by Amal Awad
Luke has decided to return to ‘go’. All day, he nitpicks at everything I do. He criticises the custard in my tarts, the tempered chocolate writing that graces the tops. But while he seems to find it easy to return to how things were, I don’t.
I try to zone him out. But eventually, my resolve collapses and without meaning to, I snap at him. ‘OK! I get it!’
Music fills the kitchen but everyone has slowed down to tune in to us.
‘I heard you. I heard you the first fifty times you told me I was doing it wrong.’
I take a deep breath, and my fingers fumble with the knot of my apron strings, then I toss it onto the counter beside my imperfect custard tarts. Without another thought, without worrying how it looks, I leave, not caring if I never come back.
What I don’t expect is for Luke to follow me into the office where I keep my handbag.
‘Sahar.’
I turn to face him. ‘What is your problem with me?’
‘You have to listen.’
I shake my head. ‘No. From the moment I walked in, you’ve made my life hell. What do you want? Blood?’
Luke surprises me when he says carefully, ‘I just need you to work better.’
‘Do you think I’m just some diversity hire or something? Is that it? Have I not bent over backwards to earn every crumb you’ve thrown at me? Done every crappy task to perfection just so you’ll let me prepare a custard tart I could make in my sleep?’
Even in my fury, I’m surprised at how loud I am, at how the words spill out easily, how I don’t say them with false courage, despite the tremble in my voice and the way my hands shake.
My breathing is heavy, loaded, as I gather my belongings. I don’t remember ever feeling anger so intensely. This is drilled-down emotion, reserves of feeling I didn’t know existed within me.
Luke hasn’t moved. ‘Look. I know you don’t like being the least experienced, but you need to be able to take feedback. I don’t ever think about your – whatever, diversity credentials?’
‘My work is good. You don’t have to be nice, Luke. I don’t even care if you like me. But you should be fair.’
I shove my cardigan into my handbag and swing it over my shoulder. Hurt and confusion fill me as I make my exit, wondering if all my progress at Maggie’s is going to end in nothing.
Halfway down the street, I hear my name being called and I turn to find Kat and Inez coming after me. Against my protests, they lead me into the hipster coffee bar we get morning orders from and sit me down by the window.
‘Luke is emotionally stunted,’ Kat begins. ‘A lot has happened to him, and he doesn’t know how to communicate. He only knows how to be a soldier: he either gets orders or gives them.’
I stare at Kat blankly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know he was in the army.’
Inez sips her tea. ‘He doesn’t talk about it much.’
‘Right. Well, I’ve experienced trauma, too. It doesn’t mean I treat people like crap.’
Kat makes a face, like she is deliberating how much to say.
I stare at her. ‘What? I am nothing like him.’
‘You weren’t the easiest person to get along with at the start either,’ Kat says. ‘You kind of just stuck to yourself.’
I feel a flush of shame travel down my cheeks and I shake my head. ‘I was shy. I was new and junior. It’s not the same.’
‘Look, I’m not excusing Luke,’ Kat continues, ‘because he can be a fuckwit. But he’s a fuckwit to everyone. Granted, it’s different when you’re working under him, but this is the first time he’s had someone this talented to manage. It’s doing things to him.’
Inez smiles. ‘You are very talented. It was pretty obvious when you first started that you weren’t a junior. You didn’t really hide your frustration. But you weren’t advanced either. Luke isn’t easy, but he was toughening you up. I’ve seen worse.’
I stare down at my coffee, wishing that I could read my fortune in it the way so many Arab women do, the grounds weaving intricate pathways that reveal obstacles and ways forward. A well-read cup, I discovered in Jordan, is like a balm to a troubled soul. A good cup gives you hope.
I sigh. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. I can be pretty obsessive and stubborn.’
‘Like Luke is obsessive and stubborn?’ Kat says with a wry grin.
Inez smiles into her cup. ‘Two peas in a pod.’
‘I would say get a room, but you work together, so I really don’t think you should sleep with him,’ Kat says.
