‘It would be small,’ I said.
‘Okay, what else?’
‘And really cosy. With nice soft lighting and long tables where everybody had to sit together. And it would be called Raconteur.’
‘Interesting name.’
I opened my eyes.
‘It’s after a horse that won at Ascot.’
‘I didn’t know you liked horseracing.’
‘I don’t. It’s a long story,’ I said. ‘The menu would be French cuisine. But my signature dish would be lamb roast and vegetables, with a trifle for dessert. And the people who are special to me, like you and Peter and Aggie, could all come and eat for free. And my mum would visit all the time and tell the customers how proud she is.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Diane said and smiled.
‘And it would have an open kitchen, so I could look out and see all my customers enjoying my food, and they could all see me cooking.’
‘I think that’s a wonderful and achievable dream.’
I shook my head.
‘A dream is all it is.’
‘Why do you say that?’ she asked.
‘Because it won’t ever happen.’
‘Why not?’
‘I can’t go to the institute.’
‘Why not?’
I started to get frustrated and annoyed. I hated how Diane always made me say what was in my head.
‘Because I’m not good enough to be there. They’ll kick me out and Mr and Mrs Meemeduma will have wasted all that money and I will have just let them down.’
‘Sam, I’m sure that won’t—’
I interrupted her.
‘No, you can’t be sure. You know as much about cooking as they do. I won’t be good enough. I won’t be able to do it right. I can’t go there. Everyone will hate me. It will be just like school again. And I can’t go work in a kitchen. Nobody will ever hire me. Nobody will want to work with me. I can’t have a restaurant of my own. Strangers won’t want to eat my food. Nobody wants to see me cooking in a kitchen. They’ll think it’s disgusting. And my mum won’t ever visit and she definitely won’t tell anyone she’s proud of me. Forget it. It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have told you about it. Nothing matters. I won’t be able to finish the course. I won’t be there at the end anyway.’
My fists were balled up so tight my knuckles were white.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Why do you keep asking me why? Why why why, all the time. Because I’m not good enough, that’s why. I already told you. You don’t know how hard it is, okay? Nobody knows how hard this is.’
Diane looked at me. She was quiet and thoughtful for a while. She held her hands together like she was praying and pressed them against her lips. I was really embarrassed. I had never spoken to anybody like that, but I was too upset to apologise.
Then Diane shifted forwards in her chair and cleared her throat.
‘When we don’t think we’re worth much, we find ways to make our world small. We don’t allow ourselves to hope, because we’ve already accepted failure. And this pattern of thinking often determines the outcome of our most important choices. But, Sam, I have to tell you that doubt and confidence are both acts of faith. They’re both predictions of our capabilities. We either tell ourselves that we can or that we can’t. And these beliefs are a self-fulfilling prophecy, because we validate our doubts by giving up just as much as we embolden ourselves by refusing to give in. The only way you can break this cycle is to be brave. You have to ignore your doubts and risk failure. You have to try to achieve something that seemed unachievable. This is the best recipe for confidence. And confidence is how we start giving ourselves permission to take up more space in the world, to want more for ourselves, and to feel as though we deserve it. Sam, I know that you’re a very talented cook, just as I know you will perform brilliantly at the Culinary Institute, but you won’t know it until you put your fears aside and prove it to yourself.’
It felt like Vic was in the room with us. I thought about what he said just before he died. He told me not to give up, even if I couldn’t fix things. I thought about what he had done for me, and I remembered the promise I made to him.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll go.’
I was really nervous on the first day.
The workroom was a large kitchen with rows of island benches, and a long bench up the front with a whiteboard behind it. There were thirty students. I was the youngest by far.
I wore high-waisted blue jeans with a yellow sleeveless t-shirt and a pair of red Converse high-tops. I applied a light foundation and a nude matt lipstick. I had one white hairclip pinning my fringe back. I stood behind the bench right up the back. I tried to be invisible, but I got some strange looks from the older students. Our teacher was called Chef Bob. He was old and chubby and short and he had red cheeks. He liked to tell bad jokes. The first thing we did was bake a cake. As soon as I started cooking, I knew I would be alright.
I liked the course. Chef Bob taught us food science and history and methods and techniques and how commercial kitchens operated. He did a lot of demonstrations for us on his bench. But my favourite part was when we got to cook.
When we finished a dish, Chef Bob would walk around the room and assess us. He commented on our plating, and then he tasted our food and gave us his opinion. He was hard on people. It seemed like there was always something wrong, except when he came to my bench. He was always complimentary. He spoke loudly and drew attention to me. I wished he wouldn’t, because I didn’t want the other students to hate me. I made an asparagus soup in the third week, and he made every other student bring a spoon to my bench and taste it. It made me really embarrassed. I was tempted to ruin my meals on purpose, but I couldn’t bring myself to waste the ingredients.
I wasn’t very good at the written tests or the assignments. All I wanted to do was watch Chef Bob cook and then do it myself.
At the end of the fifth week, Chef Bob made me stay back after everybody had left. He asked me to come over to his bench. He sounded serious, and I thought I was in trouble.
