Hungry for More (2012)

by Chelsea Scott

  The more desperate that Paul became to hold onto the restaurant, however, the more that it seemed to slip through his hands. The partners had called an “investors meeting” for two weeks in the future. He was sick with dread when he considered what it was going to be about. Surely there was some way to hold on. He struggled for hours to come up with a plan, but it was no use. His life was well and truly screwed.

  The next morning Paul was surprised to find that he had actually dropped off to sleep sometime during the night. His alarm clock hadn’t gone off yet. Normally he slept like the dead, so he wondered what had awakened him. He didn’t have to wonder for very long. A child’s cry pierced the air. Paul sat up quickly in surprise.

  Atherton.

  He groaned. He knew that he should go and see what the problem was, but instead he sank back down into the mattress. Surely the nanny would deal with whatever was the matter. She had been keen enough to keep her job last night! She might as well earn her keep.

  Paul closed his eyes and tried to block out the noise. He had another half an hour before he had to get up and face another hellish day. He intended to eke out every last second of his time in bed. At least, that was his intention until he heard Miss Parker’s voice.

  “I know, Tad. We’ll clean you up in a second. I just have to find the washing machine for these sheets. I suppose it must be in the kitchen?”

  Paul was out of bed in a flash. He raced across the room, jumped over his pile of discarded clothes, and jerked open the door violently. Miss Parker was just walking past his room towards the kitchen with an armful of soiled sheets. She stopped dead.

  “What are you DOING?”

  The nanny looked at him in open-mouthed surprise for a moment before rallying. “I need to launder these sheets. Tad- Atherton had a little accident,” she explained quietly, glancing over her shoulder. Paul followed the look, but his son was nowhere to be seen. “I only need to use your washing machine.”

  “It’s NOT in the kitchen,” he blurted, grabbing Bridget’s arm to stop her in her tracks when she started to move again. The thought of pee-soaked sheets going anywhere near his cooking domain was making him feel ill.

  “Mr. Devoe!”

  “Sorry, sorry,” Paul apologized quickly, taking his hands off the nanny. “The uhm- laundry room is just down here.” He ushered Miss Parker in the other direction, glancing into Atherton’s room on the way. Paul thought he saw a little face peeping out from behind the door, but when he glanced again it was gone.

  “I am sorry that we woke you,” Miss Parker said quietly. She stared down at her toes. “Atherton doesn’t normally wet the bed. I think he was just unsettled after the move.”

  Paul nodded. “Fine. It’s fine,” he said distractedly. “I guess I should go and say good morning properly?”

  Miss Parker smiled, and Paul was again reminded of how extraordinarily pretty he found her. She had the most amazing peaches and cream complexion.

  “You might want to get dressed first,” she murmured, and blushed.

  Paul glanced down at himself, breathing a small sigh of relief when he saw that he was wearing a rumpled t-shirt and black pair of shorts. He might have run out naked for all the thought he had given to himself when he’d sensed the threat to his kitchen. He scratched his chin. He was badly in need of a shave too.

  “Why don’t I clean up and then cook the two of you breakfast?” he suggested.

  Bridget quickly looked up from stuffing sheets into the washing machine. “Oh no, you really don’t have to do that, Mr. Devoe!”

  “I insist,” he said, turning to go. He was awake now. He might as well face the day head on. He didn’t know anything about children or nannies, but he knew how to cook. Surely a good breakfast would make amends for some of his mistakes from the previous day?

  Paul helped Bridget locate fresh sheets for Tad’s bed, and then he left her on her own to clean and to dress the child while he set about preparing their food. As soon as he set foot in the kitchen, he felt more at ease.

  There was something to be said for the task of presiding over a fast and busy service. Paul loved the crash and clatter of pots and pans, the heat, the danger, and the swearing, but he also relished the chance to slip away to his own home kitchen. He loved to have the time to experiment and to perfect what he was doing without the distractions of everyone else.

  Here in his apartment, surrounded by his own things and provisioned with choice ingredients that he had selected for himself alone, where he was able to work without consideration of profit margins and turnover expectancy, he felt like an artist with a clean sheet of canvas and a box of paints.

  Paul went to the refrigerator. It was a massive sub-zero that Phoebe had fought him for during the divorce. Designed to hold party platters, it was as deep and dark as a glacier cave. It was here where he hoarded his dearest treasures. He fished out ingredients one by one: smoked salmon slivered into nearly transparent sheets, brown eggs from the organic market, fresh cream, scallions, a pint of raspberries, and a loosely wrapped slab of aged cheddar. He spread them out on the counter, taking care to set the eggs in the sun to warm while he gathered the rest of his supplies and set his pots and pans on the stove.

  Paul completely lost himself in the cooking. He forgot the restaurant and all of his other worries as his body worked through the comforting motions of chopping and stirring. He tasted and seasoned. He tossed in pinches of herbs that he plucked from the pots that lined his windowsills. Then, when the dishes met his standards, he carefully arranged the portions onto plates and placed them on the central island in front of a pair of stools.

  “Miss Parker? Tad?”

  “Coming!”

