by C. J. Duggan
‘Order up!’ she called, drawing a unified sigh of relief.
Relief was short lived, though, as reality sank in. Now was the time to worry. Now was the time to cook.
I didn’t know much about commercial kitchens. Unlike the picture Cecile had painted, I didn’t have international knowledge of the hospitality industry, I wasn’t a messenger from God here to save the day. All I did know was gained from binge-watching the Lifestyle channel when I was hit by a head cold my first winter in London. I had learned enough to at least pretend I knew what I was talking about.
‘Come on, guys, communicate with each other. Francois, I want you to say, “Yes, chef!” when Gaspard asks you a question, okay?’
‘Yes, chef!’ Francois said, panicked.
I smiled. ‘Excellent, now to Gaspard.’
I turned to check on Cathy, who was placing a water jug and six glasses on a tray for the table. She slowly picked up the stainless steel platter, the glasses rattling as she barely controlled her trembling hands. Water spilt over the lip of the jug. She set it down twice, shaking her hands out to try again but it was no use, the jingling became louder, the spillage bigger. I grabbed a cloth and helped her mop the tray.
‘Here, I can take it,’ I said.
‘Really?’
‘If you want me to, I will. It’s only water, unless he asks me if it’s from the foothills of the Himalayan Mountains. Do you know where it’s from?’
Cathy laughed. ‘From the tap.’
‘Well, not exactly the Himalayas,’ I said, taking the tray from her.
‘Thank you, Claire. I will be okay to deliver the food,’ she assured me.
‘Of course you will,’ I said with a wink. ‘Hey, you want to top me up with more of that tap-water goodness before I go out there?’
Cathy obliged, grabbing the jug and plunging it under the tap.
‘Merci beaucoup, wish me luck,’ I said with my back to the door, taking in a deep breath just like Cathy had done a million times before. Now it was my turn to walk into the lion’s den.
Be nice, be nice, be nice, I chanted in my head. Now was not the time to adopt my usually fiery behaviour that I blamed my hot-headed mother for; now was the time for calm, for zen. I’ve got this.
I pushed against the swinging door and turned steadily to face the restaurant, plastering on my best smile. With each step I took toward the table, I projected warmth and confidence.
I treated the table as a whole, choosing to place a glass down for the person next to Louis Delarue, a stocky, pale man with glasses. I didn’t dare try to be clever, so I simply mixed my limited French with English.
‘Bonjour, would you like some water?’
His eyes lit up. ‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ he replied in a delightful if not a bit posh English accent. It somehow put me completely at ease, to move around the table and place glasses down in front of each person, ever aware of Louis Delarue watching me intently. Keeping him as a blur made him less real to me, and I managed to work my way around the table without a tremor or fault until inevitably I came to the last glass, and the last place, standing next to a man in a blue suit, his arms resting on the table, his expensive watch glistening under the light of the chandeliers.
The last one: place down the water and head back to the kitchen.
With the assumption that he wanted water just as everyone else had, I confidently began to pour his water, my hand so steady I felt my heart swell with pride, a small knowing smile curving the corner of my mouth, until I made the biggest mistake of my life.
I looked up.
A familiar pair of steely blue eyes locked with mine, the same eyes that had stared me down through the open window of a black Audi as I stood heartbroken in the rain; the same eyes that had lifted up to me on the balcony from the street below; the same angry, hard, hypnotic eyes pierced through me like a lightning bolt, pinned me in place and instantly turned my blood cold. I was completely transfixed until the English man coughed, startling me and snapping me into realising that I had completely overflowed Louis Delarue’s glass with water.
‘Oh shit!’ I cried, stopping so quickly I bumped the table, knocking the overflowing glass on its side and dumping a deluge of cold water directly into Louis Delarue’s lap.
‘Putain de Christ!’ he screamed, leaping up from his seat, surveying the damage to his now drenched crotch. My mouth was agape, a mirror image of the other guests, who looked on in horror, but not as much horror as the three little faces pushed up against the kitchen window, watching the nightmare unfold. I wanted to die, but never more so than when my eyes met Louis Delarue’s. All of a sudden I would have given anything for that cocky kerbside death stare, because the look he was giving me now and the sound of Cecile’s quick-stepping heels approaching on the tiled floor meant I was in so much trouble.
