Chapter 10
How curious it is to find how much your whole life experience can change after just one night.
In the morning, Mebel wakes up tired but strangely cheerful.
She bounces out of bed and smiles at her reflection.
She goes through her morning routine while humming under her breath, tightening the knot of her apron with a determined tug.
When she arrives at the kitchen, she notes with satisfaction that for once, she is the first to arrive, and she doesn’t waste any time before prepping her workstation, wiping everything down and sharpening her knives.
Chef Clarke walks in a few minutes later, as Mebel is sharpening her ten-inch, and his eyebrows raise with obvious surprise when he spots her.
“Good morning, Chef,” she says.
“Er, morning, Mebel.” He hesitates, then continues. “Did you have a think about our last conversation?”
“I did, and I just—” Mebel stops herself. She’s starting to realize how many times she says the word “just,” and it sounds silly in her ears. “I want to show you something.”
“Oh?” Chef Clarke watches as Mebel strides to the industrial-sized refrigerator and takes out a big metal bowl.
She marches to him and presents the bowl solemnly.
She can’t quite remember the last time she’s felt this proud of herself.
Maybe when she was a child, presenting her scrawled childish drawing to her parents?
Her heart is thumping somewhere in the vicinity of her throat as Chef Clarke looks dubiously at the contents of the bowl.
“What’s this then?” he says at last, raising his eyebrows at her.
“I cubed some potatoes last night,” she says.
Still holding her gaze, Chef Clarke reaches into the bowl and picks up a piece of potato. He studies it closely, turning it this way and that. Mebel doesn’t dare to draw a single breath, in case doing so somehow makes the potato change proportions.
“It’s perfect cube,” she says helpfully. “They are all. I measured them.”
“How many potatoes did you use?”
“I lose the count. Twenty?”
“I see. We were supposed to julienne them today. To make potato pancakes.”
It feels as though the tips of Mebel’s ears have caught on fire. “I—ah—”
“Well, never mind. There are always more potatoes.” He replaces the cubed potato back in the bowl and turns away.
Mebel is about to say something when the door opens once more, and several of her classmates stream into the kitchen, chatting with one another.
They barely spare her a glance. Normally, Mebel would not move out of their way because she is the elder and they’re supposed to move out of her way, but then she recalls Gemma’s words, and as the youths walk in her direction, Mebel forces a smile and nod and steps out of their way.
They don’t notice, of course, but it feels to Mebel as though she has jumped over a very strange hurdle.
She catches Chef Clarke watching her, and when their eyes meet, he gives her the barest hint of a nod.
She walks back to her table with a little smile, feeling far more accomplished this morning than the day of her graduation from USC.
When Gemma arrives, looking tired and out of sorts, Mebel waves at her.
Gemma’s entire face lights up. “Mebs, babe!” she calls out.
Heads lift, their classmates watching from the corners of their eyes with bemused expressions as Gemma hurries to Mebel’s side, loudly saying, “And how are you today?”
Mebel isn’t quite sure how she feels about “Mebs babe.” Part of her wants to admonish Gemma, but when she opens her mouth, what comes out is, “I’m fine, thank you, Gemma.
” Because, in a very strange way, “Mebs babe” feels kind of badass.
Someone named Mebel would only wear Chanel tweed, but someone called Mebs babe would rock a leather jacket (but only one from Gucci, because she has standards).
“My video came out fantastic. Thank you for your help,” Gemma chirps. She turns to the guy in front of them, who isn’t even trying to hide the fact that he’s listening in, and says, “Adam, Mebs here is helping me with my cooking videos.”
Adam glances at Mebel, and she sees that he’s blushing, probably because the beautiful Gemma is speaking to him. “Uh, cool,” he says in a way that makes it clear he’s trying very hard to seem cool.
Mebel is saved from having to come up with a socially acceptable answer by Chef Clarke clapping once for their attention. Everyone ceases their chattering and turns to face him.
“We have come to a very fun part of the class,” Chef Clarke says.
Ooh! Mebel thinks. She could do with a little bit of fun. Maybe they’ll make fresh pasta. That’s always been something Mebel fancied she might like to do. She likes the idea of rolling out the dough under her palms and scattering flour over it before cutting it into creative shapes.
Chef Clarke reaches down and lifts up a huge foam box. He drops it onto the kitchen counter with an ominous thump.
Uh-oh, Mebel’s brain goes. That does not look like it contains ingredients to make fresh pasta.