  There was a sound of footsteps down the hall. A few seconds later, the nanny reappeared, dragging Tad in tow.

  Paul did a double take when he saw the boy. Although still small for his age, he was much taller than his father remembered. Paul was stunned to realize that he hadn’t seen the child since Christmas.

  The boy hid behind his nanny’s leg. His dark brown eyes- mirrors of Paul’s own- were anxious and uncertain.

  Paul faltered for a moment, not knowing what to do, but Bridget took command of the situation.

  “Tad, don’t you want to say hello to your daddy?” she said and gave the child a gentle nudge forward.

  Paul looked at the nanny, who gently inclined her head. He took the look to mean that he should press on with the introductions, and so he sank down on his haunches and held out his hand.

  “Good morning, Atherton.”

  The four-year old stared uncomprehendingly at the extended palm.

  Paul squirmed uncomfortably.

  “Why don’t you give Daddy a hug?” Bridget suggested.

  Tad required another nudge before he stepped forward, and then pressed his face against his father’s chest.

  Paul didn’t realize, until that moment, how long he had gone without human contact. He wasn’t exactly a cuddly guy. The soft, wriggling warmth of Tad’s small body was a shock to his system, albeit not an unpleasant one. He wrapped his arms lightly around the boy and offered a gentle squeeze before they broke apart.

  “Daddy has cooked you breakfast.”

  Once again, they were relying upon Bridget to tell them what to do. Paul took a step back and watched as his son struggled onto one of the high stools at the counter. Then he pushed forward one of the plates.

  “Voila!” he said, with a flourish as he whipped off the silver dome. He watched for Tad’s reaction- and frowned when it wasn’t what he expected.

  The little boy’s brow furrowed, and he pushed the plate away. “It looks yucky.”

  “Atherton!” Bridget exclaimed, her harsh tone underscoring the use of the vile, formal name. “I’m sure that it’s delicious. You just need to try something new. Why don’t we let Daddy tell us what it is.” She turned expectantly toward Paul.

  “Smoked salmon frittata, raspberry blintzes and melon salsa…” Paul said, but
looked deflated.

  Bridget stepped forward, cutting off a piece of blintz and then pushing it toward her charge’s mouth. “Open,” she commanded.

  “I don’t want to!” Tad whined. His dark eyes grew teary. “It looks yucky!”

  “Atherton!”

  “I want an egg and soldiers!” he whimpered.

  Paul’s face blackened, but he let Bridget continue to reason with the boy.

  “I know you are used to your egg and toast, sweetheart, but we are going to try new things. Remember? We’re having an adventure.”

  “NO!” Tad barked, starting to squirm out of the chair.

  Bridget caught his arm and held him fast.

  “Don’t be a naughty boy, Tad. Remember our rule. You have to try three bites before-!”

  “I DON’T WANT IT!” Tad was shrieking now. He fought to get away.

  Paul, at first aghast, was steadily growing annoyed. What the hell had they been feeding his kid anyhow? Didn’t he know what that breakfast was worth?

  “Tad-!”

  The next action seemed to happen in slow motion. One little fist swung through the air and landed on the edge of the plate, causing it to flip into the air. It somersaulted off the counter and then crashed onto the hardwood floor, shattering into a hundred pieces.

  “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?” Paul finally exploded as his sacred kitchen and precious food were profaned in the same bratty stroke.

  Tad met his gaze and then promptly burst into tears.

  This time, Bridget wasn’t fast enough to catch the boy as he jumped out of his seat and hurried down the hall to his room. She went chasing after, pausing just long enough to shoot Paul a look of disgust.

  Paul cursed, whipped the dishtowel he had draped over his shoulder off and threw it furiously onto the floor.

  He stood in the middle of the kitchen seething for a minute. He really wished there was someone around that he could hurl abuse at, but there was no one except himself. Paul took a deep breath, turned his temper down to a gentle simmer, and then bent to start cleaning up the mess of food and broken crockery that was smeared all across his kitchen floor.

  He had just finished picking up all of the pieces of shattered china when Miss Parker stormed back into the kitchen. She looked even angrier than she had the night before.

  Paul muttered a curse under his breath, before standing up to face the enraged nanny.

  “What did you do that for?” she demanded furiously. Her hands were once again planted on her hips. “He’s sobbing his eyes out!”

  “What’s his problem?” Paul snapped. He felt guilt in addition to anger. It was a bad combination that didn’t bring out the best in him. Bridget looked appalled.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it has something to do with the fact his mother just died and he’s had to move into a strange house away from everything he’s used to with a father he hardly knows?” she shouted, flushed and breathless by the end of her retort.

  Paul didn’t know how to respond to that. It was the second time that Miss Parker had left him speechless. He looked away guiltily. He knew that everything she had said was true, but he didn’t know what to do about any of it. Atherton had lost Phoebe. He doubted that his ex-wife had been a stellar mother, but apparently she had done better in the parenting department than he had.

  “I’m sorry,” Bridget whispered, evidently having run out of steam. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that, Mr. Devoe.”

