"One centimetre, Bill! You peel the potatoes, then slice them one centimetre thick. Those are closer to one and a half."
By the end of her first week at the diner, Bill had come to learn three things about her new boss.
Firstly, Ozzy was a complete control freak. Eggs had to be scrambled for two minutes exactly, then the mixture folded three times. Sauces had to be displayed symmetrically on the counter, logos facing outward. Malted milkshakes had to have three tablespoons of malt to every half cup of milk. And now she was nagging Bill about chips!
Bill was getting sick of it.
"I know what to do," she snapped at Ozzy. "I've only ever cooked chips, like, a million times in my life!"
"Are you using the rapeseed oil like I showed you, or vegetable oil?"
"Um…" said Bill, trying to shove the vegetable oil behind the stack of unpeeled potatoes. But Ozzy's gimlet eyes noticed.
"Honestly, Bill! Rapeseed oil for the chips and vegetable oil for frying the patties. Is it really that hard? I need to rely on you. I have other things to be getting on with."
"Oh yeah?" Bill asked quickly. "What things?"
"That is absolutely none of your business."
Secondly, Ozzy was mysterious. When she wasn't riding Bill's back, she was holed up in the back room of the diner for hours, door closed, doing – well, Bill had no idea. But often, Bill heard strange sounds coming from inside. Beeps and thumps and hammering. One time, it almost sounded like a small explosion. Several times she'd seen Ozzy go in and out with odd objects. The butterfly net. A cat carrier. A bucket of water.
On her first day, a Very Important Question had occurred to Bill. It was after the lunchtime rush, and the diner was empty of customers, so she'd walked down the back of the diner to seek out Ozzy. The door was closed, but she tugged on the handle.
It opened a crack, giving her a fleeting impression of a white, cavernous space. "Hey, Ozzy-" she'd begun. But in the next instant, Ozzy had flung herself against the door, shutting it firmly from her side. "Do not come in here!"
'But I just wanted to ask-"
"Go back to the kitchen and stay there! I'll be out in a sec."
"Um. Ok." Bill walked away. Now what was Ozzy's problem?
In a moment, Ozzy had appeared, slightly calmer. "That room is my private space. You must never enter it."
"Ok," said Bill, resisting the urge to add "Whatever."
"What did you want to ask me?"
"Well… I was wondering… does this diner have a name?'
"What!"
Bill had never learned whether the diner had a name (and if so, what that name was). She'd tried not to think about the back room. But if she had to be totally honest, she was as curious as hell. And Ozzy sure wasn't giving anything away.
Now, she picked up the knife again and started chopping the potatoes, trying to ignore her hovering boss.
"You're still not doing it right, Bill! Here, let me show you."
Ozzy grabbed the knife, just as Bill – glaring at her – pulled it back. The blade flashed in the late morning sunlight, before cutting deep into Ozzy's palm, right across the fleshy part below her thumb.
"Oh god!" exclaimed Bill, backing away. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll go and get… first aid kit."
She ducked down the other end of the counter, to where they kept the first aid kit. "Good one, Bill," she muttered to herself. "Just slice your boss's hand open, why don't you?" Would Ozzy fire her for this? She dug out a gauze pad and sterile bandage, and returned to Ozzy (who was rather efficiently washing the wound under the sink).
"Thanks," said Ozzy, turning off the tap. "I'll just take those and-"
Bill ignored her. She grasped Ozzy's wrist, and with her other hand, applied the pad directly to the cut.
Thirdly, Ozzy was not fanciable. Bill was totally, definitely, not attracted to her at all. No way. Especially not to the way Ozzy's apron clinched so nicely around her slim waist. Or to the dimples at the corners of her cheeks. Or to the smooth skin of her wrist, which Bill was holding. Although there was something weird that Bill couldn't quite put her finger on. Even though she literally did have her finger on it.
There were also marks on Ozzy's forearm. Burn marks, pink and shiny. Ozzy followed Bill's gaze. "Hot oil, from the frypan," she said quickly.
"Oh, ok," replied Bill, although she couldn't remember seeing Ozzy go anywhere near the stove since she'd started working at the diner.
"Nothing to worry about. I'm a fast healer."
It did look like the flow of blood had been staunched. Bill wrapped the bandage around and around Ozzy's hand, pinning the end neatly.
"Thanks," said Ozzy. "You actually did a good job. Where did you learn how to bandage wounds?"
In the Tardis, thought Bill. The nature of travelling with the Doctor meant you were bound to get the odd sting, bite, or electric shock. Early on, Nardole had taught her some basic first aid skills.
"From a friend," she said.
Ozzy gingerly flexed her bandaged hand. "I can get a bit reckless sometimes. Habit I'm trying to break. It's going to kill me one day"
"Clearly," said Bill.
Ozzy shot her a quick smile, and Bill grinned awkwardly back.
"So," said Ozzy, after a pause. "You ok to work Sunday?"
"Sunday? Sure."
"I mean, it is Mother's Day, so unless you have plans with your mum..."
"My mum's dead," said Bill quietly. And her plans with Moira basically consisted of avoiding her, wherever possible.
"Oh god," said Ozzy, looking more distressed than Bill had ever seen her. "Sorry, I didn't-"
"It's ok," said Bill quickly. "She died when I was a baby." She thought of her photos of her mum, tucked under her pillow at home; those amazing photos the Doctor had travelled back in time to take.
"And your dad?"
"Not in the picture," said Bill. "Left Mum before I was born." She'd never got around to asking the Doctor to track him down.
"Did you grow up in a children's home?"
"Foster parents. Latest one is called Moira."
"What's she like?"
"Ok. Sometimes. Bit oblivious."
"My mum's dead too," said Ozzy.
"Oh." Now it was Bill's turn to feel upset. "When did-"
"When I was a teenager."
"That's rough."
"Yeah."
"So how about your dad?"
"He's still alive," said Ozzy. "But er… I don't really talk to him these days. Circumstances and all that."
"But he's your dad, right? You know how to get in touch with him?"
"Yes, but-"
"You know what?" said Bill, "You should call your dad. Right now."
"Really not a good idea."
"Just pick up the phone and tell him hello. I'll even dial for you!"
"Believe me, he'd get the shock of his life if I did that," said Ozzy firmly. "Literally, it'd be like hearing a voice from beyond the grave. Now come on. After you finished chopping those potatoes, I'll show you how to make a soufflé."
"Soufflé?" asked Bill. "What sort of a diner sells souffles?"
"This one does," says Ozzy, smiling.
It was after her shift, sprawled out on her bed back home, sifting through the photographs of her mum, when Bill finally worked out what had been bugging her. When she'd been holding Ozzy's wrist, the skin had felt warm and alive, and yet… She threw the photos onto the duvet and frowned.
"I couldn't feel a pulse."