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

by Colleen Coleman

  ‘Fishy!’

  ‘Well, that’s my forte now after spending so much time at sea.’

  I nod my admiration. ‘It’s fantastic, Ben. I think it sounds like an absolute showstopper.’

  We sip away at our sherries as we chat and he raises his glass to mine.

  ‘After tomorrow, whatever happens, I’m glad that we’re here. I’m glad that we got this chance to meet up again and to hang out, even for just a short time.’

  I swallow hard. It is such a short time. And soon it will all be over.

  ‘It’s good to see you again, Katie.’ Ben finds my hand and squeezes it. ‘To the finals!’

  ‘To the finals,’ I echo.

  But I notice that Ben doesn’t release my hand. He’s still holding it in his.

  He furrows his brow slightly and brushes his thumb over the melted skin across the back of my hand, my souvenir from a scalding. Again, he gently brushes over my scar. But he doesn’t ask. And he doesn’t let go. And neither do I. Our hands drop back down between us. Still holding on to one another.

  Maybe it’s the adrenalin or the sherry or the exhaustion or the temptation that he is right here in front of me, I don’t know, but I can’t ignore it, I can’t help but look down at my hand in his and wonder what exactly is going on here? Just hours ago he told me all about his glamorous girlfriend? Of course I want him – I’ve never stopped – but what about Francesca? We can’t just pretend that she doesn’t exist. And I can’t just pretend to forget all about her. I drift my gaze slowly back to Ben and immediately, as if we were both having exactly the same thought, at exactly the same time, he snaps his hand back from mine and grabs at the nape of his neck.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’d better go. Big day tomorrow, so we should both brave it and try to get home. We’ll need at least a few hours’ sleep to make sure we arrive looking bright-eyed and ready to roll.’ He says all this while looking at the ground.

  ‘Of course. You’re right,’ I agree, more loudly than I mean to. ‘Definitely the biggest day ever.’ I shuffle up in my seat, trying to hide my crimson cheeks from burning.

  And so we wash out our sherry glasses, turn everything off we turned on and shut up Martha’s home again, leaving it as dark and empty as when we found it.

  We walk in silence now, our hoods pulled tight around our faces to protect us from the wind and rain and giving us a perfect excuse not to talk, not to discuss what nearly did or did not happen. Mercifully soon, we reach the main junction, which is well-lit with street lights and twenty-four-hour petrol stations and supermarkets.

  ‘You okay from here?’ he asks me.

  I nod and point in the direction I’m going in. The opposite way to him.

  ‘Good luck for tomorrow!!’ I call out as he staggers against the force of the wind.

  He smiles and waves me goodbye. ‘You too, Katie.’ And then he turns away and disappears into the distance.

  I hop on my bike and ride with the wind to Alice’s. Bloody hell though. That was intense. That was close. That was downright dangerous. But now I need to focus because Ben is right. Tomorrow is the most important day of our lives so far. And he’s gone to catch some shut-eye because he knows what’s at stake. And so do I.

  A few minutes later I get home and put my bike away, letting myself quietly into Alice’s flat.

  So here it is, I say to myself as I find the mirror in the downstairs bathroom, shaking out my knotty hair and splashing cold water on my face. ‘Everything,’ I say to my reflection. ‘Give it everything.’

  I’ve got to put everything that happened with Ben tonight to the back of my mind because tomorrow is as big as it gets.

  And I want to go all the way.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Welcome!’ says Pip. ‘Firstly, I want to congratulate all of you on getting this far. There can be only one appointment, so two of you will be leaving here today extremely disappointed.’ We all straighten behind our stations, match ready and raring to go.

  Jean-Michel continues where Pip left off. ‘But rest assured, that even if you fail to make the grade today, now you have made it this far in such a high-pressure, demanding environment, you will no doubt be snapped up by a lesser establishment.’ He flashes a cheeky smile. ‘I’m joking. You have risked a lot being here and here is the only place you want to be. Otherwise, you would have walked a long time ago. Win or lose, today is our last day together and a glittering career awaits one of you as we discover our new grand chef.’