Chapter Eleven
‘I am so, so sorry,’ I stammered, putting down the jug and, because I’d obviously left my brain back in the kitchen, dabbing at his thigh, thinking, hoping, it wasn’t that bad, but of course it was. Louis Delarue snatched the serviette out of my hand.
‘I’ve got it,’ he snapped in his creamy accent as he started brushing down his expensive trousers.
This was a disaster. In order to prevent this from happening to Cathy, what did I do? I spilled cold water on Louis Delarue’s crotch.
Cecile rounded the corner, her eyes widening before she quickly masked her emotions. To my utmost relief she didn’t ask what happened. Ever the professional she simply asked, ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Oh, I think we have everything under control,’ said the only woman at the table, her red hair cut into a bob, and a scarf tied around her neck. She was ever so chic, minus the heavy eyeshadow that highlighted her cat-like eyes. She was the kind of woman you could envision smoking a long cigarette at a café somewhere. She seemed somewhat delighted at the spectacle unfolding, but her demeanour didn’t make me feel any more at ease.
‘I am, again, so sorry. I will get you some more water,’ I said, giving any reason to excuse myself so I could bury my head in my hands and give into a moment’s mortification.
‘No!’ he said, holding up his hand. ‘You have done quite enough. Where is our waitress?’
‘Oh, Cathy, she will be delivering your meals,’ I assured.
‘Well, thank God for that.’
‘Just be grateful that it wasn’t a scalding cup of coffee,’ said the pompous grey-haired man opposite the Englishman.
‘Oui, darling, maybe you stick to the buttering of the bread, yes?’ said the woman.
They all laughed, almost as if I wasn’t standing there while they discussed how utterly useless I was.
Louis Delarue had sat back in his seat, grimacing and shifting in discomfort. I was going to offer him a hair dryer but that would no doubt make them laugh all the more. I glanced at Cecile, who seemed deeply worried, shaking her head at me as if warning me not to say another word.
‘Well, if you need anything, please feel free to ask me or any of the staff,’ she added politely.
‘How about a dry cleaning service?’ said the brown-haired man who hadn’t uttered a word so far, his lips pursed as he delivered what he thought was a killer line. His eyes flashed around the table for approval, but his companions didn’t seem to find it as funny.
‘Of course, we will happily take care of any laundering needs,’ answered Cecile, panic underlining her voice, no matter how she tried to disguise it.
Louis Delarue rubbed at his eyes, running his hands through his thick, dark hair; it was like he was on the edge of an outburst he was desperately trying to curtail. With Cecile now gone, I took my cue to go while the going was good, only to be stopped before I had a chance to move.
‘What is your name?’ he asked, his tone bored, his face tired.
I stood still, looking down into his eyes; they weren’t angry now but it didn’t make them any less intimidating and for a split second, I swear I’d fo
rgotten my own name until his brows rose. I cleared my throat, turning directly to him as I clutched my tray to my chest like a child hiding under their blanket from the bogeyman.
‘Claire,’ I said, lowly. Hating how small it sounded, hating how insignificant he made me feel.
‘Claire?’ But it was almost like he was rolling my name around on his tongue, testing what it felt like, what it sounded like – and coming from him it sounded dark, smoky, with a hint of something else, but that something else was a secret, only for him to know.
I thought he might press more, question the twang to my accent, grill me on water-pouring knowledge or just basically tear me apart in front of the table of bigwigs for my raging incompetence; instead, he turned away, dismissing me.
I allowed myself no time to feel the shame of him ignoring me and walked as calmly as I could back into the kitchen. I had gone from feeling completely in control and unflappable to red-faced and humiliated. A wave of nausea came over me. I felt like nothing else mattered now. I had completely blown any chance of Louis Delarue wanting to help this hotel. Not only had I abused him and called him a maniac yesterday, but I was also caught spying on him from my window, and now I had soaked his genitals in cold water, the ultimate cherry on top. I’d completed the trifecta of fuck-ups.