‘I’m not attracted to Luke,’ I say, taken aback by Kat’s casual tone. I glance at Inez.
‘There’s a thing there … maybe,’ she says with a shrug.
I am mortified. ‘There’s no thing.’
Kat rolls her eyes. ‘Fine. Maybe you’re a pea in a pod with Leo, then.’
‘I’m not interested in Leo.’ I turn to Inez. ‘He’s nice to me, that’s all.’
Inez holds up her hands. ‘I think he’s hot, but he doesn’t even know I’m alive. I have no claim on him.’
‘If it’s weird for you that I spend time with him, I won’t.’
Inez gives me an odd look. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Of course.’
‘Honey, don’t be ridiculous.’
Kat chuckles. ‘Would you look at this one? Doesn’t know what to do with all the attention.’
I study my coffee, self-conscious all of a sudden.
Kat downs the rest of her coffee. ‘Now, are you coming back to the kitchen? Trust me, you don’t want to piss Maggie off with petty shit like this. I mean, we argue about music playlists, but nothing like this.’
‘I know. I’ll come back.’ I drain my coffee. ‘Thanks for coming after me.’
Kat raises a fist and I bump it. ‘That’s what we do.’
Inez puts a hand on my arm. ‘You’re not alone here. We really are like a family. And Luke drives everyone nuts. But talented people get away with stuff that ordinary people like us don’t.’
When we return, I don’t make eye contact with anyone inside the kitchen. Luke is at work at his bench. He glances up then indicates to my bench. ‘Can you please finish those off?’
I nod. The words for an apology roll through my mind, but my gut steers me towards the counter. I place my handbag nearby and wash my hands, then get straight back to finishing the tarts. But my mind is full, trying to process my outburst – something I feel deeply embarrassed about.
And something else is being forced into view; I am trying to understand it. A glance at Luke and my remorse is compounded: how did I allow myself to take everything he does so personally?
I hate the lack of control that comes with working for someone else. Having my own business was a bigger luxury than I realised.
Luke and I are the last to leave. I consider making a quiet exit without saying goodbye, but I’m feeling calmer after a few hours spent working quietly at my task. Luke is still slavishly cleaning his counter with a sponge and something in me softens then breaks open. Are Kat and Inez right? Are Luke and I really so alike, and that’s why we bump up against each other?
I clear my throat. ‘I’m sorry for raising my voice at you earlier. But I really don’t like how you speak to me. It’s the way my dad used to talk to me, and it makes me feel small.’
Luke abandons the sponge and looks up at me. ‘Apology accepted.’
It stings a little that he doesn’t offer his own apology in return, but at least he has acknowledged mine. I’m near the doorway when I hear his voice call my name. ‘Sahar.’
I turn and wait.
‘You didn’t deserve that. I need to be better. I was having a shitty day because of a personal—’ He stops. ‘It doesn’t matter. It clouded my judgement. I’m sorry too.’
The relief I feel brings with it a burst of unexpected emotion. ‘Thank you.’
There’s a heavy pause but then he speaks. ‘Can I buy you a drink sometime?’
‘OK.’
> I go to leave when Luke calls out to me again. ‘How about now? It’s been a shit day.’
‘Sure.’
‘I know a good place. Not as noisy as the rest.’
We walk in silence to the bar, a small hole-in-the-wall. Luke picks the corner table furthest from the front – the most sheltered spot. I’m relieved; it’s the table I would have picked. He takes the stool, giving me the couch, the small table and a tiny bowl of spiced nuts between us. His mood is a bit stiff, our already odd vibe not fully restored following the dust-up. We start to debate who gets to buy the first drink, but I’m already up and headed to the bar.
The bartender has a carefully manicured beard. He is a genuine hipster. I order Luke a beer, reciting the name he gave me. ‘Crown Lager, and I’ll have a lemon, lime and bitters.’
‘You don’t drink?’
‘Nope.’
‘Want something a bit more interesting?’
‘Depends on what you define as interesting,’ I say, a little uncertain.
He leans forward, a smile forming, his eyes dancing. ‘How about I surprise you?’
