Freedom Fries and Cafe Creme

by Jocelyne Rapinac

  I poured myself more tea as I sighed with relief to be free of him. Ken was a real jerk, after all. I should have known that from the beginning. Chipolata had never liked him, and most of my girlfriends, married or not, had wanted to sleep with him.

  I was proud of myself. I’d kicked Ken out pretty impressively when he’d shown up at my door: Ken had decided he wanted to live with me, and that my house needed a man. My foot!

  We’d started dating only three months earlier; it had been much too soon for him to be moving in. I smiled again, picturing him arriving with his five huge suitcases a few days before. As he parked his latest-model Mercedes in front of the house, he’d looked very content and full of self-confidence – as usual.

  Ken had wanted his moving in to be a surprise. Sure, he was handsome and extremely charming; his black eyes, that morning, had been brighter than usual. Knowing how much I liked them, he’d arrived clutching a bouquet of peach-coloured roses and a huge box of Coeurs Noirs chocolates. He’d tried all the arguments he could to convince me he was just what my domestic situation lacked, but I wasn’t buying it.

  ‘No way!’ I shouted.

  I felt the urge to slam the door in his face, but I managed to resist.

  Ken might have wanted to surprise me, but in the end he was the one who was more taken aback because he certainly hadn’t expected my refusal. Had anyone ever said no to him before?

  We’d never really discussed our future. We’d spent most of the short time we’d been together in my bedroom or at the table, talking mainly about our work – actually, his work – his parents, and the latest high-tech gadgets he had acquired. Pretty boring conversations, when I thought about them. He couldn’t even appreciate the beauty of the ocean from the porch as he was always too busy checking his cell phone for messages and pictures.

  So when he turned up with his roses and his chocolates I didn’t invite him inside. I left him standing there, surrounded by his luggage. I then explained to him that I didn’t want to be his slave, as most women still were for men, even if they didn’t want to admit it. He replied that I’d only have to do the cooking, since I was brilliant at that, and he’d do the shopping – except for the special groceries he knew I’d need to source for my recipes – and the laundry, the cleaning, the ironing … Ken had thought of everything.

  I interrupted his inventory of domestic chores.

  ‘Have you ever done any housework?’

  ‘I’m ready to try for you, Victoria …’

  I was silent, waiting for what I was sure would come next.

  He understood.

  ‘Or we could hire a maid!’

  ‘Never!’

  No one would ever come in to clean my home, and invade my privacy.

  ‘Have you ever used a broom in your life?’ I asked, knowing the answer.

  ‘Come on, Victoria, you know I still live with my parents, and we have a maid …’

  And that I’m a spoilt brat! Yes, I know you are.

  ‘Then go back to your parents.’

  ‘I can’t live without your cooking,’ he sighed, trying another ploy.

  ‘You’re only here for my cooking, then?’

  ‘Of course not; you know very well I’m not.’

  ‘Ken, I can’t have a relationship with someone who just decides to come live with me without even talking to me about it.’

  ‘I wanted to surprise you! We have a good time together, don’t we?’

  Puzzling over his last remark, I looked at him without saying a word. He was so handsome! But I knew I would never again be swept away by his charms.

  In the face of my silence, he became apologetic.

  ‘OK, I’m sorry. You’re right. Surprising you wasn’t the best idea. But you can also be pretty impulsive, can’t you?’

  Yes, I can – but I don’t expect impulsiveness from you. It doesn’t go with your self-image of perfection.

  ‘Stop frowning like that, Victoria … OK, OK! I get your point. But at least can you think about it?’

  ‘No!’

  Infuriated, I shut the door firmly. It was all very sudden indeed but I was confident that I really was doing the right thing. It was time to end this shallow relationship that had limped along only because I found him handsome, and he liked my cooking.

  Then I beamed: no intruder within these walls any more at all! My number one rule was that I had to live as I wanted, by myself, in my own house. Maybe I should have said that right away. In future, I resolved, when I met a man I was interested in, I would make it clear at once that the only way the relationship could work for me was if we each kept our own place. We’d visit each other, when invited, so that we would always be happy to see each other. Not like married people, who saw each other all the time, enduring together all the monotony of everyday life.

