Page 4 of Go Cook Yourself

My tyres squeal my goodbye as I shout, “Go fuck yourself,” to my old life.

Chapter Two

Garett

“Give me my dog back, you piece of shit,” I yell from the pavement outside the beautiful Regency apartment building in town. I hate this place, and not just because it belongs to Clive, my nemesis.

My phone rings as Cookie, my typically bouncy Cavapoo, stares at me from the window. His tail droops as he paces the windowsill with his lion paws. I love those paws. They’re the ones I usually squeeze before Cookie tucks up to me in bed or that tap on the kitchen floor like he’s doing his best Fred Astaire impression when I arrive home. I answer the call as I stare at Cookie. His brown eyes carry the sadness of an elderly widow at her sweetheart’s funeral.

“You okay, mate? You’re looking a bit red-faced. It’s obvious behind that ugly beard of yours.” Clive, the man I started a restaurant with before he stole our business and stopped every restaurant in the area from employing me, laughs down the phone.

There’s nothing ugly about my trimmed beard. It lines my sharp jaw. Before I swore off women because nothing was more important than making the business successful, Clive and I spent every night partying in all the local pubs and clubs. Every woman wanted to be around me and stroke my rough dusting of stubble; many beautiful women came home with me, too. Clivewas left trying to pick up whoever would have him. I stroke my jaw purposefully. I bet the prick is watching me from behind a curtain.

“You always were jealous of me. Is that why you told the judges it was your pasta and then kicked me out of our partnership? That award for the Best Cotswold Restaurant should be mine,” I snap. “You duped those judges.”

“But you don’t have a restaurant, mate.” He chuckles. “It’s my restaurant and my pasta recipe, and you can’t prove otherwise, or you wouldn’t be working at some crappy cookery school in the countryside.”

My limbs shake. Blood thunders through my head. “Give me back my fucking dog. He’s not a gimmick for a restaurant.” Clive thought the world’s cutest dog would do wonders for our social media. The moment I saw those beautiful brown eyes, the teddy bear nose, and giant paws two years ago, I fell in love. It’s the only time I’ve been in love, and it’s with a dog who’s been taken from me. I fist my hands. “Cookie was never a gimmick to me.”

Suddenly, Clive looms from the window. Cookie doesn’t glance at him. He only has eyes for me.

That’s my boy. He knows who his daddy is.

“You can have Cookie back, but you have to announce that I’m a genius and you’re a crap chef who wouldn’t know what end of a spoon to use.” My eyes are like pins as I take a deep breath and try to centre myself. Clive throws his head back and laughs like a drunken idiot. “Don’t worry, Garett. I’d never make you say that. I’m never giving you back your dog—well, not until you tell me what ingredients are in your secret pasta recipe. Oh, and while you’re at it, I want ten thousand pounds, too.”

He doesn’t need the money. He’s a nepo baby with more money than sense, but he wants me to suffer. I don’t have a penny to my name, and he knows. He ensured it.

I bare my teeth but regret it instantly as Cookie’s face creases with a whimper.

“Aren’t you late for work?” Clive chuckles. My heart rate climbs as I check my silver-plated watch. It was a gift to myself the day I got my first paycheck. I’m already five minutes late. I open my mouth in a silent scream. “Best get to your shitty job if you want to earn enough money to get your dog back.”

I stick my middle finger up at him as I end the call.

Cookie won’t hear or understand, but I still mouth to my fur baby, “I’m coming for you, beautiful. I won’t let the bastard keep you for much longer.”

Fuck Clive. I won’t let him see that he’s got to me. Besides, I’m already late. An extra twenty minutes won’t make a difference. Amber will cover for me. I swagger to the bright blue van with “Cloud Cookery School” painted in white bubble writing. An older man in a pricey four-by-four beeps his horn, but I ignore him as I climb into the vehicle.

Sweat runs down my neck and beneath my crisp checked shirt. I’m grinding my teeth again. The dentist will kick my ass for this. I pop in the mouth guard I keep in the car and start the van.

I grip the guard between my teeth. I shouldn’t be using it during the day, but when your best mate destroys your career, you need something to get through the days. I don’t trust anyone enough to let them in, even for sex. It’s not like I’m going to drink my pain away. I can’t afford it. I resist the temptation to check my bank balance before I pull away from the curb. I looked this morning, and I had less than two hundred pounds to my name.

My pocket vibrates with a call.

“I’m coming, Amber,” I grunt as I let the call go to voicemail. At least the cookery school pays me next week, although it won’tput a dent in what I need to give Clive to get my baby back. I need to find extra work if I’m going to get through the next months.

The ten-mile drive to the cookery school gives me too much time to think. According to the recently “fancified” website, it’s “nestled in the heart of the Cotswolds with stunning views that will make you fall in love with the beautiful countryside.” I open the side windows. The smell of manure hasn’t made this city boy fall in love with the countryside. The sight of autumnal harvests and the leaves turning from green to burning oranges and reds should fill me with excitement. But what if I haven’t got my boy back by Christmas? He might forget who I am, or Clive could neglect him.

A tractor pulls out in front of me. I slam my palm on the horn, and the driver shakes his hand in a rude gesture and calls me a wanker. Fumes replace manure while the grind of gears fills my ears.

“Get out of my way,” I snarl. The phone in my pocket rings again. The vibrations are the closest thing I’ve had to sex in a year. I shake my head. With thoughts like that, it’s hard to believe I used to be a bit of a charmer.

I bang my fist on the steering wheel as the van climbs the hill. Fucking tractors. As if the driver hears me, he pulls into a field.

I should be excited about my first Halloween cooking classes at the school at the end of the month and planning what we’ll cook. But then I remember dressing Cookie up as a spider last year with all these black legs hanging off him. He was hilarious, running around my flat with his extra legs flapping.

The phone rings again. I should have put it on hands-free. Amber left me a voicemail yesterday asking me to come in early today, but I needed to see Cookie.

I was so stupid when I let Clive put everything for the business in his name. My lying parents messed up my credit rating after taking out credit cards in my name, so all the contracts are underhis name, and he’d registered Cookie at the restaurant’s address. I grind my teeth again. He can get stuffed if he thinks he’ll learn my secret pasta ingredients.