The Fifty-Two Week Chronicles (Delectables in the City Book 1)

by Joslyn Westbrook

  “Yep, but she didn’t bully me too much this time. She only tried once to get me to place the money into some type of money-market account.”

  “Well, as much as I hate adding alcohol to an abrasive wound, you know Gracie’s right. If you’re not sure what to do with all of that money you should at least—”

  “How about we just order our Indian takeout and discuss this another time…or never,” I keenly interject. I know Sebastian means well, but really? I’d much rather walk around naked in Times Square, in the snow, than discuss this right now.

  “Sure thing, babe. Food makes everything better. I’m totally starving anyway. We worked our asses off straight through lunch today, and frankly, I’m surprised I’m even alive.” He fans his face as if he’s trying to avoid passing out.

  As usual, Sebastian’s excessive dramatics make me giggle. He calls Mazaydor and places our takeout order as I chug the fruity cosmo, hoping the magical drink brings a sense of calm to my overactive nerves.

  “Food should be here in about twenty-five minutes, doll face.” He looks at my empty glass, “Would you care for another?”

  “That would be lovely, thank you.”

  Before long, Sebastian and I are lounging in the living room, indulging in the essence of fine Indian takeout, zippy cosmos, and Madonna’s Greatest Hits CD playing softly in the background. Sebastian’s choice, of course.

  “So, what exactly do you need my help with?” I ask Sebastian, recalling his earlier text-hanger.

  “Uh, no.” He waves his finger in protest. “You go first—your last text mentioned you have an idea that needs my creative expertise. Better speak about that now before I finish this drink off,” he says, taking a small sip of his drink. “We’ve so gotta channel this beautiful mind now…while I’m still coherent.”

  I chuckle in response. “Okay, so yeah, I had this epic idea of what I can turn my Food Disclosure Page to.”

  Sebastian raises his eyebrows, displaying his curiosity.

  “What do you think of me writing only good restaurant reviews?” I clap my hands and smile, feeling utterly impressed.

  “Go on…” Sebastian says, taking a bite of the spicy chicken marsala.

  “Okay, so I would use the Facebook page to post only positive reviews.”

  “Hmm. Sounds good, but like how often do you plan to do this? I mean post?”

  “Um, daily?”

  “Really? Every freaking single day? Honey, won’t that be kinda hard to pull off? That is three-hundred and sixty five days—we are talking rain, snow, wind, or shine.”

  “Right,” I say, feeling a tad deflated. “Well, this is obviously why I need your inventive assistance. I suck at this.” I sit with my arms folded, pouting pathetically.

  Sebastian’s eyes sparkle with pensive thoughtfulness as his creative juices brew. He finishes off his plate of Indian takeout and this, of course, prompts me to take this time-out to eat more of my savory curry chicken.

  Suddenly, as though whomped with clarity from his Conception God, Sebastian shares his eureka moment. “Oh yeah, I’ve got it now! And you, my dear, are so gonna love it.” He stands up as if he is about to anoint me with prolific words of wisdom.

  Immediately, I put my plate down and swallow a mouthful of rice, giving ‘Sebastian the Great’ my full and undivided attention.

  “To expand on your idea of posting only good reviews, how about you post only once a week—not every single day—on a Monday?”

  I feel my mouth open wide about to share my blooming discontent, only to be quickly interrupted.

  “Now before you go off at the mouth like a feisty chihuahua, barking about how much you hate Mondays and refuse to do anything work related on that day, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah—please allow me to finish.”

  I nod, trying to picture myself looking like a feisty chihuahua. Is that what I really look like when I am upset? But Sebastian knows, for years, I haven’t liked working on a Monday—given how much I truly dislike that day of the week. At times, I’ve gladly worked a Saturday or Sunday instead.

  “Anyway,” he rolls his eyes and continues, “your weekly posts will create this sort of buzz in the restaurant world centered completely around you—Penelope Monroe—and your merited area of expertise.” He begins to pace back and forth, his arm waving in the air, adding to the theatrics like a timed sequence of special effects. “For your fans it will be a paradigm of where to eat.” He pauses to take a sip of his cosmo. “And for chefs and restaurant owners, your weekly chronicle will be a Golden Ticket they’ll all be competing for—because every restaurant will crave your honorable mention.” He takes a deep breath and wipes a small bead of sweat off of his forehead as if sharing his epiphany was all too exhausting.

