Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
R eplaying my earlier conversation with Lexi in my head, I accidentally shouted ‘Grow back!’ in Graeme Grafton’s surprised face as we read the set-up sheets together.
‘Pardon?’
‘Sorry, I was thinking about something else.’
I was sure Graeme assumed I got the job because Fern couldn’t find anyone else, which was probably true. No time to interview and hire someone more qualified and suited to the job.
‘Mara wants this revolting turducken shot,’ he bellowed for Mara’s benefit, who was on the far side of the studio. ‘Succumbing once again to Americanisms. Thanksgiving no less. These mutant fowls have got nothing to do with antipodean Christmases.’
I looked at the sausage-stuffed turducken, which had been cut into quarters to show the internal layers. Though roasted, it was pale, almost colourless, and sitting on the large white platter, looked unappetising.
‘Maybe we could photograph it on a red plate,’ I suggested. ‘ To add Christmas joie de vivre .’ I immediately shrunk into myself. Why had I said that out loud?
‘ Joie de fucking vivre ?’ Graeme stared, smirked and shook his head. ‘Kate, I don’t know how much food experience you have, but here at Delicious Bites we only use white plates for photo shoots. The colour comes from the napkins, accoutrements and food. Even at fucking Christmas,’ he bellowed. ‘The plates, my dear, are always white.’
‘What about the red plate right there by your shoulder?’ I asked.
I shouldn’t have.
Without a word, Graeme picked up the plate and hurled it across the room. It shattered on the floor millimetres from where Mara was standing.
‘We only use white plates. It’s our signature. White. Plates. White. Background.’
Stepping away from the broken crockery, Mara stared at us before going back to her mixing bowl. Not a word.
‘Yes, of course.’ I nodded. ‘Baby rocket leaves, maybe?’
Graeme looked as if he might punch me at any moment. Photographing food was hell. Who could take a good shot of peppers? Turnips? Turducken?
Graeme said nothing, eyes clearly focused on Mara, who was silently preparing several desserts. ‘Mara,’ he shouted. ‘My notes say turducken – nothing else. I’m not shooting lumps of several dead fowls by themselves.’ He looked directly at me and then at my vibrating phone on the table. ‘Either answer that thing or turn it off.’
‘Sorry.’ I picked up the phone.
‘How could you let her do this to her hair?’ Matthew was shouting down the line.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be on a flight to Melbourne? ’
‘I forgot my phone. What’s Lexi doing at home at eleven o’clock on a Monday morning anyway?’
‘I don’t know. I dropped her off at school hours ago.’ I really needed to invest in one of those bracelet tracking devices with GPS technology – one which could be securely welded to her wrist. Or at the very least glue an Apple AirTag to the back of her neck.
‘How could you let her? Lexi said you thought it was a good idea.’
‘To cut her hair? Yeah. Just like I gave her permission to punch four holes in each ear.’ Graeme looked up from his schedule and shook his head. ‘Can I call you back? I’m in a meeting. There’s nothing I can do about it now. Lexi cut her hair. She’s probably at home because she’s too mortified to show her face at school.’ A wave of sadness washed over me. I’d never want to be thirteen again.
I ended the call.
Back to the poultry.
‘Graeme, you should have told me you were ready to unleash your brilliance.’ Mara used tongs to pick up braised Brussels sprouts and positioned them on the platter, followed by baby carrots and red onions.
Graeme tapped his fingers silently on the table and watched as Mara walked the few metres to another table, and quickly returned with a green bean salad in a white serving dish and placed it beside the platter.
‘Now for the salad leaves and cherry tomatoes.’ Mara expertly retrieved the ingredients from an adjacent bowl. ‘A drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil, some lemon zest, and we’re ready to fly.’ She beamed.
As Graeme turned away, she trilled, ‘Let’s not forget the cranberry chutney! Delicious cuisine at Delicious Bites !’
‘What is this before me?’ Graeme had moved to the makeshift Christmas dining table where cutlery had been laid out for the photographs. Talk about dramatic. He should have been on stage.
