Reserved for You

by Brenda Margriet

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Paul lounged on the dark microfibre couch in his dressing room, a Coke swinging from his long fingers. Daniel sprawled next to him.

  “It’s not as swanky as I thought it would be,” Daniel said.

  “At least I don’t have to share.” He felt guilty having a room all to himself when the women were clustered in one. Not that he didn’t appreciate the chance to get away from the drama once in a while. “It’s not as if I’m Brad Pitt.”

  “I’ve been telling you that for years.”

  Paul punched him lazily as knuckles rat-a-tat-tatted on the door. “Come in,” he called.

  Lainie walked in, head down, studying her tablet. “Paul, we’re ready on set, so if you...” She looked up and stuttered to a stop. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company.”

  “He’s not company. He’s Daniel.”

  “How are you doing, Lainie?” Daniel said.

  Nothing overt changed in his posture, but Paul knew him well. This was the first time—as far as Paul knew—they had seen each other since the night Lainie offered Paul the job. Now the secret was out in the open, it seemed Daniel had his eyes on the curvy blonde.

  “Fine. I’m fine. Are you here for the taping?” Paul watched with interest as calm, collected Lainie flushed. “Of course you are. Why else would you be here?”

  Daniel took a swallow from his own Coke and nodded. “Paul invited me. That okay?”

  “Perfectly okay. It’s Elimination Day, you know, when Paul has to pick which of the contestants will go home. He dated Yvonne yesterday. They went to a soccer game.” She snapped her mouth shut.

  Despite being diverted by her babbling, Paul decided to rescue her. “I figured he should see for himself what he got me into.” He finished his drink and placed the can tidily in a recycle bin. “He’s been saying I told you so every ten minutes because the publicity has been fabulous for Paulo’s.”

  “Hey, if it wasn’t for me, you’d never do anything.”

  “What, like leave home to study in the States? Or open my own restaurant?”

  “You opened it with me, didn’t you? Besides, I meant anything that doesn’t have to do with food, you idiot. You would have missed out on all the fun parts of high school if it hadn’t been for me.”

  “Yeah, I’m so glad you snitched that case of beer from your dad in Grade Eleven. I enjoyed puking my guts out behind the dumpster after the Christmas Gala.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Lainie grinned. “Well, I for one am glad he convinced you—”

  “Conned me,” interjected Paul.

  “—into doing the show. It’s going very well. You are a hit with our viewers. Trust me—I’ve read the Facebook comments.”

  “Perfect,” Paul said, “now he’ll be saying I told you so every five minutes.”

  “He’ll have to say it from behind the camera. You’re due on set. I’ll make sure he gets a good seat.”

  Jemma wanted to pace, but forced herself to stand still, determined not to draw attention.

  What she’d overheard the night before gnawed at her. Had she made the wrong decision, choosing not to tell anyone? It only made sense to tell Lainie. Between the two of them they’d be able to figure out what was going on. But what could she say? An unidentified voice had made comments that implied something shady. That wasn’t proof.

  She was vibrating with frustration by the time Lainie entered the studio, followed by Paul and another man. The stranger looked vaguely familiar, perhaps because of his similarity to Paul. Rich brown hair, chocolate eyes, olive skin.

  Paul peeled off to his place on the set, and Lainie showed the guest to a chair out of the way. Lainie smiled and shook her head at something the man said. He grinned and took his seat. She headed to the snack table.

  Jemma snaked through scattered equipment and gear. She fell into step beside her.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” Lainie asked. “You ready?” She waved a hand. “Never mind. Of course you are.”

  “Of course.” Jemma took the plunge. “You got a minute?”

  “More like a second,” Lainie said. “I have to meet Larrey in the control room. What’s up?”

  Jemma opened her mouth, unsure how to begin. In desperation she blurted, “Do you like working with Larrey?”

  Lainie nodded as she deliberated over the donut box. “He’s amazing. I know he’s gruff and demanding, but when someone is as good at what he does as he is it’s easy to get away with it. He knows his stuff, has a unique vision for the show, a real sense of what works and what doesn’t.”