I pushed through the door, fighting not to crumble to the floor; instead, I tossed the tray into the sink and clasped my hands against my cheeks as I tried to still my whirling mind. The tiny, cramped kitchen was silent, and I could feel all eyes on me, drilling into the back of my skull. I lifted my hand in defeat, turning to face them.
‘I’m so sorry, guys.’
Cathy frowned. ‘Don’t be sorry. It was an accident.’
‘Yeah, a big fucking accident,’ I agreed.
Gaspard’s brows lifted, as if he was completely taken aback by my language – quite rich coming from a chef.
‘Are you okay? You went white, like you’d seen a ghost,’ Cathy said, placing her hand on my shoulder.
I shook my head. ‘I know him!’
‘What?’
‘He’s the same jerk that went speeding past me in the rain and splashed gutter water all over me.’
Cathy’s brows arched in surprise. ‘Well, it looks like you got your revenge.’
‘What? Oh God, no, I didn’t mean to do that. I mean he totally deserves it, but it was definitely unintentional.’
Gaspard looked on, crossing his arms over his chest as if he highly doubted me.
‘It’s the truth,’ I insisted.
‘Well, I would love to offer you counselling sessions, but I am ready to plate up. Francois, I need those croutons ready.’
‘Yes, chef!’ Francois said, jumping into action.
One by one, dishes of hot soup came to the pass. The potential damage I could do with those was terrifying.
‘It’s okay, Claire. I will take these out.’
‘No, I’ll help,’ I insisted, grabbing two bowls.
‘Are you sure?’ Cathy seemed uncertain, worry in her eyes.
‘If I don’t go back out there now, I’ll never be able to show my face again.’
Cathy nodded. ‘Okay, let’s go.’
We carried our bowls to the door, stopping for a second to give one another a look of dread.
‘Cathy, can I ask a small favour?’
‘Oui.’
‘I’ll deliver Louis Delarue his soup, okay?’
Cathy clearly knew what I was getting at – I needed a moment of redemption.
Gaspard crossed his heart and said a silent prayer. I didn’t know if he thought I needed it or if he did.
Pushing our way through to the restaurant with the grace and professionalism of staff you would expect at the Ritz, we delivered the food without issue. I placed a bowl down in front of Mr Snarky Grey Hair and then one in front of Louis Delarue. As I placed his bowl down, my eyes lifted up to again meet his ever-watchful stare. He showed no emotion whatsoever as he eyeballed the pistou soup, until he looked back up at me. There was definitely an emotion there: a deep-seated contempt, one that made my heart pound against my chest, and not in a good way. Now I knew that it didn’t matter what the soup tasted like; it could be the most magnificent soup ever created, but he was going to be brutal. I saw it in the cold depths of his eyes. I could see how he intimidated and belittled people, bullied them into thinking they were not worthy of his presence. There was something in the challenge of his gaze that made my insides burn in anger; I’d never much liked bullies and in the short amount of time I’d had the displeasure of being in his lordship’s presence, I didn’t much appreciate being treated like I was beneath him.
Instead of scurrying immediately back to the safety of the kitchen, I lingered, maintaining eye contact with him, unblinking, until I glanced at the stain on his trousers, reminding him of his discomfort. I gave a small smile as I nodded my head.
‘Bon appetit,’ I said to him.
He cocked his brow, amusement sparkling in his eyes, but I couldn’t be sure if it lingered for long before I broke away from the table and followed a horrified-looking Cathy back to the kitchen.
Now we had to wait for the verdict.
Chapter Twelve
As predicted, the pistou soup was unseasoned and uninspiring. The duck breast stuffed with sugared almonds was overcooked and inelegant, and the mixed berry millefeuille was sloppy and too sweet. Cathy and I decided to spare Gaspard comments such as ‘Wouldn’t feed it to my dog’ and ‘Is this a joke dish?’ Each blow we delivered was like a wound to Gaspard’s soul. By the time we’d finished, his complexion was a deep red. I seriously hoped that he didn’t have a blood-pressure problem, but more worrying was his close proximity to sharp things. If Louis Delarue thought he would wander in here to meet the staff and offer a parting blow, I don’t know if I would be so inclined to stop Gaspard reaching for a knife – it might be something we all wrestled for.
