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

by Colleen Coleman

  Couples, adventurers, families, big groups, and pets will love it here. Masses of open space, climbing trees, tyre swings and hedgerows of blackberries and wild mushrooms to forage. Endless fun for kids and families alongside creative inspiration for artists and writers with uninterrupted peace and tranquillity in an idyllic rural setting.

  Filled with antique furniture. Easily accessible to airport with regular routes to UK and Europe. Close proximity to fresh water rivers and lakes and en route to scenic coastlines and beaches of The Wild Atlantic Way. This is a charming escape to the country which will no doubt be snapped up very quickly by discerning buyers or tenants.

  I spell-check what I’ve written, format it and, along with the photos I’ve taken, I pass it by Dad the next morning, just to make sure he’s okay with it.

  He squints into the small screen of my phone to read the text and swipes through each photograph. And then he looks up to me, rubbing his cheeks with both hands, as if he is literally trying to wipe the smile from his face.

  ‘With an advert like that, I’d better start packing. Australia here I come!’

  Chapter Thirty

  My dad drops me into the village so that I can get the internet connection to upload the advert for the house and get it online straight away. He pulls up outside our old local pub Nallen’s and I smile my hellos to the pair of flat-capped old men smoking by the door. Once inside the cosy, fire-lit warmth, I order an Irish coffee (because this place makes the most delicious ones I’ve ever tasted) and take my seat in a quiet corner of our local pub, signing in to their Wi-Fi, password ‘Ifnotnowwhen?’

  As soon as my handset is reconnected, it splutters back to life, vibrating in my hand with a barrage of beeps and notifications, missed calls, voicemails and social media messages which couldn’t get through the whole time I was out of range at my dad’s.

  I scroll through the backlog, eliminating all junk ruthlessly. So many unknown numbers, which I presume to be press looking for the scoop on Jean-Michel’s outburst, wanting to know the real reason behind our sudden closure. They’re certainly persistent; one of these numbers has rung me seven times!

  I notice there are a couple from Ben. I can guess what they are about. Checking in how the restaurant is going. An attempt to keep in touch, now that we’ve got to know each other again as ‘friends’. My stomach lurches. All I get is a flashback to seeing Francesca plant her big, glossy, bee-stung lips on his. Nope. Sorry. I can’t do that. I delete all his messages without reading. I don’t want to know about all the amazing things Ben and Francesca are enjoying together in New York. I just about managed to get over him before and that was hard enough. I’m not doing that all over again. I take a deep breath and decide that if I mean that. I’ve got to commit to it. So I block Ben’s number too. There. It’s over. Now we really are done.

  I’ve got messages from Alice too, but nothing yet from Rachel. I know she’s still travelling with work so she could be anywhere in the US right now. Is it a good time to contact her? I have no idea. But to hell with it, I can’t make her much more angry with me. So I decide, if I’m ever going to set things right between us, it’s now or never. I’ve got very little to lose and, after all, I’m the one who fecked it all up, I was the one who isolated myself and then I was the one who let her down. It’s got to be me who swallows my pride and I’ve got to try harder to put things right before I lose her altogether.

  I fetch up the advert I’ve written for the house. I’m going to send it to her to look over before I post it online. Hopefully, she’ll like it. Hopefully, she’ll see that I’ve changed my mind, that I’ve realised that all of this isn’t about me; that it’s about dad and what he needs to move forward. Hopefully, she’ll see that I’m sorry. And I mean it and I’m changing, that I’m trying to be better.

  Operation get dad to Australia is well and truly underway. What do you think? Kx

  I press send just as my Irish coffee arrives. Rachel may answer me, she may not. She might not see the message until tomorrow; she might pretend she’s never seen it. She could delete it straight away. And if she does, it just means that I’m going to have to keep on trying. Because I’ve been such a stupid, self-absorbed, silly twat and she’s my sister and I love her.

  Sitting back, I take my first warm, creamy sip. This is heavenly. Licking the buttery, slightly bitter blend of coffee and cream from my lips while the fiery punch of the whisky hits me at the back of the throat, I decide that there are a few more people I need to contact and Nallen’s password is telling me exactly what I need to hear. ‘If not now when?’ Indeed. I’ve spent too much time neglecting the most important relationships in my life. I’ve learned my lesson and, with my second sip of Irish coffee, I vow to change. One sip at a time.

  I lift the glass to my lips and take a selfie of me tongue out licking the side of the warm bell-shaped glass, sending it to Alice.

  Bet you’ve forgotten how good these are! In Nallen’s, thinking of you whilst soul-searching aka drinking alone. How’re your exams?

  * * *

  Waiting outside exam hall right now so can’t talk… Sitting my last coaching module today! Remember Ryan, HR guy?

  * * *

  The one you met on a course?

  * * *

  Exactly! He’s set me up with a contract for his company. He says there is a huge niche in the market for this. Apparently, I wasn’t the only stressed, fed up, over-worked and burnt-out corporate employee in the city, there’s thousands. So we’re setting up our own weekend residential: coaching, nutrition, meditation, time-management… not sure exactly where just yet but so EXCITED!

  * * *

  Alice! That is amazing! Go you!

