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disparagingly. According to him – and he liked to share his feelings – as there were no foams, veloutés or deep-fried soft-shelled crabs in tempura batter, there was no challenge in it at all.
    ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! I can’t believe I’m supposed to cook fucking Chicken Kiev!’ He went on effing and blinding at the simple pub-grub dishes which were popular and reasonably priced until he realised that his expletive-per-minute rate was possibly record-breaking and that the faces watching him were not impressed. It was as well the cameras weren’t rolling yet. ‘I’m a chef,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘I don’t expect to serve up prepared food.’
    ‘There’s a restaurant with an open kitchen near me that pre-prepares a lot of stuff,’ said Alan. ‘Otherwise it would be bloody hours before you got fed.’
    Dwaine grunted. ‘And what about the equipment? Where’s the rotisserie? The sous vide? The water bath? I’m not used to this!’
    ‘You’ll
get
used to it,’ said Zoe. ‘A chef with your high standards will be able to manage, I’m sure.’ She was checking out the dishwasher, glad that her work in the café had trained her well.
    Once assured that her most useful tool was present and functioning, she took a look at what else there was there – or not there.
    Apart from two massive cookers, there was a Bamix liquidiser, a toaster, a blow torch, the separate sink for hand washing, a sign on the wall about the coded cutting boards and also, worryingly, a glass cupboard in which hung some lethal-looking knives and choppers. She wondered if this was locked. Given the nature of their chef for the day, she hoped it was.
    Dwaine was convinced he had been chosen because of his ability. This could have been true – his audition might have been brilliant – but none of the others knew and there was already muttering in the ranks.
    Everyone had been issued with chef’s whites and hats but Dwaine had brought his own trousers with huge checks, and instead of a chef’s hat, he wore a bandanna in the manner of Marco Pierre White. Then he got out his knives. So much for the locked cupboard, thought Zoe as she and Muriel exchanged a look.
    Dwaine unrolled the case revealing knives big enough to cut down small trees. He released one from its protective sheath.
    ‘Look at this bad boy!’ he said, making a few terrifying passes with it. ‘Samurai sharp, this is. Cut a silk scarf easy as anything—’
    ‘Oh, put it away, do,’ said Muriel. ‘You’ll hurt someone, possibly yourself, and then you won’t be able to cook at all.’ Her motherly reaction had the right effect and Dwaine stopped showing off for a few minutes.
    There was a moment of uneasy calm and then they heard ‘start rolling’ and their first task in the competition began. Zoe felt a lot would have to be edited out if the earlier torrent of foul language was anything to go by, but that wasn’t her problem. Having sorted out where the dirty dishes would be put and where they went once they were clean, she was chopping onions. It seemed a good idea to keep herself occupied while she was waiting for something to wash.
    Gideon Irving came into the kitchen. He surveyed it like a lion selecting a wildebeest. Zoe, who should have been beneath his notice as the modern version of a scullery maid, was his first victim. He pushed her aside from her chopping and picked up her board.
    ‘Where’s the cloth? Without a cloth under your board it’ll slip around! Put one there now!’
    ‘But you’re not a chef,’ said Zoe, finding a cloth and spreading it under her board. She could sense the watchful eye of a camera trained on them both.
    ‘That doesn’t mean I haven’t spent a lot of time in professional kitchens,’ he said. ‘Now, let me check your technique.’
    Zoe had been happy chopping onions. They were making her eyes water but she was coping. She picked up her knife and started on a new one.
    ‘To start with, you need a bigger