I cannot help licking my lips as I watch Gary cover the sponge cake with dark-chocolate frosting. There is a certain finesse in the way that he applies each layer, just gentle enough to kiss the surface, but merciless enough to make sure that it stays on. I know that there is work to be done, and that in approximately four minutes and twenty-three seconds, Chef Pierre will be screaming out my name for not having done the dishes. This would be followed by him thundering into the room, picking me up by the collar and rattling me like a toddler’s toy. I should know – we’ve followed the same pattern of events every Christmas eve, for the past eight years I’ve been employed here. But despite that, my gaze is fixed on the piece of art that Gary has been perfecting for the past three hours.