32
Theo
It’s busy in the restaurant, as it always is on a Friday night, and Theo has barely time to think as he prepares garlic chicken, sautéed potatoes, and his signature Beef Wellington. He usually thrives on the fast pace, the adrenalin surging through him as he prepares dishes and shouts orders at the younger staff. Politely. He’s no Gordon Ramsay. But tonight he’s got a headache, which he knows is down to lack of sleep; even though his father had actually been cordial to him when he’d caught Theo in his kitchen yesterday, making small-talk over a brew, he couldn’t get Larry’s words and those weird random photographs out of his head. He’s just grateful that tomorrow he’s going to the village in the Cotswolds with Jen to try to find out more about the bodies and the possible link to his dad. The thought of that keeps him going. If nothing else it will be a chance to get away with Jen.
He’s run off his feet for the whole five hours of his shift and it only starts to calm down after 10 p.m. He begins clearing up, his mate Noah chattering away about the movie he saw last night, when Isla, one of the waitresses, comes up to him. ‘A customer wanted to compliment the chef,’ she says, smiling broadly, almost proudly, like he was a chef at a Michelin-starred restaurant. This has only happened once to him – although Perry, the other chef, has had it a few times. Luckily Perry’s not working tonight, so Theo knows the customer must definitely mean him.
The restaurant is small, only ten or so tables, arranged in a linear fashion, two abreast. Isla takes him along the aisle, between the tables, most of which are still occupied by groups of people halfway through their food. On the one in the corner, by the floor-length windows that look out onto the high street, an older man in a familiar Ralph Lauren shirt and chinos is sitting alone.
Theo freezes. It’s his dad.
‘Here he is,’ says Isla, with a ta-da gesture. She claps Theo on the back. ‘We’re very proud of our chef.’ She twinkles and then, thankfully, she moves away without realizing that the customer is Theo’s father.
‘What … what are you doing here?’ Theo asks. His father’s plate is empty. Table eight – the order was shellfish. He’s surprised. His dad is very much a traditional roast-dinner kind of man. It must have been up to his high standards if he’s polished it off.
‘Can’t a father come to the restaurant where his son is the chef?’ He sits back in his chair and folds his arms across his broad chest. ‘Good work, son. I enjoyed it.’
Theo blinks, unsure if he’s heard correctly. ‘It’s just I’ve worked here for two years and this is the first time –’
‘I wanted to see it for myself,’ he says, looking around. ‘Very nice.’ He has a rictus grin on his face. Theo knows it’s not fancy enough for his father so why is he even pretending? Why has he really come?
Theo shifts from one foot to the other. ‘I’m, well, I’m glad you like it, but I need to get back to the kitchen now.’
His dad nods. The harsh restaurant lighting makes him look sallower than normal. Just as Theo is about to walk back to the kitchen he says, ‘I did love your mother, you know.’
Theo stops, his heart thudding.
‘I know you think I didn’t.’
‘I’ve never said that,’ Theo says, flummoxed.
‘I wasn’t always the best husband.’ His shoulders are set back, rigid. ‘I know my faults. But I would never have hurt her.’
Theo remembers the bruises his mother tried to hide and knows his dad is talking utter bollocks about hurting her. He wonders if he really believes what he’s saying. Has he rewritten history in his own mind as a way to live with the terrible things he’s done? Or maybe he did love her, in his own warped way.
‘Her death was an accident.’