On Thursday night the head chef’s girlfriend comes into the restaurant to have a meal. She’s got a wheely suitcase with her – come straight from the Eurostar, apparently; they all know she’s studying at the Sorbonne. The head chef hurriedly combs his hair back from his forehead, wipes greasy hands down his apron.
Do me a favour, he says. Don’t tell Millie what I’m like when I’m here. All the… you know.
She narrows her eyes but nods her assent, folds her arms. Sure, she says.