The Art of Love

by Gayla Twist

  I’m standing awkwardly nearby. The makeup woman has worked a miracle on my face, and while I do still have makeup on, it’s been redone to look more natural. She did have to apply a lot more base that usual because I can’t stop blushing with embarrassment.

  “Mmmmh...” Toulaine says, waving the chop in my general direction and nodding his head. He rarely comments beyond grunting when sampling the food. Unless he doesn’t like it, of course, so I take his guttural sounds as a good sign. Almost all commentary for the show is done in voice-over.

  Next, Toulaine tries the wild mushroom and nettle risotto. It’s been a Bouche favorite ever since I put it on the menu a few weeks ago, and Toulaine is an instant fan. He rolls his eyes to the back of his head and lets out an, “Oh…” I’m standing behind him like a wooden statue, not sure if I should smile or just pretend like his reaction was nothing less than I expected.

  Finally, it’s time for dessert, and Toulaine selects the chocolate-covered pyramid. It’s white cake layered with different berries and cream filling. It’s in the shape of a pyramid, of course, and capped with a chocolate shell. There’s a choice of milk or dark chocolate, and Toulaine goes after the dark. He cracks through the shell and shovels a healthy bite of pyramid into his mouth. After chewing for several seconds, he closes his eyes and lets out an, “Oh... ho!”

  I’m so relieved, I feel a little light-headed, but the thought of passing out and possibly cracking my head open in front of the cameras is too embarrassing, so I stay upright.

  Toulaine pushes back from the table and rubs his nonexistent tummy. He looks over in my general direction but still has his face angled for the camera. “I've got to hand it to you, Chef Sue. The chops were incredible. The ganache in the pyramid. It was so unexpected. I don't know how to explain it beyond...” he puts is finger tips to his lips and kisses them in that traditional Italian gesture, “Mmmwah!”

  Chapter 18

  I don’t know how I’ve managed to survive without spontaneously combusting from embarrassment, but the shoot is finally over, and the crew is packing up their gear to leave. Aziz and Michael Toulaine are goofing around, hassling each other like the old friends that they are. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing, so I’m standing out of the way and feeling like an idiot. This has been my predominant emotion of the day. Trent is also hovering on the fringes, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen him be anything but confident.

  The director walks over to Toulaine and says, “We’re just about to wrap things up here.”

  “Good to see you, Mikey,” Aziz says, and the guys do that handshake-hug thing men like to do that is kind of professional and also kind of intimate. My imagination always thinks they’re patting each other down for weapons.

  “Same here, Aziz,” Toulaine tells him.

  In a lower voice, Aziz adds, “And thanks for doing this. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” Toulaine assures him. “It was actually pretty good.”

  “That’s good. I’d hate to drag you out here and have you feel like you didn’t get a good show out of it.”

  “No, I think we got some footage we can work with,” Toulaine assures him. Shooting a glance in my direction, he lowers his voice when he says, “Although your new chef is pretty interesting.”

  That’s it. I’m officially becoming a hermit.

  “Isn’t she?” Aziz grins. “Don’t forget to call me the next time you're in town.”

  “Don’t forget to come work for me when you finally decide to live in a real city,” Toulaine fires back at him.

  Toulaine turns to talk to Trent, who has been hovering closer and closer. Aziz looks around and spies me hanging in the background, feeling awkward. “Sue!” he calls to me with a megawatt smile.

  I’m still feeling humiliated and hurt over the whole “follow Kiki’s makeup advice” thing, so I don’t exactly want to talk to Aziz, even if he is the one that set up Bouche to be featured on The Specialist. Aziz obviously has no clue how I’m feeling because he makes a beeline right for me. “How'd it go?” he asks, still all smiles.

  I can’t even believe he’s asking me this. How the hell does he think it went? Yes, Kiki was successful in making a complete ass out of me in front of everybody. I can’t even think of what to say, so I find myself repeating, “How'd it go?” in an incredulous voice.

  This, for whatever reason, confuses Aziz. “Um? Yeah. I was mostly behind the bar, but Mike seemed to enjoy the food.”