‘OK,’ I say, and can’t help the smile tugging at my lips. I pull out my wallet and hand him two tens.
‘Just the beer,’ he says, taking one ten-dollar note. ‘Yours is on me.’ He places my change on the counter, then begins selecting ingredients and shaking canisters, looking chuffed. I glance over at Luke, who is scrolling through his phone.
A minute later, the bartender places down a bottle of beer and a very pretty-looking drink in a tall glass. It’s a swirl of yellow and green, topped with fruit and mint.
He smiles. ‘Tell me what you think when you’re done.’
‘Thanks so much,’ I say, grinning like an idiot. I feel embarrassed but also flattered.
‘I’m Aiden.’
‘Sahar.’ I extend my hand and he takes it.
I carry the drinks over to Luke and his eyes widen as my glass lands on a coaster.
‘Do you drink that or eat it?’ Luke says and I smile.
‘The bartender insisted on surprising me.’
We look over to the bar where Aiden is focused on another customer. He glances over briefly, long enough to wink at me, and I reach for my drink to hide the rapid burn in my cheeks. I’m nearly forty. Why is this so hard for me?
But I know, of course. I am living out my twenties now, if not my teen years. I am not innocent. I have experienced significant milestones, but they are selective, like I missed important in-between moments. Mine has not been a normal graduation to adulthood, and while it feels like I’m cheating to try to rectify that now, to stay as I was is not an option.
‘Did he ask for your number?’ says Luke.
‘No.’
Luke tips his bottle in my direction and we clink our glasses without saying a word.
We talk about work for a while, and by the time Luke has finished his beer, the awkwardness has started to dissipate.
I ask him, tentatively, about his time in the army, a fact that irks me even without knowing the full story. I don’t know if I want to unpack what lay beneath his decision to enlist. I don’t want to know what his experiences in a foreign country did to his mind and how he sees the world in case it’s as bad as his mood most days.
Luke stiffens but just as quickly he loosens up. ‘I was there for four years. I was twenty-one and needed a place to go.’
‘Did you go overseas?’
‘I was deployed, yes.’
I sip my drink, a bit uncomfortable.
‘Afghanistan. And I hated it. Do you want another drink?’ Luke rises from his seat and waits.
‘Still going, thanks.’
Luke has one more beer, but Aiden’s specially crafted drink is more than enough for me. Then Luke asks me about my time in Jordan. ‘The camps. You said you worked with refugees?’
‘Yes. For a few years, actually.’ My mind is ready to travel there again. It still floors me sometimes how quickly I can not simply remember but be transported there. Especially to that last day.
‘Sorry,’ Luke says. ‘You don’t have to talk about it.’
‘No, it’s OK. I went there to do some programs with the women, but I speak Arabic well so eventually I began doing more. I was a translator for the foreign volunteer doctors … and at one point, I was a media liaison. Lots of journalists came through.’
Luke studies me. ‘I find it hard to imagine you doing that.’ Before I can make sense of the comment, he waves my unspoken words away. ‘I just mean, you’re a loner and a bit timid sometimes. It doesn’t seem like your bag.’
‘I guess it wasn’t really. But we can always surprise ourselves.’ I look down at my drink. ‘It saved me, I think.’
Luke nods. ‘Tragedy can do that sometimes.’
‘It sounds horrible, but it wasn’t their tragedy; it was having a purpose. Being there … it felt like I was doing something useful.’
We fall into silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. The bar is slowly filling up, and the counter is two-deep. I don’t even realise I’m watching Aiden at work until he turns to look at me. His gaze is soft and meaningful, and I quickly look away.
A moment later, Luke suggests we leave. Aiden watches us thread our way through the crowd, and I feel a pang of remorse for not saying goodbye to him. But then he calls out, ‘See you again soon?’ and I nod.
As soon as we step outside, I inhale deeply. The fresh air is like a blast of cold water, waking me up.
‘Well, thanks for a nice night,’ I say to Luke.
‘Are you in a rush?’
I glance at my phone. It’s only eight o’clock and Luke is buzzing with a low hum of energy.
