The agency got us a job only a week ago at The Lap of
Luxury - high-end caterers and dinner planners. We
registered, separately of course, a month beforehand, since
the company’s owners, astute to their clients’ security
demands, always insist new staff be fully vetted. It was a
bit of a hassle. I had to pull a few strings with some of my
contacts to get the required references. And it’s a good job I
know a few recipes, too; though you had to brush up on a bit
more than just your grandma’s secret recipe for spag-bog!
(You know you’ve had it too good, way too long.) Still, the
Head Chef looked at us both a bit dubious-like; we both
weren’t nearly as good as we were cracked up to be; and it
took some nerves of steel to keep hanging in there until the
vol-au-vents puffed up better than a saggy witch’s tit. We
just about passed.
Today’s the day of the heist. It’s 2pm and we’re bang on
time. Your name as chef is Michelle Cook (how the Head
Chef appreciated that one). While later tonight, oozing into
your femme fatal persona, you’re Ms. Annabelle Hunter.
(The ‘Ms.’ you insisted on, having that ambiguous,
untouchable something about it, red rag to Brompton’s
passions.) It’s 2.01pm now - get into character, quick.
Stove, flame, pots, pans, ladle, big knives, little knives, forks
of every description, the herbs over here, sauces over there,
you’ve got on your kitchen whites and puffy white hat. Time
to play initial roles: part of a team rustling up dinner for