by JC Harroway
I add a glug of cream to the sauce in the pan. Spits of hot oil spatter the back of my hand, snapping me from thoughts of the phone in my pocket, which remains stubbornly silent.
I could reread the last text Drake sent...
Are you free for dinner tonight?
I could scour the non-committal words for hidden meaning, but I haven’t fallen that low.
Yet.
I plate up the salmon steak atop a swirl of rich, creamy sauce and scatter a tiny trail of salmon roe as a garnish, my last lunch cover of the day. I take the plate to the pass, where Rod casts a critical eye over the dish, before wiping an imaginary speck from the rim of the plate with a pristine tea towel hanging from his waist and then sliding it forward for the waiting staff.
The Faulkner’s maître d’ finds me as I’m heading back to my station to clean up.
‘McKenzie, you have a customer at table eight who’d like to thank you for their lunch.’
Rod overhears, giving a reluctant nod of approval.
I wait for the surge of euphoria at customer recognition in an otherwise thankless shift, and then offer a flat ‘thanks’ when it fails to materialise. My mind should be on this, my chance, my future. But...
I wipe my hands on my apron and head for the restaurant. When I see Drake sitting at table eight, I imagine I must have summoned him up from my mind, a hologram.
He stands, takes my elbow and presses a brief kiss to my cheek.
‘What are you doing here?’ So acute is the urge to touch him, to hold him, I’m tart, the deep trouble I’m in where my feelings for him are concerned sucking at me like quicksand.
‘I’ve just finished lunch. Have a seat.’ He pulls out a chair and I eye it with longing. My feet throb and I have kinks in my back only a ten-hour soak in a hot bath and a massage will fix—not that there’s any chance of either.
I scan the restaurant before sliding in opposite Drake, but the lunch rush has dwindled and no one is paying any attention.
‘The salmon tasted delicious. Thank you.’ His smile reminds me of the day I turned up in this restaurant to ask him for a favour.
‘You’re welcome.’ It hurts to swallow. ‘You...you didn’t have to do this—why so formal?’ I look around, my eyes struggling to stay on his, which are haunted, distant. Is he embarrassed over what he confessed at the cottage? Does he regret trusting me with his demons?
‘I wanted to talk to you.’ He straightens his tie. He’s nervous.
A sense of foreboding pounds at my temples. ‘I thought we were meeting for dinner?’ Perhaps he’s changed his mind. I fidget, feeling out of place in such an elegant setting dressed in fat-spattered whites.
Then I look, really look, at his face.
My stomach plummets.
I know what’s coming.
I know this man now—why did I ever think he was hard to read? My fate is written all over his face, despite the warm smile he’s forcing for my sake.
His fingers twitch on the table, a few short inches from mine. Is he thinking about touching me? Or just nervous to be the bearer of bad news? Those inches may as well be miles.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says.
I cringe. Drake has left the building—this is Mr Faulkner talking.
He does touch me then, the slide of his fingers brief on the back of my hand. ‘Rod has decided to go with Dominic—he says it’s an experience thing and Rod feels he’s a better fit.’
‘Okay.’ I wait for the crush of disappointment, but it’s not as profound as I’d anticipated. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t struggled under Rod’s tutelage. Admitting you’ve bitten off more than you can chew sucks, but I’ve come to realise I might be better off at a lower-profile restaurant while I hone my skills and learn to perfect my craft.
‘Well, thanks for such a great opportunity.’ I’m impressed by the strength of my voice. ‘I’ve learned a lot from Rod.’ He may be an arsehole, but he’s a talented chef. And I’ve had what I wanted—my shot at the big league.
And more—I’ve had my time with Drake.
Is that over, too?
He drops his voice, leans closer. ‘Look, if it were down to me—’
‘It’s okay.’ I don’t want Mr Faulkner’s platitudes. I’m a grown woman. I gave this my best shot and it didn’t work. I’m not giving up on my dream.
Trouble is, I still want Drake. But there’s no sign of him. Will he remove me from his life, as well as from his restaurant?
