Page 5 of Falling for Paris
“No. It is most definitely not better. In fact, Noel—”
“It is Nigel,” he interrupted.
“Right. Nigel. In fact, it is exponentially worse to have your unwanted pawing anywhere close to my crotch,” she stated blandly. Then, yawning, she slipped off the chair and grabbed the amount of cash she approximated to cover her meal and drink.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going home to pretend the last hour with you was simply a bland dinner that ended with a misunderstanding, as opposed to an excruciating hour with a man as boring as he is invasive. Next time you buy a woman a drink,ma chérie, learn to keep your hands to yourself.”
She stood, gave a farewell smile to the bistro’s staff, and strolled into the night air having already forgotten the man’s name.
Rafael should have felt at home amid gleaming surfaces and stocked shelves. There was a time in his life when he would have considered this heaven: a gigantic kitchen and all the time in the world.
Unfortunately, the founder of the renowned cooking schoolEcole Supérieure de la Gastronomie de Lyoncouldn’t even remember the last time he’d made dinner that wasn’t a poached egg over stir-fried vegetables or a one-pot pasta dish. And even those simple meals he wouldn’t dare concoct in front of an attentive audience.
If he had a choice, Rafael would be as far as possible from where he was standing right now: a cooking lab in the middle of Paris assaulted by the admiration of a dozen eager faces, all of them blurred at the edges of his disinterest.
If, once upon a time, he was a restaurateur who successfully leveraged his reputation into a destination cooking school, today he was a man who couldn’t even go near a stove without the hair behind his neck prickling. It was excruciating to be reminded that the chef they revered no longer existed. That the man expected to teach these people could hardly recognize himself in the mirror, never mind recall the complicated dishes that had launched his career.
There would be no launching today. Rafael was a man stuck where he stood, trying and failing not to grimace. He was forced to take over from the school’s head chef and his oldest friend, Inez, who was having her third grandchild in Marseilles. Since this time of year turned Paris into a tourist hive, everyone else on staff was already booked. Patrice, the assistant, droned on about waivers and safety measures and whatever the lawyers drew up for the beginning of every course.
Shifting on his feet, Rafael had two related thoughts. First, there wasn’t a waiver in the world that could cover how dangerous it would be for him to cook in front of people. Second, he recalled the phone call he shouldnothave answered.
“Why can’t the class be rescheduled for when you return?” Rafael had grumbled to Inez over the phone. “Or get Anton to do it,” he’d suggested while rubbing his hand over his face.
“Anton is about to start one of the celebrity catering events. He’ll be on a yacht for most of next week. But he can show you the ropes before he leaves. Since you’re… rusty.”
“Is that what you call a shit like me?”
“C’mon Rafael. There was a time when you could cook a ten-course meal with one hand behind your back. The nerve issues might slow you down, but they don’t affect how you cook, how you create, how youfeelaround food.”
“I’ve got the scars to argue otherwise.”
“The accident was over a year ago. I’m not saying it wasn’t terrible, Raf. But it caught you by surprise at the time. Now that you’re prepared, brachial neuritis can be managed if—”
“Enough.”
“You aren’t your illness, Rafael. You’re an amazing chef. Nothing can take that away.”
He didn’t even bother to dignify the statement with a reaction. “Inez, give everyone a refund.”
“Impossible! You know that would be disastrous right now. The competition is fierce. A slew of critical reviews could spell disaster for the rest of the season.”
“We’ll be fine. Give them back their money. It’s just ten people.”
“Ninepeople. Most are tourists coming to Paris for only this class.”
“They’re in Paris. I’m not fool enough to think the school is their only destination.”
“I don’t have time for this, Rafael. You want to deliver bad news, go ahead and call them all yourself. Or…” She paused for effect. “Come out and do the class. Spend some time in Paris. My apartment is free while I’m away and you can water my plants.”
“And who will watermygarden?”
“Rain,” she answered deadpan. “Your precious country garden will survive and heaven knows time in the city will do you good, my friend.”
He laughed. It was a cruel, lashing sound. “If you think having cancellations is bad for business, having me in front of a class would be a disaster.”
“That’s not true.” Her kindness was vexing. “How about this? I’ll ask around. Maybe someone freed up. In the meantime, please meet them tomorrow morning. We can say it is a surprise welcome from the renowned head chef Rafael Lyon who returned from having fallen from the face of the earth. They’ll love that.”
“You’rethe head chef.”
