Page 28 of The Artist and the Muse

“Georgia, how have you been dealing with this whole George thing?” Her eyes scanned mine.

“It’s been fine.” I took a deep breath to steady myself. “We’re just keeping things… professional.”

“Then why don’t you want to go on this trip?” She arched an eyebrow.

“I just don’t want to. It’s not mandatory or anything.”

“Are you trying to avoid George?”

“Yes!” The answer blurted from my lips. “Of course I am.”

She studied me thoughtfully. “You’re not a coward, Georgia. You don’t run away from life even when it’s painful—at least you never have before.”

“So you think I should go?” I had been hoping she would be on my side.

“I think you shouldn’t let fear stop you from something that could be an amazing experience. And you certainly shouldn’t let one man stop you from something you really want.” A slight smile curved her lips. “Don’t you think so?”

I sighed, because deep down, I knew she was right. And deep down, heartbreak be damned—I really did want to go. “You’re right.”

Chapter Fourteen: Georgia Philips

It had been Mom’s idea to go to a cooking class for her birthday. She insisted that she should finally learn to cook to prepare for when I moved out, since I wouldn’t be there to cook for her anymore. I replied that I was never getting married and moving out, so she didn’t have anything to worry about. Still, Mom protested that it was a useful skill to have.

I hadn’t been able to think of any more arguments after that, so here we were: at a cooking class on my mother’s birthday, about to learn from an award-winning Michelin-starred chef how to prepare a gourmet meal.

Chef Michelle was petite, a head shorter than me, but she commanded the room as she taught the small class of ten students in the spacious kitchen.

“We are going to be making a simple dish today, but it’s one of my favourites. Before we begin, though, I’d just like to confirm that no one here has any allergies,” she said, surveying the room. “No? Perfect. I’ll be showing you all how to make Irish lamb stew.”

She walked us through the preparation for the meat at each of our workstations, instructed us to cut carrots and onions into chunks, and told us about the different seasonings and herbs that would go into the dish. I couldn’t help but be impressed by her efficient manner and clear love of her job.

“Are you having fun, dear?” Mom asked me after we had finished preparing the vegetables and started cutting up the lamb and seasoning it.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that? It’s your birthday, after all.” I focused on rubbing salt and pepper onto the raw meat. It was something I hadn’t done for a while. When I cooked for myself at home, my meals consisted of things like cabbage soup or raw carrot salads. Not a substantial meal like we were making today. Still, it was my mom’s birthday—I could let myself enjoy the food for once, right?

“Yes, but I want to make sure you’re doing something you enjoy, too. You’ve always had a gift for cooking.”

Something inside me glowed at the praise, in a way that her superficial compliments about my appearance had never made me feel. “Thanks, Mom. I’m having a wonderful time. Thanks for inviting me along.”

“Of course, honey. You know I love spending time with you. I’m so glad I have such a lovely daughter.” She eyed the lamb on the cutting board. “And one who’s willing to touch raw meat. Something about doing that always just freaks me out.”

I chuckled. “Mom, it’s really not that bad as long as you wash your hands before and after.”

“I know, but…” She shuddered. “It just gives me the heebie jeebies.”

“Did you just say ‘heebie jeebies’?” I asked, barely holding in a laugh as I finished cutting the meat into chunks as instructed.

“What, you don’t like my old-fashioned sayings?” Her eyes twinkled with mirth as she held out a dish towel for me to dry my hands with after I’d washed them.

I simply shook my head, turning on the stove and letting the skillet heat up before I added olive oil. “This is your birthday thing. You should be doing more of the cooking.”

“Oh, Georgia, not at all. I simply enjoy seeing you in your element. And enjoying the fruits of your labour. Though I suppose I am here to learn too, aren’t I?”

I instructed her to brown the chunks of meat before we threw them into the stew pot. Chef Michelle hadn’t specifically told us to do that step, but I found that braising meat before stewing it gave it a more flavourful kick.

Just then, the chef wandered over to survey our station. “I see we have some professionals here.”

I couldn’t tell if her tone was mocking or admiring, and I felt like I’d been caught breaking the rules. Then I reminded myself that this was a cooking class for adults and the only rules were not to stab anyone or light things on fire. At least, things that weren’t meant to be lit on fire.

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