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

by Colleen Coleman

  ‘To be here. Survivors. When you love something dearly and it leaves you, it’s very hard to let love back in. To open yourself up to that kind of hurt. But look at us, we are here. Knowing full well that we will feel that again one day, still, we are not afraid.’ She looks at me. ‘There is nothing to be afraid of except fear itself. Promise me you’ll remember that.’ She smiles in a lopsided way, as if a full smile requires too much energy, too much strength.

  I nod my promise.

  ‘Good.’ She smiles, turning her neck back and forth as if trying to get comfortable. ‘I was never one for fear.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It’s 6 a.m. I’m standing on the balcony of my penthouse room. In an oversized, super-soft bathrobe, watching the world wake up beneath me. I moved my bits and pieces out of Alice’s over the weekend and finally, into a bed of my own. A suite of my own. This morning’s sunrise was a staggering display of radiant colour. Bright streaks of red, pink, and orange slowly overcame the dark blue and purple of the twilight sky and then all blended perfectly into each other. Mighty reds and flaming oranges splashed the clouds with endless rays of pink. I’d hardly ever seen anything so gorgeous. I’ve never been so high up, never had such a broad and clear view of the London skyline. I can’t believe this has happened to me. I can’t believe that I’m going to wake up like this every day. And then button up into my Marchand London whites and join Jean-Michel downstairs for a day of magic. Whatever I’ve loved lost and left behind, however much it hurt has brought me to this point. So now, I’m forward-facing. This is a new dawn and I’m ready to make the most of it.

  Everything feels altogether new and exciting and achingly beautiful from up here. It’s still so early, the city is just rousing, softly, slowly, and there’s a special, subdued quiet that only us early risers share. A handful of road sweepers, joggers and coffee-sipping office workers zip across the otherwise deserted streets. Every one of them oblivious to me, watching them from up here, like a queen in a castle. The sun itself is just peeking out of the horizon, and its brilliant rays already shining brightly are beginning to warm the air. A thrilling feeling of awe sweeps over me. The trees beam as if they are wearing golden crowns and I let the soft amber glow of the sunshine pour through my fingers and onto my upturned face. This is it. I can’t wait to begin.

  * * *

  Jean Michel is in a neon vest and shorts when I enter the dining room. I take my seat beside him at the table by the window and say good morning. He is still sweating from his run, a towel hangs around his shoulders and he has two phones, a laptop, a newspaper, a triple espresso, a tube of tablets, a box of vitamins and a single boiled egg laid out in front of him.

  He knocks back the espresso, throws back two tablets and a handful of vitamins, swallowing with intense concentration, both eyes scrunched tight. He makes a very low, almost primal sound through his closed lips. Banging on the table to an unknown beat, he breathes deeply, then he opens his eyes, smiles and wishes me good morning back.

  Right. Today is going to be interesting.

  ‘So, your first day, Katie. Excited?’

  ‘Very!’ I tell him. ‘This is a dream come true. I’m so happy to be here, Jean-Michel.’ I take out my cardboard folder. ‘I’ve got lots of ideas, so I thought I’d bring them along and see what you think?’ I start to spread out all the different handwritten menus I’ve designed. ‘I was also thinking maybe some theme nights? A bit like a pop-up, where we can feature new techniques or showcase new ingredients, that kind of thing? Something to make us stand out from your standard fine-dining experience.’

  Jean-Michel nearly chokes on his egg. ‘Standard fine dining? You know this is a paradox.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean “standard”, I meant usual or expected… Sorry, nerves, I just got muddled… We can scrap it, I was just brainstorming really, you know, trying to think outside the box and all that,’ I tell him nervously.

  Jean-Michel finishes chewing his egg. Slow, deliberate bites. All I can do is sit here and wait till this egg mastication ends and he gives me a green light to resume talking to him. Once he finishes, he dabs the corners of his mouth with a napkin and then tells me to tidy up my papers. Which I guess means, put all of my new ideas away. So I do. Jean-Michel runs a tongue over his teeth and takes a long breath through his nose.

