She let herself in, and was hanging up her jacket when she heard a noise from the kitchens. Seeking its source Emma discovered one of the chefs, a middle-aged ex-army chef named Mike. He was divorced, and had taken the job at the hotel mainly for the free lodging. Emma had never been sure about him. They flirted a little, generally quite harmlessly. Although middle age was upon him, he still had the powerful physique of an army man. She caught him with his nose in the huge, stainless steel fridge, fixing a midnight snack. He was wearing pyjama bottoms in a hideous tartan pattern. Christmas present, she suspected.
“Nice PJs. Did mummy buy them?” She teased, sauntering over to him. “I’m starving, and that sandwich looks fantastic. Mind if I have a nibble?”