  Paul shrugged. “You spoke the truth.” He turned back to his pots and pans, and a strained silence fell between them. “Your breakfast is getting cold,” he pointed out, after another minute had ticked by. It really pained him to see the food go to waste.

  “Oh!” Bridget started. She glanced at the plate that he had prepared for her. “Oh, I’m not hungry. Thank you.”

  Paul made a sort of strangled choking groan. However, before he could physically force her to sit down, and taste the food that most normal people would pay him a small fortune to rustle up for breakfast, she had scurried back out of the kitchen and disappeared from sight.

  “For Christ’s sake,” Paul swore, and helped himself to the frittata off her untouched plate.

  Chapter 4

  Bridget hurried all the way back to Tad’s room, afraid that Paul would chase after her for refusing to eat his food. Oh God, it had looked so good! And the smell! Bridget’s mouth was still watering. However, she would rather face Paul’s eternal wrath than eat in front of him.

  She couldn’t bear for anyone to watch her eat. Her shoulders sagged dejectedly. She knew what they were all thinking when she put food in her mouth; how they were all sneering and judging her… disgusting fat woman, stuffing her face like a pig… She would rather starve.

  Despite the fact that she had not eaten anything of substance for almost twenty-four hours, Bridget actually felt rather good. Perhaps she would actually manage to lose some weight this time.

  Bridget did her best to push those thoughts aside as she reentered Tad’s bedroom. He was still sitting on the bed sniffling unhappily, hugging one of his toys close to his chest. The sight of him made Bridget cross with his father all over again. Still, she didn’t think that Paul meant to be harsh with Tad. He just didn’t have a clue about being a father.

  “Hey there. How are you doing?”

  “I want to go home, Nanny!”

  Bridget’s heart clenched. “This is your home now, sweetheart.”

  “I don’t like it! I hate it here!”

  “Oh there now- no you don’t,” Bridget said gently, scooping Tad up onto her lap. “I went and told your daddy how sad he made you. He worked hard to make your breakfast. I think it hurt his feelings that you wouldn’t try it.”

  “It looked yucky!”

  “Yes, but Tad, you didn’t give it a chance. He was only trying to be nice.”

  “It’s not nice to shout.”

  “No,” Bridget agreed. “It’s not. I’ll talk to your daddy again,” she promised, giving Tad an extra big cuddle. “Why don’t we-” she stopped when there was a knock on the door. Tad jumped off her lap and ran over to the corner of the room.

  Bridget sighed and went to see what Paul wanted. Maybe he had come to apologize?

  He wasn’t there when she opened the door. However there was something sitting outside and it brought a small smile to Bridget’s lips.

  “What is it, Nanny?” Tad whispered from across the room, curious when he failed to hear his father’s voice.

  Bridget picked up the tray of food that had been left outside in the hall. “I think this is your daddy’s way of saying sorry,” she smiled, showing Tad the new breakfast of boiled egg and toast that were sliced into thin strips: “soldiers,” as Bridget had taught Tad to call them. She wondered if Paul already knew what they were or if he had taken the time to look it up on Google. Either way, she was impressed.

  This time, Tad eagerly cleaned his plate. Having something in his tummy went a long way toward improving his mood. After he was finished, he picked up a picture book and started showing the pages to his stuffed rabbit. Bridget took advantage of the quiet to slip back to the kitchen.

  Paul was just finishing the dishes. She was surprised to discover that he did the dishes by hand.

  “Phoebe leaves those for me to do,” Bridget said without thinking. She cursed under her breath when Paul turned around and she realized what she’d said. “Left,” she corrected quietly and hurried forward to pick up a dishtowel to start drying the pans that he had left on the rack.

  “You washed dishes?” he asked, arching a brow.

  Bridget nodded, “Well, I did all sorts of tidying…”

  “I thought you watched Tad.”

  “I did that too…” Bridget said with a shrug. “I did a lot of stuff, actually.”

  “Like what?” Paul pressed. When Bridget hesitated he continued, “I guess I should know if you’re going to be working for me.”

  “Oh. Right…” Bridget fel
t an excited flutter in her stomach as the possibility of staying on with Tad once again seemed within her grasp. “Well, I did whatever she needed me to, really. I picked up the dry cleaning and I ran errands. I took Tad to play dates and to the doctor. I did the grocery shopping…” She very much doubted that Paul was going to let her do that job here.

  “What did Phoebe do for herself?” Paul muttered, with a hint of bitterness in his voice that heavily implied the answer.

  “Er…”

  “Right,” he didn’t make her say it. He turned around to face her. Bridget kept wiping the plates. “How much does a job like that pay?”

  “Er…” she hesitated, “…six hundred a week?” Bridget breathed out unsteadily, wondering if she was going to get away with giving herself a 20% raise. “Plus expenses,” she added hurriedly before she lost her nerve, “And room and board, obviously…and I’m off every Sunday afternoon and Thursday night.”

  “Damn!” Paul said and whistled. “I should have been a nanny instead of going to cooking school.”

  Bridget bit her lip and held her breath, hoping that she hadn’t just blown her chances. She would honestly work for free if it meant staying close to Tad. She was just about to say so, when Paul shrugged in agreement.