‘I want you to make me some scrambled eggs,’ he said.
‘Now?’
He nodded.
I went into the pantry and collected the ingredients. I whisked two eggs with some cream, then I melted butter in a pan and I stirred the eggs lightly on a low heat. When they were done, I seasoned and plated them and garnished with fresh chives.
Chef Bob looked over the plate, then he tasted the eggs. He took another bite. He took a deep breath and sighed. He looked disappointed. He stared at me for so long that it made me uncomfortable.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said.
It was what I had been waiting for him to say since I had started.
‘Is it over-seasoned?’ I asked.
He shook his head.
‘Let me ask you a question, and I want you to be honest with me. Are you really sixteen years old?’
‘No,’ I whispered.
‘How old are you?’
‘Almost fifteen.’
‘That’s what I thought. Sam, I’m afraid this means you’re ineligible to continue studying at the institute. It’s a legal and liability issue. If you were to injure yourself on the premises, it would not be good. Rest assured your tuition will be fully refunded, I’ll see to that. And there will always be the opportunity for you to further your training …’
I didn’t hear the rest because my face got hot and my head got noisy. I apologised and quickly walked out of the workroom. I felt stupid and embarrassed. I knew I shouldn’t have got my hopes up. I shouldn’t have believed I could be good enough.
Chef Bob called out my name, but I pulled my apron over my head and dropped it and ran so he couldn’t see how upset I was.
The day after I left the Culinary Institute I started getting calls from numbers I didn’t know again. I blocked them straight away. After Steve broke in I had new deadbolts installed on all the doors, and I knew Mrs Boy
d would tell me if she saw anyone hanging around, but I was still afraid all the time.
I lay on the couch and watched old movies by myself. I couldn’t bring myself to see Aggie and tell her about what happened at the institute. Her parents would be so disappointed. I wished I had never gone. Whenever it seemed things were getting better, it didn’t work out and then I felt worse than before.
I slept in the Kingswood whenever Peter wasn’t there. I woke up if I heard noises or voices or cars going past, and then I couldn’t get back to sleep.
Three days after I left the institute, I was in the kitchen when I saw the shadow of a man pass across the window. I grabbed a knife from the drawer and crouched down. My phone was in another room. I was trapped.
There was a knock on the door. I pressed myself against the wall and I waited. It was quiet for a moment. Then the knocking started again, louder.
I held the knife tight and stayed silent.
‘Sam? Hello? Sam?’
I recognised the voice.
I didn’t know how he had found me, or why he was here. I hesitated, not sure what to do.
When the knocking didn’t stop, I got up and slowly walked down the hall. I took a breath, and opened the front door.
Chef Bob smiled at me.
‘There you are! The elusive Sam Watson. Good to see you’re still in the kitchen.’ He pointed at my hand. I was still holding the knife.
‘Oh. Yes,’ I said.
‘Sorry to arrive unannounced, but I’ve been trying to call you and couldn’t get through.’
‘Yeah, my, um, my phone broke.’
‘I see. You left quite abruptly the other day, and I had more to say to you.’
‘Do I need to give you money?’ I asked. ‘For the course, I mean.’
‘No, no, that’s not it.’ Chef Bob shook his head. He looked serious.
‘Sam, have you heard of Jean-Philippe Vollard?’
‘No.’
‘He is the owner and head chef at The Blue Goose, one of the finest restaurants in the country. Jean-Philippe is an alumnus of Le Cordon Bleu, and he’s worked kitchens in Paris and London and New York. A decade ago, he fell in love with a Western Australian woman and followed her back home, and we’ve been celebrating his cuisine here ever since. You know, Jean-Philippe came from a very humble background, and just like you he was impatient to start his career. Occasionally he visits us at the institute and runs workshops. He’s passionate about inspiring the next generation. He once told me that if I ever had a student with extraordinary potential whom I felt would benefit by learning in a more rigorous atmosphere, he would commit to training them in his restaurant. Sam, I am very impressed by your talent. I’ve had hundreds of students come through my kitchen, a lot of them very fine cooks, but I see something special in you. What I was going to tell you the other day is that I have recommended you to Jean-Philippe, so you can have the opportunity to learn under him at The Blue Goose. It will be hard work in the beginning, lots of food preparation and general duties, but if you stick with it, the skills and experience you’ll gain will be much more valuable than what we offer at the institute. So, what do you say?’
I was shocked. I was having trouble taking it in.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘What if he doesn’t like me?’
‘He will like you just fine, Sam. But it will require maturity and commitment on your part. It’s a high honour to be a member of his kitchen staff. Hundreds apply every year.’
‘But … why me?’
‘Because you’re a natural talent, and if you want it, you will go far.’
He smiled and handed me a business card.
‘Get yourself a new phone, and call this number. I’ll be checking in with you too. Good luck!’
I watched him leave. Then I read Jean-Philippe Vollard’s business card. It had gold writing and a picture of a blue goose. I scrunched it up in my fist and tossed it into the garden.