  I sit motionless, taking it all in. I mean, I knew calling on Sebastian for help would be essential, but this idea, to me, is beyond epic. It’s colossal, except for the Monday part.

  “Sebastian, I love it, love it, love it, looove it!” I jump up and give him a hug. “But why did you say every Monday?”

  “Honey, you’re not the only person in this world who hates Mondays. So why not turn Monday into a good day by sharing a good review?”

  “Okay, that makes sense, but what do I name it?”

  “Name what?”

  “The Facebook page. I can’t call it Food Disclosure anymore.”

  “Oh yeah, right. I got so carried away I forgot to mention that. Why don’t you name it The Fifty-Two Week Chronicles?” Sebastian’s voice begins to slur as he finishes the last sip of his cosmo and crashes down onto the couch. He is a bit of a lightweight.

  “The Fifty-Two Week Chronicles?” I repeat, deciding it does have a nice ring to it.

  “Yep. There are fifty-two Mondays in a year, and your page will be a chronicled source of viable restaurant information for foodies and restauranteurs alike.” He stifles a yawn and positions his head on top of the fringed pillow.

  I ponder his prime advice and decide it makes total sense.

  “Thanks so much, Sebastian, I really don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re the best.” I lean over and kiss him on the cheek.

  His eyes look a little heavy as if it’s a struggle to stay awake.

  “Sebastian, before you drift off to dreamland, please let me know what you meant in your text message.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You left me hanging with a text that said you totally need my help with a project.”

  “Oh yeah, that.” He yawns and curls up like a sleepy little lion cub. “A chef came in today seeking the PR Firm’s help rebuilding his restaurant’s image. I was thinking, since you have some free time on your hands, you can totally work for the firm as a restaurant consultant to help him bring his restaurant stats up to par.”

  Seconds later, and I really do mean seconds later, Sebastian slips into a deep-ass coma and leaves me—once again—with a buzz-killing cliff-hanger.

  Chapter 5

  Waking up to the humming sound of a blender after having a sleepless night is beyond uncool. Especially when my head is pounding. But it’s not what you think. I don’t have a throbbing hangover. I am, however, recovering from a God-awful nightmare. And I’m talking A Nightmare On Elm Street level nightmare. You see, I had this bizarrely frightening dream that Sebastian said he volunteered me, of all the people in the fucking universe, to work for his PR Firm as a restaurant consultant. I mean really—has anyone ever heard of a fired food critic turned restaurant consultant? Yet, it could be worse. I mean if the nightmare wasn’t actually a nightmare, but instead, you know, like real?

  The humming sound coming from the kitchen has intensified and is now accompanied by—singing? Is that Sebastian?

  I jump out of bed with only one mission in mind: make the freaking noise stop.

  With all intents and purposes, I march down the hall straight to the kitchen, covering my ears the whole way, shielding them from what I guess poor Sebastian believes is singing. ‘You
must be my lucky star, cause you shine on me wherever you are’… Madonna could actually sue him for false impersonation.

  Sebastian stands in front of the blender as it whirls away, his ears outfitted with red Beats headphones, and his eyes closed, as he emphatically rocks out. I can’t help but giggle. I stare in awe, immobilized—just for a minute—tempted to make a run back to my room, grab my iPhone, and record this you-tube-able moment. However, my headache beseechingly reminds me of its desperate call to action: make the freaking noise stop—now!

  “Sebastian, please!” I shout realizing, 1) he can’t hear me or see me, and 2) my own shouting has worsened my headache.

  After I stomp around the counter and over to the blender to shut it off myself, Sebastian looks at me stupefied.

  “Oh, you’re awake now.” He removes the headphones from over his ears and positions them around his neck as if wearing headphones around one’s neck is the new fashion craze.

  I decide a simple eye-roll is an extraordinarily sufficient reply.