  Outside, Ken had wisely decided not to hang around. I’d heard the sound of his car fading into the distance. Then I’d opened the door and taken the roses and the box of Coeurs Noirs he’d kindly left behind.

  Thanks.

  I hadn’t heard from him since. Ken, who used to call me twice a day! I must have hurt his pride, since he was considered to be a very good catch, and a lot of women dreamt of tying the knot with him. Well, not me. Our relationship had been fine while it lasted, but I needed to turn the page. The only thing I would miss about Ken was those eyes I’d fallen for right at the beginning: those very dark eyes that reminded me of two shiny black pearls.

  Ken wasn’t the only man who had turned up on my doorstep saying he couldn’t live without my cooking. I should never have cooked for men once I’d started dating them because they became crazy. But I couldn’t help it. Often the dishes I made were completely new to them, and they were so funny when they pretended they were enjoying everything, when clearly they weren’t, because they were so afraid that I would get angry with them.

  It was their mothers I had to thank, most of whom weren’t even capable of boiling an egg. Usually, anything was better than what their mothers put on their plates, so it was easy for me to seduce the sons with my food, despite the little games I liked to play with my experimental cooking. Admittedly, it had been harder when I’d dated Nino. Italians, like the French, usually worship their mothers’ cooking …

  Ah, how good it felt to be all on my own again with only Chipolata for company!

  The tea was pretty good, and my finger sandwiches, filled with marinated raw salmon, cucumber and fresh dill, had been delicious! By then I was ready for some of the chocolate truffles I’d made that morning, and the glass of cranberry liqueur I had waiting on my little tray.

  Sure, I enjoyed the sex, and Ken had been all right. I found it all worked the same, most of the time, and after a while it became routine, so why make such a big deal of it?

  In my view, sex was the easiest part of a relationship. After these more or less relaxing and exciting physical connections, things always got a little more complicated. The fatal question inevitably came up: what do we need to do in order to keep this relationship alive? It was usually too much for me.

  If a relationship became too complicated, I’d rather break up and be by myself. I would meet someone else eventually. It wasn’t often that I met anyone that I found interesting, though. Was it because I liked my freedom so much that I couldn’t see the appeal of most men? Why would I need a guy here, possibly telling me what to do? I’d had my parents and teachers for that! And they had been so tiresome …

  And I shouldn’t have to behave in a certain way in order to please a man. After all, I had to do that with my clients. But I could put up with them, since it was thanks to them that I had become what I was. Maybe it was because I used up all my energy pleasing my clients that I needed to recoup and just wanted to enjoy being alone with Chipolata.

  Talking of clients, I realised it would soon be time for me to go to work. That evening, the Browns were having a special Thanksgiving dinner party to celebrate their recent adoption of twin baby girls from New Orlean
s, who had lost their parents in the Hurricane Katrina disaster. The previous night I had started preparing a Cajun–New England meal for the occasion.

  I got up from my rocking chair feeling refreshed and energetic after my break, ready to face the evening’s work. Chipolata woke up and went for a walk around the perimeter of the house because she knew she’d have to stay inside while I was away.

  Things had gone well. I was pleased. Everyone seemed to appreciate my meal. I always enjoyed the challenge of creating new and unusual bi-cultural dishes.

  This was the best part of the evening for me, now dinner was over. I could relax a little while my team served drinks and sweet titbits and the waiters started to clear the dining table.

  I found a quiet corner in the huge kitchen, which my hosts seemed barely to use. What a pity! It was a beautiful room, and full of the latest culinary utensils and appliances. The ochre walls and the small red hexagonal floor tiles gave it an air of rural Provence or Tuscany. Very charming!

