Chasing Daisy

boss’s wife.’
    ‘So speak to the boss,’ Frederick interrupts calmly.
    ‘Speak to Simon?’ I scoff.
    ‘Yes,’ he replies.
    ‘Do you know what,’ Holly says, still cross. ‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do.’ And she storms off in a huff.
    ‘Holly!’ I call after her in alarm, but she pays no notice.
    ‘Chef!’ I exclaim. ‘What if Simon fires her?’
    ‘He won’t fire her,’ Frederick rebuffs me. ‘Simon likes people who stand up for themselves. You should have done it long ago.’
    The minutes tick by until, finally, Holly re-emerges, looking haughty.
    ‘Did you speak to him?’ I whisper loudly.
    ‘I can still hear you,’ Frederick says wearily. ‘But go on, tell us all.’ He indicates Klaus and Gertrude and the other catering staff in the room who were hanging on to our every word a short while ago.
    ‘Yes, I did,’ Holly replies. ‘And it won’t happen again.’
    ‘No way!’
    ‘Yes way.’
    ‘What do you mean? What did you say to him?’ I persist.
    ‘I told him we weren’t Catalina’s pets, we had our own jobs to do and that if she needs a personal assistant, maybe he should hire one for her. He’s got enough money.’
    ‘You didn’t say that last part!’ I’m horrified.
    ‘I absolutely did,’ she replies, firmly.
    ‘How did he take it?’
    ‘He took it,’ she says simply.
    ‘He took it?’
    ‘Yes. That’s it. We won’t be bothered by her again.’
    I’ve never seen Holly in this light before. It’s freaking me out a bit.
    ‘So, let me get this straight, Simon is going to hire a personal assistant for his wife because you told him to?’
    ‘I don’t know if he’ll go as far as that, or if he’ll just tell the stupid cow to make her own frigging tortillas.’
    Frederick laughs. I look at him in shock. He never laughs. Certainly not when he’s in the kitchen.
    ‘Good for you!’ he bellows at Holly.
    She grins at him. ‘Thanks.’
    ‘Now, Daisy,’ he barks at me, back to his old self. ‘Have you finished stringing those beans? We haven’t got all day.’
    ‘Yes, Chef.’ Along with the rest of the staff in the kitchen I look at Holly in awe and then turn back to my chores.
    That evening, Holly and I are scrubbing down the worktops when Pete and Dan clamber into the kitchen.
    ‘Is it true?’ Dan asks eagerly. ‘Did you tell Catalina to go fuck herself?’
    Holly laughs. ‘Blimey, doesn’t news travel fast. Why? What have you heard?’
    ‘She and Simon had a massive barney earlier. Curtis heard it.’ Curtis is one of the engineers: a short, plump, bald man with an even bigger appetite for gossip than he has for food.
    ‘Really?’ I ask. ‘What happened?’
    ‘Well, Luis said—’
    ‘Luis? What’s he got to do with it?’ I interrupt.
    ‘Curtis told Luis about it and he told us.’
    ‘God, it’s like Chinese whispers,’ I mutter, starting to feel a little dirty about the whole thing.
    ‘Shut up, Daisy, let them get a word in.’ Holly flicks me on my arm.
    ‘He was just going on about you girls not being there at her beck and call and—’
    ‘REALLY?’ Holly and I interrupt.
    ‘—and to stop bothering you because you’ve got your own jobs to do.’
    ‘Seriously?’ I exclaim.
    ‘Yeah, it was nuts. She was screaming at him, apparently.’
    ‘Serves her right,’ Holly says tautly.
    ‘She’s not going to like us very much after this,’ I say.
    ‘Like she liked us anyway.’ Holly turns her nose up.
    ‘Hmm . . .’
    ‘Daisy! Stop being a misery guts. This is brilliant news. We’ll never be bugged by that silly old tart again!’
    ‘Are you girls coming out tonight?’ Pete changes the subject.
    ‘Bit late, isn’t it?’ I ask, getting wry looks from all concerned. ‘I’m joking! Where are you going?’
    ‘Thought we’d go to the tapas bars on Las Ramblas,’ Pete answers.
    ‘Sounds good.’
    By the time race day comes around, my belly is so full of Sangria that I don’t know how I haven’t turned into a giant jug. I’m in the kitchen absent-mindedly fingering a packet of rice when Frederick barks at me.
    ‘Why aren’t you outside doing breakfast?’
    ‘Sorry, Chef,’ I say, gingerly placing the rice packet on the countertop.
    ‘Get with it! Are you hungover again?’
    ‘No, no, I’m on it,’ I fib, willing my feet to take me out of the kitchen. They come to an automatic stop when I see who’s standing at the serving table.
    ‘There you are,’ Will says.
    ‘Sorry,’ I reply, kick-starting