  The kitchen counter is spattered with all sorts of fruit and vegetable peelings: cucumbers, oranges, mangoes, bananas, green apples, and carrots. Sebastian’s famous hangover smoothie.

  “Would you care for a Hangover Smoothie?” Sebastian asks, as if on cue, pouring some of the olive-green colored beverage into a glass.

  “No thank you. I’m just gonna settle for some coffee…and some Tylenol.”

  “Sweetie, you look like crap. Perhaps you should have some of this invigorating smoothie. It’s like a miracle worker. I promise you, this stuff here will make your hangover nonexistent.” He takes a meaningful gulp before placing the glass on the counter and begins to clean up the fruit and vegetable peelings.

  “Well, I don’t have a hangover. I just couldn’t sleep after having a horrible dream. A nightmare actually.” I take my cup of coffee and plop down onto the barstool.

  “Oh, do tell. I can look it up on that online dream encyclopedia website. I once had a dream I was being chased by a freaking koala bear. Of course I looked that shit up right away for analysis. Wanna know what it said?”

  “Um…okay.” I say, knowing quite well that I’m going to hear about it anyway.

  “Well, there were two meanings from two different websites. One said dreaming of a koala symbolizes love and friendship. The other site said dreaming of running from a bear means I am fearful. So I just combined the two and figured I was running from love and friendship.”

  I laugh internally. “And were you? Running from love and friendship?”

  “Oh, goodness no. Well, wait.” He pauses and appears to resort to deep thought for a few seconds. “There was this guy in my class that kept asking me out, but he was not at all my type. Too short. Anyway I guess I was running from his advances.”

  “And did the analysis of the dream make you change your mind about that guy and go out with him?”

  “Uh, no. Analysis or not, he was still way too short for me.”

  I scratch my head, feeling completely unfulfilled by that story.

  Sebastian finishes cleaning, grabs his miracle drink, and sits down next to me.

  “But seriously. Tell me about this dream that kept you up all night.”

  “Okay. I had a frightening dream that you volunteered me to work for your PR Firm. As some sort of restaurant consultant.” I pause, taking a sip of coffee, “Working with some chef.”

  Sebastian surveys me with a dumbfounded expression. “You’re kidding, right?” He positions his hand on my forehead as if to assess my temperature.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “A frightening dream?” He places his fingers over his mouth as if he needs to stifle his words. “Honey, you really do need some of this smoothie. That was not at all a dream. It was totally real shit.”

  “Stop toying with me, Sebastian. It was a dream.”

  “I’m not toying. ” His tone, severely patronizing. “Okay you may have had too many cosmos last night so let me explain.” He walks over to the cupboard, grabs a glass, pours some of the smoothie, and slides the glass over to me. Yum.

  “So yesterday, a chef came into the firm seeking representation. He said an unfortunate occurrence caused a setback to the business and its image. We’ve never taken on a chef, so we agreed it would be great for the firm. I thought of you right away. I mean you’re you and you know a great deal about food and restaurant etiquette…etcetera.”

  Of course all I can do is sit here rocking side to side on the wobbly barstool, as I clearly suffer from inaudible shock. Did he just seriously confirm he did indeed volunteer me? Oh, wait, I get it. This is part of the nightmare. Obviously I’m still sleeping. Duh.

  “So will you do it?” Sebastian’s voice blatantly affirms I’m not at all still sleeping. Damn.

  “And what makes you so sure I can do this? I’ve never worked at a restaurant.”

  He sits back down beside me with a heedful expression. “Um, yeah. Well, the way I see it, you know how a restaurant should be from the decor, to the service, and, of course, the food. You’re perfect. Please, Penelope. It will help the firm…me out.”

  I sip on more coffee and think for just a bit. I mean I guess I can help Sebastian out. What harm can it do? Besides he’s my BFF, and I wouldn’t be doing my part if I didn’t help a friend in need. He’s certainly come to my aid.

  Several times.

  “Ok. I’ll do it.”

  Sebastian practically leaps off the barstool to give me an enormous hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  “You’re welcome! Only wait,” I say, suddenly struck with an awful thought.