‘Sam, I want you to know that you’re doing really well. And I know how hard you’re fighting.’
I had been speaking to Diane for over three months. One night, I was really upset and I didn’t want to talk. I just sat on the floor with Brick. Diane was sitting across from me with her legs crossed. I knew what she was going to ask, and I dreaded it.
‘You missed your appointment again with Dr Russo,’ she said gently.
I didn’t say anything.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘Not really.’
‘What’s been on your mind?’
The Clayton Road overpass had been on my mind. Every time I closed my eyes I imagined myself back there. Standing in the dark. Looking down. It was quiet and I was alone, but then I would hear voices. Peter and Aggie and Diane and Vic. They were searching for me. Calling my name. I felt so guilty and ashamed for letting them down that I didn’t want them to find me. So as much as I wanted to climb back over the rail for them, I stayed where I was.
I would hear them getting closer, and this made me so dizzy and anxious that I let go of the rail and leaned forwards. For an instant I had no weight. I was falling. But then somebody grabbed me. I kicked my legs and I was really scared and I looked up and it was my mum holding onto me. I needed her to pull me up. I needed her to save my life. But she didn’t. She told me it was time to stop. And then she let me go.
‘Sam?’
I shook my head.
‘Nothing,’ I said.
‘Would you like me to schedule another appointment for you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Are you having second thoughts about the inhibitors?’
‘No. I really want them.’
‘Is there a problem with your mum’s availability?’
‘No. That’s not it. It’s my fault.’
‘Are you sure?’
I nodded.
‘You don’t like to talk about her.’
I shrugged.
‘Are things strained between the two of you?’
‘No.’
‘Is she aware of the issues you’re struggling with?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Have you talked to her about Dr Russo and your treatment options?’
I shrugged.
‘Are you worried she won’t support you taking this medication?’
I shrugged again and squirmed.
‘When was the last time you spoke with your mother, Sam?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was it recently?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Does she know how unhappy you are? What is it you’re not telling me, Sam?’
My face was getting hot. I closed my eyes and shook my head. I wouldn’t talk about her. It wasn’t loyal. I had already betrayed my mum once, and I had lost her. She didn’t love me anymore. I was breathing fast. Diane must have sensed that I was getting upset.
‘Hey, it’s okay,’ she said. ‘It’s okay.’
My hands were shaking. Diane reached out and held them. We sat like that for a long time without talking.
Then she asked a question I had never been asked before.
‘Sam, what’s your happiest memory?’
When I was seven, my school was doing a performance for Environment Week called ‘Wonders of Nature’.
Each year group had to do a separate act. My class had been learning about pollination, so our section of the play was a honeybee visiting flowers and collecting nectar and pollen while ‘Flight of the Bumblebee’ played. One of us would be the honeybee and the rest of the class would dress up as flowers.
Our teacher, Mrs Grayson, asked who would like to be the honeybee. Everyone put their hand up except me.
Mrs Grayson wrote all our names on post-it notes and folded them up and put them into an empty tissue box. Then she shook it and pulled out a name. It was mine.
Everybody groaned and looked at me. They were disappointed and angry. I wanted to tell Mrs Grayson to give the part to somebody else, but I had never w
on anything before and I wanted to tell my mum.
We were all responsible for our own costumes. Most of the class made theirs at home with their parents on the first night. I asked my mum if she would help me make the honeybee outfit, and she promised she would. But every night that week she went out and left me at home by myself.
We did a dress rehearsal on the day before the performance, and I was the only one without a costume ready. Mrs Grayson was stressed and annoyed, and she told me that if I didn’t have an outfit by the next day, the whole class would miss out.
That night, I laid out some of my clothes on the table, along with some scissors and supplies that I had stolen from the art room, ready for my mum to help me. I sat and waited patiently while she talked on the phone in her room. When she came out she was wearing a pretty black dress and said she was leaving for a little while to see a friend. She promised she would help me when she got home.
I started to cry. I knew she wouldn’t be home in time. I was angry with her. She didn’t understand how important it was, or how much my classmates and their parents were going to hate me if we couldn’t perform our act because of me.
She looked at me. I thought she was going to yell, but instead she put her bag down and took off her shoes and she hugged me. She told me she was sorry.
Then she took my measurements. I told her about the play, and what I had to do, and we looked at pictures of bees together. She sketched the costume on the back of an envelope. Her phone rang a few times, and she didn’t even answer it.
She went to her room to get her sewing kit. She also went through her wardrobe and collected clothes that were black or yellow.
I gasped when she cut into one of her dresses, but she just smiled. She told me her parents had been really strict about what she wore, so she would go shopping with her mum and buy sensible outfits and then she would secretly alter them later. That’s how she learned to sew.
She was really good at it. She worked for hours, but I was still worried that we wouldn’t make it in time. I tried to stay awake, but at some point I must have fallen asleep at the table. My mum woke me up the next morning. I was in her bed, and she was holding my costume. She had worked all night to finish it. It looked amazing.
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