Chapter 1

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If asked, Alex Morgan would deny an interest in all that traditional stuff: marriage, mortgage, children. He'd thought about it, once, but some things just aren't meant to be.

'I'm married to the kitchen,' he'd say, and it's not far off the truth. He is not, however, faithful. He has worked in this particular restaurant for almost a year, but it won't last.

Today is pretty much the same as every other day. Sam's morning briefing, the team standing round the steel island in the centre of the kitchen, eyes heavy with last night's drinking, skin still hot from morning tube and bus journeys. An afternoon of preparation, like the calm before the storm. The eternal smell of bubbling stock, the flurry of knives amongst vegetables. And then, as he does every evening before it starts in earnest, he stands here and surveys the restaurant, allows himself to imagine for this moment that he has reached the top and this expanse of white cloths and empty glasses is his. It is his favourite time of the day: each table laid with identical precision, napkins fanned between polished cutlery, chairs tucked neatly into place. In an hour there will be crumbs and stains: knives and forks will destroy the neat timbales of pepper and courgette, topple the stacks of roast lamb and sweet potato. The silence will dissolve into a burble of conversation and the waiters will dance their black and white, high wire dance.

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