The Art of Love

by Gayla Twist

  Kiki leans forward, trying to be sultry and probably wishing for all she is worth that I would evaporate. “Tell me more, Trent?” she says in a low, intimate voice that is definitely not workplace appropriate.

  “I want people like you working for the Winchell,” he says, folding his hands. “There's no easy way to say this, but...” His mouth is a grim, straight line. “Financially, we're not doing so hot.”

  “Really?” I can’t help but wonder aloud. “I know the restaurant isn't full every night, but we usually do pretty well on the weekends and...”

  “Tourists,” Trent scoffs, spitting out the word like he really means parasites. “They don't even know how to order a decent bottle of wine!” He shakes his head in disgust. “ No, it's not like in the old days when we served Chicago's elite.” He has me there. Most fashionable Chicagoans view Bouche as a dinosaur from decades past when a mullet haircut wasn’t called a mullet, it was just called hair.

  “Sue.” Trent gets down to business. “Escoffier asked for you as chef de cuisine while he is on sick leave.”

  I blush because it now occurs to me that Escoffier must have had an in-depth conversation about me with Trent before assigning me the position. “That's right.”

  “And Kiki here is the temporary restaurant manager while we're in transition.” This news is a surprise to me. Kiki is so the last person I would ever promote to a position of power.

  Kiki blinks slowly like a cat lounging in a sunbeam. She gives a small grin, exposing a set of perfect, tiny teeth. “You can pretty much trust that I’m going to take over the position permanently.”

  “The thing is,” Trent lowers his voice to a confidential pitch, “the Winchell has got to start making more money. A lot more,” he says significantly. “Otherwise, my dad's going to shut us down and convert the building into condominiums.”

  “He can't do that,” I all but shout, the words involuntarily escaping my mouth. Converting to condos would put almost all of my friends in the unemployment line.

  “He can and he will,” Trent tells me, his face completely serious. “Listen, I'm counting on you girls to keep what I said just between us.”

  Trent is about my age, so I think it’s odd he calls us girls. I wonder—if he had Paolo and Aspic up here, would he call them boys? Either way, I’m not going to make a squawk about it, so I just say, “Okay...”

  A low, purring, “No problem,” is Kiki’s reply.

  “To save the Winchell,” Trent goes on, “Bouche has really got to start pulling in some big money.”

  Big money? Yeah, it’s fine to say something like that, “But how?” is my question.

  “Grab some media attention.” Trent shrugs. “Make some headlines. Win some awards.” His eyes light up with an apparently new idea. “We need to win a Thomas Van Dyke award or land a couple of those Michelin stars. Do something big that would seriously put some butts in some booths.”

  Getting out of her seat, Kiki slinks over to perch on the edge of Trent’s desk. “Get real, Trent. What are we supposed to do? I can't just wave my magic wand and win the Winchell a Van Dyke.” She’s still trying to be seductive, but I can tell she’s also attempting to bring Trent down to reality. She jerks a thumb in my direction, “And it's not like this one is going to be any help.”

  “Come on, now, Kiki. We're all on the same team,” he admonishes her in the mildest of tones. “That's no way to talk about a co-worker. And I'm sure Sue is very talented.” He gives me a roguish wink. “In many ways.” He hits me with his high beam smile. “If she puts her mind to it.”

  I, of course, blush like a schoolgirl.

  “Yeah, right.” Kiki’s voice lets me know she doesn’t agree with Trent at all but isn’t going to fight about it. “Even if Sue pulls her weight, we still don’t have an actual plan.”

  “Well…” Trent gives it some thought. “Kiki, you could rally the troops, cut costs, make everything more efficient. Make sure every guest has a memorable dining experience.”

  He turns to me. “And Sue, what about spicing up the menu? There's got to be something a little more exotic we could serve besides some tired old lobster thermidor.”

  I would love to update Bouche’s menu. I would absolutely love it. Escoffier, of course, would have a brain aneurism if he knew we were even discussing the possibility, but he’s also probably off at a spa in Europe somewhere, and I really can’t disobey a direct order from the boss’s son. “I could do that.” I nod several times before I remember not to seem too eager.

