Romance Impossible

by Melanie Marchande

  "I have to ask you something," I said, hardly hearing the sound of my own voice.

  "Yes," she said softly, still biting on her lip, as it grew redder and redder.

  "I'd like for you to be my head chef," I said, the words falling like lead all around us. "I think you've more than proven yourself."

  Her face fell. I watched it, that moment when she went from hope to realization - and it sunk in, slowly, yet oh-so-quickly at the same time.

  I had never felt worse about something in my life.

  But she wants this, doesn't she? It might not be what she expected, but she wants...she wants this. Anybody would want this. It's a once-in-a-lifetime...

  She was sitting there, very calmly, I thought, not saying a word. Just processing what I'd said. Maybe this wasn't going to be as bad as I thought. Maybe I'd just been attributing all sorts of feelings to her, all kinds of wish fulfillment. Would you really rather have her be heartbroken over you, than happy?

  "I'd like you to start next week," I said.

  "I didn't say I'd take it." The words came out slowly, her voice sounding flat and dispassionate. I blinked a few times.

  "Jill," I said, slowly, "are you really...are you really telling me that you need to think about this?"

  "No," she said.

  My blood ran cold. "I don't follow," I said, though I was beginning to.

  "I don't want the job," she said, calmly. "But thank you for offering."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Appareil

  A marinade, for instance, is a type of appareil - a basic preparation or mixture of any kind. That's a term a lot of people never bother to teach, or learn, because it seems too simple. Too basic. But sometimes, going back to the basic principles is exactly what's called for.

  - Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

  ***

  Jill

  ***

  "I don't want the job. But thank you for offering."

  Suddenly, this whole restaurant was too small, too stifling. I stood abruptly and hurried for the door, praying that Max wouldn't chase after me. A few blocks down, I glanced over my shoulder. Nothing. I felt a pang of something that was certainly not disappointment, and continued on my way.

  With every step, I felt more and more lightheaded. Giddy, almost. Thrilled with my own impertinence. I'd left Chef Maxwell Dylan stunned, almost speechless, and that was an accomplishment all on its own. I tried to imagine putting that as a line on my resume, and giggled.

  My mother's voice echoed in my head, something she'd said to me a thousand times when I was a kid. Don't cut off your nose to spite your face.

  But this wasn't just about my wounded pride. It wasn't. Sure, his reluctance to pursue anything romantic with me stung. Rejection always did. But I wasn't just being vindictive.

  I was very nearly one hundred percent sure.

  Whatever. My reasons didn't matter now. It was final. There was no way he'd ever offer me the job again, even if I asked - and I certainly wasn't going to ask. He needed to believe I was one hundred percent confident in my decision, even if I wasn't.

  Whatever he thought this job offer was - a consolation prize, or an apology, or just something to prove I was wrapped around his finger - I wasn't interested. Not after the way he'd led me on.

  Tears streamed down my face as I walked to the subway. I could feel people's eyes following me, curiously. In a lot of cities I could have walked the streets without notice with a battle-axe lodged in my head, but not here.

  Don't look at me don't look at me don't look at me DON'T LOOK AT ME

  "Hey, lady, you alright?"

  I ignored the man, not even looking up, just shoving my hands deeper into my pockets and quickening my pace.

  No matter how fast my feet travelled, I couldn't shake the feeling. I was being swallowed up. Slowly. Like quicksand. Or quicksand in the movies, anyway. Seeping up past my toes, my ankles, up my legs, and pretty soon it would smother me. But quicksand wasn't really like that, was it? I thought I remembered reading that somewhere. It didn't happen like they showed in movies.

  Nothing ever did.

  That thought made me laugh a little, and it came out as a bitter, broken sound. Luckily, by now, I was in an empty street with no one around to question what my crazy ass was doing. A movie about me and Max? Sure, that would be a blockbuster. A modern-day Pride and Prejudice. He could be played by Daniel Craig. No. Tom Hardy...