  Octavia casts her eyes over us all. ‘More than 1,000 applicants, 50 shortlisted, and now only the three strongest remain. We’ve watched you grow. We know what you are capable of, and it really is quite phenomenal for chefs so young. I could not pick a winner right now. The next three hours are going to be some of the most important hours of your cooking career. Not only will the grand chef work in this new restaurant, learning under the great Jean-Michel, but they will also become a resident of this hotel on a permanent basis, accommodated in a luxury suite here, so in every sense this will become your new home. And we will become your new family. The stage is set; three courses separate just one of you from this life-changing opportunity.’

  My stomach flips. And I do feel sick, very sick. My only comfort is that I couldn’t possibly throw up because I’ve not eaten a thing in ages. Too busy and too nervous to eat, even though all that’s on my mind is food. It is shocking, daunting and exciting to think that three dishes of food will determine everything for me from here on in.

  Pip steps forward and gestures for the three of us to follow him. Ben and I have only exchanged half-smiles. I’m going to avoid him altogether today; I’ve got to stay focused. Ben is my opposition. He is somebody else’s boyfriend. He is one of the people standing in the way of me and the rest of my life. This I know. All I’ve got to do is remember it. I’m buoyed with well wishes texted in from dad and Alice and Mel and Zoe. I missed my chance to call Rachel last night; by the time I was reunited with my phone, she’d gone out to work. But once this is all over, calling her is one of the first things I’m going to do. I can’t let that keep slipping.

  Harry clears his throat. He looks like he hasn’t blinked in the last twenty-four hours, his eyeballs red, veiny and protruding. I’m going to have to watch him today. Who knows what kind of stunt he’ll pull in order to emerge victor?

  Until now, the dining part of the new Marchand restaurant has been portioned off while they complete the interior. Octavia leads us through to the front part of the secretive section, pushes the ‘no entry’ sign aside and lifts back the draped sheets.

  ‘Completed in the early hours of this morning, our interior designers worked around the clock to ensure that it was ready on time and up to the highest possible standard to compliment your food on this special night,’ she says.

  Two waiters appear dressed like stylish beefeaters in tailored reds, blacks and gold and draw back the heavy dark velvet curtains.

  ‘I present to you, for your eyes only, our grand dining room à la restaurant Marchand.’

  You can’t help but look up first. Hanging in the middle of the vaulted ceiling is a colossal tiered crystal chandelier, glittering in the soft light. The walls are embellished with scalloped edging, finished in brilliant white and gold. The light draws your eye upwards and I hold my breath at its dazzle. I spin around on my heel. This feels like a vintage ballroom in an old-style mansion house. The circular dining tables are set with crisp white tablecloths, sparkling wine glasses, perfectly polished and set silverware with dainty flower centrepieces all in keeping with the luxuriant colour scheme of red, white and gold that defines the space. It is fantastic. Well, it is certainly fantastical. It looks like it was drawn straight out of Beauty and the Beast. I decide not to mention this to Octavia.

  We follow Pip as he talks us through the layout and the decor, the seating and the service. Then he turns to us and gestures towards a small army of kitchen and waiting staff, all immaculate in the same reds, blacks and gold
as the lead waiters. ‘For front-of-house service, I have brought in my best staff from my other restaurants. They are experienced and have been trained to the highest degree, and are here to support you in your endeavours tonight. Each chef will be assigned a brigade of staff, three waiters and a sommelier out front. In the kitchen will be you, one sous and two line chefs, who you will communicate and lead as necessary. Remember, you are not just cooking. You are grand chef tonight. If anything goes wrong, no matter who is at fault, the buck stops with you. Tonight, we discover who you really are. And what you can really do. Or not as the case may be.’ He holds up his hands, each finger outstretched. ‘Each of you will have ten diners to serve in each area.’

  Ten diners sounds reasonable. But then I really think about it. We’re talking three courses, three perfect courses, which means thirty perfect dishes. All that with a new team of staff and a judging panel.