  “So he’s a good boss?” Jemma’s courage seeped out.

  “The best I’ve ever worked for.” Lainie peered at Jemma. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Everything’s fine.” A door opened and the female contestants streamed in to take their places.

  Larrey entered the studio behind them. “Lainie!” he barked. “It’s time to go.”

  “Be right there.” She cocked her head at Jemma, asking a silent question.

  “Go.” Jemma smiled faintly. “It’s show time.”

  Less than a week later, Jemma still hadn’t decided what to do about the subterfuge she’d discovered.

  Under pretence of checking the props and supplies, she prowled the aisles of the kitchen set, weaving among the ten remaining contestants. She had thought the atmosphere between them would lighten up a few weeks into the program, but she’d discounted their ferocious competitive spirit. Yvonne and Fenella, who had both survived dates with Paul, boasted a fragile, very fragile, sheen of confidence, while the other women wore varying expressions of determination.

  She concentrated on their voices, trying to pinpoint a tone, a phrase, anything that would help her identify the mystery woman. She had eluded Jemma last week during the elimination episode. It hadn’t been Yvonne—she’d been on the date with Paul. And if it had been Allison, it no longer mattered, as Paul had sent her home as a result of two weeks in a row of bad cooking.

  Jemma didn’t believe it had been Allison. The conspirator was still here, and Jemma renewed her resolve to discover who it was.

  “All right,” called the floor director, “time to start. Places, please.” Jemma found a dark corner close enough to hear the women as they worked.

  During taping, Calynn set up the challenge for the viewers, and wandered among the contestants, asking questions, drawing them into conversations. The hiss of melting butter and buzz of blenders filled the studio. As time dwindled, an aroma of desperation mixed with the fresh scent of spices. Today’s challenge was a cheese soufflé, and it quickly became apparent it was far beyond the skill of most of the contestants.

  Voices grew louder, high-pitched with nerves and anger. Fenella alone appeared calm. Her cheeks were flushed and strands of hair escaped from its French roll, but she smoothly folded whipped egg whites into the base and turned it into a soufflé form. Hers was the first to be carefully placed in an oven.

  Calynn approached her with a smile. “Well done, Fenella. Or is it bad luck to offer congratulations before the taste testing is over? It seemed to me you dealt with this challenge rather easily. What did you think of it?”

  “Oh, it was really, really hard!” Fenella’s eyes widened with sincerity and simplicity. Jemma wanted to gag. “It’s such a difficult recipe. But when I was chosen to be on Reservations for Two, I promised myself I’d do my best, and I always keep my promises. Paul’s going to like it—like it very much.”

  The phrasing, the intonation and the voice clicked.

  Gotcha, Jemma thought.

  Long shadows stretched across the parking lot as Paul rattled a metal cart across the pavement.

  “It’s a sacrilege to treat soufflés that way,” Daniel said.

  Paul had to give him credit. He’d stayed right to the bitter end, and appeared to enjoy himself. Maybe the wrong guy was on the show. Daniel would be having a blast, instead of angsting over every decision.


  “Nothing could make these worse than they already are,” Paul said. They surveyed the flattened offerings sadly. Fenella’s had collapsed a few minutes after it came out of the oven, as it was supposed to do. Most of the others hadn’t puffed up to start with.

  “You want help?”

  Paul shook his head. “Nah, I’m good.”

  “I’m off, then.” Daniel flipped his key ring around one finger, catching it in his palm as if he were a gunslinger and it was a six-shooter. “Meeting a pretty brunette tonight.”

  “I thought you were into blondes at the moment.”

  Daniel jerked his chin. “What do you mean?”

  “I saw you checking out Lainie.” Paul began loading the soufflés into his Murano.

  “She’s hot, but too much of a workaholic for my taste.” Daniel handed him one of the worst-looking dishes. “I’d better get going, before my date thinks I’ve stood her up.”

  “Isn’t it kind of late?”

  Daniel laughed. “The night is young, and so am I. You, on the other hand”—he shook his head sadly— “you are old before your time.”