  And we'd get a happy ending, of course. The one that could never happen in real life.

  ***

  I sat alone in my apartment with the TV blaring, because that seemed to be the only way to quiet the voices in my head.

  No, not those kinds of voices. I knew they weren't real. It wasn't my neighbor's dog ordering me to kill. It was just the usual, run-of-the-mill self-doubt and questioning that kept me up at night, every time I thought I'd made a horrible mistake.

  Lately, I felt a lot less like a person, and a lot more like a collection of horrible mistakes, strung together with twist ties and chewing gum.

  It was just hate-sex to him. That's all it was.

  I kept coming back to that, to my insane assumption that we'd shared some kind of tender moment in that dark basement. Why had I thought, even for a moment, that someone like Max could ever fall for me? Why had I let myself confuse his patronizing attention for something I actually wanted in my life?

  Why had I let myself believe that he cared?

  Oh, sure, he cared about me, in the same way he cared about anyone. Wanted me to succeed, wanted the best for me, blah blah blah. I was tired of it. I was tired of people who only cared as long as it was convenient for them.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  A familiar voice filtered out of my TV, and I turned bleary eyes towards it. Naturally, this would be it. The night they decided to re-run an old episode of one of Max's shows, just to really grind salt into that wound.

  For some reason, instead of changing the channel, I just sat there. I sat there and watched him - a few years younger, with the same unruly dirty-blond hair that I'd only just recently held clutched in my fingers - scream at some poor sap who owned a failing restaurant.

  "Is this what you want? Does this make you happy?"

  I remembered him saying almost those exact same words to me. The memory hit like a heavy punch, right in the pit of my stomach.

  I forced myself to focus on the minute details across the screen. The color of the man's shirt, the absurd pattern of his tie. The words, now that it had cut to his confessional: JORDAN HARRIS, OWNER.

  "I feel humiliated," he said. "He really cut me down."

  With a sudden movement, I grabbed the remote and switched the TV off for good.

  ***

  I was on my way to a job interview - seems like only yesterday I was going to meet Max - when I heard someone calling after me.

  It wasn't a voice I recognized, but I hesitated nonetheless.

  "Jillian!" A man was waving. Something heavy jostled against his torso as he ran towards me, and I realized too late that it was a camera. "Jillian, you used to work at the Trattoria with Chef Dylan, didn't you?"

  Frozen in place, every part of my body stiff with the effort of not screaming at him to fuck the fuck off, I didn't answer.

  "Have you heard about the lawsuit? One of the contestants on Kitchen Fixer Uppers is suing him for emotional distress and defamation of character. What do you think about that?"

  A stab of shock went through, my mind racing for a moment, and then I realized -

  Not my problem anymore.

  It never will be again.

  He was shoving something in my face. A small digital recorder, I realized.

  Finally, I found the strength to actually move. To turn around, and start walking the other way.

  "Jillian! Wait! Don't you have a statement?" The man was so close, so hot on my heels, that I felt I had to say something.

  "I have to go. I'm going to miss my train." Pu
shing forward, head down, I could sense he was still inches away, even before he spoke again.

  "Jillian, Jill - please, just a quote. Just a soundbite. This is your chance to make your voice heard. You must have quit for a reason, don't you want to teach him a lesson?"

  Balling my hands into fists inside my pockets, I repeated in my head: He's a fly. He's just a fly. Brush him off.

  I took a deep breath, and then another. There was a hot stench of garbage creeping out from some alley, and I told myself that was why bile was rising in my throat.

  "Come on. Jill! JILL!"

  I whirled on him.

  "Chef Maxwell Dylan gave me a chance when I had nothing left," I shouted, so loud that he actually stepped back from me. "You don't know him, and neither does anybody else who thinks they have the right to judge him. Go somewhere else to dig up your dirt. I'm not playing this game."

