Monster Chef

by Margaret McHeyzer

  “What are you doing, Pierre?” I close my eyes and savour his touch.

  “Just in case you tell me you do not want me, I am soaking up your scent, letting it embed into my soul for I do not ever want to forget you.”

  And with that my heart shatters. It’s almost like it’s ripped into two pieces and both are lying tarnished and wrecked, unable to be put back together.

  I step away and wipe the tears that are clinging to my cheeks. “Would you like a coffee? Or possibly something stronger? I know I need a drink, maybe even the bottle.” I walk into the kitchen and get a glass tumbler from one of the cupboards.

  “Non, I have given up anything which can alter my state of mind. Except of course, I have not given up on us. You are my best drug, and the only stimulant I need.”

  Huh? What the hell is he talking about?

  “Do you want a coffee or glass of water then?”

  “If it is alright with you, I would like to go and read to Emma before she goes to sleep.” He stands at the kitchen entrance looking at me, hopeful I’ll say yes.

  “I’m not sure.” I get the bottle of aged scotch Bronwyn keeps up high and pour myself two fingers’ worth.

  “Please, I just need to say goodnight to her and to give her a kiss.”

  I swig from the tumbler and nod, just once.

  Pierre turns and calls for Emma. “May I read to you tonight, ma belle petite?” I hear him ask her. I assume once he’s reached her room.

  “Yes please,” she answers enthusiastically.

  I down my first tumbler of scotch and listen to their conversation, I’m not eavesdropping but it’s hard to miss when Emma asks, “Have you and Mummy had a fight?” The two broken pieces of my heart flap against the ground they’ve fallen upon.

  “Non, we have not had a fight,” I hear him respond. “Your Mummy did not do anything wrong. I did.”

  “She was crying last night. I thought it was because Nanna died, but I heard her ask Daddy why you don’t love her anymore. Daddy didn’t answer her. If you don’t love Mummy, does that mean you don’t love me either?”

  My eyes and nose are running, and I’m trying to hold onto the ragged breath wanting to burst through my lungs.

  “I love you so much it hurts. So much, ma belle petite.”

  “Can you just say you’re sorry to Mummy? Because I love you too, Pierre and I don’t want Mummy sad anymore.”

  It’s then I pour another two fingers’ worth of scotch in the glass and sit at the dining room table, trying not to listen to their conversation. Several minutes pass, and Pierre comes out and leans against the wall furthest away from me.

  “Would you like a drink?” I offer without standing.

  “Just some water, please.” I go to stand, but Pierre shakes his head. “Please, stay, I will get it.” He walks into the kitchen, gets a glass sitting in the kitchen strainer on the sink and fills it with tap water.

  I swish the tumbler around in my hand and watch the residual liquid swirling around the bottom of the glass. Pierre comes in, drags the chair out opposite me and waits for me to nod before he sits.

  Silence has enveloped us. Nothing is said. No one moves.

  The uncomfortable quiet between us grows.

  Pierre lifts the glass and sips the water, places the glass down and looks at me.

  “I am sorry,” he says.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Pierre

  “I am sorry,” I say as look down at my glass, completely ashamed of my immature behaviour.

  “For which part? Running out on me yesterday? Or for telling me you love me?” Holly asks as she sits back in her chair and crosses her arms defensively in front of her chest.

  “For being a…” I pause and drag my hand through my hair, tugging on the ends. “A putain,” I say as I look up at her hard brown eyes, now the colour of dark, bitter chocolat.

  “I’m not sure what you said, but yes, you’re definitely that.”

  “I am an idiot.”

  “I agree.” I breathe in and go quiet again. “Just tell me why you ran,” she whispers as she drops her arms to her sides.

  “Because I have a problem.”

  “What would that be?” She leans forward and folds her arms on the side of the table and leans into them.

  “When Eva passed away, I found my strength in only three things. First was work. Getting ready, going to work, redirecting the passion I once had for my wife to food. Creating something new and discovering the unique groupings of foods.”

