Page 18 of Kept
“Very well, perhaps a glass of white rioja with the scallops?”
“Perfect. And for dessert…” I almost laugh out loud at his raised eyebrow. Clearly, the stick-thin rich people who dine here don’t have real appetites, “I would like the clafoutis aux cherries noires with cherry brandy.” Again, this was a dish I knew. It was essentially a thick cherry battered pie, but creamy and light if done properly. I had not managed to master it yet; it seemed quite dense each time I’d tried.
He nods and leaves to get my wine, returning a few moments later and pouring it with a flourish. I note he doesn’t leave the bottle, because he intends to stand near my right shoulder holding the bottle while I eat, topping it up without me needing to ask. I feel slightly uncomfortable with this level of service, and I know it shows, because he is surprised when I make conversation with him.
“Can you tell me who painted that?” I point to a large oil painting on a nearby wall, “It is really beautiful.”
It is a still life of a woman reading a book in a tranquil rural setting, and yet, there is something dark and haunting about the image too, something in her face, or in the way the trees on the fringes shade the pond. I can’t quite decide what it is that draws me and repels me at the same time. The signature is not quite clear from where I stand. It looks like a big C inside a B.
“It is a Celeste Birmingham oil, I believe, Madam.”
I frown, that name rings a bell, but I can’t put my finger on it, especially not after a glass of wine on an empty stomach and a cried-out brain.
“Well, it is lovely.”
I say nothing more to him as the dishes arrive in order, and I begin my gastronomical revenge upon the aristocrat. I have ordered the most expensive food, I am sitting at the best table, and I have absolutely no intention of paying for a dime of it. I know if I am caught, I will be arrested. And yet, I am determined that I will get away with this.
As the evening wanes on, I eat fast to ensure I am not at the table when the ubiquitous Mr Boston does turn up. I’m not sure if it is the danger, or the thrill of doing something so wholly out of character and terribly illegal, or the amount of alcohol I am consuming, but something makes the first few dishes taste more amazing than I could have imagined, and the later dishes less so.
The mussels are delicious, so delicate, so wonderfully fragrant – I’ve never tasted anything like it in my life. But the cherry pie is exactly as I made it; dense. And the scallops are melt-in-your-mouth, and yet I think mine were slightly better. My mother’s notes in the margins of her cookbook said to add a teaspoon of dry vermouth, which I did, and I think this dish lacks that depth of flavour.
“Fuck you, Madame Boufant,” I whisper into my third glass of wine, “fuck you fuck you fuck you.”
“Is everything alright, Madame?”
“Uh, yes, thank you.” I bite my lip; I’d forgotten about the waiter. “Uh, if you wouldn’t mind, I would like you to direct me to the powder room.”
“Of course, it is this way.”
He pulls out my chair for me and guides me down the hall. But I wait until his back is turned and walk straight back the way we have come, and out the front door. Once clear of the valet parking, I turn hard right and walk away down the footpath briskly. When I am out of the light, I take off my shoes and run.
I’m laughing as I run; and crying.
The food was amazing, yes. But my mother’s recipes are on par. My cooking is nowhere up to the level where I could do the range of dishes they offer, I know this, but it could be. The difference is, I am not of the same class as them, that was so very evident at the restaurant; their prices, their clientele. No wonder the interviewers wouldn’t even look me in the face at the Boufant Academy; what an idiot I was to even consider I was good enough to scrub their floors, let alone study there.
I pause for breath and lean against the stone wall of a house. It’s security lights turn on, but I don’t care. Opening my resumé, I pull out the interview letter and screw it up into a tight ball, sniffing as I hurl it onto the road.
“You suck, Madame Boufant’s Culinary Academy of America,” I say between new sobs, “you suck a big one. And I just ate $900 worth of your food, and now I’m a criminal, so I guess you were right about me, I’m not good enough.”
Rising, I continue on, shoulders down, wallowing in my own self-pity for several more blocks until I realise I am hopelessly lost. As I stop and look around, I hear other footsteps, which seem to abruptly stop.
Frowning, I walk a few steps forward, and they start again. I stop, they stop.
‘Is someone following me? Oh shit.’
I can’t see anyone around, but these wealthy suburbs all have high fences separating the houses from the road, and the streets are lined with big, old trees – essentially, I have nowhere to run for help if I am being followed.
I pull out my phone, scared now, and dial Margarita, but go straight to voice mail. I knew she was on a date with Jerry, her rich new boyfriend, and probably had her phone off. But she is the only person I know in this city, so I thought I’d try.
Hearing the steps again and seeing a man’s shape round the corner, I begin walking, googling for a taxi service as I speed up, my steps getting faster as those behind me pick up pace. I hear myself beginning to sob anew, but I can’t stop, the day has just about ruined me, I don’t have any more reserves of strength or anger or resolve to draw upon.
Too scared to look behind me, but knowing I have to. I look again and see a man dressed in black hoodie and dark pants heading towards me, now at a run.
Gasping, I turn to cross the street, but trip over the kerb and land, face down, hands scraped on the road. Scrambling to sit up I scoot backwards on my arse like a crab as the man reaches me and leans down.
“Hey, are you OK?” he asks, throwing his hood back and revealing a concerned face.
“James?”