  ‘Katie, your enthusiasm is sweet. I like it. It is a good thing to dream and imagine and fantasise. However, here, now, you may be grand chef, but whose name is it above the door?’

  ‘Yours,’ I answer.

  ‘Whose name is on the top of every menu card?’

  ‘Yours.’

  ‘Whose name attracted you to come and work here in the first place?’

  ‘Yours.’

  ‘Exactement. So, as long as my name is attached to every tick of the clock in this restaurant, you follow my lead, comprends?’

  I nod and close over my folder. I understand perfectly well. I may be Jean-Michel’s grand chef, but it’s still his kitchen and I’m the apprentice here.

  He slides over one of the phones to me. ‘Here this is yours. Ensure it is charged at all times. This is your work phone. If I need you, this is the number I will expect to reach you. Bring it everywhere, keep it by your bedside, and answer it no matter what. Preferably by the second ring.’

  I take it and see that all the contacts I need have already been entered: Jean-Michel, Pip, Octavia, suppliers, plumbers, staffing agencies, delivery drivers, you name it, it’s on here. This phone is my link to everything in this new world.

  ‘Okay. Now, this is the new taster menu I’ve created. Your thoughts?’

  I take the heavy cream paper from his hand and read through the ten courses he’s selected. All are classic Jean-Michel signature dishes, except for the last one. I look up at him, blinking my disbelief.

  ‘You’ve got my trifle on there?’

  He smiles. ‘You okay with that?’

  ‘I’m honoured, thank you. That means a great deal to me,’ I tell him, meaning every word.

  ‘Good. Onto our next point of business. Staffing. We’ve had some walkouts, you know the score. Oversensitive, overinflated egos that go running home to mama first time we forget to say they are wonderful. So, I need you to find me a new sous-chef. By Wednesday service.’

  ‘But I’ll need longer than that!’ I tell him. ‘By the time we put a job description out and then shortlist and interviews…. I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.’

  Jean-Michel raises a finger to his lips to silence me. ‘You are the grand chef. You will find a way. Now, today – I need inventory of the entire kitchen; everything we have in stock, fresh and frozen, we need it itemised and uploaded to the central database before we let a single customer through the door.’ He stands from his chair and nods towards the phone. ‘Call me when you are finished.’

  So I guess that means I’m doing it without him.

  ‘And I don’t want any shitty sous-chef, you know what I expect.’ And then he takes his newspaper under his arm, and he’s gone.

  * * *

  It takes me nine hours to inventory the freezer alone. And I still have the non-perishables to do. And I have no idea where to find a decent sous-chef in practically no time. And what decent sous-chef is going to drop everything on a Monday night to start work for Jean-Michel on Wednesday?

  It’s impossible. He is impossible. He has his infamous reputation for good reason. I remember all those crying candidates back on day one of the selection, crying from ridicule but also frustration. He was impossible then and he’s impossible now.

  And then this gives me an idea. I know exactly who would drop everything for this chance. I know someone who’s desperate for this call. Not only because it’s Jean-Michel but because it’s a sous position. That’ll take her out of pastry and the chance to show what else she can do, not just to him but herself as well. I just hope she doesn’t try her dehydrated turd dish on my watch. I laugh to myself and give Georgia Jacobs
a call. Why not? It could work, chances are slim, but I’ve got to try because now that I’m grand chef, nobody else is going to solve this for me.

  * * *

  The next day, I arrive at St Mary’s just as the clock strikes visiting hour. I’m met at the doorway by the sturdy nurse in navy. In a low voice she tells me that Ms Rosenblatt passed away during the night. I can hardly take this in. On my last visit, over the weekend, Martha had seemed to be getting better, laughing and smiling like the Martha of old.

  ‘Martha’s died?’ I hear my own voice say the words again, questioning, disbelieving. ‘Last night? Are you sure that’s what you mean? Are you sure that’s right?’

