between feeling all right and feeling as if something’s very wrong indeed. ‘Gibby will be here soon,’ she reiterates. ‘Along with all the others.’ It’s a promise to herself as much as to Donovan. How ironic! For a short while she’d believed she was best off alone; now she’s hoping for safety in numbers.