Page 45 of A Loser by Christmas
I look up and meet kind eyes. Two pairs of them. That’s disconcerting. So is a top chef asking, “If my version is similar, but not entirely authentic, what would make it better?”
I flash a look at Calum, not sure how to answer, which isn’t usual for me. If Dad had asked the same question, I might have told him that nothing he cooked for Christmas could ever come close. In fact, I think I did a few times when I was young and too upset to mind my vocab. I’d regret that if I wasn’t busy closing my eyes to visualise the tiled counter in a kitchen that now belongs to strangers. I open them and list ingredients that so many trips to a market in La Rochelle embedded.
Robin Martin calls another chef over, and I see a second familiar face of this evening, although I can’t quite place it. “Guy, listen to this.”
I recite that recipe for a second time, and both chefs make educated guesses about gaps in a little kid’s knowledge. This second chef hums, one finger running over his nose while he thinks aloud in fluent French. “White wine and something fromanother bottle. Wait a moment.”He’s only gone for a moment to raid a workstation. “This or this?” he asks.
I point.
“Dry vermouth. Got it.” He leaves us, and I know Calum and Robin talk schedule changes for something that had been off-limits until now. I’m aware of their conversation, yet I can’t help turning to watch the other chef in action.
“Go,” Calum murmurs. His gaze lowers to my chest mount. “Leave your camera. I’ll make sure you don’t miss any primo loser material.”
I’m not sure he’s ever been further from that label, but add me watching a chef chop parsley and count out threads of saffron to my rapidly expanding collection of unexpected wishes getting granted. Guy grinds spice, and between us, we figure out what else was missing. Doing that in the language I used to dream in feels like another gift, un petit cadeau delivered to a very different kitchen than the one I took for granted right up until I couldn’t.
I leave Guy to let his sauce reduce and thicken and return to the table where I remount my camera just in time to hear Calum say, “Okay. That’s gonna keep me really busy. But better safe than sorry, just in case they do come up with an excuse to?—”
Make him leave early.
I’ve never wanted anything less, and Calum clears his throat like he also can’t stand to voice it.
“Now the only other thing I need is that favour I mentioned?—”
His phone rings, and I won’t need to replay these moments later on my laptop to notice the way he freezes at getting a call after midnight.
Again, Robin is gentle. “If that’s America, maybe you should take it.” He stands. I do too when, if I ever wanted to make Calum look like a loser, this could be my chance to do it.
He looks smaller somehow.
Fearful.
I hate that almost as much as I hate him saying, “It’s my agent.”
He doesn’t need to run a fingertip across his lips to tell me this is off-limits. I leave the table and let Robin take me on a late-night tour of a kitchen where London’s top chefs collaborate after hours all because of Calum.
Robin explains how that happened. “I started these food prep sessions years ago with the help of friends like Guy, but we reach so many more people now that Calum funds the entire project.”
“Project?”
“To feed families who have a loved one in city hospitals over Christmas. I started out cooking for patients the same way I used to do for my wife when she was...” He shakes his head. “Calum reminded me that it can be tough on the whole family if they’re apart for the holidays. Even worse if they’re far from home. That happens a lot in London’s specialist hospitals. Those patients and their families are miles away from their own kitchens, so we take requests and cook something extra special for them. Prep and deliver those meals every evening in December to let them know they aren’t alone. Everyone involved in the project has been there in one way or another, either struggling with their health or with caring for someone while apart from their own support systems.”
I look back at Calum, who is still engrossed in a call that should spike my curiosity. The thought of him being lonely at Christmas spikes me even harder.
Robin stirs a pan full of a glossy sauce. “This is the first year he’s been here to deliver any of those dinners. He’s loved doing it, especially on the children’s wards.” He eyes me, and his voice lowers. “He kept you very quiet. Calum’s so good at that.”
“Good at what?” I glance around again. Calum is still on his phone, and I’ll have to delete this footage later. No way would I let the world see his shoulders bowing.
Robin is focused on his sauce. And on me. “He’s good at keeping private what matters the most to him.”
It’s the perfect moment for Calum to look up, and for me to spy relief instead of worry. Who the fuck knows what my face does to make Robin smile. He continues stirring. “I’m just saying that he’s never brought anyone here apart from family. And he was insistent that I feed you something from La Rochelle.”
“He told you where I come from?”
“Tell me?” Robin snorts. “He did more than that. Calum looked up local recipes for me. Gave me a boatyard address and asked me to deliver meals there when he’s in Cornwall with his family. Said he wanted you to have a Christmas dinner to remember. Was quite insistent that I make enough for two even though he’d be away.”
To share with Dad.
“Of course, I couldn’t help wondering who you are to him.”