  “Okay,” Holly says, sceptically.

  “I would go to work and throw all my hurt into it, giving the job all my passion. Everything I felt for the woman I loved who left me. I barely slept. Instead I worked on creating, because it kept my mind from feeling her loss.”

  “I understand that,” she says again. I can see her softening.

  “It is how we got the Michelin star. It took just over two years. It is not common to be awarded a Star so quickly, but nonetheless, it was,” I stop talking and look away.

  “Go on,” Holly encourages me.

  “But when I would go home at the end of service, I would crumble. I could not stand to be there without Eva. I could hear her laugh in every room, smell her perfume wherever I went. I would see her in every inch of our home.” I take a deep breath. “I could not sleep. I could not eat. I stopped living and began to survive on nothing more than coffee and water.”

  “Pierre.” She reaches out to take my hand, but I shake my head.

  “Please, let me finish.” She nods her head and retracts her hand. “I was becoming more irritable, firing all my staff, yelling at the waiters. I was not sleeping or eating, I was a wreck. It was almost three months since Eva had passed and I was surviving on air and the job. That’s when I began to drink. At first it was to take the edge off so I could sleep. A glass a night, which quickly turned to two glasses, which progressed to half a bottle, and then turned to a full bottle.”

  “Oh shit,” she whispers.

  “Oiu, the bottle would be enough to get me to sleep, but then.” I look at her, “Then it stopped being enough. I would sleep for an hour, wake and go for a new bottle.”

  “You are an alcoholic,” she says in a hushed voice.

  “It gets worse,” I say preparing her.

  “How?”

  “The bottle stopped working, and I began to lose sleep again because I was so reliant on it to soothe. So I went to a doctor to get sleeping pills.” Holly’s eyes widen, and she realises I mean her husband.

  “Stephen,” she says as understanding dawns on her.

  “Oui.”

  “I became addicted to the tablets, and he kept writing the scripts for them. He did not know I had an addiction to alcohol, nor did he know I became addicted to the sleeping tablets, or that I was mixing the two together. I would leave it just long enough to make it appear as if I was taking them normally, then I would revisit him and ask for more.”

  “How did he not see you had an addiction?” She sits back in her chair, sinking into it as she leans her elbows on the table to cradle her head.

  “I was convincing.”

  “You’re an addict.”

  “I am a recovering addict. I stopped the pills when I began to blank out and not remember what had happened.”

  “Alcohol?”

  I look down, ashamed. “I only stopped drinking shortly after I met you.”

  “Pierre, I can’t have that around me or Emma.”

  “I am a gluttonous man. I am possessive, and I have had addictions. But I love you and Emma and swear I will not do anything to bring hurt to either of you.”

  “You already have, Pierre,” she whispers as she lays her head on the table.

  “Mon chéri,” I start as I get up from the table to walk around to her.

  “Please, don’t,” she says halting me where I am. “I can’t deal with you or with this.”

  “I will not go back to either of those vices.”

 
“You may not, but an addict latches on to whatever it is they crave. You may crave me now, but in a month, or a year, or whenever you decide I’m not enough for you, you’ll find a new addiction.”

  “Non, that is not true.” I can feel myself losing any control I might have had.

  “Then tell me something,” she says as she pushes up and rounds the table to stand in front of me.

  “Anything.”

  “What did you do yesterday when you left here?” I avert my eyes, looking anywhere but her angry brown eyes. “Exactly what I thought. You went home and got drunk, right?” She puts a hand on her hip as her face displays anger.

  “I did not.”

  “Got high, maybe? It got too much for you, knowing you’re with me and Emma, so maybe you went and fell back into what gave you the false sense of confidence?”

  “Mon chéri, I did not do that either.”

  “Then tell me, what the hell did you do that you couldn’t pick up the phone one of the times I tried calling you? Or respond to any of my damn text messages? What was more important than talking to me and telling me you knew my husband? What, for Christ sake, tell me what!?” she yells as at me, as she moves toward me, pushing a finger into my chest.