  Paul flipped him the finger. “See you at the restaurant tomorrow?”

  “Of course.”

  Daniel roared off in his boxy, masculine, pretty-much-useless-in-Vancouver four-by-four pick up. Paul loaded the last of the soufflés, closed the lift back and turned to the trolley.

  Jemma blocked his way.

  “What are you doing?” She stood, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed. The stud in her nose was red today.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” He shook the cart in warning, and she stepped aside.

  “Taking the soufflés.”

  The empty cart clattered on the uneven concrete. “Smart girl. I knew you could figure it out.” She growled, and he pressed his lips together to hide a smile. Her prickliness was oddly enjoyable, like a rough back scratch.

  “Why?”

  They reached the door. He waited. When she didn’t move, he pointed at the door. With a huff of breath that fluttered her long pink bangs she held it open.

  “Because.” He set the trolley against the wall and headed outside. She scurried at his heels. “Did you want them?”

  “No.”

  He caught of hint of mirth in the single syllable and grinned. “They don’t look too appetizing, do they?”

  “Except for Fenella’s.”

  He fished his keys out of his pocket. “She earned her date. I’d be proud to serve her soufflé in my restaurant any day.” He slid into the driver’s seat. Jemma gripped the edge of the door, preventing him from closing it. “What?”

  She tapped one booted foot on the pavement. “You can’t be taking those pathetic things to your restaurant.”

  “Why do you care? I have permission to take them. I’ll return the dishes in a couple days.”

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and pursed her mouth. Her lips were a natural pale pink, any gloss or colour she might have used worn off after a long day. She worried the bottom lip with small, white teeth.

  He wondered how she would taste. “Want to come?” he asked brusquely.

  “Where?”

  “Where I’m taking the soufflés.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” She was too much work. Suspicious, antagonistic, perverse. Sexy, alluring, piquant.

  “Okay.”

  And contrary.

  “Aren’t you afraid you might lose your job?” he snarked.

  She simply looked at him.

  He dug an old receipt out of the console, scribbled on the back. “Here’s the address, in case we get split up.” She pinched it between two fingertips. “Do you need to sign out or anything?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Traffic was reasonably light, and Jemma had no trouble keeping up with Paul. They crossed the Knight Street Bridge, used East 33rd to get to Victoria Drive, and continued north.

  Where the hell was he taking the soufflés? And why the hell did she care? She wasn’t searching for an excuse to be with him. Was she?

  The longer they drove, the more uneasy she grew. He made a left turn onto a residential street, an eclectic mixture of boxy older homes, heritage-style newer constructions, and low apartment buildings.

  She and Miriam lived two blocks away.

  He braked at the curb and she pulled in behind. Of course he’d recognized her address from her resumé. He obviously spent time in her neighbourhood. It was disconcerting to think of him so close to home. It made it harder to keep him at a distance, to view him only as an actor in a television show, as a restaurant owner. It made him a person, with a life she knew nothing about.

  It made her curious.

  She helped him carry the soufflés up a brick path. Bright carriage lights on either side of the door scattered the dark that had fallen during their drive. The house was two stories, with a ground level entrance and a balcony above indicating a living room on the top floor. Its bland beige vinyl siding was offset with ugly orange brick. The glow of the lights revealed a trimmed lawn and flowerbeds free of weeds.

  Paul used his elbow to press the doorbell. They waited in silence.

  The door opened abruptly, revealing a petite, dark-haired young woman. She dragged Paul across the threshold. “Thank goodness you’re here. They’ve been driving me crazy.” She spotted Jemma and tilted her head. “Who’s this?”

  “Grace, meet Jemma. She works on the show. Jemma, my sister, Grace.”

  “Hi. Thanks for coming.” She lifted one of the boxes Jemma had stacked in her arms. “Let me help. We’re in the gathering room.” She whisked through a doorway tucked under a flight of stairs running up one side of the foyer. Paul and Jemma trailed sedately after, passing a row of walkers, those used by the elderly, lined up against the wall.