  ‘She just slipped away,’ she tells me more than once. This nurse, The General as Martha had called her, was with her when she drew her last breath. Martha’s son hadn’t made it on time. I look around the ward, the plastic sheeting, the TV set on mute, a well-worn visitor chair, the beep of a heart monitor, the metallic slide of a curtain rail being pulled, and hear the hushed inflections of family members trying to make upbeat small talk with their bed-bound loved ones. This is all too familiar. All too heart-breaking. I remember being in a hospital just like this before: this dreadful news, these sights, and these sounds. The smell of antiseptic and boiled food. My vision is beginning to blur, to swim and melt with tears.

  I find myself repeating the nurse’s words back to her, expecting her to correct me, to explain that I misunderstood. But she doesn’t, she tries to guide me out by the elbow but I stand still. Unable to lift the lead of my legs. The nurse nods again, this time keeping eye contact and adding how it was very peaceful, like she drifted into a dream.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say at last, with a tight, sad smile because I don’t really know what else to say. Because it’s best to remain composed, to hold yourself together… at least in public, until I am away from here. So I keep walking and don’t turn around. I don’t check the bed where Martha had lain, where we both had tea and trifle. Where quietly, selflessly, bravely, Martha had made her last birthday wish.

  Quietly, selflessly, bravely. Just like my own mother did. She waited for me to go and then she left.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The days and then weeks that follow are hard to describe. They all blur into a frantic sequence of dark mornings in the markets, then prepping until lunch and then cooking and conducting the kitchen choreography until it’s time to knock off the lights and take the lift five floors up to bed. All with Martha’s passing looming large in the background. She’s on my mind every day.

  I don’t know what day of the week it is, never mind what the weather is like. I haven’t seen sunlight since I started. A twenty-metre walk to the elevator has replaced my cycling commute. I just press a button and seconds later, ding! I’m home. Don’t get me wrong, it’s luxurious. But it’s more of a luxuriant gilded cage. It means that I’m accessible and therefore available to Jean-Michel and the Marchand 24/7. I’ve got nowhere to hide. I am always on call.

  Tonight is a rare exception. I’m going to have drinks with Alice. I haven’t seen her in weeks and weeks so she’s come to the hotel and once I finish clearing up this kitchen, we’re going to sip our drinks watching the glittering skyline from the rooftop bar. A scene straight out of our original visions of London life.

  After I’ve ticked off the final pastry inventory and counted bags of flour, we drink wine and help ourselves to whatever we fancy from the dessert fridge; the meringue-topped cheesecake with a side of white chocolate ice cream and hot salted caramel sauce getting our vote.

  Alice is awestruck. ‘This is the most amazing job in the world, free food, free hotel room, fame, fortune. I know it was hard-going at times, but when you see this, you must think: wow, it’s been worth it, right?’

  I laugh, ‘We’ve only just started! Jean-Michel won’t rest until we get a Michelin star. That’s what this is all about. We are on high alert until then.’

  ‘Well, star or no star, hats off to you, Katie. You just never gave up. No one would have blamed you for calling it a day after the restaurant but you didn’t. And look where it got you! It’s world’s away from being stuck in Parklands, then weaving through the backstreets to drink cheap wine with me every evening.’

  A pang of nostalgia hits me. I don’t want to let Alice know that, already, being grand chef is not all I thought it would be. And there’s been more than one occasion so far when I’ve locked the toilet door, held my head in my hands, battling against tears, as I consider the possibility that this was all a big mistake, that I am running myself in to the ground.

  Was my pre-grand chef life really so bad? At Parklands I had friends. When Bernie wasn’t around, we always had a laugh. But there is no laughter in this kitchen, no one would dare to glance at each other in humour, even when Jean-Michel is not around. The pressure is always on, the stakes are always high, the risk of destroying the ingredients, screwing up the presentation, the taste or the service is too great. And besides, Jean-Michel is here all the time. I swear he sleeps in the pantry. I put in a solid sixteen hours a day – 6 a.m. to 10 p.m. is my norm and often I don’t get away that lightly. And still I’ve never yet arrived or left before him. Except for tonight, but only because Jean-Michel is upstairs in the office meeting with Pip and Octavia, going over the books, his plans for the future, his menu ideas, his expanding wine lists. All the stuff I imagined I would be doing as grand chef, but alas, no, Jean-Michel has no intention of handing over any responsibility. Not the slightest iota of control.

