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Once, a girl had asked, 'Don't you feel like a robot, being a chef?' He had pretended not to hear, continued unbuttoning her blouse - fussy tiny buttons that made him feel clumsy - but she carried on. 'Everything has to be the same, doesn't it? Look, I'll do that.' She snapped her bra undone. 'Every single night, every dish exactly the same as the night before. It would drive me crazy.' He can remember her breasts - pale, with wide dark nipples - but not her name nor where they'd met.

It's Saturday and the place is fully booked. Alex checks his mobile but there are no messages. He allows himself another minute to survey the empty dining room before stepping back into the kitchen.

One lamb, one steak - rare.
Three soup, one paté.
Four venison, two veg, two salad.
The clash of metal on metal.
The blue flare of gas.
The precise movements of six people in a small space, never touching.

And outside, red wine stains seep into white cloth.
'I'd like the steak, rare. My wife will have the lamb.'
'A bottle of the Pouilly-Fumé, the 2002.'
A slight stagger as an elderly woman stands.
A hand snatching a napkin as it falls.
The fairytale sound of wine glasses meeting.

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