One Way or Another: An absolutely hilarious laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

by Colleen Coleman

  ‘This also is a very promising effort. A few things wrong, not perfect. You over-seasoned your couscous and the garnish looks a little sparse, but overall, not bad…’ He looks to Octavia.

  ‘Yes, we threw you in at the deep end,’ she says. ‘Yes, we asked you to replicate a three-star Michelin dish whilst working in a team. Jean-Michel is satisfied with your food. However, what we are also really looking for is potential. Leadership potential.’ She turns to Joe first. ‘You have the potential, but you need to find your voice. You are not taking control. You are being controlled.’

  Jean-Michel winces. ‘Look at you,’ he whispers. ‘When there’s a problem, you shrink, you sulk. It’s not good enough. You need to find yourself still. Please go. Leave. You are not ready for my kitchen.’

  I am shocked. I can barely believe that it’s Joe that is being sent away, not Harry. Harry was a complete brute! All of us know that this industry is not an easy ride. We are all more than aware of the sacrifices it involves: the hours, the scrutiny, the weeping, spending the night on a dining-room banquette because there wasn’t time to go home and be back for the morning prep. And then it dawns on me. Maybe Harry is what Jean wants. Maybe it’s this behaviour that he wants perpetuated. I guess we’ve put up with it because it was Jean-Michel: god, genius, legend. But seeing it in someone lesser shows it for all its monstrosity. It is nothing to do with being in a position of authority. It is clear that Harry is a bully, and now I see that Jean-Michel is too. He is no better than Bernie or that man who shouted at my mother in the car park all those years before. All this about pushing us beyond our limits is crap. It’s just about pushing us as hard as he can, ruthlessly pushing some of us over the edge.

  He watches as Joe slips his apron over his head and tries to stop his bottom lip from trembling. He looks up one more time and, for a split second, I think he is going to say something, that he is going to find his voice and stick up for himself, scream down Jean-Michel and Harry and let them know that he is ready, that holding his tongue was his brand of courage. That putting up and plating up was his way of being strong and making sure the job was done, not because of Harry but in spite of him.

  But Joe closes his mouth again and walks out the door, his head bent low.

  A heavy, tense atmosphere descends upon us. Part of me wants to rush out and see if Joe is okay. Another part of me wants to find my own voice and ask Jean-Michel why on earth he thinks it is necessary to treat anyone that way. I look to him. He too has paused and become reflective, seeming to savour the effects of his punishment. Then his face breaks into a smile.

  ‘Did you see that? Did you see that young chef’s face?’ His voice is high-pitched, almost shrill. ‘The way it was all knotted up? Wasn’t it fantastic? He was in terrible pain. Isn’t it fascinating how food can make for such pure emotion? He was desperate. He wants to be here so badly it hurts.’

  I clear my throat. I need to speak out. This is vicious, cruel. I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Again I cough, but something only akin to a squeak escapes.

  Jean-Michel raises his arms above his head and meets each of us in the eye.

  The moment is gone. I missed it, choked with a mixture of horror and fear.

  ‘My final three. Ben, Katie and Harry. Prepare your taster menus: three courses. Tomorrow night, here at the Marchand, we will test you for the final time.’

  I am in the final three. I look to Octavia.

  She smiles at me as she says, ‘You shall all run your own kitchen, serving your own menus to ten of the most influential diners in London. The most successful will be appointed the new grand chef.’

  Tomorrow night I will run my own high-end kitchen. I will prepare and serve my own menu. Tomorrow night, I will make or break my career forever.

  ‘Bonne chance,’ they both say in unison, and with that we are dismissed.

  * * *

  As I unlock my bike outside, Ben catches up with me.

  ‘Hey. Why do you always run off so fast? I’ve been trying to catch you every day so far.’

  ‘Really? For what?’

  He widens his eyes and looks up at the sky awkwardly. ‘To say hi. Properly. To, you know, catch up. See how you’ve been, what you’ve been up to.’

  I throw my leg over the crossbar. ‘There’s nothing much to report.’ I don’t want to tell him that everything I’ve been up to has fallen flat on its arse.

  ‘How about a quick drink?’ he says. ‘My shout. There’s a cool Italian place I spotted right there across the road. It’s busy all the time so they must be doing something right. It’d be nice to check it out and… celebrate. Besides, I feel like I owe you one.’