  Kiki gives Trent a pert, skeptical look. She slides off the desk and sashays back to her seat with her hands on her hips. “So, what's in it for me?” she asks after sliding back into her seat. “You're talking about an awful lot of work for just a temporary gig.”

  I hate to agree with Kiki, but she is right. “Yeah...” I add to the conversation. “I mean... Yes. I mean... What about us?” Being chef de cuisine and saving the hotel from the brink of disaster does sound like something that should come with some type of reward.

  “Well.” Trent knits his fingers together and furrows his perfect brow in thought. “I can't exactly pay you more money right now. I’m sorry, but we are absolutely locked down on the budget.” Then he raises his eyebrows with a new idea. “I could… No.” He shakes off the idea. “That’s probably not appropriate.”

  “What?” Kiki and I ask simultaneously.

  He shoots a look skyward. “This is so embarrassing.”

  “There’s no reason to be embarrassed around me,” Kiki assures him.

  “Okay, well… I don’t know if either of you read the Chicago gossip columns, but… I just broke up with my girlfriend.” The end of Trent’s relationship with jet-set beauty Laura Pierce had been written up in all the local papers, and I had absorbed every word. At least I had enough wits about me to not let on to that fact. “Anyway,” he continued, “we were supposed to go to the Bahamas for a little get away in September, but I guess that’s off now,” he said with a short, chagrined laugh. “Unfortunately, I already bought the tickets and rented the condo and everything. I can’t even get my money back.”

  “That’s such a shame,” Kiki said, not sounding close to sincere.

  “If one of you were to do something, you know, outstanding to save the Winchell, then maybe you could take over the tickets. Or,” he shrugged, “I don’t know. I could take one of you with me and show you the islands. It’s really beautiful down there, and I’d be happy to play tour guide.” He cracks into a smile filled with trepidation. “Is that not workplace appropriate? I don’t want to offend anyone.”

  Is he serious? A vacation with Trent Winchell on some tropical island? That almost sounds better than winning the lottery. His eyes are as blue as the ocean, and I am so ready to dive in. We both readily assure him that we’re not at all offended.

  As we leave Trent’s office, my head is spinning. Did he really just, in a weird way, offer himself as the prize to whomever of us does the most to save his family’s hotel? That sounds a little strange to me. If I’d been in his office with anyone but Kiki, I would ask for verification that my ears weren’t playing tricks on me, but this is not the kind of question you ask someone like Kiki.

  But given another few seconds to think about it as we walk down the hall toward the elevators, it also kind of makes sense. Maybe he is somewhat attracted to both of us, for different reasons, obviously, but still, it could happen. And in movies and stuff, aren’t women always offering themselves as the prize to men in a sense? Or they’re portrayed as some kind of reward. What would make a rich and attractive man any different? Trent is a prize in almost anyone’s book.

  We reach the elevators, and Kiki stabs at the button. As we wait, I can feel her giving me an appraising look. Finally, she says, “I hope you realize that Trent was really just talking to me. Not about the hard work, of course, but about the other stuff.”

  I’m taken aback for two reasons. First of all, she’s just confirmed that I didn’t
imagine it. Trent did strongly imply that he is willing to date one of us as a reward. Secondly, I know Trent was looking directly at me when he put his whole island paradise offer out there, so the fact that Kiki is trying to tell me it was just for her is really annoying. “What makes you say that?” I ask.

  An amused little laugh escapes Kiki’s crimson-painted lips, but I can tell it’s forced. “Oh, come on. He's Trent Winchell. Look at you.” She gestures derisively in my direction. “And then look at me. It's pretty obvious.”

  I feel completely humiliated. Maybe Kiki is right. I’m just some dork in a chef’s jacket, and Trent Winchell is Trent Winchell. My eyes start to sting, and I have the horrible feeling that I might actually cry. But then I get angry. I mean, who the hell is Kiki? Just some ditz that knows how to be a good waitress. She’s no prize, either, once you crack open her candy-coated shell. Maybe Trent would prefer to vacation with a woman who isn’t actually seventy percent evil.