  “Oh no…what?”

  “Well, we know my identity as Penelope Monroe has only been restricted to my restaurant reviews. The public eye does not know me.”

  “Yep. Thought about that already and you’ll have to go in under a clever disguise. It will be fun actually.”

  “A clever disguise?”

  “Yes. Totally. You can choose a more suitable name and even…” he looks me up and down, “update your wardrobe. Maybe even add some smart-looking eyeglasses to make you look more consultant-like. But leave the wardrobe stuff up to me.” He walks over to the blender, rinses it out, places it on the dish rack to dry, then looks at his watch. “I’ve gotta go before I’m late for work. Thanks again for agreeing to do this for me. It’s gonna be so much fun! Take time today to think of a new name.”

  “Um, I’ve already got one.”

  “You do?”

  “Kennedy Prescott,” I say, feeling proud.

  “Kennedy Prescott?” He snickers as he grabs his messenger bag, keys, and a bottle of Perrier out of the fridge. “It’s quite fitting.”

  “I think it has a restaurant-consultant-like vibe to it. I once knew a girl with that name, in the third grade. Back then I wanted to be her. And now I can. At least by name anyway.”

  It’s true, when I was in the third grade, we lived in California while Mom and Dad were stationed at Los Angeles Air Force Base. We rented a lovely home and I attended a school in Pacific Palisades. In my class was a popular girl—Kennedy Prescott—who seemed to be perfect. I loved that name. Truthfully, I’ve been secretly using the name Kennedy Prescott as my cover when I book restaurant reservations. And once, I looked up the real Kennedy Prescott on Facebook and she’s still as classy as she was back in the third grade. A successful interior designer, married to a handsome successful lawyer. In other words, still perfect.

  “You’re pretty funny…Kennedy.” He winks at me then heads down the hall to leave.

  “Um, Sebastian?” I yell after him.

  “Yes?” he replies off in the distance.

  “What’s the name of the chef I will be working with?”

  There is a brief pause that makes me suspect Sebastian has left. But I didn’t hear the door slam closed as he annoyingly allows every single time he leaves the loft.

  “Um yeah,” he yells from the distance, “the chef’s name i
s Jonathan Knight.”

  The sound of the door shutting closed startles me. Or possibly it’s a combination of the sound of the door and the words that came out of Sebastian’s mouth. Jonathan Knight. Part of me wants to run down the hall, open the door, and read Sebastian the Riot Act. Only that part of me is being held hostage by the part who looks at her iPhone and figures it’s just as easy to send a text message.

  So I take another sip of coffee, grab my iPhone, and calmly resort to sending Sebastian the following text message:

  Me: What the fuck?

  He immediately replies.

  Sebastian: What the fuck, what?

  Me: Jonathan Freaking Knight?

  Sebastian: Wait. His middle name isn’t really ‘Freaking’, is it?

  I ignore his mockery and continue to focus on the facts.

  Me: You do realize who he is?

  Sebastian: Yes. But it’s going to be okay.

  Me: How can it be okay? I supposedly ruined his restaurant with my review. The review he totally deserved. You know he totally hates me, right?

  Sebastian: Right. But he won’t know it’s you because you won’t be you. You’ll be Jackie Kennedy. Or whoever.

  He added a smiley face emoji for effect.

  Me: It’s Kennedy Prescott. And you’re really not helping, by the way.

  Sebastian: Woman, please calm the hell down. Anyway, they say the best way to get over a man is to get a new one.

  Me: ????

  I have no idea what the hell Sebastian means. And who the hell is this they people always quote? They say this. They say that. Blah, blah blah.

  Sebastian: Well, I figure the same applies to a job. To get over one, you need to get a new one. Besides, Jonathan is fucking hotttt. You may very well be able to kill two birdies with one stone. You’ll get over being fired by working as a restaurant consultant for Manifique. And if you and Jonathan hit it off, you can get over getting dumped too.

  Me: Yeah, only I wasn’t dumped. Garrett cheated on me, remember?

  Sebastian: Tomato / Tamahto.

  I reply with a thumbs up emoji, which for me doesn’t simply mean okay.