  ‘Owe me? For what?’

  ‘For the vichyssoise. If you hadn’t suggested it I’d be gone by now and it would just be you and Harry against each other. So please, one drink, just to say thanks.’

  I stop and think. I know I should just decline, but what could a little drink hurt? After tomorrow we’re going to be going in different directions again. I may never ever see Ben again. And besides, I’ve got to be at the home for my shift in a couple of hours so there is no chance of me drinking too much and getting maudlin, or divulging way too much because I stay too long. It’s literally one drink. Between two chefs who work well together. Two people with something to celebrate. That is all.

  ‘Okay,’ I tell him. ‘But just the one because I’ve got to be somewhere else for 7 p.m.’

  Ben’s mouth breaks into a wide smile and his eyes flicker wide. ‘Great! That’s great. Here, let me take that.’ He leans over and takes my helmet for me. Then he looks at me and says, ‘That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  We slide in to a low-lit booth by the front window. There’s an Aladdin’s-cave-like quality to this traditional trattoria, cosy and intimate with jars of decorative oils, nests of dried pastas and long, red hot peppers preserved in glass bottles. The walls are covered in an eclectic mix of landscape paintings and mirrors with a distinctive Sicilian feel, wild and rustic with muted earthen colours in the stonework. It’s gorgeous. I wish the owner every success; this place is a gem. It smells of onion and garlic and freshly baked bread and melting cheese. I love the informality of it: waiters and waitresses rushing by in aprons with pads and pens sticking out of their pockets, customers straight from work, swivelling on stools, murmuring and talking and laughing and slurping their forkfuls of spaghetti.

  ‘Peroni?’ Ben asks, snapping me out of my own thoughts.

  I nod. ‘You’ve got a good memory.’

  He tries to catch my eye, but I’m afraid of what I’m going to find there. This is weird. It’s me and Ben, alone again, having a drink and eyeing up the food on everyone else’s plates. This is who we were, how we used to spend our time. But I don’t know who we are now, so I smile curtly and continue my inspection of the tables covered in paper cloths and the steaming trays of little plates weaving their way past us. It all looks and smells so good. Why have I never been here before?

  Ben orders our drinks and once the waiter leaves we both simultaneously reach for the tall card menu in the middle of the table like two kids playing snap.

  I ball my fists and hold them in the air in defeat. ‘Go for it, don’t mind me. Force of habit.’

  A smile rises in the corner of his mouth. Then Ben gets up from his seat at the opposite side of the table and slides into the seat beside me, opening the menu up in full view for both of us to read together.

  ‘Just like old times, eh?’ he asks, again giving me a side glance that I refuse to meet.

  I can’t trust myself. If I meet his eyes there is every chance that I will give everything away: how much I’ve missed him, how un-over him I am, how badly I’ve been doing since we split.

  I take a deep breath and keep trailing my finger down the menu.

  ‘You very hungry?’ he asks me.

  Oh he knows my bloody weak spots. At this, I can’t help but give him a look as
if to ask if the Pope’s Catholic.

  ‘Maybe we should just order a few things. Research, just a few bites to wake up those taste buds,’ I tell him.

  He nods excitedly. ‘It would be rude not to! This place is famous for their antipasto. And the way this cold beer is going down after the day we’ve had, I could destroy this entire menu without coming up for air.’

  I love this about Ben. He’s always ready to eat! I start throwing out some suggestions. ‘We’ll get the platter, right? Artichoke hearts, black mission figs, cherry peppers. Some meat, cheese.’ I know that should be enough, but our fingers are still skidding across the menu card. I pause. ‘Oh, we’ve got to. Shrimp romesco, I want to see how they do that.’

  Ben flashes a thumbs up and moves over to the top of the next page, tapping the first item. ‘Breaded courgette blossoms with goat’s cheese. Deep-fried.’

  ‘No-brainer,’ I say, rubbing my hands together; this is going to be amazing. ‘Right just one more thing each, I’ll count to three and we’ll both say our choices out loud and then we’ll stop, we’ll just shut the menu. Okay?’