  “You know, Kiki,” I say, somehow mustering the will to fight back. “You're probably the biggest bitch in Chicago. And this is a major city.” Kiki’s eyes bulge a little. I can tell she wasn’t expecting me to retaliate, and that buoys my nerve, so I go on. “If you think you can land Trent by just waving your ass around in that tight little skirt, then go for it,” I tell her. “But I bet Trent is looking to spend time with someone who isn’t mostly manmade.”

  I’ve caught Kiki so off guard that she’s actually sputtering. She flounders around for a moment before she can find any words. “Wh... Uh... Do you seriously think you can stand up to me?”

  Kiki adjusts her stance so she is facing me straight on with her feet spread hip-distance apart. She wears a squinting expression, as if the sun is in her eyes, and her right hand hovers near her walkie-talkie. Dressed in all black, Kiki looks like she’s the villain in a classic western, standing in the street to face the marshal at high noon.

  Seriously tired of being pushed around by Kiki and every other person on the planet, I mimic her stance: weight evenly balanced, eyes squinting. The ladle is my six-shooter, my hand hovering near my waist ready to snatch it from where it dangles off my apron strings and fwap her over the noggin if necessary. I’m in my white chef’s coat, so I guess that makes me the lawman, determined to drive the bad element out of town. I can practically hear the Sergio Leone–style musical score playing in the background.

  We’re standing, glued to the carpet; she’s not blinking and I’m not backing down. We’d probably be here all day if there wasn’t a bright “bing” as the elevator doors slide open.

  “Okay, Miss Goody Goody,” Kiki snarls before either of us makes a move to step inside. “Let's see what you've got.”

  *** Kiki***

  I can’t believe Sue just tried to stand up to me. Out of nowhere, Miss Goody Two-shoes attempts to grow a spine! Seriously? It really threw me off there for a second. What’s next? She’s actually going to start trying to make herself look presentable in public?

  I really don’t have the bandwidth to deal with whatever nonsense scenario Sue has playing in her head. Trent would never go for her in a million years. He doesn’t exactly date the natural type, and I doubt she even owns a pair of shoes with more than a two-inch heel. Still, I didn’t know the little priss had it in her. I guess she’s not entirely made of marshmallow fluff.

  Chapter 10

  "The general who wins a battle makes many calculations in his temple ere the battle is fought." ~ SunTzu, The Art of War

  I feel like a complete idiot, but I’m standing outside of my neighbor Dahlia’s door. I literally have to force myself to raise my hand and ring the bell. I’m so embarrassed, I just want to slink away in an improvised game of ding-dong ditch. I’ve spent the last two hours studying The Art of War, and I feel like I have the semblance of a plan, if only I have the guts to go through with it.

  It only takes a few moments before Dahlia yanks the door open. She’s wearing a snug-fitting, 1940s-style dress and looks immaculate, as usual. I wonder for a moment about the kind of person who lounges around her house in a dress that needs to be dry-cleaned.

  “More boyfriend troubles?” Dahlia asks in that droll way she has of speaking. She uses no greeting, no acknowledgement, just straight to the chase.

  Following her lead, I fire back with, “I need an army.”

  I’m pleased to see this throws Dahlia a little. She furrows her perfectly shaped eyebrows, glances over her shoulder, and says, “You realize I don't have one hiding in the kitchen.”

  “No, listen.” I drop the tough-girl act. “I went to talk to you-know-who today, and he’s definitely in the market for a girlfriend.”

  “Oh, really?” Dahlia’s eyes widen and she leans in, intrigued beyond looking cool and sultry. “He told you that?”

  “Kind of,” I admit.

  She raises an eyebrow with skepticism. “What does that mean?”

  “Well, you can’t tell anyone. I mean, seriously, you can’t.” Dahlia nods her consent so I continue. “I guess the Winchell is in some financial trouble. Trent is hoping that Bouche starts bringing in more customers. He said if I could help him out he’d be grateful.”

  “How grateful?”

  “A-trip-to-the-Bahamas-with-him-as-tour-guide grateful.”

  My neighbor lets out a small puff of air between her lips. “Subtle.”

  I don’t care about subtle, I just care about landing a boyfriend I’m not ashamed to be seen with anywhere but the thrift store. “Yeah, but he also made it clear that I wasn't the only contender for the title,” I add.

