“Chef!”
Erik Barstow looked up from prepping for tonight’s opening to see his headwaiter burst through the door.
“What do you need?” he asked, keeping his head down while he diced the onions for the miniature, spiced-meat pies.
“I just heard The Chronicle is sending over a reviewer tonight. Are we really ready, I mean, The Chronicle . . .”
“Tonight?” He cut off the torrent of words and stopped chopping long enough to consider this news. The Chronicle was the major paper in town, and its reviewers were traditionally harsh. A good review could really boost his struggling reputation, but a bad one - he didn’t want to even consider that possibility.
Glancing up, he noticed he was still being watched. “What?” he shouted. “Do I pay you to stand around? Go shine the flatware.”
“Uh, I did that already.”
“Do it again!” Erik nearly screamed. His hands were shaking as he watched his employee scurry out the door.
“A little help in here,” he shouted as he wiped off his knife. As he opened his mouth to yell again, his sous chef sprinted into the main kitchen and stood at attention. “Get the rest of this prepped. Something’s come up.”
He strode out of the kitchen focusing only on the movement of his steps and the rhythm of his breathing as he took the stairs two at a time to his office. Once inside he shed his stained jacket and entered the small, private bathroom.
The cool water felt soothing as it flowed over his hands. He leaned over and splashed his face with it, and as he came up for air, he grabbed a towel and pressed it against his cheeks. When the ritual was complete, he stared at the reflection in the mirror, trying to divine what others saw when they looked at him.
He knew what he saw. A tired, slightly graying man with dark circles under both eyes. With a wry smile he admitted the lines crisscrossing his face were wrinkles, not laugh lines. The last few years had really taken their toll. He had a sudden vision of the wedding, of Julia achingly beautiful in her dress. So tempting. He shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs and forced himself to focus on tonight’s opening.
As quickly as the thoughts left him, he turned from the mirror and grabbed his double-breasted chef’s coat from the hook. Sliding his arms in, he adjusted the buttons and donned his hat. He glanced in the mirror one last time, and the simple motion reminded him of having performed this same once-over before he faced the wedding guests. There was no escaping the irony that tonight’s guests, though, would be there to see only him. He drew in his breath and let it out again slowly before he locked the door and descended the stairs back to the kitchen.
**
Julia Newlen pulled into the assigned parking slot and put her car in park. She quickly checked her makeup in the rearview mirror, grabbed her purse and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Smoothing her hair and then skirt in one motion, she jogged up the walk and opened the same door she had opened nearly every day for the last year.
Once inside she made her way to the newsroom and sat down. She began flipping through yesterday’s phone messages as her computer whined and came to life. “Yeah,” she mumbled, “I feel your pain.” No one seemed to notice, or if they did to care, that she was addressing an inanimate object. It wasn’t a bad place to work, but there were days that she felt nearly invisible. Maybe that will all change today, she thought.
Julia had worked at the newspaper first as an intern and then, once she graduated, as an assistant researcher. Her days were spent tracking down leads, checking facts, and hoping that someday she could turn her journalism degree into a byline. As embarrassing as it had been to graduate college at the ripe old age of thirty-five, it was much more embarrassing to realize that her late start in life was her own fault. Hers and Erik’s, of course.
She allowed herself a moment to think of their wedding day, nearly five years ago and cringed to think she had put her whole life on hold for those few disastrous minutes. The e-mail indicator beeped, interrupting her thoughts, and she remembered suddenly why today was going to be different. Reminder, she read, interview with Wexall at 10:30am. It was the note she had sent herself before she left the office last night.
A smile crept across her face at the memory of her co-worker rushing in to tell the news that the renowned Margie Sanderson had quit the paper without even a day’s notice. Rumor was she had been offered a position with a D.C. daily that offered full benefits and her own section to manage. Julia would have taken it, too. Someday. For now she had to focus on the opportunity Margie’s exit had provided.
**
“Come in, Julia.”
She had only been in this office once before, but she could see at a glance that nothing in it had changed including the plump, cheerful woman in her mid-forties who swept an arm generously towards a straight-backed chair in the corner. Julia immediately sat down and waited as the woman crossed the room and seated herself behind a looming oak desk bearing the nameplate, Harriet Wexall, Editor-in-Chief.
“Thank you.” Julia tried to appear calmer than she felt inside and placed her hands in her lap to keep them still. She drew in a small breath and smiled to herself as she thought of her Granny’s saying that the sweetest revenge was living well.