  “I was at the cemetery the entire night talking with Eva.”

  Holly looks me up and down, taking in the dirt and grass stains on my jeans. “That’s why you’re in the same clothes as yesterday.” I nod and take a step closer to her. “Pierre, you can’t run away when you find a trigger without talking to me.”

  “I know, and trust me, I have beaten myself up over it since I walked out.”

  “Ran out,” she corrects me.

  “Oui, ran out. I was a fool.”

  “Yes, you are a fool,” again she corrects me.

  “I saw the photograph with Stephen, and panicked. I got scared, and I did not know what to do.”

  “You should’ve talked to me.”

  “I had to comprehend what was happening inside my head before I could talk to you about it.”

  “Do you understand I can’t have someone like you around?” She drags a chair out and sits. “How are we supposed to work through things if you go off into your irrational thoughts every time something happens? Are you eventually going to leave Emma and me?”

  “I don’t want that to happen.”

  “Neither do I. And I can’t risk it either, Pierre. Emma is growing up too fast to have you flouncing in and out of her life. She needs a strong male role model, but I’m prepared to be that for her if I must.”

  “Please, you do not have to. I want to be there for her, to be her father and your husband.”

  “You have no idea how to do that. You ran, Pierre. You literally ran away. I can’t trust you won’t do it again, and again, and again. We can’t continue this relationship, because I simply can’t trust you.” She stands to her feet and points toward the front door, indicating for me to leave.

  “I will not go, I will not run again.”

  “Words, Pierre, that’s all I hear. If you want me to believe you, then you’ll have to show me.”

  “How?” I ask, desperate to keep her and Emma. Anything she wants me to do, I will do it.

  “It’s not up to me to tell you. It’s up to you to step up and be my equal. You need to show me you’re the man who’ll stand beside us, hold our hands and never let your family fall. Getting a sponsor and going to Alcoholics Anonymous would be a good start.”

  Of course, I will do it. I will spend the rest of my life making it up to Holly and Emma, my family.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Holly

  “Thank you for coming,” I say to Bronwyn’s friends as they all approach me one by one to kiss me and offer Emma and me their condolences.

  People I’ve never met, people I never even heard Bronwyn mention, all turning out to say their goodbyes to her.

  As Emma and I stand outside the church, our tears seem to dry and then a whisper or a word touches us and we begin to cry again.

  “Pierre,” Emma says. I look to my left and see Pierre in a tailored black suit, hair pulled back and clean-shaven, kneel before Emma.

  “Ma belle petite, I miss you,” he says as he hugs and kisses her.

  “I miss you too. I love you,” she says as tears spring forth again and she weeps in his arms. He scoops her up and hugs her close to his chest, cradling and protecting Emma. She wraps her legs around his waist and her arms tighten around his neck.

  “I love you so much,” he says as he kisses her cheek. Pierre stands tall before me, and I can’t help but fall apart the moment his stormy grey eyes find mine. He opens his right arm and without asking, drags me in to his embrace. “I love you,” he whispers as I burrow my face into his neck.

  “Th-th-thank you for-for-for coming,” I say between gasps of struggling breath. His arm warms my body as he holds me close to him.

  “Let it out, angel,” he says as I feel his hot, wet lips on my temple.

  I step back and look up at him, “Why did you call me ‘angel’?” I ask, perplexed that he didn’t call me ‘mon chéri’.

  He tilts his head to the side and pets Emma’s hair as she finds her own warmth in Pierre. “Because you saved me, you brought me back to life when all I wanted to do was lie down and die.”

  The last few days I’ve kept Pierre at arm’s length, not really allowing him back into my and Emma’s life for fear he’ll turn and run when it all gets too hard for him. He’s been constantly calling me, or sending me text messages and every night he’s been delivering dinner for Emma and me, then leaving.

