Page 9 of Go Cook Yourself

Ruby

“I’m leaving. I’m so sorry,” I cry as soon as Amber picks up the phone. “You’ll easily be able to find someone more qualified.”

My low heels tap against the wooden floor as I speed through the reception area and out of the building. The burn of my humiliation fights against the chill in the air, and I fumble with Amber’s suit jacket. I can’t dress right.

“I’m such an embarrassment. I’ve made it a shitty day for the clients, and Garett said he’s going to leave if I don’t, and I’ve messed up. I’m so sorry.” I shove the edge of my palm against my eye to stop any tears from falling, but it doesn’t make a difference. Tears trickle down my cheeks.

“It’s not your fault,” Amber replies. That was what grandma said whenever Amber, Jem, or I messed up in the kitchen. But remembering Grandma and all she did for me makes it worse. I wanted to be close to my family today, and for a second in the cookery school, I felt the joy I used to get when I was with my grandma. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. “You’re learning and can’t beat yourself up for that. It’s your first damn day.”

“But I keep making all these mistakes, and I trusted Wicksy to move the boxes of Halloween and Christmas decorations that I brought in from your house because he saw I was struggling, but he didn’t move them, and I cut myself because I tried to catch afalling knife! And I made the women angry. And Garett hates me and—”

“Take a breath. Firstly, Wicksy is easy to understand. Don’t give him jobs that matter. Give those to Kath and let her delegate. He probably fancies you. Wicksy fancies all the women who enter the school, so he’d offer to do any job you asked.”

My tears still. Amber is Wonder Woman when it comes to problem-solving. I’m more like Scrappy-Doo—small, useless, and annoying. She got her skills from our project-managing-cookery-school-running parents. I got grandma’s cooking skills.

“Secondly, wasn’t it supposed to be kids there today?”

“Ummmm…”

“Oh shit, I messed up.” It sounds like she’s palming her forehead. “The kids are next week. Of course, it’s the retired women today. I’m sorry, Ruby. That’s on me. But remember that older women love you. You can turn this day around. Pretend they’re all as savvy as Grandma was, and you’ll be fine. Thirdly, are you okay? How deep was the cut?”

The plaster still peels from my bandaged finger where I’ve picked it, and my palm throbs. “It’s fine. Barely a scrape.”

“Liar,” Amber replies. “Get Garett to wrap it. He’s a good first aider. And when it comes to Garett, there’s only one way to deal with him. Listen up, baby sister.”

???

That’s it. I can do this.

I’m a strong, confident woman. I’ve worked with arsehole men before, and I need to get Garett off that pedestal I’ve had him on and treat him like any other kitchen guy. I stride back into the cookery school and toss Amber’s uncomfortable jacketonto the coat stand. The jacket misses the stand and nearly drags a set of glasses off the shelf but stops in time. I shrug as if that was my plan all along.

Wafts of baking bread fill the space. It’s like a warm cuddle on a cold day, yeasty yet cosy, and my belly rumbles as I’m reminded of my childhood running into the original cookery school that still sits in the giant shed in my parent’s garden. I’d sit on my grandad’s lap as my grandma buttered fluffy fresh bread for me. She’d make me close my eyes and guess what extra ingredients she might have added to each fresh batch. As I survey the scene, I long to visit my parents and the original cookery school, but with our fractured relationship, I won’t.

Garett looks up, and a shadow crosses his eyes, but he quickly looks down. Is that guilt? Either way, I’m done with his shitty behaviour.

“Ladies,” I shout at busy kitchen volume. They lift their gaze as one in my direction. I have Garett’s attention, too, although I ignore him. “I have an exciting activity for this afternoon.” Betty side-eyes me, but I don’t let it dampen my resolve. I pull up my chest and yell, “In my possession are two Cloud Cookery School Best Baker trophies. This afternoon, I challenge you to make the best orange polenta cake. The renowned Chef Garett will judge both the taste and the decoration. We will put that fondant icing from earlier to good use, although I’m sure you can create something more exciting than dinosaurs.”

There are murmurs of appreciation. I should have considered this before. All the ladies I’ve worked with or hung out with, even ones I didn’t get on with at school, are competitive when baking, especially when pitted against each other.

“And you can learn icing skills that can help even the deadliest ringer,” I add, winking at a suddenly smiling Betty.

Garett tracks me warily as I sashay towards him. I cock my head and shrug. His eyes widen, and I pretend I don’t care, butit’s nice to be giving the attitude rather than receiving it. “Chef Garett will tell you that it’s impossible to cool the cakes in time to ice them and that fondant icing shouldn’t go on polenta, but do you know what we say to that?”

The women stare at me expectantly, several of them clasping their hands.

“Do you know what we say?” I holler.

“No,” the women reply in unison.

If I’m staying at this cookery school and sorting out my relationship with my family, I’ve got to manage the grumpy chef. “We say, ‘Oh glorious Chef Garett, king of the cooking world and our guru, with your help, we can do anything.’”

Garett purses his lips and grits his teeth. His eyes tighten as he stares back at me.

“So what do you say, Chef Garett? Will you shove those sleeves up to reveal your muscley forearms and give us an afternoon we won’t forget? Will you show us things that other chefs wouldn’t dare attempt?” I drop my voice like Amber tells me I do so well. Amber explained that Garett responded best to compliments, cheekiness, and teasing. I can do that, although I need practice after never doing it at home. “Do you dare show this room full of excited women what you’re capable of?”

He takes a deep breath and releases it. He shakes his head slowly, and I give him a wink.

“Ladies,” he announces with his hands in the air, “we’ve got pasta needing our attention and bread moments away from burning in the oven. At lunch, we dine like queens for this afternoon—”

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