  I sipped a glass of wine and nibbled some cake while admiring the scene through the window. How stylish these Victorian mansions were, especially the green one opposite. It was completely in keeping with the peaceful street setting, lit now by ancient gaslights. I tried to imagine the inside of the green mansion: the paintings, furniture, the objets d’art, a magnificent table with beautiful food enjoyed at the leisurely pace of olden times, all creating a picture in my mind of the residents’ good taste.

  Images from another time slowly filled my head, and I allowed myself a moment of respite. Mmm, this local wine was really good! I should buy a few more bottles …

  ‘Vicky?’ called Tom, my assistant, from the other side of the vast kitchen, abruptly cutting short my reverie.

  ‘Here!’ I answered, rather reluctantly.

  ‘A certain Robin Harris is asking for you.’

  Robin Harris? The name rang a bell, but I couldn’t place it.

  Feeling a little irked, I left my glass half full but swallowed the last mouthful of cake before going to find this person.

  Robin’s face was vaguely familiar: one of those young women from the rich-and-not-famous mob, who sometimes talked to me at the end of fancy dinner parties I’d cooked for.

  ‘Victoria! I didn’t see you at the cocktails before dinner because I came a little late.’ She hugged me as if we were best friends. ‘So happy to meet you again!’ She grinned.

  ‘Likewise,’ I said, insincerely. I still couldn’t really remember who she was.

  ‘I want to introduce you to my friends Daphne and Adriana!’

  I stared at the three young women, who looked so alike: same hairstyle and colour – it seemed that dark hair with red highlights was in; similar outfits showing plenty of cleavage; pointy shoes – also in vogue, I believed, but too uncomfortable for me since I didn’t have pointy feet.

  A quick glance around and I became convinced that everyone looked like everybody else.

  The three friends were skeletal. Their skintight tops and trousers showed even more of their stringy figures, which would have looked better in looser-fitting clothes. They looked terrible! What did they eat? Or, more appropriately, what did they not eat?

  After ritual hand-shaking, so nice to meet you and your food was exquisite, Robin turned to me with a serious face.

  ‘Well, after our chat, I really did a lot of thinking …’

  Our chat, our chat … What are you talking about?

  ‘Victoria, please, have a glass of Kir Kennedy,’ offered Mrs Brown, my employer for the evening, who had just come over, with Steve, one of my waiters, following in her wake. ‘You deserve it!’

  They all toasted my fantastic dinner. I had to admit that these little celebrations after a meal I’d cooked made me quite proud. What a difference from the reproaches I used to get from the parents of children at the school I used to work at. It had been ‘kindly’ explained to me that the healthy food I was cooking for their offspring was unsuitable.

  ‘Cook them fries or pasta instead of veggies! At least then they’ll eat something!’ had been the strong suggestion made to me, accompanied by a broad, hypocritical smile. I had never regretted quitting on the spot.

  Robin looked me straight in the eye, which was a little disconcerting as I was still trying to remember what kind of talk I’d had with her, and when, and where.

  After Mrs Brown had left us to circulate among her other guests, Robin, her identical friends and I sat down on comfortable chairs with our glasses of Kir Kennedy.

  ‘Well, I finally dumped Lancelot. And it’s thanks to you!’ Robin said.

  I was dreading having to ad lib, but luckily the name ‘Lancelot’ brought it all back. How could anyone forget such a name!

  ‘And I met Gabe, who is gorgeous and …’

  Yes, just like all the others: gorgeous, smart and, of course, most importantly, loaded!

  By then I’d remembered everything: that was the night in spring when the Winchesters had been celebrating their tenth anniversary on their private yacht.

  Robin had caught my attention because she’d been crying her eyes out the whole time, a drink in one hand, a box of tissues in the other, looking out at the ocean on the upper deck. I’d gone up there to take a little break. It was one of those warm, dry, beautiful spring days when New England looked so special.

  I’d asked her if she needed anything, and she’d started to tell me that she had just found out that her boyfriend, Lancelot, was cheating on her. Of course, she could have confessed this to anyone, but it was I who was lucky enough to be right there when she needed to talk. Yes, lucky me!