  My assigned work phone rings. I scramble to answer it because it can only be one person and place my finger to my lip to let Alice know to keep quiet. It’s late; it can only be Jean-Michel.

  ‘You need to find a new patisserie chef.’

  ‘But what about Pierre?’

  ‘Pierre is gone.’

  ‘You’ve fired our only remaining pastry chef?’

  ‘Oui. He talked too much and made a mess everywhere he went, I told him, “You are too slow, your station is dirty, and you have a haircut that makes your head look like a testicle.” He had to go. Replace him in time for tomorrow’s service.’

  And he hangs up. It’s nearly 11 o’clock, but he expects me to find a pastry chef in time for tomorrow. This is typical Jean-Michel: erratic decision-making and fiery temper, gruelling hours even by cheffing standards, and, just like now, he hires and frequently fires staff and then orders me to pick up the pieces.

  I’m grand chef only in name. Really, I’m Jean-Michel’s lackey, his mere underling when there are jobs that need doing, and then in his softer moments I’m expected to be his life coach and counsellor. Jean-Michel is a complex man. I’ve realised that he’s a man without boundaries, especially between his personal and professional lives. If he fights with his wife, expect hell in the kitchen that day. If there’s hell in the kitchen, expect an explosion. That’s when I try to talk to him, calm him down, reassure him that everything is going well, that we’re doing great. That we have his back, we understand, we won’t let him down.

  Of course, when we are in full flight of service everything feels worthwhile and I feel so lucky to have such a mentor. I’m learning a lot. I’m enjoying that side of things, but I can’t say that it’s turned out to be exactly the dream job I thought it would be.

  I can’t admit this to Alice though. Or my dad or anyone else, so I paint on a smile on and crack on. This is what I signed up for, so I’m just going to have to suck it up until I find my stride.

  As Jean-Michel says himself, it is early days. Establishing everything, recruiting and training the new staff, waiting for our orders to come through, setting up new accounts and contacts all takes a hell of a lot of work and time to put in place. Making sure it is exactly right before we open fully and officially is crucial. We’ve been open only a month, starting with just weekends, then dinner service and now we are lunch and dinner six days a week. I approached him last week and told him that I needed the evening off. Rach
el had emailed me to say she was passing through London on a work trip in a few days, and I knew this was my chance to make amends. I needed to make sure I met with her.

  ‘Not possible,’ he told me.

  ‘Jean-Michel, I wouldn’t ask unless it was really important. She’s pregnant so she won’t be able to fly for much longer and I haven’t seen her in a long time. I’m giving you reasonable notice and I’ll sort the rota so someone will cover my shift. It’s just one evening, Jean-Michel, please. I haven’t had a single day off in twenty-two days.’ And I need some time. Not just to do other things, to meet people, but to give my body a rest. I’m physically banjaxed. The heat of the kitchen means I’m constantly dehydrated, which means I’ve got a banging headache all the time and I’m still adjusting to standing so much. My calves are killing me. And with such huge pots, and so many of them needed for a restaurant of this scale, my forearms are killing me as well.

  The first time I asked for time off was to attend Martha’s funeral. He did not even look up. He just shook his head and snarled. ‘You begged me to accept you and now you beg me to leave. You go, you don’t come back.’ I sent flowers and a card to Martha’s son Leo, explaining myself, my absence, praying he would understand.

  I backed down. Afraid of what was going to happen next. Afraid and utterly convinced that he would show me the door. The spectre of getting fired constantly looming over me. I was afraid I would get fired for not being good enough, for not being strong enough, for disappointing him by not meeting his exacting standards. But now I know that no one can meet his impossible standards. But this was different. And I’m different. Rachel is stopping over in London especially to see me. It will be the last time I get to see her before the baby comes; who knows when I’ll get to Australia, especially with Jean-Michel as my boss. I was determined to catch her. It’s already been too long and I’ve already let things slip too badly.