9. Noa
NOA
I’ve been vibrating at a frequency only dogs can hear since Saturday’s CBT Studios fiasco. It’s Monday morning now, and I’m convinced every footstep above the BFI is Jen and Mary themselves coming downstairs to personally fire me for humiliating them in front of such an important client.
“The emulsion is separating,” Stella’s voice pierces through the lab. “Are we making ice cream or conducting a fifth grade science experiment?”
Stella hasn’t mentioned my Aarti pitch yet, which is either a miracle or she’s playing some kind of psychological long game.
Whichever it is, I’m certainly not going to be the one to bring it up first. And anyway, I haven’t had a spare moment to question it, because she’s been on one since I arrived this morning.
Being on crutches has transformed my control-freak boss from a precision instrument into a medieval torture device.
I rush over to rescue the batch. “Sorry, I’ll re-whip it–”
“With what technique? The one where you flail around like an uncoordinated cephalopod?” She’s balancing on one crutch while using the other to point accusingly at my whisk. “Thirty-degree angle, Noa. We’ve discussed this.”
We’ve discussed everything. Six times. Since seven a.m. She made me recalibrate the thermometers twice, reorganize the extract shelf by molecular weight, and explain the difference between Tahitian and Madagascar vanilla until I considered chugging the freshly steeped extracts to end my suffering.
The thing is, I can’t even complain. Not when I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or crutch.
“Better,” she concedes as the emulsion comes together. “Though I don’t understand why you need constant supervision after three years.”
Because I’m pretty sure I gave myself a concussion this weekend and haven’t slept since , I don’t say.
“Now, the cacao levels in batch six were–” Her phone buzzes. She glances at it and her expression shifts. “I need to take this. Do not touch the centrifuge. Or the blast chiller. Or anything more complex than a spoon.”
She hobbles to her office with surprising agility. Through the window, I watch her on the phone, gesturing with her free hand like she’s conducting an orchestra or performing an exorcism.
I stand there, pretending to study our flavor development chart while actually spiraling. Maybe Aarti Nair’s people finally called. Maybe they’re suing. Maybe I’ll have to sell Ringo Carr to pay legal fees and take the bus everywhere.
“Get your things.” Stella’s suddenly beside me, moving silent as a ninja despite the mobility aids. “You’re coming with me.”
“Like… all my things?” I ask, voice trembling.
Stella curtly shakes her head no. Phew.
“Okay. Where are we–”
“Meeting. Across town.”
A meeting. Sounds totally normal and non-threatening.
Or she’s taking you somewhere nice and private to fire slash murder you! Big ups to Jerky McGee, who never fails to catastrophize. I mentally flip him off and slide into the backseat of the rideshare Stella ordered, trying to become one with the upholstery.
I sneak a glance at Stella. Her hands are folded over her crutches like she’s sitting for a Victorian portrait. She’s never been overly pleasant toward me, but my god, she’d give a speck of dust on the dashboard more warmth right now.
We’re halfway down Sunset when I realize we’re heading toward Hollywood. Toward a very familiar part of Hollywood.
“Stella–”
“So,” she says, staring straight ahead. “Saturday.”
My soul exits my body. “I can explain–”
“You bled during a celebrity client pitch?”
“A little?! From my face! And I cleaned it up–well, actually I passed out, but I’m sure someone cleaned it–”
“And destroyed property worth more than your annual salary.”
“I’ll fix it, I’ll fix everything! I can apologize, or build them a new one, or–” We’re pulling up to CBT Studios. “Oh god, are they pressing charges?”
“Get out.”
“Stella, please, I love my job–”
“Noa.” She turns to look at me with an expression I’ve never seen before. Is that… amusement? “Do you know what happened during my first celebrity collaboration?”
I shake my head, still clutching my seatbelt like a lifeline.
“Food & Wine Festival 2008. I accidentally triggered a champagne sorbet explosion that coated three Michelin-starred chefs and a very, very prominent Food Network host. You know the one. There were photos. So many photos…”
“But–”
“The point is, we all have our disasters. Yours just happened to be captured on security footage.” She gestures toward the studio entrance with her crutch. “Now get out. You have a meeting.”
“A meeting? About what?”
“You’ll find out, I suppose.” A sneaky smile flickers across her face. “Try not to bleed on anyone important this time.”
“But I don’t–”
Before ‘ even know if I’m allowed within one hundred feet of Aarti Nair’ can leave my lips, the door slams in my face. Stella–and any hope of not confronting my colossal failures–screeches off into the morning Hollywood haze.