  “Angel?” he questions as I recall every beautiful thing he’s done for me and Emma since we last talked in our home. “Lean on me. Let me carry you when times get hard. I promise you, I will never leave you again.”

  “Don’t, Pierre. Don’t promise me something you can’t deliver on.”

  People have begun to wander off, leaving just a handful of friends lolling around waiting to give us their condolences.

  “I love you in the future, I love you in the present,” Pierre whispers as he leans down and takes my mouth. He doesn’t wait for me to say yes, he simply claims what he knows is his. Holding us for a few precious moments, protecting us, demanding nothing more than the closeness of our family. “We are a family, and I was a fool for leaving. I need you, Holly, like I need water for my thirst and I need Emma like I need oxygen in my blood.”

  “Pierre,” I say again, shaking my head, not wanting to believe him. “You can hurt us,” I sigh, no louder than a small whisper.

  “Never again.” He puts Emma down and turns to me. Pierre gently cradles my face in his warm palms. “Never will I hurt you again. You have every part of me, every possessive, arrogant, egotistical part of me. Everything I am, every time I breathe, I do it for you and Emma. I lost a woman I loved four years ago, and I refuse to let you slip through my fingers because of my stupidity. I will never stop falling in love with you every moment of the day.”

  I can’t fight with my walls any more. I can’t let them control me for fear of suffering heartache.

  “Let me in,” he pleads as his mouth pulls me into a searing kiss and his hands tangle in my hair. “Forgive me,” he says against my lips.

  His possession of us radiates off his entire body, his protective embrace wraps around and grasps me.

  A small whimper rumbles from deep within me, it’s not a sexual moan of satisfaction, more an acceptance, me allowing Pierre into my world, once and for all. “I can’t do this alone, I can’t go through that again.”

  “I am standing in the light of my angel, one I never want to see dimmed again. Your brightness will guide me and I will love you until my last breath. You are the only one I want. I swear I will never fail you or Emma again.” The promises spill impetuously from his lips.

  I nod again as I look down, finding his stormy eyes too much to look into. Not because of his passion or the ravenous fire burning from deep inside his eyes,
but because every shard of the walls I built are tumbling down around me, exposing the raw feelings of love.

  “Come, let me take my girls home. You have had a hard day and I want to care for you.”

  “Wait, I have a few more people to speak with.”

  “I will look after Emma, you go.”

  I extend my neck and offer Pierre a kiss. “Thank you.”

  He reaches out to take Emma’s hand and I go to speak to the few people left before we head to the cemetery.

  ***

  A few people gather round the open grave as the casket is lowered into the ground. Emma has Teddy in one hand and is holding my hand with the other. She’s standing in front of Pierre, who’s got one hand protectively on her shoulder, offering her a fatherly touch, and he has his other arm around my waist.

  My tears are falling freely, my head spinning as I stand and say my final goodbyes to a woman who was a mother, a best friend, and a truly beautiful soul.

  Bright red and yellow roses adorn her casket, her favourite.

  A throaty lump has caught in my windpipe and I can’t manage to get it out. As I weep, the casket lowers. Perfect motherly memories, and beautiful, heart-felt laughs flash constantly in my mind as I remember Bronwyn.

  Pierre’s arm tightens around me as he draws both me and a crying Emma into him. Long cries of loss are echoed loudly because this perfect woman was ripped away from us way too early.

  This part of the service lasts no longer than half an hour, and once the casket has been lowered, and the last words have been said, all Bronwyn’s friends come to wish me the best one last time before they leave.

  The afternoon sun is brutal, and before I realise it, it’s just me, Emma, and Pierre left.

  Emma sits on the perfectly manicured, lush, dark green grass with her legs crossed. Her cherub cheeks are stained by the constant tears falling from her eyes, as her arm clings on to Teddy.

  “I will go and get the car,” Pierre says as he watches me observing Emma.

  “Okay.” He leans in and kisses me before he quietly leaves.