  * * *

  All down to you and your crazy ass dreamin’ but I soooo get it now, once you’re doing something you love, you just can’t imagine doing anything else, can you? All I need to do is find the perfect venue in the perfect location and ‘Escape To You’ holistic retreats will be ready for business!

  * * *

  Just as I start to reply, another text comes in.

  * * *

  So sorry, gotta go, need to turn off phone for exam time! Wish me luck love ya Axxs

  I wish her luck and phone still in my hand, I check the message I sent Rachel.

  Nothing.

  She’s travelling with work so she could be anywhere: in a meeting, fast asleep, on a plane. I’m hoping they’re the reasons she’s not responded. Might be wishful thinking though.

  I glance down a final time before I go to the bar to order another coffee, and see a blue tick appear beside the message right before my eyes. She’s online. Right now. She’s seen it. Oh please don’t ignore it Rachel! I can’t bear you not speaking to me, I can’t bear the idea that you are so far away and every time you think of me you might roll your eyes or get frustrated.

  Some little dots start to dance in grey. Rachel’s typing! My heart constricts in my chest – please don’t tell me to feck off. Please don’t make it any harder than it already is.

  And then the words pop up on screen.

  Did you write this?

  I can’t work out the tone. Is she pleased or pissed off?

  Yes. Dad so desperate to see you, to be there for you and the baby so just thought I’d try and gain some interest on the house. Are you all right with it?

  Eek. I’m nervous. I hope I haven’t managed to upset her again.

  Of course, it’s brilliant. I’d better make up the spare bedroom! Talk about a marketing pro! ‘Discerning buyers or tenants’ will be knocking each other out over the ‘uninterrupted peace and tranquillity in an idyllic rural setting’ ffs! Bit of spin all right! Are you good to talk? I’ll be in my office in five minutes if that suits to Skype?

  Of course, can’t wait.

  And just as I’m settling in to the corner of this cosy little pub, excited beyond measure to see my little sister’s face for the first time in way too long and her bump for the first time ever, an idea hits m
e.

  I send the advert for my dad’s house to Alice. Because I think we’ve got everything she’s looking for.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Long after I say goodbye to a glowing, giggling Rachel, I’m still half-laughing at how she called me a silly twat before I could even get the words out myself. And I’m still dabbing my eyes and blowing my nose with the flood of tearful emotion that overcame me as soon as she told me that it was all fine, that she understood and that she just wants the best for me, for me to go easy on myself, not push myself so hard. And that she loves me no matter what. And she knows her growing little bump is going to be so proud of her ‘amazing’ Aunty Kate.

  There was such relief in coming clean, in being open with her, in not pretending that everything is perfect when it’s not. I never realised how exhausting being defensive can be, being constantly on guard and fighting unfounded, imagined judgements that only ever existed in my own head. Constantly pre-empting criticism and formulating answers to protect myself when the truth was that those who cared about me just wanted me to be happy. Not perfect, not ultra-successful, not the best: just happy. I told Rachel everything, truthfully, from how losing Martha brought back so many memories of losing Mum, to realising that I was becoming more like Jean-Michel in all the worst ways by putting the restaurant before everything else, and how even though it’s taken me until now to fully grasp it, I miss Ben and I wish I’d done things differently.

  But I also have happy tears in my eyes. I have uploaded my dad’s house on several sales and rental sites, I’ve got my fourth Irish coffee ordered, and I feel like there’s more to do.

  There’s another call I could make right now, even though Pip said he’s not answering and he cut me off the last time I tried. But if there’s one thing I know about Jean-Michel, it’s that everything changes very quickly. Yesterday he may have wanted to be alone but today he might want to be centre-stage. I know Pip told me to wait. But this is my future at stake as much as that of the restaurant and Jean-Michel.

  I raise my finger to the tiny screen and then pause. He may not answer at all or, worse still, he may absolutely throw the mother of all tantrums, a shitstorm at me down the phone. I bite down on my lip. If he does go on the attack, what am I going to say? Well, in the tiny possibility that he does answer me, that’s a risk I’m willing to take. I can always hear him out and, if it gets too much, I can just hang up. My finger hovers over the call button. He can be a scary, unpredictable bastard. But I need to know where I stand one way or another. I’m going to take charge and ask what’s going on, what does the future hold seeing as it’s all in his hands. He’s the only one who can give me the answer on this. And I want to know if he’s okay, I want him to know that I’m there for him. If he wants to let me in and let me help him, I’ll try to do that, I’ll try my best. I’ve always given Jean-Michel my best and when he’s in need like this, I’ll not give up on him. I know from my own restaurant closure that burying my head in the sand, ignoring the problem and not asking for help is the surest way to compound failure.

  I select his number.

  I’ve got to try. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to help.

  The phone begins to ring and I feel my stomach actually flip and fall flat. Second ring. Third. I take a deep breath.

  Almost with relief, I invent a new rule of phone etiquette called ‘more than four rings is rude’ so I’m ready to hang up and send a text instead.

  ‘Hello?’

  Dear God. It’s him. It’s Jean-Michel.

  ‘Katie, is this you?’ He sounds groggy, like I’ve just woke him up.

