A Taste Of Pleasure. Chloe Blake
at the network.
“And what about the show, Andre? Does that get thrown away along with our relationship too?”
“They want to do it—” he paused “—but they want someone else to cohost. Someone with a millennial appeal.” He had the decency to look apologetic.
“I’m thirty-three, Andre. I am a millennial.”
“They want someone...like...a model or something.”
“Ohhh, now I get it. I’m too fat to be on your show.”
He slowly shook his head. “It’s not my decision, Dani.”
She cut him off. “And who is going to cook for you? The model that... Wait a minute, is Bette going to be on the show?” If anyone wanted to be a star, it was that woman that ran out of the room with her skirt up.
Andre’s eyes hit the floor in answer.
“How long have you been screwing her?”
“Does it matter? We weren’t exclusive.”
She didn’t think her heart could sink any lower. She refused to cry, replacing the emotion with pure anger.
Andre’s voice turned to syrup. “Look, let’s be adults about this. The show still needs you. I still need you. She’ll be the face, but it will be your food. You’ll get paid more than her, I’ll see to that.”
Her gaze went hazy. He wanted her to be a ghost chef for his new girlfriend?
“Fuck you, Andre.” She threw the plate of food at his feet.
He jumped as it crashed and spilled, his gaze holding a challenge she wasn’t interested in meeting.
He was predictable. She mused that she had been waiting for this moment, and now that it had happened, she had a kitchen to run. She turned and let the door close behind her, muffling whatever rant he was shouting at her back. She no longer cared. Actually she felt relieved. Wondering when he would screw up was a drain.
Her mother had always told her she played the game of love wrong, that she loved the men more than they loved her. She had fallen in love with Andre, she thought.
Michele was waiting for her when she walked back into the kitchen. His eyes fixed on her face. Did he know? A quick glance around the room caught raised eyebrows and concerned gazes. Did everyone know?
“Everything all right, Chef?”
She nodded with a neutral expression, alluding to nothing. Images of Andre and the hostess flashed in her mind. The other woman stood at her post smiling, welcoming a couple and ushering them to their table. Her dress was in place and her makeup was flawless. The man checked out her size four frame as she walked.
Dani cringed, fighting the urge to pull Bette’s weave out in the dining room.
She decided to leave instead. Her presence was undermining Michele’s practice. This was his night, his initiation into the wonderful world of chefdom. Should she tell him he’ll never have a life? That his partner will get mad and leave him? Because running a kitchen was like being the head of a family, and you don’t abandon your family, not even for love.
Dani made busywork of tasting the sauces. She turned to find the pasta and almost walked straight into Andre.
Get out of my kitchen! She cleared her throat. “Yes?”
“Since my dinner is on the floor, I’d love a plate of...whatever.”
“Of course.” Dani loaded a plate with penne, then drizzled the garlic and oil. “I suggest a white wine with this.”
Andre looked at her for a long moment, and then scanned the room of staff that were working and simultaneously watching under their lids.
“Thank you.” He nodded, then jammed a fork into the pasta and into his mouth. “Mmm” came from his throat. Then his face scrunched. “That’s too much garlic.”
A tidal wave of anger hit her.
“How dare you come into my kitchen and insult this food! Do you have any idea what I have done for you? Do you think you could have made two stars with that bull you were serving three years ago? You would have been closed had it not been for me!” Her voice cracked. The staff stilled. She grabbed the plate from his hands and tossed it on the counter. “I hope she was worth it,” Dani spit.
Dani turned on her heel and found her bag under the counter. Then she stomped to the wall and grabbed her coat. She hugged Michele and held him at arm’s length. “Michele, you’re ready.” Dani had to look away when his face drained of all color. He’d be fine. They all would. She trained them well.
She stepped toward the door but stopped when she saw movement in the dining room. It was Bette, opening a bottle of wine, laughing with a young couple. Dani found herself next to the hostess, startling the girl midpour.
“Your pour should be just less than half the glass.” Dani grabbed the stem of the glass and tossed the ruby liquid in the girl’s face. Her squeal mingled with the collective gasp of the room. Rivulets of red dripped from her chin. “See, too much.” Dani set the glass down in front of the gawking couple and executed a perfect pour, then held it up. “Now, this is a glass of wine.” Dani splashed the second glass in Bette’s face, this time hitting the dinner guests.
“You fat bitch!” The girl’s tears were pink.
Dani shivered with rage at the word. “I’d rather be fat and smart, than skinny and stupid.”
Andre appeared, wrenching the wineglass from Dani’s hand and apologizing over and over to the couple.
“He’s all yours,” Dani said to the girl.
Dani felt the eyes of the room as she marched toward the front door. Skirting waiting couples, she pushed through the door and hailed a cab downtown, watching the city smear by.
She walked into her apartment like seeing it for the first time. It was a mess, like her life. She picked up her phone and dialed Nicole, but got no answer. Then Liz, again no answer, but a text came through saying she was on a date and would call later. Her father, a fashion photographer turned tattoo artist, was backpacking through Asia. She scrolled through her phone and stopped at Mom. Her thumb hesitated. It was almost ten at night in LA. She was sure her mother would be getting ready for bed, if not in bed already. The woman had a regimen stricter than a marine. Dani dialed, sure her mother wouldn’t pick up.
She’s not going to answer, Dani thought, debating if she should hang up. Maybe it was a sign, emotional conversations with her mother didn’t usually make her feel better. She’d thrown that tidbit in her mother’s face once during an argument, to which her mother had calmly replied, I’m not like other mothers.
The second her mother answered, the tears she was holding back slid down her face in hot streaks. “Mom,” she choked out.
“Danica, you know I’m about to go to bed. I need twelve hours or...” She paused. “What on earth—” A half sigh. “Are you crying?”
It was the exasperated sigh that pulled Dani from her fetal position on the couch. She dabbed at her eyes and wiped her nose with a tissue, then took a calming breath. Her mother never stood for such theatrics, even though she was still the most dramatic woman Dani had ever known.
“Yes.” Dani swallowed. “It’s been a rough night.” Dani heard rustling in the background and imagined her mother in a face mask and silk head wrap resting in her king-size bed.
Although her mother was still considered a supermodel, at fifty-five years old—sixty-five if you paid attention to birth certificates—Francesca Watts was rarely offered work anymore, but she still treated every night like she was waking for a photo shoot the next day.
“Well, do I have to guess what happened or are you going to tell me?”
“I quit the