Episode 95
EPISODE 95
CUTTHROAT KITCHEN
Emily
I’m a bit embarrassed by Misty’s behavior. Her interrogation of Evangeline about what will happen if our team wins and she and I both choose the same man makes her look both childish and aggressive.
Nothing new there, I suppose.
Why does she think it’s even an issue? If we win, I already know who she’ll choose. River, of course.
That doesn’t bother me. Not in the bloody slightest.
I’m getting pretty good at lying to myself about River. But the truth is that I haven’t spent any time with either Brett or Alex. I should give them both a chance before I decide to zero in on a cowboy with whom I have absolutely no future.
Evangeline’s response that we can both choose the same man seems to satisfy Misty—for the time being, at least. I take another sip of my Island Mirage. I don’t normally drink during the day, but Lord knows dealing with Misty requires it.
“This is delicious,” I say to Katie. “What’s in it?”
“I’m so glad you like it.” Katie beams. “Blue curacao gives it the lovely color and the delicate citrus flavor. The main ingredients are vodka and simple syrup with just a splash of prosecco on top.”
“It’s brilliant.” I nudge Misty, who’s sautéing the onion and garlic. “Don’t you think so, Misty?”
Her drink still sits untouched on the counter. Perhaps if I can get her to imbibe a bit, she’ll lighten up.
“I’m busy,” Misty says.
I pick up her cocktail and hand it to her. “Seriously, you’ve got to try this.”
She lets out a soft huff and takes a sip. “There. Satisfied?” She hands the glass back to me.
“Excuse me for a minute,” Katie says. “I need to get another scotch bonnet pepper from Marc.”
I meet Katie’s gaze. She looks perplexed at Misty’s attitude. I give her a slight shrug.
Once Katie’s gone, Misty turns to me and whispers, “All right. Let’s get on the same page. How are we going to make sure we win this thing?”
I look her square in the eye. “You’ve gone seriously dotty.”
“Hey, I’m winning this thing with or without your help, Emily.” She lowers her voice even more. “I’ve got some Ipecac syrup in my room, and?—”
“You’ve got what?”
“Keep your voice down. Jesus.”
“You can’t be serious. You want to sneak Ipecac into the others’ dishes? We have to eat them too, you know. Maybe you want to cast your biscuits over a date, but I certainly don’t.”
“It was just an idea. I’m open to suggestions.”
“My suggestion to you, Misty, is to get a life.”
“I’m trying to!” Her whisper has turned whiny. Even desperate. “Can’t you see that?”
I shake my head. “You need help.”
“That’s right. I do. I need your help, Emily.”
Clearly she missed my point.
“We’re not going to win this thing with this green sludge we’re making. I’ve eaten the best Jamaican food in the world, created by the best chefs, and?—”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I interrupt her. “You’re familiar with Jamaican cuisine, but you didn’t know what callaloo was?”
“Not by name. When Katie described it, I realized what it was. It’s the green dish that Jamaican chefs always serve. It’s good, but it’s a side dish, first of all. And it’s greens. It’s not memorable, Emily. Everything else is always better than greens. The dessert will beat greens for sure. And River and June are making lobster with the jerk chicken, for God’s sake. Lobster will beat greens every time.”
“Maybe not,” I say, playing the devil’s advocate. “I’m not a huge fan of lobster.”
“Then you’re the only one who doesn’t like it.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I only meant there are other foods I’d choose over it.”
She scoffs. “Would you choose callaloo over lobster?”
She’s got me there. I enjoy vegetables, and I know I’ll like the callaloo, but Misty is correct. A veggie dish isn’t going to win. Not unless we throw a shitload of cheese on top of it, and even then, it’s not going to beat lobster.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no’,” Misty continues, her whisper becoming more urgent. “You’re close to the others. You can throw Ariel off her game. She’ll listen to you.”
“I’m certainly not doing that by spiking her dish with Ipecac.”
“Fine, fine. I told you, I’m open to suggestions.”
