Oh no.
I threw all my weight against the door but it was firmly shut. I cursed myself for leaving my phone on the side; I could have really used the torch.
‘Hello? Chef ?’ I called out, pressed against the door.
No one came.
Feeling my way to the back of the pantry, I sat down and waited. I put my head in my hands. This was a disaster. Chef would tell Mum and who knows what sort of job she might give me next? Spider catcher? Shower cleaner? Listen to Matthew talk about the room booking system? I shuddered and hoped that that Sasha person might come this way again looking for another ladle, realise that I was gone and put two and two together. She seemed nice. A problem-solver.
After a few minutes of nothing happening, the thought crossed my mind that I might actually die in this pantry.
How depressing.
In order for that not to happen any time soon I would need sustenance and I could smell the chocolate cake on the shelf, right next to my head. I carefully felt for the silver tray that it was sitting on and pulled it out to place it gently on the floor. There was no doubt that this cake was for some kind of occasion or event – Chef wouldn’t just be keeping a cake in here for no reason. I would have to make sure I didn’t spoil it. I remembered that when I’d seen it from the door, there had been some kind of message on the top layer, spelled out in small white chocolate buttons. With my eyes adjusting to the dark, I could make out the white buttons scattered across the top. I began to pick a few off, careful not to take too many, confident that Chef wouldn’t notice a few less chocolate buttons. They were delicious.
Suddenly the door swung open and light poured into the room. ‘And in here, Boss, is the polo team cake itself !’
I heard gasps and then my mum’s voice broke the silence. ‘Flick?’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Chef, aghast. ‘Some things never change.’
I blinked up at them. ‘Finally! I was running out of oxygen.’
I scrambled to my feet.
‘Someone needs to fix that light,’ I instructed. ‘And what is the point of having ugly washing-up gloves for health and safety, if you have dodgy doors that lock people in pantries?’
‘You just turn the handle,’ Chef explained, looking confused.
I glanced down at the door handle. I could have sworn it hadn’t been there before. But then I didn’t remember searching the door, just pushing against it. Whoops. Oh well, I’d better run with it.
‘It’s broken,’ I insisted. ‘Anyway, I’ll get back to my washing-up now. I was really getting into it.’
I darted past Mum to the sink and began to battle with the washing-up gloves again. After a few moments, I heard footsteps behind me.
‘Flick, would you mind turning round for a moment, please?’
I grimaced at Mum’s stern tone and slowly swivelled to face her.
The cake had been placed on top of the work surface and Mum was standing on one side of it with her arms crossed and Chef was standing on the other with his hands on his hips, a team of young chefs gathering behind him.
‘Hey, everyone.’ I waved my glove slightly overenthusiastically, spraying Chef with water. ‘Oops, sorry.’ I laughed. Chef did not laugh back. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve.
‘What’s up?’ I asked innocently.
‘Well, you see, Chef and his pastry team have been toiling long and hard to create this splendid cake for Great Britain’s polo team. They have an important tournament coming up and they’re holding a party for it this evening here at the Royale, in the ballroom.’
‘Cool.’ I nodded. ‘Good luck to them.’
‘Interesting choice of words,’ Mum said calmly. ‘Chef, would you be so kind as to inform my daughter what the top of the cake said after you painstakingly arranged mini chocolate buttons to spell it out in an intricate calligraphy style?’
‘“Good Luck, Polo Team”,’ Chef grumbled.
‘Thank you, Chef. Flick, did you, by any chance, help yourself to some of the chocolate buttons when you were stuck in the pantry for all of five minutes?’
‘I may have had a few,’ I admitted. ‘I didn’t know how long I was going to be in there! I thought I might starve!’
Sasha let out a giggle and I smiled at her gratefully. Anything to lighten the atmosphere. She stopped quickly though after a sharp look from Chef.
Mum continued. ‘Could you come over here and read what it now says on top of Chef ’s “Good Luck, Polo Team” cake?’
I began to pull off the washing-up gloves. ‘Actually,’ Mum said quickly, ‘I wouldn’t bother taking those off. Come on, come over here and read it out.’
I shuffled towards them and leaned over the cake to see what all this fuss was about. When I saw what had happened, I burst out laughing. Mum and Chef shared a look of irritation.
‘Well?’ Mum prompted, as I clutched my stomach from laughing so hard. ‘Read it out.’
I attempted to stifle the overwhelming giggles. ‘Good lu–’ I couldn’t hold the laughter back. ‘Good luck, p–’ I couldn’t breathe I was laughing too hard. ‘Good luck, p–’ Tears were now streaming down my face.
‘Felicity.’
My mum’s fierce tone snapped me out of it immediately. I wiped my eyes before whispering what was now written across the cake.
‘Louder, please,’ Mum demanded. ‘The chefs at the back didn’t quite hear you.’
I took a deep breath. ‘“Good Luck, Poo Team”.’
Sasha erupted into infectious giggles. Chef stared at her until she stopped but when he turned his back on her I could see her shoulders still shaking.
‘It looks like you ate a rather important “L”. It is lucky Chef has the time to redo it before he brings it up to the ballroom in a few minutes, after I’ve finished giving my speech to the guests.’
I looked down at my feet, my jaw aching from trying not to laugh.
‘Right.’ Mum clasped her hands together. ‘Chef, if you could kindly put the finishing touches to the cake, I would like to have a serious word with my daughter.’ She paused. ‘For the second time today.’
Chef began to bark out orders and the kitchen burst into life again. Just before she rushed off to find some more chocolate buttons, Sasha grinned at me. At least I cheered someone up.
Mum waited until we were on our own before she spoke again.
‘I would hate to extend those two weeks of being grounded to two months.’
‘Two months?’ I gasped. ‘Mum, you ca–’
‘Flick,’ she interrupted sharply, ‘I should have thought you might have learned by now that telling me what I can and cannot do does not help your case.’
I pursed my lips.
‘Two strikes,’ she said firmly. ‘Strike three and it’s two months. Understood?’
I nodded.
‘Excellent. And you’ve gained yourself an extra hour down here.’ She pointed to the sink behind me. ‘Those pots won’t wash themselves.’