  Hot tears leaked from my eyes as I ran for my train, crying, crying for me and for Max and for everything we could have had, until there was nothing left.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Desosser

  To desosser, or remove the bone, allows for meat to be more easily flattened for cooking - as in the case of roasting a butterflied chicken. Never let it be said that there aren't some instances where a lack of a backbone is best.

  - Excerpt from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

  ***

  Max

  ***

  And just like that, Jill was out of my life.

  I had misjudged her terribly - and had been, I realized, since the moment we met. The job offer was supposed to be an olive branch. An apology. I'd taken advantage of her when she was vulnerable and I wanted her to know I was sorry, and that it wouldn't matter. It wouldn't change things between us.

  It was only later, much later, that I realized she wanted things to change.

  Here was someone who knew me, who'd endured me as a boss and as a human being, for longer than most people could stand. And she loved me for it. There was a time when I would have dismissed it as a schoolgirl crush, or even a coping mechanism. But I knew her better than that, by now. She knew exactly what she was about. She'd chosen to foster these feelings for me, knowing exactly who and what I was.

  And I chose to throw it in the garbage, over a misplaced sense of chivalry.

  Right. Well done.

  My phone buzzed and buzzed. I'd been ignoring it for about half an hour, as calls intermittently came in from Lydia. I assumed it was about Jill, somehow. She'd probably called and told Lydia she was quitting. She certainly wasn't going to call me with the news, and there was no way in hell she'd be back to work tomorrow morning. I was sure of that.

  Finally, I got tired of the noise and picked up. The alternative was throwing it against the wall, and I hated to be wasteful.

  "What?" I snapped.

  "Thank God!" Lydia sounded like she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. "I thought I'd never get through to you. The network just called. They've been served papers. You're named as a plaintiff. Jordan Harris. He's suing you, Max. He's suing you, and the network, and anyone he can get away with."

  My blood ran cold.

  "Jordan Harris? From that...that shithole restaurant? The Orange Slice? What the fuck is he suing for?"

  "Emotional distress, mostly. He claims the show is staged, and he claims you got him wrongfully fired. It's a mess, Max - and what's this I hear about Jill? What on earth did you do to her?"

  I ignored her question. "What the hell does he think he's doing? If his restaurant is still open, I'm the only reason."

  "Max! Answer me! Is Jillian really gone?"

  "If that's what she told you, then I suppose so," I snapped. "Look, can we focus on one thing at a time?"

  "I'm sorry." Lydia sighed. "But you know, if she talks to the press -"

  "She's got no reason to talk to the press," I cut in. "What the hell do you think I did to her?"

  "I don't know, Max," said Lydia. "I really don't know."

  ***

  "Ms. Dunkelman will see you now."

  I stood and followed the young assistant, whom I couldn't recall seeing before, down the hallway to Olive's office. When we reached it, she paused with her hand on the doorknob.

  "I'm Stacey, by the way," she said, softly, ducking her eyes down to the carpet. "If you need anything - some coffee, or a water, or...whatever, just let me know."

  "Of course." I smiled at her, and she finally opened the door, blushing deeply.

  "Did she flirt with you?" Olive demanded, not looking up from her desk. The door wasn't even completely closed. "I ordered her not to. She's such a big fan of your persona. I suspect it's because her father was a drill sergeant."

  "Good morning to you, too." I settled down in the overstuffed leather chair across from her desk. "I suppose you've seen the news."

  "Well?" She looked up at me, finally. "Did you, in fact, cause him emotional distress?"

  "Probably," I said. "But not worth suing over. Christ."

  "Well, that's a matter of opinion. And not yours or mine, unfortunately. We have to do everything we can to prevent this going to trial. How deep are his pockets? You saw all the finances when you were trying to help save his stupid restaurant."

  "Terrible. Even with the business from the show, he'd still be up to his ears in debt unless somebody waved a magic wand."

