Page 44 of A Loser by Christmas
Part of me wants to tuck that away to unwrap later. The rest of me wants to share it, and much later that evening, I get to do just that.
It’s close to midnight when I follow the directions Calum texts to me, and I pilot a speedboat through a rare snow flurry.It leaves a night-dark London picture-postcard perfect and extra festive. I’m still shaking snow from my hair when I reach a hotel kitchen that, by rights, should be winding down after a dinner service. Chefs are still busy, and I can’t help sniffing air untainted by any ashes.
“You made it.” Calum stands up from a table set for three people.
This restaurant is top tier. One of the city’s finest, complete with this chef’s table set right inside the kitchen. I whistle under my breath at seating usually reserved for celebs, which I suppose makes sense—Calum is one stateside, even if ice hockey flies under most British radars. “So, this is where you spend your evenings?”
“It is tonight. You can record it.”
I can’t help sniffing again. The food smells amazing.Familiar.And not just because this kitchen is meal prepping for Christmas dinners. There’s a whole production line in progress, but there are also scents of Christmases past that I’d all but forgotten. Calum explains why. “I wanted to make up for all that subpar pasta at Penny’s.” He takes the seat opposite me, then stands abruptly with more ease than any sports fan would believe meant he was still badly injured. “Robin. Hey. Thanks for bringing forward our meeting.”
It’s hot in here. A sudden coolness curls around me—has he brought this meeting forward because his club found a good enough reason to make him fly back early?
A silver-haired chef joining us means I hold tight to that question, and I add meeting one of London’s premier restaurateurs to my list of Christmas surprises.
Robin Martin’s eyes are similarly piercing to how I first perceived Calum’s. They’re more than icy enough to rule this kitchen as well as many others in his fleet of five-star restaurants. “Seeing you tonight is no problem, Calum,” Robinpromises. “It sounded urgent. You know I’ll always make time for you.”
This chef doesn’t miss my camera, and I wonder if he’ll tell me to stop recording until he tilts his head.
“My son keeps telling me to get back on the market. Get a good pic of my best side and I might have to add it to the dating profile he made for me.” He grins, ice shattered, and I have to be honest—I’m not sure he has a bad side to show me. All he shows my camera is concern for a friend. “You got bad news about how long you can stay?”
Merde.
I fucking knew it.
This is worse than worrying about whether a duckling is thriving. I’ve let myself get invested in someone whose problem is as opaque as the shell of that egg, and whose days here were always numbered.
Calum flicks a look at me across the table. He’s no giant, right now. No gladiator on blades who won’t be beaten. He isn’t a one-man hype squad either, like I’ve seen on ice rinks filled with children. Calum is silent before dragging in the kind of deep breath that proves he’s athletic. It goes on forever. So does a huffed exhale strong enough to blow out every candle in all of London’s restaurants.
He must be rattled to unzip his lips a little.
“They do want me back early, but I’m not volunteering. Not until I get that sec—” He stops. Regroups. Switches his focus. “Our project is top of my list to get squared away ahead of schedule, just in case theydocome up with a contractual reason to make me.” His gaze meets mine again, if briefly. “And I did want to ask another favour, Robin. But let’s hash out those provisional schedule changes first.”
Plates arrive, and I’m not usually easily distracted, but this array of individual mouthfuls beats almost anything I’ve evereaten. I’m on dry land on the wrong side of the English Channel, but as soon as I scoop a mussel from its shell, I’m blasted by a sea-salted reminder of the one home that mattered to me other thanlaSylvie.
Just like that, I’m back in my grand-mère’s kitchen, carried there by a flavour I’ve missed each Christmas. I’m not much slower at eating a second forkful sprinkled with herbs and pure nostalgia, and I’m only aware that I’ve missed part of the conversation when Calum picks up his fork.
That doesn’t matter. My camera will have caught anything important. It had better, because Calum scoops his serving from his plate and deposits it on mine, still talking with Robin, all while silently telling me to go ahead and eat his portion.
I do that, and I must let out some kind of sound that rises above the noise of a working kitchen—both men watch me across the table. I mean, I guess Robin watches. I definitely hear him ask, “You like?”
It’s Calum I can’t look away from. Calum, who tracks the rise of my fork to my mouth. And it’s Calum whose lips part slightly to mirror mine around another burst of familiar flavour. “Oui,” I finally manage to get out. “This is meant to be mouclade, right?” I mop up the remaining sauce, humming around a taste of almost perfection, and if I ever wondered if I’d spent too much time around my father lately, this bluntness proves it. “It’s not bad.”
One of Britain’s top chefs blinks. “Not bad?”
I backtrack in a hurry. “It’s delicious.”
Across the table, Calum presses his lips together. I’ve seen that look from him when kids trip over their own ice skates. He smothers a smile while I stutter. “I-It must be delicious to take me right back to the last time I ate this.” I mentally count back. “That would have been over fifteen years ago. I would have eaten that meal a lot slower if I’d known...”
I set down my spoon and fork.
Thank fuck there’s nothing left to eat on my plate. I’d choke if I tried to swallow another mouthful, which is stupid. I’m not an eight-year-old kid.
I bet Robin Martin didn’t earn all his Michelin stars by being sympathetic, yet that’s all I hear. “My late wife was a great home cook. We lost her years ago, but I’d still kill for another of her roast potatoes. Tried to make them the same way she did for our son when he was a nipper. Keep her memory alive for him. Because that’s what food does, yes? Takes you back to the people who mean the most. Especially at special family feasts.”
I nod, then I focus hard on a spoon the same silver as his hair.
“Believe me,” he says oh, so gently. “Even if that dish wasn’t perfect, I’m delighted if it was a good reminder.”
