The Wrong Girl

by Foster, Zoe

  Simone, who was always delighted when Lily wanted some of her cooking, leaped up to assist. ‘Yes! Oh, you’ll love it. It’s really good with some Greek yoghurt and raisins, so good for you, full of all the protein white-sugar-white-carb types like you never get. I wrote all about protein on my blog last week, did you read it?’ Simone stopped and looked at her friend.

  In Lily’s mind there was no worse sentence than, ‘Did you read my blog?’ except for maybe, ‘I had the weirdest dream last night . . .’

  ‘You should use some of my recipes on the show,’ Simone said earnestly.

  ‘Ha! Buckwheat and lentils and oogy-boogy smoothies on The Daily . . . our viewers would get diarrhoea at the very idea. It’s lamb chops and sugary muffins for us, thank you very much.’

  Simone could only shake her head.

  *

  It was only ten a.m. on the second day back at work, and Lily was already feeling the familiar grip of stress tighten around her throat.

  A panicked email had come in from Eliza early that morning stating she needed the first week’s segments by that afternoon, which meant Lily (and Dale) had to switch off holiday cruise control and get to work. Lily opened the largely blank planning spreadsheet with a sigh. All those empty rows and cells caused her enthusiasm for work to suddenly drop to subterranean levels. She didn’t have a single decent recipe idea, let alone five strong, first-week-back-with-a-new-chef ones. She could ask around as she sometimes did, but it was usually a waste of time. If Eliza had it her way the only food they’d cook on the segment would be macarons and cupcakes. It was a running joke among the crew: she suggested a cupcake recipe pretty much every planning meeting, even when the theme of the week was India.

  Lily reached for her hot tea, and instantly spilled the pale brown brew all over her keyboard, mouse and onto her jeans. Of course.

  ‘Shit,’ she whispered furiously, backing out from her dripping desk. She mopped up what she could with tissues, then gave up and headed to the kitchen for paper towel.

  She filled the kettle and turned it on to make a fresh cup. As it gurgled, she ripped off some paper towel and started dabbing her thigh. Just once she’d like to be able to take her clothes off at the end of the day without there being an enormous patch of food, drink or olive oil on them. Was that too much to ask? No wonder she never dressed up for work.

  She heard footsteps behind her and turned to see who she was about to be embarrassed by.

  In walked the Ken doll who’d stolen her park yesterday. He was wearing black jeans, a dark-blue T-shirt and dorky grey New Balance trainers. His tanned arms were perfectly muscled, a fact Lily tried not to notice.

  He seemed to be in a rush, and, without even a glance at Lily, walked past her to the fridge. He pulled out an enormous foil-covered tray of something, then slammed the door shut. He touched his hand on the side of the now quiet kettle and, feeling it was hot, simply lifted the whole thing and raced out with it.

  Lily looked after him, gobsmacked. Did he just steal her hot water? And with it the very vessel in which to create more hot water? She stuck her head out the door in the direction he had hurried off to, but he was gone. Unless that was human blood under the foil and the boiling water was needed to save someone’s life, that was the rudest thing Lily had been privy to in this kitchen. And she’d once had someone repeatedly break into her fruit salads and steal the pineapple pieces. Nothing else; just the pineapple.

  With wet, stained pants and no tea, Lily returned irritably to her desk. There was a text from Sim lighting up her phone screen.

  This photographer is HOT . . . I’m not allowed to take his number, am I?? What if he took mine? LOL xx

  Lily shook her head as she replied.

  No. Put your boner away and get back to work. x

  Speaking of getting back to work, that was precisely what she needed to do.

  ‘These are going round.’

  Dale presented a tray of small friand-looking things on a plate, and then placed it on Lily’s desk before scarpering away. Lily peered at them; they looked pretty good. She tried a red-tinged one, and almost spat it back out when she realised it was brimming with liqueur.

  ‘Mmm, do I smell tasty treats?’ Alice appeared from thin air, as she generally did whenever there was food circulating.

  ‘I don’t think tasty —’

  ‘Ooh, they look fun!’ She popped one into her mouth, and immediately had the same reaction as Lily, screwing up her nose and chewing in exaggerated motions.

  ‘I’m eating a shot of tequila, aren’t I? Hey, what’s that brown shit on your pants, you pig?’