His lips, lips I know are soft and demanding, thin. ‘We will, of course, give you a stellar reference.’ His eyes soften. He’s conflicted, trapped between professional and personal. ‘You have so much potential, Kenzie.’
I nod woodenly. I was expecting this—not the marching orders, but Drake’s reaction. I seek confirmation that my growing unease is warranted.
But no, his face is unreadable, his mask back in place.
Has he been avoiding me? Not just because he didn’t want to be the one to tell me I hadn’t got the coveted job at the Faulkner, but because he’s withdrawing emotionally?
Now the crush comes. Pressure surrounding my chest as if I’m trapped in one of those industrial compactors. I know, no matter how hard I scream, no one will hear and the space I’m in will continue to shrink, until I can no longer breathe.
If I’m honest, I saw Drake’s desertion in his eyes on the beach. My stomach plummets as if I’m in a lift, the sense of déjà vu sucking all the energy from my body, a sickening coming-together of past and present.
Loss.
It pinches my stomach, a physical blow, and my eyes water.
The urge to talk to my parents, to Sam, Tilly—it’s been absent for a while, but it’s back now, crushing my hot, aching throat.
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to stem the swell of grief. I need to pull myself together. I have to go back to work, face Rod, finish my shift.
I offer Drake a brave smile, seeing only regret in his eyes. All the signs were there from day one. And more fool me for thinking this time would be different. I care, I trust enough to let someone close and I get hurt, left, abandoned. The cycle as predictable as night following day.
I stand, dragging my weary body from the elegant chair. ‘Well, thanks for letting me know.’ My smile is one of gratitude—I’d rather have heard it from him than Rod. And Drake did exactly what he promised.
He stands, too, reaches for my hand, his Drake voice back. ‘I...I’ll pick you up at seven.’
I nod but all I want to do is head home and hide under my duvet. Emotionally, I feel like I’ve lived through an electrical storm featuring every feeling known to the human condition. And I’ve only myself to blame.
I trusted Drake. I gave too much of myself, hoping we were moving in the same direction. But his confession about the day we met—how he wouldn’t change it—and now the sense he’s pulling back... I suck in a deep breath, trying to stay rational, but I’m a pinball, ricocheting between emotional extremes.
I return to the kitchen and finish the clean-up, my movements automatic. I thank Rod for the opportunity, change out of the monogrammed Faulkner whites for the last time and head home on the Tube, the rhythmic clank and rumble of the carriage swaying on the tracks a lullaby to my pensive mood.
A headache grips my temples and I consider bailing out on tonight’s plans with Drake. If I had a bath at my tiny flat I probably would cancel, wallow, drink wine in bed with a good book. But if the reckoning is coming I won’t shy away, and tonight, whatever restaurant Drake has booked, is as good a place as any for a showdown. At least I won’t be tempted to touch him, to kiss him, to succumb to the physical us and ignore the train wreck that represents the rest of our relationship.
Making a decision, I exit the Tube two stations early for an impromptu shopping trip. If the time has come to walk away, I want his l
asting image of me to knock off his fine wool dress socks.
At home, I shower until the water runs cool and then I blow-dry my hair in soft waves and slip into my new purchase—a red dress, the fabric ruched to cup my breasts and caress the curves of my hips and backside.
If Drake plans to stage a tactical retreat, who says I can’t fight dirty?
I top the dress with a faux-fur jacket to ward off the chill and meet Drake at the kerb outside my flat.
His gaze sweeps over me, his kiss to my cheek warm and soft, but his eyes are wary. From giving my marching orders or does he plan to tell me our affair is over, too?
As we crawl along Cromwell Road, Drake pulls my hand into his lap and breaks the silence. ‘I’m sorry about the job—I know what it means to you.’
And what do I mean to you...?
‘I’m fine. You were right to warn me at the beginning—Rod isn’t easy to work for.’ We stare, eyes locked, neither of us, I suspect, voicing what we really want to say.
We’ve barely sat at our table in the very upmarket restaurant and ordered a bottle of wine when we’re joined by another man. I smile through my surprise as Drake shakes his hand and introduces us, before inviting him to sit. ‘Luke is head chef at La Folie.’