‘No,’ I say, because I can’t lie.
We walk on for a while, passing crowded restaurants, the occasional clamour of a kitchen competing with street traffic and passers-by.
‘Do you live far from here?’ I ask.
‘Inner west. But a bit further in than you.’
‘I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here.’
Luke slows down. ‘You’re leaving?’
‘No, I mean I don’t how much longer I’ll be living nearby. My flatmate is getting married.’
‘Cool. Look … that chocolate lesson I owe you … how about now?’
I laugh. ‘It’s late.’
‘Fuck it. Let’s go.’
I feel an odd sense of anticipation as we circle back to the chocolate studio, where Luke starts setting up. ‘Let’s try something different.’ He’s not drunk, or even tipsy, despite two beers, and I assume it has something to do with his size. He links his phone to the speakers and the space fills with music. He adjusts the volume so that it’s soft rather than invasive.
Next, he pulls out some half-sphere moulds, a bag of couverture milk chocolate buds and some stencils. He rustles around on another shelf and retrieves a small airbrush gun. I watch him work. He looks more at ease than he has all night. He rolls up his sleeves and ties on an apron. He doesn’t bother with a chef’s cap, so his wavy hair falls in his eyes as he leans down to locate the chocolate, and he uses the back of his hand to brush it away.
‘You never panic with chocolate. You work quickly but never panic. It goes everywhere,’ he says, ripping open the bag and spilling half its contents onto the marble counter we use for tempering.
Luke goes to the sink and washes his hands thoroughly. I follow suit then wait for instructions.
‘Start melting,’ he says. I am used to this part. Melting the chocolate in the microwave at thirty-second intervals. At first I was surprised to learn they didn’t use the bain-marie, but Maggie says the volume of chocolate and lack of space makes it impossible.
Luke stands watch, his mood softer now. He studies my form, occasionally offering encouragement, checking in about temperature.
‘That’s it. Faster.’ He stands close, arms crossed. He sways a little, nods to his own beat, conducting a symphony. ‘Faster.’
I find
that I am enjoying myself, heartened by the certainty I feel that this chocolate will turn out well. Done incorrectly, chocolate can seize or bloom and end up chalky. Good tempered chocolate is not simply about the shine and the famous crack when it’s split open; it should be silky and smooth in texture, and, of course, taste delicious.
‘It’s moody, remember,’ says Luke, brushing past me.
When I’m done, I scrape the mixture into a large bowl at the end of the counter.
Luke drops a sphere mould onto the bench. ‘Fill four of these up. You know what to do?’
‘Yes.’ I pour the tempered chocolate into the mould, filling four circles.
‘Don’t forget the tap.’
I tap the mould against the counter to remove any air bubbles and ensure an unblemished surface.
‘This is a polycarbonate mould,’ Luke continues, pottering around a shelf nearby. ‘You can use silicon, but it’s not going to be as shiny.’
I am about to scrape away the excess chocolate when Luke takes the mould out of my hands. ‘Give it thirty seconds.’
I do as he says, then tip out the excess from the mould into the batch of tempered chocolate.
‘Now scrape it,’ says Luke. He positions a sheet of parchment paper on the counter. ‘Five to ten minutes on that.’ Then he gestures to the next bench. ‘Let’s do some stencils.’
He shows me how he makes patterns using plastic sheets – some designs simple, others more intricate and elegant. My focus is on his hands, working easily and fast. But the difficulty is low; it just requires patience and a methodical approach. Fill, scrape, lift.
‘Nice. You’re precise,’ Luke says, and I am focused but manage a smile in response.
Five minutes later, I lift the circle moulds off and there is no liquid chocolate left.
Luke takes the mould and gives it one last scrape before placing it in the large industrial fridge. ‘Ten minutes.’
My heart is in my throat when it comes time to pull the chocolate away from the mould, but the half-spheres easily come out and Luke nods approvingly. ‘Well done.’
‘Are we gluing them together?’
‘Yep. You can use them as dessert cups, but let’s make a dome.’
