“Yes, I know of Pierre,” I say. At the moment I speak, the door to the office flings opens, and the sound of the handle hitting against the wall startles me.
I’m startled, but I don’t turn to look at the man who’s made such a grand entrance, because I know that’s what he wants me to do.
I straighten my back, sit taller in my seat and hold my head up, waiting for the pompous arse to walk around to face me. I’m not going to give him the time of day.
“Who is this?” he asks in an angry, thick French accent.
“This is Holly. She’s interviewing for the maître d’ position,” Angus answers, steepling his fingers and tapping them against his lips.
“Non!” Pierre says emphatically.
“I beg your pardon,” I say, still seated with my back to him.
“Who are you to question me?” he says, without even coming into my line of sight.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Pierre, but I am interviewing for the position.” I smile at Angus and place my hands in my lap.
“Non, she will not do.”
“Excuse me?!” I stand from the chair and turn my body quickly around to see Pierre leaning up against the wall. He’s tall, over six feet, and his arms are crossed over his chest in a belligerent posture.
“Non, I do not want you,” he says and flicks his wrist at me dismissively.
My shoulders straighten and I hold my head up high, smiling at his stupidly smug expression. His brown hair is long and flops over his eyes, his big broad shoulders are slightly slumped, trivialising me. And his eyes look at me with contempt.
I pick my purse up, put the strap over my shoulder and turn to Angus.
“When would you like me to start?” I ask.
No temperamental chef is going to get the better of me.
“I said non!” Pierre asserts, pushing off from the wall.
“It’s not your choice, Pierre,” I say, putting a hand on my hip.
Screw him and his God complex. He can’t tell me what to do. If he doesn’t like me, that’s his issue to get over.
“You take her, you lose me,” Pierre spits out, giving Angus an ultimatum.
What. The. Hell!
“Really? You think someone will hire you? Guess what? You’d be lucky if you landed another job in a month. Your reputation is well known. No one wants a chef who built this place up to a Michelin Star then had it stripped twice as quickly. Go ahead, make your damn threat,” I spurt. Where the hell did that come from?
“You… you… insufferable woman!” he almost screams at me.
I turn to look at Angus then swing my head back to Pierre.
“Do you mind leaving now? Angus and I need to talk about a package and that’s private information you have no need to know.”
“Angus?!” He looks at Angus, his face ashen, his eyebrows knitted together. If this were a cartoon, I believe steam would be coming out of his ears and scorching hot flames out of his eyes.
Angus looks amused. His eyes travel between Pierre and me, down to his desk, and back to us again. I get the impression he’s trying very hard not to laugh out loud.
“Thank you, Pierre. You can go back to your kitchen.”
I try to hold the smile in, but I really can’t. I turn to Pierre and give him a smirk, just to piss him off even more.
“Imbécile,” he murmurs under his breath, as he walks out and slams the door behind him.
I slump my shoulders, embarrassed about my own conduct, “I’m so sorry, Angus. I don’t know what came over me, but his behaviour was something I wouldn’t even tolerate from my seven-year-old. I apologise for my outburst, but if you don’t mind I’d like to wait another moment or two before I leave. I’d like to retain a little of my dignity.”
“A moment or two won’t be enough time for us to talk salary and benefits.”
Did he just say he’s going to hire me?
“I’m sorry?” Did I hear right?
“No one has ever spoken to Pierre like that. I think you’re exactly what he needs. And furthermore, exactly what I need for my restaurant. Please, sit so we can discuss a package which will suit us both.”
As I sit, my mind ticks. Did this actually happen?
Looks like I landed a job as maître d’ at Table One, with an arrogant Frenchman as the head chef.
Great.
Chef Pierre: Chapter 1
Holly
“Hey Peanut, how was school today?” I ask Emma as I come in through the front door of our home.
“Did you get the job?” she asks, eagerly looking at me with her big brown eyes.
“I want to know how school was first.”
“It was good. Ebony said she’s going to invite me to her birthday party, but she’s not going to invite Saxon ‘cause he was being mean to her. I told Saxon we’re all friends and he shouldn’t say mean things to Ebony. He told me I was being a sticky beak. What does he mean, Mum?” she asks almost in one breath.
“A sticky beak is someone who puts their nose into other people’s business.”
“I wasn’t being a sticky beak. I was just sticking up for Ebony ‘cause she’s my friend.”
“And you keep sticking up for your friends. Don’t worry about what Saxon says. As long as you’re doing the right thing, then it doesn’t matter.”
“Okay, Mumma.” She goes quiet for a moment, then her energy returns and she jumps up and down on the spot. “Did you get the job?” she squeals.
“Yeah, I did. It means Nanna is going to look after you on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights while I go to work.”
“I know, and I’ll try and be really good for Nanna so she doesn’t get mad at me.”
I kiss Emma on the head and go into the kitchen, where Stephen’s mum is making dinner.
“Hi Bronwyn, how’s your day been?” I ask her as I come around and grab a piece of cucumber from the salad she’s chopping.