And indeed it does not. Chef Clarke opens it with a flourish and takes out a wriggling lobster. “Today, we are going to learn how to properly kill and cook lobster, as well as other seafood.”
Mebel’s hand flies to her mouth.
“Yes, Mebel? Did you have a question?” Chef Clarke says.
Every pair of eyes turns to Mebel. With some effort, Mebel tears her horrified gaze from the lobster, which is now frantically flapping its tail. “Uh…no. I love…lobster.”
Chef Clarke nods. He places the lobster on a chopping block and picks out his knife. “For this, you are going to use your chef’s knife. Hold it like so, and here is the most humane way to kill it—”
Mebel shuts her eyes, but she hears the crack of the lobster’s shell as Chef Clarke pushes his knife clean through its head. Oh god, she thinks. I’m going to be sick.
Then, from nowhere, another voice appears in her head. No you won’t, it says, quite calmly. You won’t be sick because you are here with a clear purpose: to win Henk back. So pick up your chef’s knife, damn it, and swing it right into that lobster’s head.
In a daze, Mebel watches as Chef Clarke dismantles the rest of the lobster, and all too soon, it is time for them to go up to the awful foam box and claim a lobster to murder.
Twice, Mebel’s legs buckle under her and she almost falls over, but somehow, she manages to make it to the chef’s table.
When she gets there, she finds that she can’t bear to look Chef Clarke in the eye, but then she glances down into the box—and that was a horrible mistake to make.
It looks like a scene straight out of a nightmare, a box filled with crawling, flapping lobsters, their shells an ugly shade of bruised brown.
Mebel can practically hear their mounting anxiety.
The poor things probably heard their friend getting knifed outside the box.
Chef Clarke is watching her with an expression that can only be described as “dubious amusement” and so, averting her gaze, Mebel reaches down into the box and grabs the nearest lobster.
She flinches as her fingers close around its body, almost dropping it, but she manages not to.
“Ah, you picked the biggest one,” Chef Clarke says. “Good job.”
Mebel looks down in horror, but it is now too late to change her mind.
She lifts the monstrous thing out of the box and, holding it as far away from her as possible, staggers back to her workstation, where she drops it onto her chopping board.
The lobster, its claws tied up, scrabbles on the board, its tail flapping madly. Oh god, this is a nightmare.
“You all right, Mebs?” Gemma says.
Mebel doesn’t trust herself to answer without retching, so she just shrugs in reply.
“It’s all right,” Gemma says. “It’s very straightforward, really. Watch me.”
And Mebel watches as Gemma expertly dismantles her lobster. “How you are so good at that?”
“I’m a food influencer,” Gemma says simply. “Your lobster’s getting away.”
Mebel pounces on her lobster right before it flaps off the countertop. “Aduh,” she moans, “I don’t know how I do this. I am more comfortable eating lobster, not cooking it.”
“Yes, we know that. Don’t think too hard about it.”
By now, a couple other students have wandered over, watching Mebel with amused looks on their faces. Mebel vaguely recognizes them as Adam and a brunette girl with striking golden eyes named Bella.
“You can do this, Gran,” Adam says.
“Adam!” Bella snaps. “You can’t call her that.”
Adam shrugs, looking sheepish.
Mebel is torn between having Adam call her by an honorific and that honorific being “Gran.” She meets Gemma’s eye, and Gemma glares at her meaningfully, which makes Mebel go, “Ah, yes, you can call me Mebel.”
“Cool,” Adam says with another shrug. “Go on then, Mebel.”
“It helps if you wrap a towel around the lobster so you can grip it tight,” Bella says.
Mebel does so, and is grateful for the tip because it does help to make this whole business feel less grisly.
“Lay it down on the board,” Gemma says, “yes, just like that. Place your knife here, in the center of the head, there you go. And now chop down.”
Mebel shuts her eyes, thinks better of chopping down with her eyes shut, and forces them back open. Then, before she can chicken out, she plunges the tip of her knife. Her knife blade crunches into the lobster head, slicing it in half neatly. The lobster stops moving.
Adam and Bella clap politely.
“Great job, Mebs! C’mere and gimme a hip bump!” Gemma says, sticking her hip up.
Mebel blinks at Gemma, then she lifts the (now very dead) lobster and bumps it to Gemma’s hip.
“All right, not the best hip bump, but we’ll work on it,” Gemma says with a wink.
“Good job, Mebel,” Adam says, before he and Bella return to their respective workstations.