“Okay,” Ms. Wexall started as she read from the paper in front of her. “It looks like you’ve been here a year; tell me your strengths.”
“I’m good with organization, and I’m used to working on a deadline.” Ms. Wexall was nodding at her to continue. “I also know a thing or two about food.” She said patting her stomach.
Julia realized too late that she was probably a good twenty pounds lighter than Ms. Wexall. She hated it when she put her foot in her mouth, especially when so much was riding on this interview. But a loud guffaw was released from the other side of the desk and with it every ounce of tension that Julia had felt.
“What about weaknesses?” Her interviewer flashed a quick smile and a raised eyebrow.
The words, insecurity, low self-esteem and uncertainty sprang to mind, but she quickly pushed them back, recognizing Erik’s influence on her thoughts. He had ruined her life once, and she was determined to never let him have that hold again. Exhaling, she smiled back and said, “Old age.” She let out a half-laugh and continued, “I’m sure you have half a dozen young, eager go-getters lining up for the position, but I think I can offer you a steady, reasoned perspective. I’m older, but I’m more confident and patient. I’ve learned a lot this year, and I can assure you I can do this job and do it well.”
Julia ended her speech and gazed into Harriet Wexall’s eyes to see if she had clinched the deal. She really wanted this job, if only to show everyone she could manage just fine without the support of Erik Barstow, Wonder-Chef.
“You know what?” Ms. Wexall said, breaking her reverie. “I like your style. I’m going to let you do the review tonight.” She handed Julia a manila folder. “If I like what I see, we can talk about a permanent position.”
Thanking her, Julia accepted the file and nearly bounced back to her desk. Once there she opened the folder and silently celebrated her good fortune.
**
“Chef,” the headwaiter burst breathlessly into the kitchen for the second time that night just as Erik was plating an order of crab ravioli with red sauce for the mayor. “The reviewer is here!”
“Okay, already,” he rolled his eyes at his headwaiter, but inwardly he felt his heart skip a beat. “Where?”
“Table twenty-two. She’s gorgeous.”
“Great,” he mumbled. “Here, take this to the mayor’s table, and then get the order. I’ll take it to her myself.”
Erik smoothed his coat and waited for her order, and when it finally came, he made each dish with precision. Sun-dried tomato basil bruschetta, mustard-roasted chicken with caramelized onions on a bed of arugula, and a side of cold avocado soup. Calling his headwaiter over, he motioned for him to gather up the dishes and accompany him to the dining area. Erik held an extra platter containing a mini-assortment of his newest creations made especially for her, but as his waiter moved out of the way, it nearly crashed to the floor.
“Hello, Erik.” Julia smiled at his confusion and waited patiently while he righted the tray, her pen poised above the steno pad on the table.
“Julia,” he stammered. “These are for the reviewer.”
She nodded and pointed to an empty spot in front of her.
“But . . . how . . .” He left the question unfinished as he felt intense heat flushing through his entire body. Thoughts of the restaurant, his career and the wedding collided as his brain churned in an effort to sort out what was happening. As he bobbled the conversation, he noticed that people were beginning to turn their attention towards the two of them.
She beamed at him as if they were long lost friends. “After you announced to our wedding guests that you couldn’t possibly get married just yet as you needed to focus on your career,” she drew out the word career for a moment longer than necessary as she glanced around the half-full restaurant before she continued, "I realized I had to move on with my small-town life. I’m the reviewer for The Chronicle now.” She decided the half-truth was worth the look of utter misery she saw on his usually smug face.
“Oh.” It came out more like a small exhalation of breath than a response, but he managed to continue despite the shock. “I hope our little misunderstanding won’t, um, hinder your review.” Almost everyone was staring at them now.
“Oh, no. I wouldn’t do anything to get in the way your famous career, Erik. I fully understand how stunting it would have been for you to be married to such an albatross like me.” She raised her voice ever so slightly and added, “It must have been so horrible for you to have to choose between me and your career. Yes,” she continued narrowing her eyes, “I’m sure you made the right decision when you walked out of our wedding. You’re so much better off now.”
“I see,” he managed. He could feel the eyes of every person in the room cutting through him, and at that moment he realized that more than anything else he wanted the conversation over. “I guess I’ll look for your review tomorrow, then,” he stammered and rushed away towards the safety of the kitchen, leaving her once more to deal with the audience.
She gave him her most ferocious grin and called after him, “Yes, do. I promise it will be sweet.”
Originally published in Long Story Short, March 2006. Copyright Lisa Tiffin, 2006. |