  Whoa. I hold my hands together and squeeze them before any trembling can overtake me. This is doable. I can do this.

  ‘These are no ordinary diners,’ Pip continues. ‘Tonight you are serving a party of the finest, most successful chefs, hoteliers and independent reviewers in the city. Along with our own friends and family.’

  So basically Jean-Michel multiplied by ten.

  Oh my, now this isn’t seeming so doable. This is the hardest challenge I have ever faced as a chef. And this time, I have the most at stake, because if I don’t make it I’m hanging up my chef whites for good.

  ‘At the end of the day, the chef that delivers the goods, on time, to the highest standard, and receives the most votes from our guests will become part of our family and reign king’ – Pip chuckles and darts me a look – ‘or queen over this grand kingdom.’

  Octavia steps forward. ‘There isn’t much between you three right now, so give it your best. Your menus are being paired with wines as we speak, and all your ingredients are in the kitchen. Any questions before we commence our preparations?’

  I shake my head, keeping my promise to myself not to look over at Ben today. We both have to keep our minds clear and neither of us can afford to be distracted from the reason that we are here in the first place. To win. To be selected by Jean-Michel. To prove our worth and change our lives. Instead, I snatch a quick sideways glance at Harry. Even he has beads of sweat collecting on his lip, and is baring his teeth. I draw my gaze over his body, his shoulders back, elbows cinched in, and his hands in tight fists. It looks like he is entering a boxing ring rather than a kitchen.

  He throws me a look that I can only describe as rabid. I swallow hard, push out my chest and weave my fingers together, holding them in front of me so he, and everyone else, can see that I haven’t got even the slightest tremor. Because I’m not letting anything slip today.

  Chapter Twenty

  I gather with my team in the white marble lobby. We sit in a circle in high-backed leather chairs around a low glass-topped coffee table. We shake hands and smile our introductions; a few light questions about where we are from, where we live, why we want to be here to break the ice and everyone seems a little more relaxed. I think of my first impressions of Bernie based on the gruff, dismissive way she introduced herself to me on my first day at Parklands and decide that I’ll do the exact opposite, which seems to be a reasonable strategy. Once everyone has settled in to their seats and knows who is who and where we’ll be positioned, I take out my paper folder and talk them through the menu, the service and timings. I want to let everyone know how to be the best they can be and how we are going to roll as a team.

  ‘Communication is key, you guys; if you are confused, speak up! If you are lost, speak up! If you are in trouble, speak up! And we will work together to sort it out, quickly and efficiently.’

  I hand them each a printed copy of my kitchen rules that I hung up in my own little restaurant. I see them raise eyebrows and nudge each other in agreement. I keep watch as they read through, nodding and smiling to themselves. I’m not rushing this bit. If we stick to these rules, we’ll save ourselves a lot of tears and tantrums. There are a few knowing smirks. Yep, I can tell these guys know where I’m coming from and we’re all on the same page. This is a good bunch. I can feel it. But it’s always best to be clear, so we all get an idea of the tone, of the way things are going to work, the way that we are going to work together.

  I stand to finish, mindful of the time and the amount of prep that we need to get underway. ‘My biggest nightmare would be that someone freaks out because they make a mistake or we turn on each other because of the pressure. ‘We know it is going to be crazy, right? We know it’s going be hard work. But we’re here for each other and I want you to promise to speak up if you need something, however big or small, the tiniest detail is still important.

  ‘Remember, tonight, it is not about me, it’s not about you.’ I think of Martha and the way her memories sustain her in her little Parklands bedroom. ‘It’s all about our guests. Let’s give the guys out there something they are not expecting, a real night to remember. We want them to go to bed smiling in their sleep because we created something special. We’re in this together. Let’s make it happen. Let’s make some memories tonight.’

  My team look to each other and then to me, warm smiles breaking their lips.

  Sara, the lead waitress, nods her head, raises her hand and they all follow. ‘A-game tonight, guys. Let’s go.’

  And so it begins. This is it.