  I’m so angry, I’m finding it difficult to speak. I can’t even look at his stupid, handsome face. Turning away from him, I say, “It went fine.”

  Aziz just stands there staring at me for several moments, and I wonder if he’s fighting the urge to burst out laughing, but I refuse to turn back in his direction to find out. “That's good,” he says, finally. Adding, “Is something wrong?”

  That really just tears it, and I wheel around to give him a piece of my mind, but he’s looking at me with such an open face and in no way appears to be gloating over my humiliation that I have to suffice with, “I didn't realize you were such good friends with Kiki.” I say it in as snippy of a tone as I can muster.

  “Sure...” He looks puzzled. “I'm friends with Aspic, too. Is that important to you?”

  I absolutely cannot tolerate his condescending attitude, and I am about to let fly, but suddenly the world is going round and round as Trent spins me in his arms. “You did it, Sue! You're a flipping genius!” He sets me down but has to keep me in his embrace because I’m a little woozy on my feet. “Reservations have been flooding in,” he says. “We're booked out for weeks.”

  “How is that even possible?” Aziz asks. “The show won't air for months.”

  Trent lets out a loud laugh. He’s so jubilant, he’s almost drunk. “When a camera crew shows up, word gets around. And,” he adds, “I might have put in a few phone calls. Let word slip out.” He winks at Aziz but doesn’t get a friendly reception. Aziz did make everyone promise to keep things a secret, so I don’t blame him for being a little annoyed.

  I’m steady on my feet again, so Trent releases me from his embrace but still keeps hold of my hands, which he gives a warm squeeze. “Let me take you out to a late dinner. We have to celebrate.”

  I feel a warm flush of pleasure wash over my body.

  “Oh,” I exclaim, feeling for a moment like a princess in a Disney movie, but then I remember that I’m actually working and have to say, “I'd love to, but I have to finish up the dinner shift.”

  Trent makes a face. “Blow it off.”

  “I couldn’t do that,” I tell him.

  “Oh, come on.” Trent nudges me with his elbow. “Call in sick. You've worked enough for today.”

  I can’t believe the man who actually owns Bouche is telling me to blow off work. “You don't understand,” I tell him. “I can't call in sick. Not unless you want me to ruin all that good publicity we just created.”

  Aziz just kind of fades into the background with a big scowl etched across his face. I feel a momentary pang of guilt. I know he helped Kiki pull a fast one on me, but he also called in a huge favor to make me look good, so I’m not really sure if I should thank him or tell him to go to hell.

  Trent doesn’t notice as his friend leaves. “I guess you’re right,” he says, a little deflated but still holding my hands. “Can’t ruin our good reputation now.” I’m right, and he knows I’m right, but I feel a stab of disappointment that he doesn’t try to persuade me a little harder. “But at least join me in my office for a glass of champagne to celebrate,” he insists.

  “Okay,” I say shyly, feeling the warm glow return.

  “Great.” He dazzles me with his smile. “I'll have some sent up.” Then he says, “Oh…” frowns and bites the side of his lower lip. “If I’m serious about the budget, I can’t keep slinging champagne around.” He glances at me. “But this is a special occasion…”

  “We can always drink the champagne you sent me,” I tell him.<
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  His eyes brighten, but then he shakes his head. “No, I couldn’t ask you to do that. It was a gift.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I reply. “It’s just sitting in the fridge.” I don’t add the fact that it’s hidden behind some spoiled meat that no one has been brave enough to dispose of and I haven’t ordered anyone to dispose of because I know it’s keeping the champagne safe from a thirsty staff.

  The next thing I know, I’m in Trent’s office, and he’s blowing the cork off of the magnum of champagne. At first, I keep expecting more of the Bouche staff to show up because the bottle is so large, but it turns out to be just the two of us. Trent fills two champagne flutes to the rim and hands me one. “Here’s to you, Sue. You’re doing an amazing job.”