  Olive nodded. "Of course, none of that matters if he found someone to work pro bono on the assumption that you'll pay through the nose, whether you're guilty or not." She cleared her throat. "And I'm sorry to say, he's not wrong."

  "But I don't understand. He signed all the waivers."

  Olive gave me a look. I knew, as well as she did, that waivers were mostly just polite discouragements. If someone wanted to lawyer up well enough, they weren't worth the paper they were written on.

  "Can't we fight it?" I asked, already knowing the answer. It would be ten times more expensive, and it would take valuable time and resources. Going to court would be the stupidest thing I ever did. But for some reason, the idea of settling with this lunatic made me want to claw my eyes out.

  "It's your money," said Olive, in a tone of voice that meant you stupid fucker. "But do you really want to gamble on having a sympathetic judge?"

  I knew exactly what she meant. Filthy rich celebrity who hosted an exploitative reality show where he screamed at people, or his downtrodden victim? Who was more likely to elicit kind feelings?

  "There are certain things we can address as factual issues," Olive said. "I'm not so concerned about those. Unless you have a disgruntled former crew member who's willing to perjure themselves, we can establish beyond a reasonable doubt that the show is not staged. But emotional distress?" She looked at me. "Hell, I believe him. It's just a question of whether or not it's actionable."

  "He's a useless lump," I insisted. "Wouldn't do anything for the restaurant. Wouldn't do anything to help himself. I can't stand people like that, can you?"

  "No, but it's not my job to scream at them on television," Olive said, calmly. "So I won't judge your performance in that regard."

  "Can't we bring in character witnesses?"

  "Not in a civil trial," said Olive, lips pursed. "And as your lawyer, I advise against opening that door if you do ever find yourself prosecuted for a crime."

  "Thanks," I said, giving her a sour look. I wasn't even sure why I'd raised the question. Who on earth would vouch for me in court? Not Jillian, that was for certain. Not anymore.

  An ugly thought was growing in the back of my mind. She'll be the next one to sue, you know...

  "What about this other thing I'm hearing about?" Olive interrupted my thoughts, and for once, I was grateful. "Your sous chef walked out on you? Is that going to cause any problems?"

  In spite of my own uncharitable thoughts, I was instantly on the defensive. "Of course not," I said. "It was just...a professional mismatch, I suppose. She's got nothing on me."

  Except for the fact that y
ou took advantage of her when she was emotionally vulnerable, and fucked her in a basement, all while she was your employee.

  Olive had one eyebrow raised.

  "It doesn't matter," I insisted. "She won't talk."

  Please don't talk.

  "Fine," said Olive. "I don't quite believe you, but fine. There's no sense in borrowing trouble. Here's what we do: suggest arbitration. He might toy with us a little bit, but he'll eventually agree. The process is going to be six levels of hell, but it'll keep it out of the press, and make it as simple as possible."

  I sighed, pressing my fingertips into my closed eyelids. She was right. I had no other options. But the bile was rising in my throat regardless, and it was almost certainly just because I was being sued to kingdom come.

  Not at all - not at all - because of Jillian Fucking Brown.

  ***

  I saw the article online, before anyone had a chance to tell me. I saw her name, and my heart leapt into my throat.

  "Chef Maxwell Dylan gave me a chance when I had nothing left. You don't know him, and neither does anybody else who thinks they have the right to judge him. Go somewhere else to dig up your dirt. I'm not playing this game."

  Sitting here in the glow of my computer screen, I pulled out my phone and held it in my hand.

  But what would I say to her? What could I say?

  "Thank you for not throwing me under the bus?"

  It was useless. There was too much bitterness between us.

  I'd seen to that nicely.

  The thought of her being chased down the street by one of those vultures, goaded and prodded, and though she hadn't been able to ignore them - not like I told her - she defended me like a cornered animal.

  Thank you, Jill.

  I fell asleep that night with my phone clutched in my hand.

  ***