  Lancelot – I remembered thinking – what a name! I pictured him on horseback, valiantly following a narrow woodland path that led to another Guinevere. Just then, Robin, with her packet of tissues, certainly hadn’t looked much like a queen, but I’d kept my thoughts to myself. I had given her a couple of Coeurs Noirs, which I always carried with me in my bag, and then said something to her about the benefits of chocolate and that you could actually have a better time with chocolate than with men.

  Robin had liked what I said, managed to smile, and even laughed. I’d then told her that I was sure she would meet someone else soon, and she’d seemed to believe me. The remainder of the conversation had been about Robin’s future.

  Although I liked to spend a lot of time by myself, if I saw a soul in pain I would try to offer some comfort. Since I usually didn’t know the people I gave advice to, I could be more objective and less judgemental than their friends or family would be.

  My parents and my two sisters had been amazed that I’d decided to train to be a cook. They had thought I would become a kind of Mother Teresa, a sort of saviour of lost souls. ‘But food has the power to comfort, doesn’t it?’ I’d said.

  When I witnessed people in such turmoil because their relationships were going badly, it strengthened my conviction that I’d rather be by myself, eating some Coeurs Noirs with a glass of cranberry liqueur, sitting on my porch looking out at the ocean, with my devoted Chipolata at my side, than suffering with a man.

  Robin and her friends Daphne and Adriana could not allow themselves to be alone, although not for economic reasons. They had to have boyfriends even if they weren’t really happy because, for them, being in a relationship was all that mattered.

  Robin went on to relate how she’d followed my advice: she had taken a few months off, away from everyone, and ended up in Tokyo, working part time for her father’s firm, which had an office there.

  ‘And then I met Gabe, who was also living in Tokyo for a while …’

  She told us that they were getting engaged, and that she wanted me to cook for their engagement party since she believed I’d brought her good luck. I was also invited to the wedding, but strictly as a guest. I wouldn’t have to cook for that.

  Wow, that was fast! She didn’t waste any time after our conversation on the yacht.

  I should have been flattered that Robin was asking me to
cook for her engagement dinner and that she’d invited me to her wedding, but I didn’t really know what to say besides ‘That would be lovely’, since I wasn’t part of Robin’s social circle at all. I resolved to make the effort to attend her wedding, though, as it could be good for business.

  After another toast to this news, Daphne cleared her throat hesitantly.

  ‘Um, so tell us. You’re known as someone who likes being single – is that really true?’

  What was really true was that some chefs were as famous as Hollywood stars. I doubted I would like that. By then, I was refusing to speak to any journalist, a decision I’d made immediately after reading the only article ever written about me in a food magazine. I didn’t like reading about myself in the least, or seeing the phoney picture of me in my kitchen. The article was entitled ‘The Stardom of the Famous Chef who Doesn’t Want to Be Famous’. Unfortunately, these women had evidently read and remembered it.

  ‘From what we read about you,’ Adriana said through a mouthful of chocolate, ‘you really seem to enjoy living by yourself. A bit like a hermit really?’

  I’d got the feeling that Daphne and Adriana were trying to challenge me a little. I looked at the two of them. Daphne was waiting anxiously for my answer. Adriana hadn’t stopped eating sweet titbits. Robin, meanwhile, had tuned out, giving the impression that she was dreaming about her wedding to Gabe as she gazed at a gilt-framed Italian painting on the wall next to her depicting a group of jolly, plump cherubs.

  ‘What works for me doesn’t necessarily work for others,’ I answered calmly.

  ‘Of course not,’ Daphne mumbled. ‘I, um, I’m curious because I’ve never met anyone like you before.’

  ‘Jeez, Daphne, get to the point,’ Robin said, taking her eyes off the cherubs and winking at me as if we were friends sharing a great secret. ‘Actually, Daphne would really like you to tell us about your everyday life by yourself, since the article didn’t really say much about it,’ she explained apologetically, as if slightly embarrassed for her friend.