Luke and Drake wait for me to take my seat and then join me. I hide my confusion with a sip of wine. Has Drake piggybacked a business meeting onto our date? I look down, a little hurt—I’d assumed we’d share an intimate dinner at best and a discussion on where this is going at worst. Before I can register what this means, Luke has drawn me into a conversation about my training and experience.
‘So, Drake tells me you trained at Newell Academy?’ Luke asks.
I nod, drawing upon the sales pitch I could recite in my sleep to appease Drake’s charming friend. My hand grips the stem of my wine glass—Drake is lucky he’s not wearing my glass of Pinot Noir. What the hell is going on? I shoot him a pointed look, earning myself nothing more enlightening than a return sheepish smile.
‘Kenzie has a real flair for flavours,’ Drake says, ‘and, like you, she’s passionate about local produce, ethical farming and sustainable agriculture.’
I smile but wither inside.
This is a job interview.
Drake’s passing me on from his restaurant to Luke’s.
‘There’s a sous-chef position opening up at La Folie,’ says Drake, in confirmation.
This is his idea of a consolation prize. And the only reason I would need a consolation prize is if he’s not only nudging me out of his workplace, but also out of his life.
I plaster a fake smile on my face for the easy-going, affable Luke, who’s talking shop. If only I’d seen the position at La Folie before Drake thought he could stick a bandage over the gaping wound in our relationship with this act of appeasement, I could muster some enthusiasm.
If only Drake could offer me more than a leg-up, professionally...
I struggle through the rest of dinner. I smile in the right places, say the right things and attempt a laugh or two, while I burn inside. The raw feeling, like I’m a pan that’s been scrubbed too vigorously, is familiar. It’s the same feeling I got when Tilly told me she was moving away from home to explore her independence. The same feeling I had when my grief over Sam faded and I realised that he’d left me long before he died.
And now Drake has unburdened his guilty secrets, ticked the helping-out-the-widow-of-a-friend box, has he no further need for me, either?
I push away my dessert, my stomach in turmoil. I’ve fallen for a man who can’t ever see me as a woman, because to him I’ll always be Sam’s wife.
Unless he’s prepared to fight for me.
In the car, Drake instructs his driver to take us the short distance back to his place. I’m mute, my resilience at rock bottom—my skin too tight, my head too full and my heart...? Someone has removed that organ, split it in two and replaced it without bothering to sew the halves back together.
We’re settled by the fire, nightcap in hand, before I speak my mind. ‘Luke seems like he’d be great to work for. Better than Rod.’
He looks like he’s tasted something sour, when all he’s done is take a large sip of his own Scotch, single malt Glengoyne that’s probably older than me. ‘Yes. I’ve known him for years. He’s a good man.’
The hairs on my bare arms prickle to attention. ‘Like you.’
Drake snorts, shakes his head and downs the rest of his Scotch.
His body language speaks for him, confirming my doubts. You can’t work at the Faulkner, but here’s a job at La Folie. We can’t work, but here’s the prize for runner-up.
My temperature rises, nothing to do with the open fire.
He wants to move on, safe in the knowledge he’s done his bit to take care of my future, as if I’m a goldfish in need of a new owner.
I draw in a mouthful of Scotch. ‘So I’m guessing the job’s mine, if I want it...’ It’s an effort to keep my voice neutral, to keep my face impassive, while I wait for his nod of confirmation.
I force a smile that literally hurts my face. ‘Well, every cloud has a silver lining.’ My blood pressure hits the roof.
I want to slap the bemused frown from his face.
‘Are you angry? La Folie is a great opportunity, as good as the Faulkner...’
I close my eyes. Can’t he see what he’s doing? He’s a decent, intelligent man. He probably thinks he’s doing the right thing by me, by Sam. And on one level, he is. But we surpassed that level long ago—I want more than a consolation prize. I want him.
