Page 2 of Love on the Rocks
Thankfully, the rest of my shift went smoothly. Compliments started trickling back from the front of the house, and the tension in my shoulders subsided. And then it happened.
“There’s someone asking to speak to you out front.” Lori, one of the servers came rushing back to me, a grin spread across her face. “A journalist.”
“Okay. Tell them I’ll be right out.” I ducked into the back office to make myself presentable, straightening my chef whites and checking for unseemly stains. Then I smoothed a few wayward strands of blonde hair back into my ponytail and swiped on my favorite lipstick, Guerlain’s KissKiss red; if it was good enough for Marilyn Monroe, it worked for me.
“Lookin’ good, girl.” Lori whistled as I winked at her, trying to project a cool I definitely did not feel, and opened the door to the front of the house. The main dining room was decorated in a classic French style with white tablecloths artfully draped over round tables, thick red jacquard curtains framing the marble columns, and understated chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. I made my way over to the corner table where a well-known journalist, Anne-Sophie Granger, was sitting in all her Jaquemus glory. I recognized her immediately, not only from Instagram, where I followed her—she was an It girl on both sides of the Channel—but I’d met her before through connections in Paris.
“The chef is a woman!” She flashed a brilliant white smile at me as I approached. “They told me you were the one responsible for the bisque tonight, and I just had to meet you. It was excellent. I’ve been here before, but there was a littleje ne sais quoithis time. I suspected it wasn’t Marcel.”
I could tell that she didn’t remember me and I tried to brush it off. The last time we’d met she’d been equally complimentary, but I apparently hadn’t made a lasting impression.
“We’ve met before, actually.” I smiled. “At the white picnic in Versailles last summer. And you wrote an article about my friend’s husband, Jake Vos.”
She frowned. I knew she had a thing for Jake, who was not only a big name in the wine world but also drop-dead gorgeous. According to my bestie Olivia, Anne-Sophie still shamelessly flirted with Jake every time they met.
“Of course, how could I forget when you’re as stunning as your food. So tall like a model.” She looked me up and down, all five foot ten inches of me (six feet with heels).
“Thank you.” I preened internally, a little annoyed at myself for being so damn eager for compliments. “I’m glad you enjoyed the meal.”
“More than enjoyed it. I was transported!” She invited me to sit, and I caught Roman’s murderous stare from the kitchen window. I smirked at him as Anne-Sophie asked me about my inspiration for the bisque.
“It’s too bad that this is only a temporary assignment for you. I’m working on a new documentary series on women chefs,” she said. “Unfortunately, we’re only featuring head chefs.”
My stomach clenched as if she’d taken that soft hand of hers and dug it in right where it hurt. After being passed over for sous-chef in favor of Roman, I didn’t know when I’d get my next shot. Not before my thirtieth birthday like I’d planned, at any rate.
Anne-Sophie pulled out an elegant silver cardholder from her purse and extracted a gold-embossed business card. “If your situation changes in the next six months, let me know.”
“Absolutely. I would love to be featured.” I should have been flattered by her offer, but I only felt defeated. How many times had I envisioned the magazine articles and restaurant reviews in which I was singled out for my contributions to the newfeminine revolution taking over European cuisine? This could have been my chance!
“Fingers crossed!” She held up her French-manicured hand and winked at me in a way that was almost condescending. Surely, she wasn’t taking the piss?
As I walked back to the kitchen, Roman blocked my way. “Distracted, chef?”
“Oh, bugger off, chef. You’re just mad because she didn’t choose you,” I snapped and went back to my station for the second service.
* * *
After my shift ended, I was too exhausted to take the Tube back to my tiny flatshare in Brixton, so I splurged on a late-night Uber. Though I was proud of what I’d managed to pull off tonight, I once again felt like it just wasn’t enough.
No, that’s not true.My inner pep-talk voice took over.Things are finally happening for you. This is going to be your year.
I just had to fake it ’til I made it. Like I’d done all my life. Iwasgoing to be head of my own restaurant and be featured in that documentary. Anything was possible in the next six months, right? Sinking back into the leather seats of the Mercedes, I pulled out my phone and opened the group chat with my two besties, Olivia and Levi, and shot off a quick text.
Guess who was just singled out for praise by a well-known food journalist?
Levi:I’m going to go out on a limb and guess it was you?
I could just hear his deadpan response, and I chuckled.
Olivia:Congratulations, Cal. You deserve it.
I typed back:You might not be so happy when you hear about who the journalist was. Anne-Sophie Granger.
Olivia:Ugh! Do you know she still has the nerve to invite Jake over whenever he’s in Paris? Can you introduce her to someone else?
I thought about Roman. They’d be perfect for each other.I might have someone in mind.
No sooner had I sent off the message than my phone rang, flashing the one person’s name across the screen that could ruin my perfect night.