“Misty, this whole thing is your idea. You figure it out.” I turn back to the tomato I’m dicing.
She grabs my arm then. Grabs it so harshly that I yank it back.
“Watch yourself.” I look around. “We’re not alone here.”
Everyone else seems dedicated to their work. No one is watching us that I can see. Good.
“I can’t do this on my own, Emily. I need your help.”
“Sorry.”
“I’ll do anything you ask. Anything. Just help me win this thing. We have to sabotage the others. It’s the only way.”
Her words send me flashing back to my last days at Elizabeth Harrington London. Several of the designers decided to band together to sabotage Jake Bosworth, grandson of the company’s namesake, whose designs always got chosen for Paris Fashion Week despite the fact that they were lackluster.
“Come on, Emily,” one of the designers said to me. “We can’t do this without you. We’re all in this together, and nothing will change if we don’t work as a team.”
“Then we need to approach Charlotte as a team,” I told him. “Tell her our concerns. The answer isn’t to sabotage another designer.”
He scoffed at me. “You really call him a designer?”
“Not really, but it is what it is. I won’t take part in any sabotage. It’s not right.”
“But what Charlotte is doing isn’t right either.”
“No, it’s not. But the answer isn’t to try to take Jake down. It’s to go to Charlotte and demand equal treatment for all the designers. Demand that she make her choices based on merit and not nepotism.”
“We’re doing this with or without you,” he said to me.
“Then it’s without.”
I gave my notice the next day and cemented my plans to leave London and try for a career in another fashion capital of the world. I chose New York.
But while the conversation I’m having with Misty is similar, the situation is not. In London, we were worried about our careers, about our meritorious designs being overlooked in favor of inferior work by someone with the right connections. It was a valid concern, and one I didn’t take lightly, even though I was against the nefarious plan. The way to the top isn’t by cheating, and it’s never by damaging someone else.
Before I can respond to Misty, she continues. “June is the biggest threat. She and River are making the lobster.”
The only threat June is to Misty is that she has River’s attention at the moment, but I keep this tidbit to myself. Misty is clearly not able to think rationally where River is concerned.
“And Ariel,” Misty goes on. “She and Sebastian are making some shrimp thing, and everyone loves shrimp. I’m not too concerned about Heather.”
“Not concerned about Heather?” I shake my head. “She and Alex are making dessert. You don’t think dessert will trump callaloo greens?”
Misty looks away, her expression flustered. “I just meant that?—”
“You just meant that you don’t find Heather a threat to your claim to River. Am I right?”
She says nothing, but her cheeks redden…and not from the burner on the stove.
“Answer me, Misty.”
“Come on,” she says. “This whole thing is a game, anyway. You and I are an alliance right now. We’re working together. Think of it like a reality TV show. Part of the fun is throwing the others off their game. It’s like that Alton Brown show, Cutthroat Kitchen . Sabotage is part of the fun.”
“I disagree.”
“How can you? At the end of the show, professional chefs choose the winner and they don’t take any sabotage into consideration, and?—”
“Misty, seriously, this is not Cutthroat Kitchen . You need to stop.”
“I will win,” she says, turning back to her aromatics, “with or without your help.”
Dear God. If I leave this to her, we’re all likely to be upchucking Ipecac-laced food after dinner.
I could end it all now. I could grab Evangeline and warn her what Misty is up to, but Evangeline already looks stressed out, and the others seem to be having a wonderful time.
Which irks me. I’m stuck with Misty and having a decidedly not wonderful time.
Or…I could go along. Attempt to sabotage the others. Except I won’t do anything that could truly hurt anyone. Maybe just play a bit, enough to keep Misty satisfied so she doesn’t ruin the event.
“All right,” I say to her. “Fine. I’ll help you.”
“Oh, thank God,” she says, turning back to me. “It has to be you, anyway. As you’ve pointed out, no one here trusts me. If I move an inch, I’ll arouse suspicions. Besides, what’s the point of competing if you don’t play to win? So what are you going to do, Emily, to make sure we win?”