“Great. I took Em to the library after school and she got a book, then we finished her homework. She’s had her bath and I’m just making dinner.”
Stephen and I always had a great relationship with Bronwyn. Her husband died before I met and married Stephen, and when Stephen passed away, it made sense for us to move in with her. Not that we couldn’t manage on our own. Stephen left us a huge life insurance policy so we would be comfortable for the rest of our lives.
But Bronwyn lost her husband, and her son, I lost the only man I’ve ever loved, and Emma lost her Daddy.
We were each other’s pillars of strength, and Emma needed it as much as Bronwyn and I needed it. His accident was nothing short of tragic, and it ripped us apart from the inside for the longest of times.
It’s been nineteen months since his accident, and I need to regain that small part of me that died the day the police came to our door, hats under their arms, with a sorrowful look in their eyes.
I knew something had happened before they even spoke. When they asked to come inside, everything started moving in slow motion.
I didn’t hear a word they said after that. They sat on the sofa opposite me and their mouths were opening and closing. I couldn’t hear them, I could barely register they were there.
“Car accident,” they said.
When my eyes dragged away from the invisible spot on the carpet and finally saw the sadness in the police officers’ eyes, I knew. That morning, Stephen got up, got dressed, had his breakfast and left for work.
He would never return to his family again.
The last words that were spoken between us were, “Can you pick up some milk on the way home?”
I didn’t tell him I loved him; he didn’t tell me he loved me. He simply walked out the door and disappeared. He was killed on his way home from work.
Just thinking about Stephen’s death has made me go quiet.
Bronwyn understands, because I catch her wiping at a stray tear. When that happens, we both just hug the other without words being exchanged.
“Mummy, I’m hungry.
” Emma’s interruption into my glumness is most certainly welcome.
“Nanna’s just finishing dinner now; it shouldn’t be too much longer,” I say as I embrace her and kiss the top of her head. “Can you go get your homework book for me? I want to see what you’ve done before you hand it in tomorrow.”
Her little body goes limp against me, her shoulders slump and I feel an impending argument coming on.
“Do I have to?” Emma says, drawing out the word ‘to’.
“Yeah, because you have to hand it in tomorrow, and I’d like to see what you did today.”
Emma pulls away from our warm hug and trudges toward her bedroom to get her homework.
“How did the interview go?” Bronwyn asks as she begins dividing the salad onto three plates.
“I got the job, but I don’t know how long I’ll last there. The head chef, he’s something else,” I say, shaking my head just at the thought of the arrogant Frenchman.
“Why, what happened?”
“He came into the interview, and without even acknowledging me, told Angus, the owner, he didn’t want me.”
“Oh dear, sounds like he’ll be a difficult man to work with.”
I nod in agreement. I have a feeling he’s going to either get me fired, or I’ll resign.
“But you’ve never backed away from difficult situations,” Bronwyn says as she begins bringing our dinner over to the table. “Look at my son. You wouldn’t even date him. You made him work for it for six months before you decided to give him a shot.”
I smile, knowing exactly what she means.
“Here you go, Mummy,” Emma says, handing me her homework book.
“Let’s have a look.” I flip it open to this week’s homework, and start looking over her work. “How do you spell ‘garden’?” I ask Emma.
“Mum, Nanna already did this,” she whines.
“You may have done it with Nanna, but now I want to hear how smart my little girl is. You can spell garden, because it’s here on your list words for the week.”
“G-a-r-d-e-n,” Emma says, beaming, knowing she has it right.
“Not bad at all, let’s see if you know how to spell ‘laugh’.”
“We learneded at school that g and h makes the F sound.”
“Learned not learneded,” I correct her.
“We learned at school g and h makes F. L-a-u-g-h.” She stands tall and proud.
“I think you’re alright at this spelling business,” I say as I drag her in for a cuddle.
“I don’t have to go to school anymore, Mummy, ‘cause I learneded everything I need to know.”
“Not everything, because it’s learned, not learneded.” I smile against her soft, berry-smelling hair.
“Oh yeah.” She pauses for a moment, takes a deep breath, then continues, “I’ll go to school for another week then,” she says, innocently. Both Bronwyn and I chuckle, knowing by the time she goes to bed, she will have forgotten all about it.
“Mummy, will you tell me a story?” Emma calls from her bedroom as she settles in for the night.
I walk into her room, and it looks like there’s been an explosion, with clothes and toys all over the floor.
“You need to clean this room, Emma,” I say as I manoeuvre through the mine-field.
“It is clean,” she says, staring at all things on the ground.
“Missy, you need to clean this room by Saturday, or you’re not going to Skyla’s birthday party on Sunday.”
Emma rolls her eyes, Little Miss Attitude already, and she’s only seven.
“Mummy,” she says as she burrows further under her thin blanket.
“Yes, Peanut.”
“Do you think Daddy misses us?” Emma asks as she looks up into my eyes, my own strength depleting quickly. Though I hate talking about this with her, I still need her comfortable enough to talk to me about her dad whenever she wants to express herself.