  ‘It’s me. I’m sorry the line’s bad, I’m at home in Ireland. I just— I wanted to see if you were okay?’

  Silence, then a heavy sigh.

  ‘Jean-Michel, are you okay?’

  ‘Non,’ he says, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘Can you come?’

  This is not what I was expecting. I’d never expected to hear such vulnerability from Jean-Michel. Never.

  ‘Of course. I can come,’ I tell him. My dad and the house are on their way, Rachel and I have reconciled and I’m ready to go back. And this time, find a better way forward.

  He clears his throat. ‘Merci, Katie. I need… I need to speak to you – face to face. Meet me at the restaurant tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll be on the next flight. And until then, I don’t want you to worry, okay? Everything is fine.’

  ‘It will be. Soon,’ he says and the line goes dead.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  As I take the corner and wait to cross the road to the Rembrandt Hotel, I can see Jean-Michel’s wife waiting by the doorway. She is wearing oversized sunglasses, a black coat and black trousers. It looks like she’s about to attend a funeral.

  I skip up the steps and hold out my hand to greet her. She wraps her arms around me and pulls me very close.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Katie. I don’t think Jean-Michel has ever had a chef that he hasn’t scared off, never mind one who actually cared about him.’

  I look over her shoulder, searching. ‘Where is he?’ I ask. ‘He said he wanted to talk to me face to face.’

  She stiffens and shakes her head, taking an envelope from her pocket.

  ‘He’s not well, Katie. He wanted to come, but he couldn’t face it. He’s very sorry. In fact, that’s all he keeps saying. How sorry he is. He needs to rest. Please accept his apologies.’ I assure her I understand and that Jean-Michel has my full support and friendship and that I hope he feels better soon. She thanks me and then holds the envelope out to me. ‘For you.’

  I take it from her, flipping it over, trying to find some clue as to what’s going on, what this is all about. Confused, I open my mouth to catch my breath and find the right words all at once. ‘What do you mean he’s “not well”? What does “not well” mean?’

  But she just purses her lips, pulls up her collar and disappears in her kitten heels, click-clacking down the steps, across the road and around the corner. Seemingly leaving me and the restaurant and everything else that we worked so hard for far, far behind.

  I feel the heavy, cream envelope between my fingers.

  What the hell is going on?

  On the front, my name is written in blue fountain pen by Jean-Michel’s unmistakable hand.

  ‘Pour Katie’ is all it reads.

  I can’t open this here, not in broad daylight on the steps of one of the busiest hotels in London. I have a feeling I’m going to have to sit down somewhere quiet, where I can be alone and read whatever words Jean-Michel has penned to me far away from prying eyes. I take a deep breath and, looking up, spot the little Italian that Ben and I went to together. That’ll do. That’ll do just fine. I slip the letter in to my bag and begin the slow walk to whatever it is that I’m about to discover. It will no doubt change my life, one way or another.

  I slide into the same booth I sat in with Ben. I feel a pang and a moment passes where I appreciate that not everything can be put back together so easily. But I’m here to move forward, even if that means carrying some losses I can’t recover. I order a coffee, rip open the envelope and take out a handwritten letter.

  Chère Katie,

  * * *

  Thank you most sincerely for coming. Forgive me my inability.

  I am facing a crossroads in my life. I wasn’t happy and I knew I had three options.

  Number one was continuing as I was, working ridiculously long hours, as you well know, leaving in the morning before my wife and children and then kissing them in bed when they were already asleep. This ate me up inside. What sort of life is that, never seeing your wife or family and missing them grow up?

  Number two was to cut myself some slack, but to do what a lot of chefs do these days and that’s to live a lie. They continue to charge high prices even when they’re not behind the stoves. That went against everything I believed in, because when I was at work, I did every single service. I came from the old world of gastronomy where the chef’s
place is in his kitchen. That absence, even partial, would challenge my integrity, so neither did that option lie well with me despite the fact that I had a fantastic grand chef in you. You are so capable, so very talented and so strong, but I couldn’t hand over the reins as long as my name was above the door. Please know that this was my weakness, not yours.

  Number three was to pluck up the courage to give back my stars and make myself unemployed, and so, as of last Friday, I cooked my final meal in the kitchen. I am tired of being judged. I had an epiphany in the middle of the dining room. I disgraced myself in the eyes of those who looked up to me and I need to change. I used to be condemned for being controversial, but I stand up for what I believe in and, at the end of the day, I wasn’t going to allow myself to continue as a slave to my own insecurities.

  I blame no one but myself.

  There’s a very big difference between obsession and passion. From the age of sixteen to forty-eight, my world was a room with white tiles and a stove in the middle. All my energies were channelled obsessively into cooking and I lost sight of my purpose, it was no longer a passion. I pushed my own boundaries too far. All the pressure, I caused myself.

  I am giving myself a second chance, to do things well, but this time with balance.

  Now that I have handed back my stars, I have handed back my status. For the future, for the first time in my life, I am going to be kind to myself and my family and I am going to do the things I've wanted to but suppressed, all my life, and hadn’t made the time for, like walking, painting and just being present with my family.