Destination India Read Free Page A

‘You OK, Georgia?’
    ‘You don’t happen to know any Michelin-starred chefs who could come and cook dinner tonight, do you?’ I asked, with my head in my hands.
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘It’s my dad’s birthday and I promised him a fancy dinner but completely forgot all about it,’ I half moaned.
    Kelli looked up from her paper-strewn desk. ‘My mate Sticky Shaun works at TGI Fridays. I could try and bag you a table there? Nah, scrap that – he got his name for a reason.’
    Ben grimaced and turned to face me. ‘Why don’t you have a change of plan and cook for them at yours?’
    I laughed. ‘I want to treat him, not kill him. Do you not remember how bad I was at cooking when we were in Thailand?’
    Memories of being in the spicy, steamy kitchen in Koh Lanta flooded my mind. I blushed slightly thinking back tohow close we’d been then, how I was convinced something would have happened between us by now other than swapping secret-Santa gifts and sharing business ideas in a friendly yet professional manner.
    Ben smiled at the memory. ‘Yeah, maybe stick with the restaurant idea.’
    I went back to my laptop, wanting to focus on work instead of what could have been between us when Ben called out. ‘Wait, didn’t you go to some networking event or something at Verde, that new Italian place? You could call whoever organised it and see if they could fit you in.’
    ‘Genius idea! Thanks.’ I flipped through the stack of business cards on my desk; note to self, must get round to organising these one day. I thought back to that utterly boring evening where my restless mind had wandered away from death by PowerPoint to the fresh flowers and walnut fittings in the restaurant. I’d spent the rest of the dull meeting wondering whether we should redecorate the shop in similar hues.
    I found the business card for Luigi, the restaurant manager, a no-nonsense Italian man with gelled-back hair and heavy musky aftershave who’d been very keen on sharing his advice on the best places to visit in Rome when I’d told him about our Italian tours. Five minutes later and I’d bagged us a table for three at nine p.m. tonight. Bingo. Maybe I could pull this back after all.

CHAPTER 2
    Disillusion (n.) A freeing or a being freed from illusion
    ‘It’s very fancy, isn’t it?’ my mum exclaimed, picking up the creamy porcelain salt and pepper pots from the starched linen tablecloth. ‘But, weren’t we meant to be at that French place? Viv always goes on about it since her son Adam took her when he visited from London that one time. I swear I’ve heard more about the bloody crème brûlée they serve than I have about Viv’s sciatic nerves, and trust me, she never shuts up about them.’
    ‘It did sound pretty good though. The pudding, not Viv’s backache,’ my dad chimed in before clocking my face.
    ‘I tried to get us in there, but it was fully booked,’ I apologised, ignoring my mum pursing her lips that Adam had managed to get
his
mum in. ‘This place is meant to be really good though. It’s the number one Italian in Manchester, or something like that.’
    ‘Hmmm,’ my mum said. ‘It’s a little on the poky side.’
    ‘Or you could say cosy?’ I tried putting a positive spin on the large faux-marble pillar that we were tucked away behind. Luigi had come true on offering us a table; he just hadn’t specified that we would be sardined behind the Roman coliseum next to the toilets. The comforting garlic and rosemary smell of the busy restaurant was sliced by regular wafts of strong bleach every time the door opened.
    ‘Well I think it’s great and makes a change from watching the evening news as I tuck into your mum’s famous corned-beef hash.’ My dad chuckled. After ordering from a harassed-looking waitress, who’d obviously forgotten about us judging by the look on her shiny red face, we tucked into the free, salty breadsticks.
    ‘So, you’ve come straight from work, Georgia?’ My mum nodded at what I was