  I take a sizeable sip from my glass and enjoy the bubbles as they tickle my nose. This is just like in a dream. Except for, if I were dreaming, I probably wouldn’t be wearing my chef’s clothes and have my hair tied back. Still, I decide not to worry about it and just to enjoy the moment.

  “We’re going to get a lot of press out of this,” Trent says, topping off my glass, “and it’s all due to you.”

  I take another sip before saying, “That’s not true. Everybody worked hard. And Toulaine is Aziz’s friend. We would have never even had a chance of being on the show without Aziz.”

  “You’re so modest.” Trent reaches forward and clinks his glass against mine. “Drink up.”

  I’m not a huge drinker in general. I mean, I like a glass or two of nice wine, but the Chinese half of my body is constantly at odds with the Irish half as far as being able to tolerate alcohol, and for some reason, champagne always hits me harder than wine. But today I figure I deserve a quick little buzz to take the edge off after all that filming. Trent leans up against his large desk and nods at the open space next to him for me to join him there. I perch as elegantly as possible, again wishing I were dressed in something that at least hints at sexy. Trent is being pretty quiet, and I can’t think of anything to say, so we just sit there in silence, sipping our drinks.

  When my glass is half empty, Trent leans toward me and asks, “A little more bubbly?”

  This time, I really have to refuse. The champagne is already in the carpool lane speeding toward my brain. “No, I can't,” I tell him. “I'm already a little tipsy, and I really need to get back to work.”

  “You can stay for another minute,” he says, filling my glass anyway. “I’m your boss. I give you permission.”

  He’s leaning closer to me, and I know the combination of his proximity and the alcohol has probably turned my face to the color of a beet. “Okay.” I give in. “Just for another minute.”

  “I really appreciate what you did for Bouche today,” he says in a husky whisper. I don’t think he’s drunk nearly as much as I have. Or maybe he just has a higher tolerance.

  “Thanks,” I say, “but you know it was mostly Aziz. He's the one that set up everything with Toulaine.”

  “You keep saying that.” He smirks at me.

  “Because it’s true,” I reply.

  Trent’s intercom beeps, startling me. It’s obviously Linda in reception trying to get a hold of him, but Trent ignores her. “It's you that came up with the fabulous dishes that made Toulaine happy,” he points out. “It's you that keeps getting more creative and more beautiful every day I know you.”

  I can’t believe Trent Winchell just called me beautiful. Me, of all people. I would think I was hallucinating, but I haven’t drunk that much champagne. He’s so close to me now I can smell his breath. “Oh...” is all I manage to utter.

  The intercom beeps again, and I jump a little. I don’t know if it’s from the beeping or because he’s so close. We’re really only a kiss apart, but the beeping distracts me. “Should you get that?” I ask and then mentally kick myself for ruining the moment.

  “No. I'm sure it's nothing.” Trent waves it off. “Sue,” he says, pulling away slightly, and I mentally kick myself a second time. “I want you to keep just going for it with the menu. Be as creative as you can get. And I want you to keep doing such a fantastic job in the kitchen, and I want...” He pauses, looking deep into my eyes. I force myself not to look away.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You,” he whispers.

  This is it! Trent Winchell is going to kiss me, right here, right now! I close my eyes and tilt my head back, eager for our first embrace.

  Linda barges into the office, and Trent springs away from me like someone just stuck a firecracker under his butt. “Sorry,” Linda says, all no-nonsense, “but your father's on the phone, and you know he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Swinging around to buttonhole me, she says, “Sue, you're needed in the kitchen. Right now.”

  Trent rounds the desk and snatches up the phone. I guess there’s one person out there that can make Trent Winchell hop to. “Hello?” he says into the receiver. “Dad?”

  I’m on my feet as well with Linda ushering me toward the door. “What are those numskulls up to now?” I ask, hoping that the kitchen hasn’t gone up in flames during the twenty minutes I’ve been gone.

  “Yeah... um...” Linda has me by the elbow. “I’m not sure. I think they just need you for something.” I have no doubt they need me for something, but you’d think they could handle any minor crisis on their own. I don’t know why they feel the need to turn to me for every little decision.