  Ben nods, and I count down on my fingers. Three, two, one…

  ‘Lemon and black pepper calamari,’ we both say at the same time. I try not to look freaked out. Like the Venn diagram of me and Ben isn’t like two circles placed one on top of each other.

  ‘Sounds perfect, you’re on,’ he smiles. ‘But make sure we order two, can’t have you pulling your little stunts, because I’m telling you now, I am not sharing the calamari…’

  ‘What little stunts?’ I gasp in mock offence.

  ‘Oh, you know exactly what I’m talking about, Katie. Claiming you just want to try a mouthful and then eating the whole lot. You may look like the high-end gourmet, but remember I know all your secrets.’

  I pick at the label on my beer bottle as a jolt hits me.

  Ben’s wrong. He only thinks he knows all my secrets. He used to know all my secrets. But so much has happened since the time we shared a life, a bed, since we thought we shared a future. We are two different people now. No doubt with a whole host of new secrets.

  * * *

  The food comes and it is glorious. With every bite we are groaning and yelping and licking our fingers and shaking our stuffed squirrel cheeks with delight. This place is amazing: my new favourite. I’ve already had so many ideas just being here. And Ben was right. I’m really glad I got my own calamari; there isn’t a crumb left.

  Ben stabs a bite of the melted goat’s cheese from the platter with his fork and raises it to my lips. ‘This! Just taste this. I mean, the balance of sweet and salty is pitch perfect…’ He puckers his lips to kiss the air.

  Without a second thought, I lean in and bite it off his fork.

  He turns to me and for a moment our eyes are locked, and it’s like we have never been apart. I nod my head and let myself hold his gaze.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asks.

  ‘I love it,’ I tell him.

  And then I pick up my spoon and dip it into the romesco sauce. I raise it to his lips and he opens his mouth. In that second everything feels right, and I imagine myself leaning in and passing my lips against his. I think about my hand following the gorgeous curve of his face and sliding my fingers across his skin, his cheek and into his soft dark hair.

  Oh Ben… He squeezes his eyes closed as he swallows, and I watch the rise and fall of his Adams’s apple as the mouthful slides its way down his throat.

  ‘Sensational,’ he says finally, his eyes bright and wide and the same deep brown colour as melted chocolate.

  ‘Sensational,’ I echo. If only you knew.

  He looks up to the ceiling shaking his head as if he’s posed himself a question that he can’t answer. ‘It’s been such a long time since I’ve done something like this. Francesca doesn’t really… How can I say this? She’s a picky eater. An extremely picky eater. She wouldn’t really like the scene in here, you know, bit too loud, too casual.’

  I raise my eyebrow. ‘Francesca?’

  He nods, biting down on his lip. ‘Francesca, she’s my girlfriend. She works on the ship too, in the casino. She’s great, very supportive, ambitious. We’ve been together quite a while. About six months now I’d say.’

  ‘Right.’ I try to smile and not dissolve all at once, distracting myself by taking the neck of my bottle to my lips.

  ‘So when this opportunity came up, it made sense, you know?’

  I drink my beer and nod and squint my eyes like I can empathise with every single word and mumble ‘absolutely’ at least three times.

  ‘How about you? You seeing anyone?’ Ben asks me.

  I shake my head. ‘No. Not at the moment. Not since— Not for a long, long time. You know me. Work, work, work.’

  A silence swirls between us. I hate the feel of it, heavy and electric. I take deep breath, conscious that I’ve ripped the beermat in front of me. I need to break the tension; we’re just two old friends having a drink, no need for things to be so solemn and serious.

  ‘I’m really glad, Ben. Truly. I’m really glad that it all worked out for you. The ship, and all that travel, a serious girlfriend, that’s a great life and you deserve it.’ I raise my bottle to toast. ‘To the future, right?’

  He clinks his bottle against mine. ‘To the future.’

  Our chat drifts back to the food and then about our families, about Octavia and Pip and Jean-Michel, what he’s really like, what he’s really after.

  ‘Another drink?’ Ben asks as he finishes his own.

  I shake my head and go to look to my wrist out of habit. My bare wrist. A sad look clouds Ben’s face as he registers that I’m not wearing my watch anymore. I twist my wrist and start making my excuses to leave, eyeing up the nearest waitress for the bill.

