I sat in the silence, one leg crossed over the other, my foot swinging left to right. Glancing over at the bookcase, I supposed I could read, but I didn’t really feel in the mood. Ten whole days, I told myself. No work, no drama, no fuss. I looked around the room, before my eyes settled on the window and the street beyond.
I found myself wondering what Fin was up to and what time he might be back. I’d obviously got used to having him around as the place was a bit too quiet without him. I pictured Fin enjoying a coffee at some city centre street café, browsing the shops, or visiting a gallery and I felt jealous.
I’d been looking forward to doing nothing, but it wasn’t half boring.
Unless… I thought, a mischievous smile spreading across my face.
I turned the television back on and feeling naughty for doing so, began searching through its catch-up reality TV programming. My heart skipped a beat as I finally found the show I was interested in and staring at its title for a few seconds, I dared myself to press play. Diving into my bag of popcorn, I giggled to myself as Fin appeared on screen.
“I’m Finlay McCormack,” he said, talking direct to the viewing public. “And this is Cooking Hell.”
My tummy tickled as I took in the man’s gorgeousness. He looked every inch the professional in his chef whites. And hot, I had to admit, with his pushed back blond hair and Hollywood smile. The camera obviously liked Fin, which I guessed was one of the reasons why the programme had been such a roaring success. I sat back as the opening credits rolled, popping into my mouth one puffed out kernel of popcorn after another.
It appeared Fin wasn’t the only host-come-judge, there were two more. One was an established food critic, Claudia Williams-Taylor, whom I’d never heard of. Although once seen, never forgotten sprang to mind thanks to her harsh words and peculiar dress sense. Her clashing outfits were as offensive as her mouth, and with one hurting people’s eyes and the other people’s pride, I was convinced both were responsible for the numerous tears amongst the contestants.
The final arbitrator didn’t seem to have any culinary background at all. However, Jack Splat clearly loved his cuisine because whereas Claudia and Fin merely sampled the contestants’ concoctions, Jack tended to clear everyone’s plates. He didn’t seem to have a bad word for any of the dishes put in front of him he just ate everything in sight. A stand-up comedian by profession, Jack was obviously there to balance out the intense competitive nature of the show with a few lighter moments.
While Fin and Claudia discussed food combinations, competitor progress, and whether the people taking part had what it took to be a professional chef or not, Jack’s role seemed to be clock monitor and all-round good egg. He threw in the odd catch phrase, of course, “Winner, winner, chicken dinner,” being just one of them.
Fin was the best of the three judges, in my opinion, and not because I was biased. Unlike Claudia who simply slated everything and Jack who didn’t have anything other than “Ooh, that’s delish!” to say, Fin offered constructive feedback on how dishes could be changed or tweaked to make them better, which the stressed-out contestants seemed to appreciate.
As I binged through the episodes, I saw a side to Fin I hadn’t seen before. He had an air of authority, commanding respect from everyone around him. He was nothing at all like the casual fun-loving chef I’d got used to in my little kitchen and I had to admit I found this new-to-me persona of his very attractive. Plus the man clearly knew his stuff. Even I found Fin inspiring, despite having more in common with the stand-up comedian when it came to food.
I smiled a dirty smile, wondering whether if I asked Fin for cookery lessons he’d be just as stern with me.
Cooking Hell was one of those shows that featured a different set of participants each week, with only the winner of each set going through to the next round. Each episode began with the same lines.
“So we’ve met the contestants,” Fin said.
“The knives are out,” Claudia said.
“Let’s start creating a stir,” Jack said.
The end of each episode had a little ritual, too.
“So which contestant will be our winner?” Fin said.
“And who will be eating humble pie?” Claudia said.
“The person going through to the next round is…” Jack said.
Despite its cheesiness, the programme clearly had a winning formula and like the rest of the nation, I found myself hooked from the very first episode through to the last.
23
I sat, perched, on the edge of my seat full of anticipation. Having partaken in a Cooking Hell viewing marathon, I’d invested hours of time and energy in getting to that moment and I was eager to find out who the ultimate victor would be.
Taking in the final three contestants, I appreciated their nervousness. Round after round they had fought hard for their places in the final, conjuring up dishes, under the most extreme of circumstances and using some pretty weird and wonderful ingredients. Every plate had been worthy of attention in even the finest of restaurants. As they stood there, all holding hands as they waited for the winner to be announced, I had my fingers crossed for Daniel, a seriously talented home cook from Portsmouth.
My excitement began to build as I watched Fin prepare to speak. Never mind the competitors, the expectation was killing me.
“Time to find out who will be crowned Cooking Hell’s king or queen,” Fin said.
I let out a wistful sigh. Boy, was that man sexy.
Suddenly startled, I heard the front door open and close. Looking in the direction of the hall and then at the telly, I couldn’t believe Fin chose that precise moment to land home. Talk about not-so-perfect timing, I was going to miss the winning reveal and shooting forward, I muttered expletives as I grabbed the TV remote and switched off the TV. As the screen went black, it seemed I’d been so engrossed in my viewing I hadn’t realised the room had fallen into darkness. Taking advantage of the lack of light, I threw myself into a prone position, closed my eyes, and pretended to be having a nap.
“Are you asleep?” Fin asked, surprised, flipping the light on as he entered the room.
I screwed my eyes up as they struggled to acclimatise to the brightness. “What time is it?” I asked, my apparent awakening worthy of an Oscar.
Fin checked his watch. “Five o’clock.”
“I may have been resting my eyes a little,” I said. Fin laughed as I rose to my feet. Immediately needing to stretch out my back, Cooking Hell had obviously made me more tense than I’d realised. “Did you have a good day?”
“Productive. My work meeting went well.”
“Anything interesting you’d like to share?” I said, hoping he’d finally open-up about his standing. Having, at last, seen his show for myself, I had tonnes of questions.
He looked at me as if he wanted to say something, but then seemed to change his mind. “Not really,” he said instead, much to my disappointment. “Oh, and I called at Annie’s on the way back.”
I smiled as I recalled my friend’s excitement at the prospect of becoming a grandmother. “How is she?”
“Clucking and fussing over her daughter like any mother hen.”
I laughed, knowing that would suit Emma down to the ground. “That’s a bit of a turnaround,” I said. “Only days ago Annie was complaining about Emma not doing enough.”