  ‘Spilled my tea. Please, enjoy another one.’ Lily pushed the plate back under Alice’s nose.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, come now, you love junk food.’

  Alice reluctantly slid a dark-brown cake into her mouth. She screwed up her entire face.

  ‘That good, huh?’ Lily’s eyes were dismayed. ‘Dale brought them over. I was really hoping they’d be delicious.’

  ‘Alcoholic six year olds will love them.’

  ‘Hey, so we’re meeting the chef this arvo,’ Lily said. ‘Apparently he’s locked himself in the test kitchen since he arrived, which is why no one has met him yet. I like that. Makes me think he might actually want to do good stuff. Hey, want a DC? I’m going to get one.’

  ‘Nup.’

  Lily took the remaining cakes to the kitchen and set them down on the bench, relieved to see the kettle was now back, which saved her from walking to the drink machine for a Diet Coke in order to get a caffeine hit. She filled it up and flicked the switch, then opened the fridge to get some milk. When she closed it, the beefcake thief was standing at the bench, looking at the tray of friands.

  ‘What are these?’ he said.

  Lily blushed; he was so rude.

  ‘They’re . . . liqueur friands, I guess you could say.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Any good?’ He looked genuinely interested.

  ‘Disgusting.’

  Something flickered in his eyes. It looked like he wanted to laugh.

  ‘Huh,’ he said, before touching the side of the now gurgling kettle. ‘Can I take this?’

  He’s got to be kidding, Lily thought. Again?!

  ‘I was just boiling it for a cup of tea, actually.’ She tried to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

  He leaned over and plucked the kettle off its base and, stepping in close to Lily so that she got a direct hit of his woody, smoky cologne, poured hot water carefully into her cup, careful not to scorch the tea bag. Once he was finished, he walked out with the kettle, saying a quick ‘Thanks’ as he went.

  Lily crossed her arms, her mouth agape. At least this time he’d bothered to give her some water first, she conceded.

  Five hours later, Dale and Lily sat in the boardroom, waiting for Eliza, Sasha, who was The Daily’s executive producer, and the famous mystery chef. Lily felt like they had a firm list of recipes and even a star chef booked in, an eighteen-year old prodigy from the UK who was on a promotional tour for his new TV show, and who had already amassed nearly two million Twitter followers, most of them fourteen-year-old girls who found his floppy hair and mischievous grin utterly magnetic.

  Voices came down the hallway and into the room walked Sasha, in top-to-toe black with clear cat’s-eye framed spectacles, a green resin-bead necklace and fire-red lips, and Eliza looking like, well, Eliza.

  ‘Happiest of new years to you both,’ Sasha said. She was an extremely impressive woman professionally, and never forgot a person’s name or role. It was testament to her terrifying attention to detail.

  ‘I see you got some sun over the break, Dale?’ Sasha grinned, and Dale smiled meekly back. Everyone laughed, because Dale was as pale as always and wasn’t offended by such things, and because Sasha was lovely, and the boss. Lily had been subtly trying to make Sasha fall in love with her and promote her from the day she started at The Daily, but Sasha’s nature was not to single anyone out
, or show favourites, or even really acknowledge anyone outside of platitudes, so Lily had no idea what Sasha actually thought of her.

  ‘Is Jack coming?’

  ‘Yes, he knows to be —’ Eliza started, before something caught her eye at the door and her expression became the facial equivalent of a golden sunset over fields of luminous poppies.

  ‘Here he is now,’ she said, beaming.

  Lily looked up from her worksheets and her eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. It was him. The kettle thief. He, all arm muscles and dazzling blue eyes, walked into the meeting room and pulled out a chair next to Sasha.

  Instantly, the entire energy of the room changed. Eliza pepped up, and sat with what must have been extreme discomfort in a spectacularly straight position in her chair; Dale had flushed with nerves as he always did when someone new was in the same room/postcode; and Lily was busy swallowing back her annoyance at the new chef’s various forms of theft. Yeah, good one, Alice, she thought. He’s a real dreamboat. Just as polite and delightful as can be.

  ‘Sorry I’m late. I had a bit of a . . . hiccup in the test kitchen with the chicken.’