  And somehow, I just know that it will be special. But special enough? That’s what we’re here to find out.

  * * *

  By eight o’clock, the dining room is starting to fill up and a sneak peek around the door makes my stomach flip. Limousines have pulled up outside, a red carpet leads the guests in through the main doorway. Ladies wrapped in fur stoles with long black gowns and glittering jewels air-kiss each other as they mingle and sip flutes of champagne. The candlelight flickers across the tables and in the dancing glow I catch a glimpse of my own childhood heroine Celia Sanderson arrive.

  Pip wasn’t kidding when he said the movers and shakers of the industry were coming to test us tonight. Everyone who is worth their rock salt is here.

  I decide that it’s probably best that I stop gawping at the guests and get back to work.

  I can’t see Ben, which is a small mercy; his station is hidden from my view, on the other side, with a different entrance to the dining rom. But I can see Harry. Our ovens are side by side and we are sharing the same pass. He is like a hurricane, sidestepping and pirouetting frantically with fantastic speed. He is a hard ball of energy, charismatic but also frightening.

  For the past few hours, he has done nothing but dominate his space and his staff with the erratic frenzy of a malevolent dictator. Firstly, the sommelier made the mistake of approaching him while at the oven – he had a question about oranges and had got momentarily in the way – and was so humiliated that, by the end of a long and relentless haranguing, his lips were pursed in disgust. Minutes later, Harry’s sous-chef committed a variation of the same offence, simply asking a question regarding the ever-changing menu and he was verbally tortured until, finally, he too was ordered out.

  ‘Go, get the fuck out of my sight. You are morons, how can I get to the next level surrounded by morons?’ Harry had wailed. But I watched him as he seemed to calm again, as if the outbursts were a valve mechanism for his own mounting pressure.

  But that calm doesn’t last long, the smallest trigger proving enough to blow his top all over again.

  ‘What the hell?’

  I watch now as he jabs a finger into the back of the line chef making the starter of pork snout with green radish and tomato micro-salad, dressing the rye croutons in advance.

  ‘Do you work for Subway? Pretend you’re the customer. Why would you want a soggy crouton?’ Harry slams his hand down on the counter. ‘And I told you to halve the tomatoes, not quarter them. Bin now!’ He picks up the tray of miniature plates and slides them all into the rubbish. ‘Ho
w many times? How am I supposed to do it all by myself? Step up! Step the hell up. It’s my way or the highway, you losers.’

  Harry starts slicing furiously into the tomatoes, his mounting anger and frustration evident in the tight scowl on his face and the red tops of his ears.

  To my surprise, he catches my eye and points his knife directly at me. ‘You two want to fanny about and stay cooking at the same average level, churning out pimped-up Marks and Spencer’s plates, then go work with her,’ he announces to his line chefs.

  I take a deep breath and try to ignore him. I tell myself he’s just trying to goad me, distract me. I purse my lips into a tight smile as my mother would advise and I keep my head down, trying to stay focused on my station and refuse to be drawn into his temper.

  ‘There’s a reason women stay in the pastry section.’

  I stop my own slicing as my hand is shaking and I don’t want to make a mistake. I need to pause, to steady and compose myself. He’s wasting my time. He’s been in my ear all day, but now he’s actually succeeding in holding me up. I can’t let this go. I can’t let him go on. I know he’s spoiling for a fight and I should rise above and be the bigger person, but I’ve had enough of him. I see that Sara has entered from the dining room and stopped in her tracks, a concerned look spreading across her face.

  Harry claps his hands together and cracks his neck.

  ‘Very interesting reading about your restaurant, Katie. Do your team know that you’ve already tried and failed? Closed down. NO leadership. NO business acumen. Didn’t have a handle on your staff or your books. The problem with you is that you’re too afraid of not being liked. On top of the fact that you have NO imagination. I saw your menu: boring. That’s why you haven’t made any mistakes yet, because everything you do is old hat. No disasters but no fireworks. Your idea of originality is a ten-second Pinterest video that you copied.’