Page 4 of Love on the Rocks
As soon as I entered the lobby, the receptionist greeted me like we were old friends. “They’re waiting for you in the back office.”
I walked through the empty restaurant with its deep-purple velvet booths and leather chairs and the diamond-studded Damien Hirst skull at the center of it all. Everything here was so Gaz. I wondered what it would be like to one day have a place that resembled me. I’d spent the better part of the train ride this morning manifesting it.
With one last deep breath to put on my game face, I pushed open the door to the back office where Gaz, his father, his brother Seth, and some guy I’d never seen before were waiting around a large industrial desk made of reclaimed wood. The room with its gray walls and high ceilings made me feel like I was in a mafia movie walking into an abandoned warehouse to meet the big boss. It wasn’t that far from the truth; in the hospitality industry Rupert Greystone was the godfather.
As I entered, Gaz came around the desk and slipped his tattooed forearm around me, giving me a lingering kiss on the cheek, his lip piercing tickling my skin.
Rupert studied us with his sharp eyes. I tried not to let him intimidate me, but it was hard. He was still a handsome man at nearly seventy with steel-gray hair and the piercing blue eyes that his son had inherited. He never smiled. And I meannever. Not even at his daughter’s wedding.
And neither did Seth. We’d met on a few occasions, and I’d had the impression he disapproved of me.
“Calista, thank you for joining us,” Seth said, calling me by my full name. Turning to the other man, he gestured. “This is Fred McFairday, our project manager.” Okay, that checked. With his slim navy suit and smart glasses, he looked like a textbook example of a project manager for The Greystone Group.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asked.
“A coffee would be lovely, thank you,” I answered, though I was already jittery from the three cups I’d already downed this morning.
We sat down on the hard distressed-metal chairs, and I tried to pretend I wasn’t bothered by once again being in a room with men discussing my future.
“We’ve been very impressed by you this past week at Marcel,” said Seth. “You and your colleague, Roman.”
I tensed. Why were they bringing him up?
“She’s been a superstar since we brought her on,” Gaz said and winked at me. “And she’s very photogenic.”
What did that have to do with anything? I glared at him.
“As you may know, we’re preparing to open four new resorts. And at each of these hotels, the restaurant is our calling card,” Seth explained. I tapped my foot anxiously before settling it down with my hand. My mind was already flashing with images of my kitchen in Cannes, my entirely female brigade, features in magazines, interviews on the radio, my first Michelin star.
Cannes would be perfect. But I’d settle for Marbella.
“Your cuisine is elegant and classic, yet modern at the same time. Just what we need for the new hotel in Lyra,” said Gaz.
My brain skidded to a halt. “I’m sorry? In Lyra?”
“Yes, it’s a secret. No one knows about it yet because construction is being held up.” They exchanged a look but didn’t elaborate.
“Is this in Italy?” I asked hopefully. I could do Italy.
“No, in Greece,” replied Rupert, and Fred placed a binder on the table. He opened it to a computer-generated drawing of an ultra-modern white building—basically a rectangle with windows, perched on some hostile-looking rocks. Not at all my style.
I grabbed the binder and flipped through the other pages. A description, written by their PR firm, no doubt. Words jumped out at me—exclusive, hidden, escape—but all I saw was far away, lonely, isolated. Especially when I looked at the other pictures of the island. An old man on a donkey, the ruins of an old temple, lines of whitewashed houses with peeling shutters, and dingy fishing boats in a nondescript harbor.
“What about Cannes?” I choked out like I was being strangled by my vintage Hermès scarf.
“Cannes is a big deal, Cal. I’m opening Cannes.” Gaz sat back, pleased with himself. He always used to tease me about how he loved French girls and American starlets. This would give him unfettered access to both.
Disappointment and mild panic seized my gut as Fred McFredface began to explain more about their vision for the Greek resort. “There are pristine beaches, hidden coves with natural hot springs. Just imagine in five years, we’ll be the next Mykonos.”
I glanced down again at the picture of the port. It was beautiful in its way, but Mykonos it was not.
Rupert eyed me coldly and I shifted, trying not to appear flustered.
“Look, Cal. One day you might be worthy of Cannes or St. Moritz. But you’re still unknown. You’ve got to make a name foryourself. This is the perfect opportunity for you, a springboard. Imagine—a young, unknown female chef brings a forgotten island new renown.”
I tensed at the use of “female”—were they giving me this chance because they didn’t have any other women chefs in their foodie empire? Was I the sacrificial female being sent out to an abandoned island to appease some angry food-industry god?
“Plus, I thought you’d be delighted to get back to your roots,” Gaz went on, scrubbing his hand through his artfully disheveled hair.