  Eliza giggled, hurling another hundred-watt smile at Jack and waiting for his return smile. He smiled at her briefly, eyebrows raised, nodding.

  The test kitchen! Lily had to clench her eyes closed for a second to prevent face-palming. It must have been him who’d made those awful friands, the ones she dissed when he asked about them. Oh well, she thought. Serves him right. They were horrible.

  ‘Has everyone met . . . everyone?’ Sasha asked. ‘Shall we do that first?’

  ‘As you know,’ Eliza began, as though she had been asked by the teacher to tell the class about her summer holiday, ‘last year I decided The Daily really needed a permanent, in-house chef.’

  Lily’s veins pulsed and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end – you did not think of that, it was my idea! She shot a look to Sasha to see if the boss would give her some kind of reassuring, ‘Relax, I know it was your idea’ nod, but it was fruitless. Lily crossed her arms and sat back in her chair, taking a deep breath to calm herself down. Razor-sharp thoughts of quitting pierced her brain, as they did each time Eliza frustrated her, or her work went unappreciated or uncredited. There was zero chance she was sticking around if she didn’t get promoted this year, she confirmed. Nada.

  ‘We wanted someone for the audience to really bond with, and form a relationship with. Someone with impressive chops, as it were’ – tinkly laugh – ‘and the kind of obvious charm our audience goes really wild for. So, without further ah-dyoo, let me introduce you to the man who will fulfil all of these requirements and many more. Jack Winters!’ She gestured towards him with a flourish.

  ‘Wow, what an introduction,’ he said, smiling shyly. ‘Thanks, Eliza. I’m looking forward to working with you guys, and trying this TV thing, and getting to know the city – all of it,’ he said, with a pure country-boy grin. Oh, give me a break, Lily thought. All that’s missing is the goddamn straw between his teeth.

  ‘This is Lily, your segment producer, and this is the assistant producer, Dale. You’ll be working with them closely day to day,’ Eliza said, as an afterthought.

  Jack threw one of his enormous, tanned arms across the table towards Dale, ready to shake. Dale actually flinched.

  ‘Hi Dale, nice to meet you.’

  Dale pulled his arm up to the table and tentatively shook the great walloping hand thrust before him, muttering a ‘Nice to meet you’ as he did so.

  Jack pulled his arm back and slowly turned his gaze to Lily, all deep-sea blue eyes and long black lashes.

  ‘Lily, is it? Pleased to meet you.’

  Lily’s eyes moved up to meet his, her chin still down in defiance. Why didn’t she deserve a handshake?

  ‘Yes, Lily. Nice to meet you too.’ She knew she sounded pissed off, and half-hated herself for it, but she wanted him to know she wasn’t some pushover who would forgive his rudeness just because she had ovaries.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I look forward to working with you.’

  ‘Well! Now that we’re all “besties”’ – Eliza made the bunny ears as she spoke – ‘let’s get cooking!’ More tinkly laughter. Lily sighed quietly and opened up her notebook.

  An hour later, Sasha’s PA interrupted the meeting to remind her of an appointment. ‘It’s going to be a magnificent year, I can just feel it,’ Sasha said before leaving.

  ‘Okay then,’ Eliza said, smiling widely. ‘Lily will email everyone the updated schedule this afternoon, and we’ll regroup tomorrow for rehearsal, okay? This segment is going be just awesome, you guys. I know it.’ She stood up, straightening her now creased, too-tight pants, and seemed disappointed that Jack didn’t immediately mirror her move so they could walk and talk their way down the hall together. But Jack was busy writing down note upon note. Lily was annoyed to realise she was impressed; most of the chefs she’d dealt with were either extremely experienced and borderline savant-like in their ability to ‘get’ what they would be doing on set, or so blisteringly arrogant they made it up as they went, causing hell for her and Dale, not to mention the camera and floor crew.

  Sensing Jack would be a while, Eliza clutched her notebook to her chest and began scrolling down her BlackBerry fast and with importance, making her move towards the door at the rate of an injured sloth. Getting nothing after another minute, she gave up and walked out of the room. Well, someone had a crush, Lily thought, smiling. She didn’t blame her, her boyfriend Kirk was about as charming as a mosquito, and equally as annoying.