‘Knives, forks, serving spoons,’ Mara said matter-of-factly. I admired her patience – to work with Graeme full time without having stabbed a bread knife into his back or at least his lower leg, made her a saint in my eyes.
‘Ugly gold cutlery. So crass.’ With one quick sweep of his arm, the utensils crashed to the floor.
‘I’m not picking them up.’ Mara walked past him and out the door.
‘Well?’ Graeme said to me before he, too, stalked out.
Alone in the studio, I bent down and picked up the crass cutlery. I busied myself wiping down benchtops and stacking the dishwasher, rather like I did at home. All I needed was a broom and I’d be on truly familiar ground.
After ten minutes, Mara returned. ‘Sorry you had to see that, but I won’t put up with bullying. Truthfully, he belongs in an asylum, heavily sedated.’
‘Why do you stay?’ I was genuinely puzzled.
‘Because I love this job. I’m the editor, the public face. Before this, I briefly worked on the programme, Fabulous Foods . It was only for a few months after I closed Milton. But still too hectic. I have cardiovascular disease.’ She massaged her heart. ‘As much as I love cooking, I needed to reduce stress and work less hours . ’ She stared around the studio. ‘Fern found out, and here I am, still finding my way.’
‘You’ve been here a year?’
‘Eleven months. When Fern poached me, she made it clear Graeme Grafton was part of the package, especially after he won the ridiculous Bachelor competition. He’s a fat-head, no doubt about it. But I can handle him. I’m used to working with lunatics. My aim is to make Delicious Bites the number one food magazine in the country, digital and print, and I will, despite Graeme’s theatrics. I’ll leave when I’m ready. Open another restaurant and run my own game, but for now…’ Mara paused. ‘Besides, I’m not about to walk out on three hundred thousand a year.’
Three hundred thousand dollars? No wonder Mara oozed confidence.
It was early afternoon, and I was tired. We’d limped through the turducken shoot, and were setting up another composition, but Graeme wasn’t happy with the napkin colour an assistant had chosen. I was dispatched to the props department in search of the perfect green napkin.
I rummaged through the endless drawers of rags – forest green, bottle green, lime green – but nothing matched the green Texta I was holding. No point putting off the inevitable, I decided after I’d gathered every green napkin I could find. I left the props room and started the long walk back up the stairs to hell.
‘Graeme put on quite a performance earlier, non ?’ It was Arnaud. To think today was the day I’d decided to surrender my infatuation.
I giggled foolishly.
‘With all the knives and blunt objects, you’d think there’d be more violence in the studio.’
I tittered. Again.
‘Kate, you laugh, but I’m deadly serious. I ’ave seen Graeme, in fury, leap across a kitchen table, clamp his teeth onto a stylist’s ear and shake her like a fluffy poodle. His charming way of saying he didn’t like her choice of napkin colour. ’
I believed him for a nanosecond. ‘Oh, ha-ha,’ I said, looking down at my full hands.
‘ Oui . You must take it easy.’ He smiled and continued on his way.
Strangely, the idea of Graeme biting an underling didn’t surprise me. Illegal and certifiable, but not surprising.
Back in the studio, I showed Graeme the napkins. Eventually, after much huffing, he settled on a green that matched the green of the basil leaves on the plate. Relief.
It took over two hours, but Graeme finally got the look he was after. This time, it was rice-and-fetta-stuffed pumpkin, chargrilled eggplant, and some sort of tomato, ricotta and olive tart with basil: all served on white plates with silver cutlery and basil-green napkins.
‘What do you think?’ Graeme asked after we’d finished taking several hundred digital shots and were sitting at the computer scrutinising images.
Panic set in, but I steeled myself, and with close and steady eyes, picked out several I particularly liked. In real life, the food looked absolutely disgusting, totally inedible, but on-screen, it looked simple, fresh and appetising.
He peered over his glasses at me and nodded. ‘Decent choices, K.’