  Trent is randomly stabbing at the buttons on his phone. I don’t think he even knows what he’s pressing. “Hello?” he says again. “Dad?”

  Waving the receiver in the air, Trent shouts after us, “There’s nobody there.”

  Linda doesn’t bother to stop but calls over her shoulder, “He must have hung up. I’ve been buzzing you for ten minutes.” That’s an exaggeration, but it might have been ten minutes according to the senior Winchell’s internal clock.

  In the reception room, I head for the exit, but Linda calls after me, “Hold up a minute, Sue. I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Okay, but can you make it quick?” I tell her. My imagination really has set the kitchen on fire with the staff having no idea where to find the fire extinguishers.

  Linda takes extra care closing the door to Trent’s office and then says, “You're a nice girl and...”

  “Whoa.” I interrupt her before she can go any further. I know exactly where these you’re-a-nice-girl conversations usually lead. She knows a young man, maybe the son of a friend, who is maybe a little socially awkward and a little too into comic books, but all he really needs is a nice girl to bring him out of his shell. “Uh...” I flounder and then decide to just forge ahead. “You're not just about to try to fix me up with your nephew or something, are you?”

  “No…” Linda says in a hesitant way that makes me think she actually is.

  I don’t want to be rude to Linda. I’m sure she has the best intentions. She probably feels fixing me up with her loser nephew would be a good thing for both of us. I could bring him out of his shell and teach him a few social skills. And in return, he would be a man in my life, which by a lot of women’s standards is all important. But I am not going down that road again. It’s too awkward when you have to tell some well-meaning woman that you are in no way interested in her close relative. And that he should probably take a shower and brush his teeth within twenty-four hours before going on a blind date. “I appreciate it if you are,” I add, “but I’m really not looking for anyone right now.” I can’t help but glance at Trent’s closed door. “Because I kind of have a new relationship that's, you know, suddenly developing.”

  The intercom beeps. “Linda, get my dad on the phone!” Trent thunders from the other room.

  I see my out, and I take it. “Thanks, anyway,” I call as I head for the door. I haven’t heard the building’s fire alarm going off yet, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time if I don’t hurry. “But I'd really better check that no one's burned the kitchen down,” I tell her. />
  I hear the intercom beep again as I dash out the door.

  I never want to be on television ever again. Between prepping and presenting and pretending to listen to whatever was coming out of Toulaine’s mouth and then making sure the other Bouche patrons were properly fed, I don’t have an ounce of energy left. By the time I pull into my designated parking spot for my condo, I’m dead on my feet. The only thing that kept me awake on the drive home was the thought of Trent’s lips being so close to mine. We were literally just a kiss apart, and then Linda had to barge in with her non-crisis crisis. Yes, the kitchen was in chaos by the time I got down there but just the ordinary dinner-rush chaos, not this-ship-is-going-down chaos. I guess working up in that nice, quiet office all day makes it hard for her to distinguish a crisis from a Crisis.

  My eyelids are so heavy as I climb the stairs to the second floor of my building that I can barely keep them open. Down the hall, I see that there is something sitting on the ground outside my door. My eyelids pop open all the way. If I’m not hallucinating, it looks like a bouquet.

  I hurry down the hall to confirm that it is a bouquet. A big, beautiful bouquet of deep red roses fringed with baby’s breath in a large glass vase. It’s beautiful, simply beautiful, and my mind races to figure out who could have possibly sent them.

  I immediately think of Trent. He’s the person I most want them to be from, and after our little encounter in his office, the idea of him sending me flowers isn’t out of the question. It also briefly occurs to me they might be from Michael Toulaine. Is this the kind of thing famous people do to say thank you? But that doesn’t make sense, seeing that he was doing me the favor by featuring Bouche on his show, not the opposite. Possibly Aziz? But unlikely. He really has no cause to send me flowers even if we are in kind of a fight. There’s always the distinct possibility that the delivery guy accidentally left them outside the wrong door.