  ‘I can’t, I need to be on my way,’ I tell him. ‘My shift starts soon.’

  He nods. ‘So where exactly do you work now?’

  Hmm. Parklands Care Home isn’t something to brag about. It’s hardly Casino Royale where Francesca works. I bet she’s super glamorous. I bet she works out and never eats bread. Or fat. Or sugar. I bet he’s in love with her. I bet she’s in love with him.

  Nope. I’m not coming clean with Ben. There isn’t any way I want him to know the full extent of my fall from grace.

  ‘Oh, just a local place, local to Alice and me… Nowhere you’d know.’

  ‘Is it a restaurant?’

  ‘It’s more of a hotel really, lots of residents. Booked out in fact.’

  He nods. ‘And you like it?’

  I want to tell him I hate it, but we’ve had such a lovely time. I don’t want to put a downer on things.

  ‘There are some great people. Some not so great, but that’s life right?’

  He nods knowingly. ‘Speaking of not so nice, do you remember Ozzy from college?’

  The dreaded name… Ozzy. I’ve not heard that name since the day we graduated.

  I feel my skin prickle and my hand reaches up to the back of my neck.

  ‘You can’t have forgotten Ozzy?’ says Ben, probably confused by my muted response.

  I shake my head. ‘No, sadly. I haven’t forgotten him. Despite my best efforts.’

  Ben stretches his hands out wide. ‘He came to work on the ship! Complete moron. He was fired within the first few weeks. Never met anyone as up their own arse as him in my whole life. Actually, I take that back. The way Harry was acting today – screaming abuse, shouting, yelling, creating drama – brought it flooding back to me.’

  ‘I bet,’ I say. Ben isn’t the only one who has drawn parallels between Ozzy and Harry. It’s been flooding back to me too and, to be perfectly honest, not in a way that I’m finding easy to deal with. He completely rattled me way back then, kept trying to tell me that I wasn’t up to it, that I wasn’t good enough, that I didn’t belong.

  I drain the end of my beer and push it into the middle of the table.

  ‘Do you ever think about what coul
d have been?’ Ben asks.

  I look at him, confused. He reddens.

  ‘I mean if you’d come to work on the ship too? Mediterranean skies at this time of year are really spectacular.’

  ‘Sounds like you still love it?’

  He nods. ‘What’s not to love? Open seas, a new adventure every day.’

  ‘Then why are you here? Why did you apply in the first place?’

  ‘I didn’t. I was put forward by Jean-Michel’s wife. She insisted I come for interview. And then Francesca told the Captain and he told me not to upset such a high-profile guest, to comply with what she wanted and go from there. And so, I came. And now I’m here. Sitting with you, through to the final round.’

  ‘And so you’re glad you came?’

  ‘Very glad. I’m realising that I kinda miss the crazy, you know?’

  I nod. I know.

  ‘Once I set foot back in London, I couldn’t believe how much I missed it. I miss lots of things. Or maybe deep down, I did know how much I missed it but just blanked it out. Pretty deep right? So, win or lose on the big night, I’m going to have to figure out the next step. The thing is, it’s easy to forget the real world when you are on the ship, living in a gorgeous, glamourous luxurious bubble. Life is simple: you work, you sleep, sun comes up, sun goes down and we wake up in another beautiful port. And don’t get me wrong, it’s amazing for a while, but still, it’s transient, it’s not real. And I feel ready for real.’

  ‘So what happens if you win tomorrow?’

  Ben blows out his cheeks and runs his fingers through his hair. ‘I almost can’t even think about it. It would be incredible. Absolutely incredible. To be back here, as a grand chef in one of the most anticipated openings in the world. Cooking for the good and the great, learning under Jean-Michel, close to family, loved ones.’ He blinks as if to shake himself out of a daydream. ‘I want it so much.’ He presses his hands against his chest, that side smile of his appearing. ‘It hurts how much I want this.’

  It hurts to see him like this. But I know exactly what he means because I want it just as badly – but by the sounds of it, I need it more too. At least Ben has a luxurious, exciting, loved-up bubble to return to. And he’s got Francesca. I have Bernie and Alice’s sofa bed. I can’t afford to suffer another failure, another disappointment, another dissolution of a dream.