Because another slip like that – a more serious one, time spent at the ER, someone having to cover for me – all of that could jeopardise my position at Barcadero. But once I’m over at the prep station again, standing there . . . I can’t resist.
I raise my head and look through the window.
She’s not there any more.
That’s the second thing I notice. The first thing I notice is that I am.
The woman’s seat is empty, and the guy is sitting at a slightly different angle, looking in my direction, more or less. I have a clear view of his face, and . . . it’s the weirdest thing . . . I’m still chopping asparagus tips, but it occurs to me that I should slow down, that I’m not in full control here, that unless I want to lose a finger for real I have to actually pay attention to what I’m doing. So right now that’s what I do, I look down at my cutting board, at the kinetic blur of wrist and hand and knife. I slow my pace, eventually bringing the operation to a complete halt. After a moment, I glance through the window again, but I can’t believe my eyes . . .
Which I close.
At this point I become hyperaware of every sound in the kitchen, of Pablo to my left, slicing duck breasts and muttering continuously in Spanish; of Alex, our Australian sous chef over to the right, crucifying one of the line guys for putting too much seasoning in the soubise; of every whoompf and sizzle, every plate clattering, every unit humming and shuddering – and it’s in this simultaneously heightened and almost paralysed state, like some partial form of locked-in syndrome, that I open my eyes again, just a fraction, and look out . . .
And holy shit . . .
He’s still there, the guy in the suit, still alone, still facing this way. He’s not looking at me , not directly, but I’m looking at him , and I can see his face, which is just like my face, remarkably so – the face that I see when I look in a mirror, or at a photograph.
It gives me a sick, dizzy feeling, and I turn away.
‘Danny?’
I glance down at my hands, which are shaking slightly. I’m still holding the knife. I tap the edge of it gently on the cutting board.
‘ Danny? ’
This is Alex. He’s standing by the pass now, next to Chef, but staring back at me. ‘The fuck, mate?’
I ignore him and look out again – I can’t not. The likeness is uncanny. I’m a little scruffy and need a shave, I’m pale, I could do with some proper nourishment, whereas this guy is tanned and chiselled and healthy-looking . . . not to mention that suit he’s wearing . . . but still—
‘Wakey, wakey, over there. Jesus Christ. Someone slip you a fucking roofie?’
It suddenly strikes me – because of the angles and where people are standing – that no one else here can see what I can, that no one else here is looking at what I’m looking at. And I’m glad. I wouldn’t want them to. Because this feels very personal.
Tapping the edge of my knife on the board again, I reach for the next handful of asparagus stalks. I then tear my eyes away from the pick-up window and glance over at Alex.
‘Quaalude,’ I whisper, mouthing the word very clearly for him to see. As I start chopping again, I hold his gaze. I wait for him to roll his eyes and turn his attention back to the production line. When he does, my eyes dart back out to the dining area.
But the guy in the suit is standing up now, facing away, and moving off to the right. The woman appears from the left, obviously back from the bathroom. She glides across my line of vision, and the two of them disappear.
I feel something next to me, a sudden movement, then hear a sharp intake of breath. I turn to Pablo, who’s staring bug-eyed down at my hands.
‘ Pero ché coño? ’ he says.
I look down. There are tiny speckles of blood everywhere, not only on my cutting board, but all over Pablo’s as well.
*
It’s a measure of the shit storm this causes – shouting, name-calling, a tricky sequence