“I think so, because I know how much we miss him; Nanna, you, and me. And he loved us so much, I can only imagine wherever he is right now, his heart would still be filled with love for us.”
“Do you think Daddy’s happy where he is?” Her big brown eyes gloss over as tears fill them; she’s doing her best to be strong. Sometimes we need to know when to let go, and now’s one of those times.
“Aw, Peanut,” I say as I move closer to her and wrap her in my warmth. “I think Daddy is really happy where he is, but I also think if there were a way, he’d be standing next to you, watching over you and making sure you’re happy.”
“I never want to forget Daddy,” she says as the tears spill down her cheeks.
“We’ll never forget Daddy. We love him too much.”
Emma hugs me tightly. Her little body, filled with so much sadness, begins to get heavy. We’re in this tight embrace until she totally relaxes in my arms. When her head lolls back and her mouth falls open, I know my beautiful brown-eyed, brown-haired beauty is fast asleep.
I lay her on the bed, cover her with the thin blanket and kiss her forehead.
“I hope you’re watching over us, Stephen,” I whisper, praying he’s close enough to hear me.
Chef Pierre: Chapter 2
Pierre
I walked into Angus’s office and the first thing I noticed was the long, thick, dark brown hair that fell evenly, in perfectly straight strands down her lower back.
No way was she going to be right for the job. Her hair alone told me she worried too much about her appearance, which means she probably wouldn’t follow my instructions as I needed her to.
Then, she stood and turned to face me. Her eyes were fierce with anger and her body straightened, completely challenging me.
Who the hell does she think she is?
When I looked to Angus for support, the fool was sitting back in his chair smirking at me.
I will make her life hell. I’ll call her on everything she does wrong, I will embarrass her until she quits. No glorified waitress is going to stand over me.
I pick up my tumbler of scotch and swirl it around in my hand, just thinking about the insufferable woman who had the audacity to defy me.
“She is not going to last,” I say as I stroke my thumb over Eva’s face.
Eva’s smiling at me from the selfie we took while we were on vacation on Hamilton Island. This is one of the best photos we took before she passed away.
Carefully, I place the photo down on the table beside my chair. I turn to look at my stunning wife, her smile the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.
“I miss you,” I say as I lift the tumbler and drink all the contents in one go.
Eva doesn’t falter; she simply keeps looking at me. Smiling, happy, in love.
Lifting the bottle, I bypass the tumbler and drink straight from the glass decanter.
My drift toward a mindless and emotionless oblivion is taking too long tonight. The dark isn’t embracing me quickly enough. My heart is still beating and I wish it would stop so I could finally go to my love.
Wishing for the strong drum of my heart to weaken, making it easy for me to close my eyes and float into the black. The gloom suffocates me; I see darkness everywhere my eyes look.
In silence I sit and listen to my own breathing, submerged in a bottomless pit of sorrow and resentment, unable to escape from the waves pulling me down. I barely come up for air. This riptide of misery does not allow me to regain any sense of myself.
“Je t'aime,” I murmur to the photo, then lift the bottle for another swig, gulping down more.
The fuzz in my head is becoming a welcome distraction from the gaping hole in my heart.
The room begins to lose its warmth. The reminder of Eva’s soft floral scent has long left our family room. Only her pictures remain, adorning the walls, mere memories of the consuming love we once shared.
The blackness begins to close in around me, my senses dulling until the full robust flavour of the scotch becomes a tasteless liquid.
I lift the bottle and finish
off what remains in the bottom, savouring the burn as it caresses the inside of my throat.
My eyes close slowly, bringing the welcome dark. I try to let my happy memories of Eva make a last impression before I fall into a drunken stupor. Memories of my wife as we danced under the stars, wrapped in nothing but the chilly night air while our bodies moved as one. The sweet touch of her soft lips on the column of my throat as the music filled our ears, the gentle whisper of her skin as I pulled her to my body, ravishing her with my love and my soul.
“Je t'aime,” I murmur once more as my eyes drift closed.
Wandering somewhere between the states of living and dying, I let the bottle drop. The muffled sound of the thud it makes as it hits the faded grey carpet is just enough to register that I am in fact, still alive.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll reunite with my love, and maybe then I’ll finally be able to breathe.
Chef Pierre: Chapter 3
Holly
Driving the forty minute route between our home and the city gives me time to prepare myself. Tonight’s Monday, and I’m starting my week of training before I step into the role of maître d’.
What I’m not looking forward to is Pierre. He’s an arrogant arse and I’m not sure how I’m going to handle him. If I can get through this week of training, I should be alright.
I get to the parking station close to Table One, park my car, and start the quick, three-minute walk. Table One is only a few minutes’ walk from The Opera House, and the restaurant was once considered one of the best in Sydney. But after losing its Michelin star, it’s not as much in demand as it used to be.
My small heels clack against the pavement, and I can feel my heart fluttering like crazy, because I’ve not worked for many years. What if, after tonight, I can’t put up with the arrogant chef and I want to quit?
What type of role model would I be for Emma? Not a very good one.
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