I had wanted there to be an air of relief once we had brought the dessert plates to the sink, that we had survived, and that a weight had been lifted, but it didn’t feel like that at all; the atmosphere was still intense. The VIP party retired into the lounge to continue their meeting, no doubt discussing the fate of Hotel Trocadéro. If they thought it not worthy to save, the hotel would remain the same: untouched and unloved. If they took the Trocadéro on, the Louis Delarue name was apparently enough to breathe new life into it. This was what the staff had been hoping for – the hotel to be brought up to scratch. But as I washed the dishes in the tiny sink, thinking back to how Louis Delarue had been humiliated in front of his colleagues by the girl who had abused him merely days before, in my heart of hearts I knew he would punish me by punishing the hotel. I felt utterly despondent; here I had been entrusted to help them out as a way to repay their kindness, and what had I done? Completely sabotaged their chances. I should have gone back to London and left well enough alone, but of course that wasn’t my style, was it? I cringed as I wiped down the sink, recalling my smartarse Bon appetit.
It took all my courage to plaster on a smile and turn to face the others.
‘You did a great job today, guys! No matter what the outcome, you all tried really hard.’
My pep talk fell on deaf ears. It seemed morale was at an all-time low and after my water-spilling antics, I’d lost some serious street cred. It was like they were able to see straight through my facade now, and I didn’t feel as confident as I had before. I urgently wanted to speak to Cecile, and apologise for failing her. But in order to do that I would have to walk through the lounge, and while they were in there, relaxing with their smug, full bellies, we were all prisoners in the cramped kitchen, scrubbing benches and pots and awaiting our fate.
Finally the kitchen door swung open and there, tall and foreboding, stood Louis Delarue. The entire kitchen froze almost comically still. Not one person moved a millimetre, it was like we were all suspended in time, or at least that’s how I felt, looking into Louis Delarue’s stone-cold
gaze. I was anxious for Gaspard and Francois: were they going to feel the wrath of this tyrant of a chef? He looked as if he might tear them to pieces, run a white glove over the shelves and get a UV light to trace over the cupboards.
A black cloud had descended on the kitchen; a beautiful, stylish black cloud. It was undeniable – Louis Delarue would turn your head in the street. He wasn’t classically handsome, but he held himself with great confidence. I stepped away from the sink toward him, intent on taking the brunt of his displeasure. His lean, six-foot-tall frame towered over me; if I’d found him intimidating sitting down, he was absolutely overpowering standing. Just being near him made me wish that the ground would open up and suck us all through a whirling vortex.
But his eyes shifted from me and I felt my blood run cold as his attention turned to where Gaspard stood with a ladle in his hand. Francois looked equally worried, paused mid-wipe of his work station. Louis stepped into the kitchen, letting the door swing closed behind him, like a jungle cat and we were his prey. He took in Gaspard’s stained chef’s jacket; the chef certainly wasn’t the healthiest-looking specimen with his three-day stubble and his nicotine-stained fingertips. He was pretty much a PR nightmare, and standing next to Louis Delraue, well, there was no comparison. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Louis chose to shut this kitchen down and make everyone unemployed without so much as a blink of an eye. I could tell that he would look on such a thing as sport, so when he actually stepped forward and stuck out his hand to Gaspard it took us all by surprise, especially Gaspard, who tentatively held out his hand.
‘I just had to say congratulations,’ Louis said, his eyes almost twinkling with delight.
Cathy and I looked at each other. My heart soared as we watched how relief washed over Gaspard before he squared his shoulders in pride.
‘Consistency is not an easy thing to achieve,’ Louis added. Francois was now grinning ear to ear, getting caught up in possibly the most incredible career highlight of his and Gaspard’s lifetimes. I felt completely giddy and so incredibly proud. All the hard work had paid off, and I could almost cry I was so happy. And then I saw the good humour fade from Louis’s eyes.