Page 64 of The Husband Diet
‘Uhm… wekindof have a problem.’
The tone I’d grown accustomed to, but it was the ‘uhm’ that promised nothing good. I sat forward, planting my still sore feet flat on the ground, pinching the bridge of my nose where a major ache was already developing. ‘What is it, Mitch?’
‘It’s, uhm… Juan.’
Juan, my genius, arrogant and extremely lazy head chef. I swore one day I’d sack him.
‘What about him? Is he giving you grief again? Send him in and I’ll deal with him.’
‘No, ma’am. It’s just that he… isn’t here.’
I shot to my feet, oblivious to my blisters from the day before, only aware of the fact that it was too close to lunchtime and that we were now in the danger zone. The next question was useless and stupid.
‘What do you mean, not here? We have twelve delegates from Europe over for lunch in an hour and Juan’s gone AWOL?’
Mitch nodded miserably and squeaked, ‘I thought he’d arrive. He’s always a little late, but—’
‘Mitch, you have to stop defending your colleagues, especially if they’re the first to rat on you.’ I felt like a bad schoolteacher. And now we were in shit. And then another stupid question. ‘Have you tried calling him at home? Maybe his wife knows where he is.’
Mitch shook his head. ‘No one is answering.’
I grabbed my bag and coat. ‘Have Dieter bring my car up, will you?’ I said as I flew out the door and bam into none other than Julian.
Images of him inside me flashed through my mind and I tried to shake them off. What was he doing here?
‘Lunch, remember?’ he said as he took my outstretched hand as I slipped away.
‘Sorry, I can’t – emergency!’ I called back over my shoulder, but then slowed as I reached the lobby, so as not to make a scene, and to give my blisters a breather. Our hotel was, after all, a chic one.
‘Wait, I’ll come with you,’ he offered, steering me toward his jeep.
This was it. This was my job on the line. I’d never screwed up before. I hadn’t monitored my staff. It wasn’t a mistake I could afford. The moment I’d slip, as some had wagered, had come. I was screwed. Dead.
And so now I was on my way to Juan’s house to salvage the salvageable, Julian at the wheel. I just hoped it wasn’t what I thought. Last year, I’d caught Juan guzzling a secret stash of hooch. On the job. The fact that he’d stolen it from the bar was immaterial. I wanted him, needed him to be sober 24/7. I should have fired him at the first sign of weakness. Or better, I should have killed him.
My heart froze at the thought of him passed out on the floor and me holding him by the lapels, shaking him like a madwoman, trying to get his secret recipe for gazpacho Andaluz out of him.
This time, I wouldn’t be able to forgive him (unless he was prostrate on the floor with the mortal effect of some rare snake bite). This time, I was deep in it. If my twelve European delegates didn’t get their lunch, it would be my butt as well as Juan’s.
‘He’d better be dead, or else,’ I choked. Gone was the broken but horny woman of the day before, replaced by my usual kick-ass efficiency.
‘Ira?’ Julian asked, glancing at me as I pointed and he turned a corner.
Obviously, he was still following the thread from yesterday.
‘My chef, Juan. Turn left here!’
In one second, I’d explained the emergency, jumping out the car before Julian had come to a full stop and pounding my fists on my now ex-chef’s front door (I make it my business to know everything about my staff, including where they live), before you could say ‘Holy Guacamole.’
Julian went round the back to find another entrance, I presume, or, judging by the look I must have had on my face, to point Juan to the nearest escape.
And then the front door opened and Julian let me in, dragging me by my arm to the bedroom at the back. Juan was kneeling by his bed, as if in prayer, sobbing like a baby. And then I froze. Sprawled among the sheets was a young woman, her eyes unseeing, her naked body wracked with deep, broken breaths. The bastard was sleeping behind his wife’s back. I was tempted to leave him here – it would save me firing him – but then I thought of his wife, Rita, and how she needed his benefits package.
‘Call 911!’ I heard Julian say as he dashed toward the woman and pulled off his own belt and tucked it in between her teeth.
‘What’s the matter with her?’ I cried as I dialed. ‘Hello! Yes! Please send an ambulance to 99 Rosecliff Terrace!’
‘Ma’am, what’s the problem?’ came a disembodied male voice that sounded like it belonged to someone picking his nose.