‘I’m...hurt that you think I’m so fragile.’ I breathe, teasing out the strands of this mess, which is twisted up with our pasts, our current predicament and what could be in our future. But only if we’re both brave enough to take that leap. ‘I can find my own job.’ Can’t he see it’s not about the job?
‘I know you can. I just wanted you to have some...security. I have the industry contacts—why shouldn’t you benefit?’
‘Because I’m a grown woman—I can look after myself. I’ve been doing it most of my adult life.’ Before you. ‘When I came to you, I wanted one thing. A shot. And you gave me that. We’re quits.’ My words are a crack of a whip.
Of course now what I want has changed. I don’t want him to fight for my career; I want him to fight for me. But is Drake, so caught up in regrets, in what might have been, capable of the fight?
Drake places his cut-crystal tumbler on the coffee table and nods, his eyes dark and stormy on mine while a muscle twitches in his cheek. ‘I know you can take care of yourself. I’m just trying to keep my promise.’
‘I know you’re still loyal to Sam.’ But what about me? What does he want? For himself? ‘And your solution is to send me money or find me a replacement job?’
‘Kenzie...’ He growls out a warning, one I’m happy to ignore.
I stand, slapping down my own glass. I’m so done. ‘Tell me the real issue here, Drake—be honest for once. Spell it out.’
His brow crinkles with confusion. ‘What are you talking about?’ Even now he can’t hide how much he wants me physically, his eyes raking my body as his chest rises and falls on his rapid breathing.
‘You said yourself, we’re not friends. So physical is all we have, right? Tell me you don’t want me and I’ll leave. I’ll go and work for Luke.’ It’s hard to breathe, so I lower my voice to a whisper. ‘Tell me.’
I know I’m baiting him to fight for me—it’s a low blow, but no worse a tactic than him trying to protect himself with his emotional withdrawal and his pathetic circus show at dinner this evening.
Tired of waiting, I unhook the strap of my halter dress behind my neck, allowing the fabric to peel down to my waist without ceremony. My breasts spill free and Drake’s eyes widen with a flare of heat, even as he clenches his jaw and makes loose fists.
I tug at the zip in the small of my back and slide the dress over my hips, tossing it aside until I’m standing before him in nothing but a lacy thong. ‘Tell me.’ It’s a harsh plea, one I barely finish before he stands, tugs me into his arms and crushes my mouth under his in a hot, possessive kiss.
He breaks away, his breath gusting out in pants. ‘This is what you want? Me? Despite everything?’
‘Yes.’ At least we’re being honest at last.
He tugs at his shirt buttons, a blaze of challenge in his eyes that makes my belly flutter and my knees tremble. I can’t wait for him to strip—he’s taking too long. I kiss him and then break away to slide my mouth over every strip of skin he exposes, while my hands work on his belt and fly in hurried tugs.
I drop to my knees, yanking at the fabric of his trousers to release his erection. He’s still trussed, his trousers around his knees and his arms trapped in his shirt by his cufflinked shirt cuffs as I take in him in my mouth with a greedy whimper.
‘Fuck! Kenzie...’ Drake grapples his arms free and grips my head, his hips rocking in time with the slide of my mouth down his shaft. I take him to the back of my throat, humming out my possession and then I suck on the head with a flick of my tongue on the spot that makes him curse and his stare grow hooded.
His fingers curl in my hair, gripping. His eyes follow the passage of his cock in and out of my mouth and his thighs are steel as he braces his legs.
With a growl he pulls back and slips from my mouth and then he tugs me to my feet, kicks off his trousers and lifts me so I’m clinging to his waist with my thighs. He keeps his eyes open while I kiss him so he can spin us around and lower me to the leather sofa, cool at my back.
The heat of his body covers me. I spread my thighs, creating a cradle for his hips. ‘Hurry—I need you.’ I’m past caring. Ready to beg.
His elbows trap my arms at my sides, his hands cupping my head and his fingers sliding into my hair so he can hold me still to the plunder of his kiss. It’s possessive. A deep exploration of tongues and teeth and lips that leaves us panting and gyrating against each other. I keep my eyes open, needing to see the way he’s looking at me, the stark honesty of his desire.