30. Eleanor
30
Eleanor
I know instantly I’ve done the wrong thing. Again.
I spin the empty martini glass on the table in front of me and look back towards the bathrooms again. The check is sitting in the little burgundy booklet in the middle of the table, and our waiter is hanging out at the bar, staying close by to ensure his tip isn’t affected by how quickly he turns over our payment. It’s times like this that I really miss not having a phone. I could use a little endless scroll right now to not look so pathetic and alone at a table, waiting for someone to come back and pay.
For the tenth time, I smooth down the sides of my skirt. I know the dress is long enough that I don’t have any bare, tender skin touching the fine upholstery, but I’m still a little nervous that it’ll flip up when I stand, for no other reason than it would be mortifying to accidentally show the whole restaurant my ass. It’s been so much fun having this dirty little secret with Mac all throughout dinner, though.
The bar is across the restaurant from where I’m standing, but I can still see pretty clearly. Our waiter turns as someone approaches, straightens and jerks a thumb in my direction. I try to studiously avoid what I assume will be the hostess coming back to hurry us along.
Green-haired bitch… openly flirting in front of me, calling me his sister… I’m really not a fan of suddenly being so territorial, it makes me feel a little crazy. It’s never happened to me before.
I feel a presence come stand next to the table and I look up. It’s not the hostess.
He’s a handsome man, lanky and probably about 5’11”. It’s hard to tell, since his face is unlined, but there are more than a few silvers among the straight black hair, so I’d put him in his early 40’s. And his apron says Executive Chef in scrawling embroidery above his name—Anh.
“I had to come meet the table that ordered the whole menu!” he says with a warm smile, grabbing the back of Mac’s empty chair and leaning on both his hands. “How was your meal?”
I feel more than a little starstruck. The executive chef at Rouge Elephant is at my table? He may not be a celebrity, but I know how good you have to be and how hard you have to work to get where he is. “It was all so amazing,” I gush. Then, knowing he’d probably want to know, I add, “My favorite was definitely the cassoulet.”
His eyes widen. “Really? I’m pleased to hear it. It’s a new addition and it got some… mixed reviews from the staff, but it’s a favorite of mine, too.”
“Maybe the use of those lovely warming spices might have thrown people off who were expecting something more traditional?” I suggest. “What was that blend? I got coriander, star anise, cinnamon, white pepper, soy, obviously… and cloves, maybe?”
His grin widens. “I’m impressed. My sous chef couldn’t pick out the cloves. You got it exactly; you only missed the palm sugar.”
I feel my cheeks heat, for the like millionth time tonight. “I’m—I was at Bistro Jacques. Now more like a… private chef.”
“Ah, now it makes sense—you’ve worked in a restaurant. I admit that I was surprised that anyone would order the whole menu with no modifications.”
“Only someone who knows what a hassle it is, I guess.” …and who’s had a plate thrown at her head for it? “That and I know how much goes into planning a dish—it should be enjoyed as you’ve designed it.”
“From your lips to the customers’ ears. If only I could convince—”
“Chef!” a deep, booming voice cuts through Chef Anh’s soft baritone. He straightens, and turns his entire body when he sees who it is; his smile smooths into a mask of pleasant politeness, and he holds his head a little higher.
A heavy hand is placed on my shoulder and I stiffen at the familiarity of a stranger who says, “Sorry for the interruption,” in the tone of someone not sorry enough not to do it .
A man I don’t recognize comes to give Chef Anh an aggressive handshake. He’s got an air of old white guy confidence to go with his shock of gray hair and expensive suit. “Mr. Mayor,” the chef says with a nod of greeting.
“So good to catch you on my way in. Don’t think you’ve met my associate, Jay Rossi?”
In what is possibly the least smooth move anyone could possibly execute when they need to stay quiet and unnoticed, I gasp, then choke on air. I’m coughing, reaching for my almost-empty water, as Jay Rossi himself strides up next to the mayor and gives the chef his own my-dick-is-small handshake.
Rossi glances at me as I try to quell the cough, hiding my face as best I can behind the glass. He looks just like the smiling picture on the side of bus stop benches and building signs. He’s tall and in good shape, if a little thick around the middle with age. His thinning hair is combed back and looks wet, that way middle-aged Jersey businessmen do to make it look like they’ve got more. I can smell him from here—though, that might also be the mayor—and the cloud of expensive cologne around him is so thick that it nearly gags me.
He’d intimidate me even if I didn’t know who he was and what he does—but I do. And it gives him a sinister vibe that I can’t be sure actually exists or is in my head. That perfectly cut suit, Italian leather loafers and gold jewelry was bought by the lives of the people whose names get added to In Memoriams or disappear like they never existed.
The mayor goes on talking and I try to be as small as possible as I get my breathing under control. Meanwhile, my heart is racing and it’s making my whole body feel super weird—like quivering Jello.
“—and we can’t wait to see what you’ve got in store for us tonight!” the mayor finishes with a hearty laugh.
“Of course,” Chef Anh replies, his face that same polite mask. “Still gluten free?”
When Chef Anh’s eyes cut to me, mirth sparkling there due to our recent shared commiseration, the mayor follows his look. Then Rossi does.
“Er, yes,” the elderly man replies, squinting a little at me.
I’ve never wanted to be able to disappear more in my life. Not in 8th grade, when I was changing for gym, and Jessica Hill loudly pointed out my first period stain. Not when my mother told the sales associate that the white prom dress I’d picked out made me look like a “chunky bride.” Not even when I tripped off the bottom step of the bus and four full bags of groceries ripped and everyone watched as I chased a rolling tomato into the street. It’s just not possible to chase things into the street with dignity.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know if we’ve met, Miss…” the mayor— the mayor —says to me, turning bloodshot blue eyes to scan me head to toe.
“Wilson.” It just pops out of my mouth. Fuck. I should have lied. It never occurred to my unconscious brain to lie about my name. I’ve never done it before.
Then I glance at Rossi and I know instantly I’ve done the wrong thing. Again. He hides it quickly, but there’s a flash of recognition.
“Well, I should be getting back to the kitchen. Enjoy your meal, and thanks for coming in tonight,” Chef Anh says, directing his nod first to the mayor and then to me.
The three men part, the mayor leading Rossi away, and I try to swallow the bile climbing into my throat. I watch out of the corner of my eye as Rossi and the mayor sit at a table across the restaurant, and Rossi brings out his phone. He starts tapping away.
My stomach roils, all that rich food not sitting nearly so well anymore.
This is bad. This feels bad. I need to get out of here.
I look down at the little red book with our check. I can practically feel our waiter’s eyes on me, so sneaking away is hardly an option now—especially since Chef Anh came out here to talk to me. I feel pretty confident that, if confronted about skipping out on the check, I’d burst into terrified tears and make a complete spectacle of myself.
I feel completely paralyzed, completely unsure of what to do. At least we’re in public, so it’s not like Rossi has many moves either… right?
I don’t know. I don’t know!
Fuck. Where is Mac?