Turning Up the Heat

There had been too many people.

There had been too much to think about.

There had been too many near-naked women pressing against Bill.

She supposed that final point was the one that really irked her.

Boui-Boui didn’t operate as a kitchen on Sundays – at least, not as a professional kitchen. It was the one day of the week that Trudy and Bill allowed themselves some together time. Usually they tried to make it a day untroubled by their busy work schedules and to maximise their alone time.

This Sunday, because of the photo shoot, events had worked out differently. This Sunday, it felt as though they’d barely had a chance to exchange a chaste kiss. Trudy hoped they would be able to do more before the end of the day otherwise the entire weekend would be lost.

She went to the fridge and retrieved two prepared sirloins from the shelf where they’d been sitting for the past twenty-four hours. She’d been working on a new flavour: a bourbon marinade seasoned with green onions, chilli peppers, Dijon mustard and a couple of her other favoured sauces.

The result smelled delicious and exciting.

The tang of the bourbon was tart and mouth-watering. The onions and the mustard muted the fiery sting of the alcohol. She hoped the marinade would prove a satisfactory accoutrement for the steaks when she and Bill finally got the restaurant emptied of photographer, models, friends and agents.

The wanton ache in her loins insisted that she needed to be alone with him.

She grabbed curly kale for the side dishes, prepared a vinaigrette and then took a handful of sweet potatoes to make two portions of her signature wedges. Using sweet potatoes for wedges combined the familiarity of rustic chips with the exciting flavours of something new and unexpected. It was not particularly daring or innovative but she thought it lent a suggestion of blending the known with the unknown – and that was one of the experiences she wanted to give those who were eating creations from her kitchen.

Within fifteen minutes the meal was well on its way to being prepared. She checked her wristwatch and sighed with relief. It didn’t look like she’d be too late for what they’d planned. Grabbing her smartphone she sent Bill a text:

Apologies, Mr Hart. Your evening meal will now be served at 6.45 x

The response came back immediately.

Ms McLaughlin, I requested my evening meal to be served at 6.30. Are you telling me it will be 15 mins later?

She blushed as she responded.

I’m sorry, Mr Hart. It won’t be ready until 6.45. Is this a punishable offence?

There was no reply.

From the restaurant she could hear Bill shouting gruff orders to end the photo shoot. ‘You’ve taken enough chuffing pictures,’ he growled. ‘Some of these good people have got houses to go to. Get yourselves back home.’ This final part came out as Get thissensback o-erm. He said other things, most of them louder and many in his gruff inaccessible accent and made difficult by his unfamiliar word choices.

Trudy could hear Harvey’s half-hearted protest but Bill spoke over him.

Then there was a clatter of chairs being moved, footsteps making an exodus, and what she recognised as the babble of friends and staff members as they left the restaurant.

She wanted to sigh with relief.

A few of the friends pushed their heads through the kitchen door and called polite farewells which Trudy took the time to acknowledge. She heard Charlotte and Daryl tell her they’d see her in the morning and Trudy assured them that she’d try to get there on time.

With early evening coming on, and a day’s worth of photographs taken and stored, she could imagine it was easy for Bill to clear the room, thank everyone who had contributed and then send them all on their way.

She heard cars grumble loudly through the gravelled forecourt.

The chatter of friends and acquaintances faded to a whisper. And then there were only two voices.

‘It’s been a long day, Harvey,’ Bill told his agent. ‘We’ll talk more tomorrow.’

There was the sound of a lock being fastened, followed moments later by the growl of a final car driving away, and Trudy knew they were alone.

Her heartbeat quickened.

The kitchen door creaked open.

She heard the familiar clip-clip-clip of Bill’s shoes walking crisply along the tiled floor of the kitchen. He didn’t bother addressing her. Instead he walked straight to his office in the centre of the kitchen.

Trudy could feel herself stiffening in anticipation of what was going to come next. She struggled not to shiver. This was what she’d been waiting for throughout the day. The yearning in the pit of her stomach throbbed greedily.

Music came from the kitchen’s speakers.

Bill let light jazz pump into the kitchen when it was busy with staff. Even when he and Trudy were working there together, he made a point of playing music as a background for them. His tastes in music matched so perfectly with Trudy’s that it was almost as though he knew what she wanted to hear.

This was Etta James singing ‘At Last’.

The hairs on the nape of Trudy’s neck bristled. She believed she could echo every sentiment in the song.

She heard Bill step out of the office. There was the familiar slap of him smacking something hard and heavy into the palm of his hand. And she didn’t need to turn round to know he was holding the wooden spoon.

‘How did the photo shoot go, Mr Hart?’ she asked.

She tried to keep a measure of innocence in the tone of her voice, as though she had no idea what he was planning. She called the question while checking on the progress of the curly kale and without looking back at him. She didn’t dare make eye contact for fear he would see the eager anticipation in her expression. Her need for him was so strong it pulsed like a physical ache.

‘It were fair t’middlin’,’ he conceded.

His gruff northern accent always sent shivers of anticipation tickling down her spine. She held herself steady and tried not to dwell on the excitement he always fired in her. Fair-to-middling, she had learned, meant it had been an average experience and Bill didn’t want to discuss it further. She clenched the muscles in her upper thighs and savoured the certainty of what was going to come.

‘The photographer and the models all acted in a professional fashion,’ Bill told her. ‘In fact, it would be fair to say they all acted in a professional and timely fashion.’

He stood so close behind her she could feel the warmth of his breath on the nape of her neck. He lowered his voice to a sultry whisper.

‘I imagine,’ he said, ‘if I’d asked any of those models to prepare a meal for me by six-thirty, I’d have been eating my meal at six-thirty.’

His hand fell to her backside. He clutched one buttock and squeezed with only a little more force than was necessary. Trudy stiffened. She wanted to melt for him. Studiously, she remained focused on her task of prepping the other vegetables that would be served al dente to accompany the kale.

‘I’m sorry for miscalculating the times, Mr Hart.’

‘Sorry doesn’t put the meal on the table, does it?’

‘If you think I need punishing,’ she began. She had to pause because the idea left her breathless. Steadying herself, concentrating on the words so that she delivered them without stumbling, Trudy said, ‘If you think I need punishing, I’ll make myself available for your discipline, Mr Hart.’

He chuckled and placed an arm around her waist.

She was sensitive to the fact that his fingers were now lingering over the waistband of her trousers. It would only take the smallest of actions and he could unfasten them and leave her standing half-naked and completely vulnerable.