  The room was large and airy. Two windows in the far wall and another in the front would let in plenty of light during the day. The floor was warmly carpeted in a low pile, industrial grey. Glossy cabinets and colourful artwork brightened the space. A door opposite Jemma was open, revealing a hospital-style bed and a dark wood dresser.

  A tall, thin man with brilliantly white hair helped Grace unload the box on one end of an extra-long, sturdily built wooden table. Two elderly ladies sat at the far end, jigsaw pieces scattered before them. One of the women, loose-jowled with thick-framed glasses magnifying her eyes, chattered at Grace. The other sat in a wheelchair, staring at nothing. An openwork shawl wrapped her gaunt shoulders, and her heavily knuckled fingers plucked the fringe restlessly.

  “Mrs. Carvalho, will you get the plates and cutlery?” Grace asked.

  “Of course, dear.” The woman wearing glasses pushed laboriously out her chair. Using a walker, she crossed the room to the row of melamine cupboards.

  Jemma resisted the urge to help. Instead, she unloaded her box.

  Mrs. Carvalho’s walker rolled across the carpet as she made her way back, swinging a basket filled with paper plates and plastic forks from the handle.

  “Who are you, dear?” she asked Jemma. Her walk might be hesitant but there was no dimming of the intelligence behind those distorting lenses.

  “I’m Jemma Hedge. I’m a...I work with Paul. On the television show. Not at his restaurant.” She didn’t know why she wanted to make that clear. She slitted a glance across the table and caught him wearing an expression she wasn’t sure how to interpret. Amusement with a hint of remorse, maybe?

  “Charmed to meet you,” said the tall white-haired man in a resonant British accent. “I’m Robert Kingston.”

  She shook his offered hand. The skin was dry and papery, the bones brittle underneath. He turned to Paul. “And who are you, young man?”

  “I’m Paul, Mr. Kingston. Grace’s brother. We met last week.”

  Confusion flashed across Mr. Kingston’s face. “Of course, Paul, of course.”

  Instead of the aristocratic nose, t
he long chin, the sweep of white hair, Jemma saw Miriam’s wrinkled cheeks, pale eyes and pewter curls. Her chest tightened.

  “Can you bring Mrs. Henschke to join us?”

  Paul did as his sister bid, gently maneuvering the woman in the wheelchair closer to the soufflés. Her shawl dangled onto one of the wheels and he nudged it out of harm’s way.

  When everyone was settled, Grace said to Paul, “Now, what have you brought us?”

  “They’re cheese soufflés, but most of them weren’t very successful.”

  “Aren’t soufflés supposed to be light and puffy?” Mrs. Carvalho eyed the disc-like substances.

  “They are, but only for a few minutes after they leave the oven. Don’t worry. They’re good to eat, even after they’ve fallen.”

  Helpings were handed out. Grace sat next to Mrs. Henschke and gently encouraged her to eat. The old woman chewed and swallowed mechanically, staring into the distance with no sign of recognition or engagement. Jemma was fascinated and repelled, horrified and hypnotized by the poor woman’s plight.

  Couldn’t help but imagine Miriam in her place. The mouthful of soufflé was a glutinous mass on Jemma’s tongue, tasteless and choking.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Thanks for coming, Jemma.” Grace walked with her and Paul to the front door.

  Jemma managed a smile. “No problem.” She forced herself not to rush down the path. Paul called goodbye to his sister and followed. Jemma swung her driver’s door open. He caught and held it.

  “I have to get home,” she said flatly, one foot inside the car.

  “You’re thirty seconds away. Tell me what’s wrong.” A streetlight illuminated Paul’s dark hair with silvery highlights, but his face was in shadow.

  “Nothing.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t bring you here to upset you.”

  Jemma saw movement behind the gauzy curtains.A light switched on. “Why?”

  “Why did I invite you? Or why do I come here?” Before she could reply he continued. “I asked Benedict if I could take the meals. They were going to get thrown out, otherwise. I considered a homeless shelter, but as the weeks go by there will be less and less to share, so that didn’t make sense. My sister is always looking for ways to keep her residents entertained, involved. So I figured they could do their own taste testing.”