  “Sue.” Dahlia gives me a concerned look. “Even by straight girl standards, isn't that a little skeevy?”

  “No, it’s not like that.” She’s getting the wrong impression. “He was actually quite sweet. He’s just worried about his family’s business and also has this trip to the Bahamas he can’t use since he broke up with his girlfriend.”

  “And this is appealing to you?”

  This is so not the question I want to be asked. Dahlia obviously isn’t seeing the big picture, so I have to spell it out for her. “Dahlia, he's a Winchell,” I point out. I start counting on my fingers, “Hot, rich, straight, single, and definitely not a loser. Half the single women in Chicago would kill to be with him.” After thinking about it, I add, “Hell, even some of the married ones.”

  I know I’ve gotten through to her when she admits, “Okay. If I'm honest, I might even get in line for that.” Pushing her front door open a little wider and waving me inside, she asks, “Who’s your competition?”

  Dahlia’s living room is perfect, like you’d expect. It’s all black and white and chrome. Here and there are little splashes of color to attract the eye, kind of like how Dahlia always wears the perfect shade of red lipstick.

  “Her name is Kiki,” I say, stepping inside.

  “Sounds bitchy.” Dahlia purses her lips. “Let me guess. Hostess that thinks she's better than you?”

  I’m impressed. Her assessment is spot on. “How’d you know?”

  Dahlia gives me half a smirk. “I’ve eaten at restaurants before.” She takes a seat on a white chair and indicates I am to do the same on the black counterpart. “So why bring your troubles to me?”

  We’ve arrived at the super embarrassing part of my visit. “I don't have an arsenal,” I confess. “I don't have an army. I don't have any supplies. Right now, I don't have anything.”

  “And you want me to what?” Dahlia wants to know, employing her flat, caustic voice again. “Knock over an Army Surplus Store?”

  It’s obvious to me what I want, but Dahlia needs enlightening. “No,” I tell her. “I want you to help me look better.” I gesture between her and me. “Hotter... Sexier...”

  “Sorry.” Dahlia reclines in her seat. “I don't teach.” Then, after looking me over appraisingly, she adds, “Besides, I'm not sure your personality and my style should ever breed.”

  I have to admit, I’m disappointed. Dahlia is the most
stylish person I know, and seeing that she already knows about my campaign, she seemed like the ideal guide into the perilous world of fashion. “But don't you at least know some fabulous gay men that might give me a shove in the right direction?” I ask in a slightly pleading voice. I’m really at a dead end if she won’t help me out.

  I can see the wheels spinning in Dahlia’s brain. “You know...” She gives it a little more thought. “Now that you mention it... I do know some lip gloss lesbians that would probably be thrilled to help you out.”

  “Lip gloss?” I wonder. I’ve never heard this expression before.

  “They're a subsect of lipstick lesbians,” she explains. “Very rare, very sparkly.” Dahlia smirks, looking me over again. “They'll love you.”

  Dahlia got on the phone, and within less than twenty-four hours we are meeting her friends outside the Hair Today, Blonde Tomorrow salon. These ladies are lovely. Erin is medium height with deeply tanned skin. Her brown hair is cut into a perfect bob, and her enormous brown eyes are warm and friendly. She’s dressed fashionably but not in the straight lines and tight fits that become Dahlia so well. She has more of a flowing style with bright colors and easygoing fabrics. Her girlfriend’s name is Anna. She has long, wavy blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, and an infectious laugh. Her fashion choices are similar to her partner’s. They are both shimmering with creamy eye shadows plus lots and lots of lip gloss. They are obviously excited about my project because when Dahlia introduces us, it’s like I’m being attacked by giant, sparkly butterflies as they both hug me.

  “I can’t wait,” Anna says, ushering me toward the door of the salon. “Let’s get started.”

  Inside, I’m introduced to a stylist named Alix, with an “I.” His hair is black and shiny from being heavily gelled, and it’s obvious he goes to the gym. A lot. He sits me down and loosens my hair from its customary bun at the nape of my neck. What can I say? I work in food service, and customers do not like it when they find a long, black hair in their food. Or any type of hair, for that matter, even if it’s their own.