“Hmm?”
“The Marguerite.” He drums his fingers on the desk. “It’s William Roberts’s restaurant.”
I nod, perfectly aware that he’s talking about some restaurant in Mayfield, over a hundred miles away from here. “I know. William Roberts is the Lex Luthor to your Superman.” His eyes narrow. “Your archnemesis. I remember. What about his campaign?”
He huffs out a breath, the light disdain now turning into a teeth-baring sneer. I know I shouldn’t enjoy it as much as I do, but my blatant indifference to this stupid little feud with some irrelevant chef—and my equal indifference toward all his public endeavors—frustrates him. And frustrating him is my petty way of getting back at him for being the absent, cold father he is.
“Look.” He takes out his phone, then proceeds to aggressively tap on it. On the screen, there’s the Marguerite’s Twitter profile and their latest tweet.
Biting my lower lip, I fight as hard as I can to hold back a chuckle. “Hmm.” I give him back the phone, and the muscles in his jaw flex when he notices my enjoyment. “So what, Dad?”
“So what?” His neck stiffens. “It’s distasteful, Amelie. Howdare William Roberts and his vulgar little enterprise come at me and La Brasserie? We’re a staple of French cuisine—a staple!Fils de pute!”
Crossing my arms, I ignore his cussing and wait for his skin to tone down a few shades of red. Pointing out that he’s making a big deal out of nothing won’t help: I’ve tried before. Saying that this competition to see who has the biggest dick is ridiculous because Roberts’s restaurant is in Mayfield, a whole other city? Also pointless. But it’s always been more about the two of them butting heads than the restaurants, and who am I to stop two grown men from wasting their time? No one, that’s who.
Once the muttering of French swear words subsides, I sigh. “Dad, it’s just a marketing campaign. It’s called competitive advertising, and if our manager weren’t six hundred years old, maybe he’d be able to do it too.”
Leaning forward as if he’s about to deliver instructions on how to detonate a bomb, he joins his hands. “I’ll do it: I have the perfect comeback.” He snickers, then proudly announces, “?‘At least we know how to cook.’?”
“That’s terrible,” I say in a bored voice. “Hire a social media guy.”
“How about, ‘Learn French, jackass!’?”
“Hire a social media guy.”
“Amelie, we have to respond. The post already has hundreds of comments and likes and…” He frantically points at the phone. “And the other buttons.”
Taking the phone from his hand, I fight a groan. “First, this is a tweet, not a post. And you mean retweets.” He rolls his eyes, the usual frown just a few inches deeper. “Are you sure you want to start a social media war with William Roberts? With the Marguerite?”
He mutters something that sounds like “We’re already at war,” and with a resigned shrug I tap on the “new tweet” button.
My dad’s right: they’ve been at war for years. But it was a passive war, started on a cooking show when William Roberts had the audacity to comment on the thickness of the crust on my dad’s crème brûlée. A war fought with snarky comments thrown at journalists during interviews, with heated discussions at various culinary shows, and with gossip passed along by other cooks and mutual acquaintances. This would turn it into a full-on active war fought in the most public arena of all: social media.
Boy, I hope we don’t go viral.
Pleased, Dad walks away, his cheeks still red and puffy, but that’s his usual state when William Roberts is involved. I’ve never met the man—never eaten at his restaurant, either—yet I’ve heard his name about twenty billion times since they opened their restaurant a decade ago. I’d be happy to never hear the name Roberts again.
I think of the latest critic’s review of the Marguerite I read and chuckle to myself. I think I’ve got it.
A Meet-Atrocious
— TODAY—
We walk down the stairs toward the clinking of glasses, plates, and forks. Barb texted Ryan and asked to be sent a picture of their wedding’s guest list, then we left our room for an early dinner. After the train journey, all I’m craving is a bite to eat and a good night’s sleep.
We approach the dining room, which follows the same French splendor theme of heavy beige curtains pulled back to reveal double glass doors overlooking the pool. The sun setting outside paints the dark wooden ceiling and floor tiles with an orange light, and tables covered in white linen are peppered across the room and filled with formally dressed guests.
“We might have underestimated the dress code,” Barb says once we halt at the bottom of the stairs. She must feel as self-conscious as I do, because she stares down at her worn-out sweatshirt. With my gray oversizeI’m not as think as you drunk I amT-shirt and the pair of faded jean shorts that come mid-thigh, I can sympathize.
Noticing the familiar faces of the chefs at the first table to my right, I’m reminded of Pamela’s email about having an introductory dinner tonight.
“We have to run back and change,” I say, trying to magicallystretch the fabric around my legs. I hold on to Barb and back up toward the stairs, but before we can turn around, a crashing noise comes from behind us, jolting the room into silence.
“Amelie?”
My muscles, sore from the long day of carrying luggage and traveling, tense and turn into rock. My mind explodes like a dying star, the fragments of it flying around my head as every sound disappears in the background.
That voice.