  Dale and Lily finished their notes and stood up. Dale scurried out of the room immediately, as though there were a fire alarm that only he could hear, leaving just Lily to pack up her many press releases and papers, and Jack scribbling away like a crazed fool.

  Suddenly, Jack looked up, directly at Lily, straight into her eyes.

  ‘I stole your kettle, didn’t I.’ It wasn’t a question. He looked at her intently, as though studying her.

  Lily nodded. It was probably too much to openly scowl, she thought. ‘Yeah. Twice actually.’

  He smiled ever so faintly.

  ‘Sorry. The one in the test kitchen is broken and no one’s replaced it yet. I’m just going to bring my one from home tomorrow.’

  ‘You need to talk to Lionel. He’s the one who gets stuff done around here. Small guy, beer gut, Sydney Swans hat, inappropriate . . . You’ll see him around.’

  Jack continued to peer up at Lily, his head cocked to one side. Another small smile – amused? thoughtful? – crossed his face. It was disconcerting, and Lily wanted to get out of his tractor beam. Not because he was disarmingly good-looking and his quizzical staring made him even more handsome, but because Lily had work to do.

  ‘So, do you cook, Lily?’

  ‘Not even nearly,’ she said honestly.

  ‘But you enjoy doing the cooking segment? Wouldn’t you need to cook to produce a cooking segment?’

  ‘Not at all. I love food, though, and I love my segment. Sleazy, self-important chefs aside.’ As she spoke she realised how offensive it was, but it was too late.

  His face relaxed and he broke into a chuckle. It was ridiculous: the way his eyes crinkled at the edges, and that perfect smile pushed into his cheeks, causing a couple of lines either side . . . She wondered how old he was; maybe thirty, maybe thirty-five? She couldn’t tell; he was in that age bracket that lacked clear delineation. There was a small gap between his front teeth, she noticed. Huh. Not so perfect after all.

  ‘I’ll try not to fall into that category,’ he said, finally taking his eyes off her.

  Lily nodded as a full stop to the conversation, if you could call it that, and walked out of the boardroom shaking her head. He was odd, she confirmed. A real oddball.

  6

  Lily was feeling anxious. They went live Monday morning, and if this rehearsal were anything to go by, it would be a nuclear mess. Rob and Mel, hosts of The Dail
y, were still so utterly wedged into holiday mode that they may as well have had a margarita in one hand and a frisbee in the other; the set was incomplete, and Eliza was running on double-shot mochas and unwarranted hysteria, which annoyed the crew and made all the producers unnecessarily anxious. The general mood was akin to a crowded beach after a shark alarm. Lily decided to stop watching rehearsal and focus on her segment and set instead. She could at least make sure that was decent, Jack’s as yet untested on-air skill notwithstanding.

  Lily pulled the pre-chopped herbs and fish from the fridge and placed them next to the stove, while Tim, the lighting guy, stood on a ladder messing about with the lights, which Sasha said looked too ‘train station toilets’. Jack stood at the bench, straight-armed leaning on his hands, reading his script. He was wearing a simple light-blue shirt – the memo must have reached him about no checks in front of camera – and black jeans with black trainers. Sasha had wanted him to look friendly but sexy; the Curtis Stone effect, she called it. Like one of your older brother’s good-looking mates. All that was missing was his white The Daily apron, which no one had been able to locate.

  Lily took a moment to assess her set. Lighting aside, she was happy with the final product, having worked with the set designer and fitter last year to make absolutely sure there was none of the shiny, glossy chintz usually associated with TV-set kitchens. The look was a bit cool, a bit industrial, complete with second-hand wooden beams overhead, low-hanging naked globes and exposed brick behind the cooking bench. Of course, Eliza had immediately had two shelves of spices and oils and products installed onto the wall to keep advertisers happy, which annoyed Lily, but there was nothing she could do. Eliza might have the nous of a twig, but she knew how to keep the sponsors smiling. The fridge was concealed in a wooden cupboard and there was a line of unmatched antique jars acting as the holders for Jack’s utensils along the bench. It would all look horribly outdated in a year or two, but for now, it was pretty cool for a network morning show. The sink wasn’t actually functional – well, it could last the show, but it was the equivalent of a camping rig, and needing refilling and emptying before and after filming, and sometimes even during ad breaks. Ah, the glamour of live TV.