Chapter 2
Waking up before sunrise on the couch in my shoebox apartment above the Latin market, I had the worst crick in my neck and a headache from falling asleep with my contacts in.
Last thing I remembered, I was watching a Korean cooking competition on Netflix.
Now I had a throw pillow full of drool and mascara crusted on my eyelids.
On the rare occasion I had the chance to sleep in, I found it impossible.
I was too accustomed to the routine of waking up at four to open the coffee shop promptly at five, with just enough time to shower, slam down a quick breakfast and get to work.
My body was a machine that found habits hard to break.
Add in the excitement, stress and apprehension about the ACE packet that would arrive by first-class mail today, and it was a miracle I slept at all.
After I dragged myself to the bathroom then gulped down a cup of coffee, I reflected that I probably should’ve listened to Hannah and gone into work, if only to save the linoleum from my pacing footsteps.
I occupied myself by mindlessly scrolling Instagram.
Next, I bagged up some clothes for a trip to the Laundromat later.
I even dusted the apartment from top to bottom, before I stopped short of talking myself into stripping and waxing the floors like a psychopath.
Instead, I pulled three eggs from my fridge to prepare an omelet.
A proper French-style omelet was deceptively simple.
It started with soaking the eggs in warm water to bring them up to room temperature.
Warm eggs meant a shorter cook time, which was part of the secret to a perfect, slightly custardy center.
When the eggs were ready, I cracked them into a small bowl, gave them a good whisk and seasoned with salt and pepper before pouring them into a buttered nonstick pan.
I stirred slightly with a silicone spatula until they started to curd and then folded the omelet over one third of the way as the bottom began to turn golden brown.
I folded another third, tilting the pan and tucking the remaining curd inside the envelope I had created, before sliding the whole thing onto my plate to garnish with a little fresh chive and tarragon.
As I ate, I sat with my phone to look up everything I could about the London neighborhood where ACE was located.
The website described London in six zones.
ACE was in Zone 1, where the rents were some of the highest in the city.
They suggested venturing out to Zone 2 or 3, but it would add a significant commute to my day, and even those neighborhoods looked like a stretch for my limited budget.
The alternative was looking for a roommate situation.
Though after living on my own for a while now, I wasn’t enthused about the idea of sharing.
While rents in Denver weren’t cheap, I managed to get by. The coffee shop owner let me pick up overtime shifts when I needed them and I had even started taking the occasional pastry gig for catering events to bolster my ACE tuition fund.
My current apartment was what creative realtors would call “cozy” or “snug.” Meaning tiny.
The bedroom was barely large enough for a queen mattress and dresser, and the living-dining combo room made my two-seater couch look enormous.
The winning feature for me had been the kitchen, with generous counter space and new appliances.
The former landlord had been in the middle of a renovation to flip the place until they went bankrupt and sold off the building.
It was like a metaphor for myself. A little worse for wear and held together by bubble gum and grit, but every extra penny I had went into that damn kitchen, from quality pans to better ingredients than had any right to be found in these humble surroundings.
Around lunchtime, I was curled up on the couch watching the street outside when I saw the mail truck pull up to the curb.
I darted to the door and quickly shoved my feet into a pair of shoes.
I realized as soon as I made it to the stairwell that I should’ve grabbed a coat too.
It was an especially frigid day in November and the landlord didn’t turn on the heat in the lobby until Thanksgiving.
By the time I skidded into the foyer, the mail carrier was just beginning to drop off the packages near the cluster of mailboxes.
I waited anxiously while he nodded his head to the music playing in his earbuds, completely oblivious to my presence.
The moment he stepped away, I unlocked my box and grabbed the small bundle of envelopes before hurrying back upstairs.
I tossed every other piece of mail onto my coffee table before settling back onto the couch with my legs tucked underneath me, and gingerly opening the thick, white envelope, clearly marked with the ACE logo.
I slid out the stack of papers and skimmed through the pages, searching for the financial aid letter, while a tiny seed of panic began sprouting in my gut.
My eyes widened at the first glimpse of a pound sign. I swallowed hard.
The letter stated that the program had received an especially large number of requests for financial assistance for the upcoming term.
To accommodate as many students as possible, approved applicants would receive a smaller portion of total tuition than previous years.
They were pleased to inform me that I was awarded ￡20,000, or roughly half of the total tuition.
And that still didn’t include my flights, visa applications or accommodation in London.
Even with my hard-earned savings, I was going to come up short by almost thirty grand.
“Damn,” I spat.
I jumped to my feet and resumed pacing. My nerves were frayed.
I needed a massive influx of cash, and fast, or I’d lose my spot and my dreams would be up in smoke.
All the overtime shifts and catering gigs in the world wouldn’t cover the gap soon enough.
This was knocking-over-a-bank levels of urgent.
As my pacing reached the kitchen, I paused at the fridge, where a tattered business card was held beneath a magnet.
Megan Wheelan, Hannah’s mom, was the founder and director of Culinary Connection, a specialized recruitment firm in Denver for industry professionals that was growing fast. Starting out as just a boutique business that served the Greater Denver communities, it had since expanded its network and reach to the West Coast. Megan’s hope was that in two years she would be in half the states in the country.
It was the perfect home-based business she’d started while recovering from cancer treatment, a way to ease herself back into the workforce without the stress of a commute and with flexibility to make her doctors’ appointments.
Essentially, Megan and her team served as a culinary job-placement service.
Hospitality workers in hotels, sous, executive, and pastry chefs, managerial staff, you name it.
She was also instrumental in throwing catering jobs my way when she came across them.
I padded back into the living room to find my phone. Megan picked up after a few rings.
“Elle, hello!”
“Hey! Not sure if you’ve spoken to Han yet, but I got into ACE !”
“Yes, she told me when she got home last night. Congrats! I’m so happy for you.”
I tucked myself back on the couch and slid the packet of papers to the side. “Yeah, well, now comes the hard part.”
“Oh? What’s the hard part? Leaving Denver behind while you work your magic in Jolly Old England?” She laughed to herself at the cartoonish accent she affected.
“Funny you should say that, because I actually do need some magic.”
Reading the trepidation in my voice, her tone grew serious. “I’m not sure how I can help, but I promise I’ll try.”
“If you could keep an ear to the ground for any high-paying jobs, I’d really appreciate it. The tuition is going to be a stretch.”
“Oh, no. Did the financial aid fall through?”
“Not entirely, but it’s well below what I’d hoped. I’ve got some savings, and I can stagger some of the payments, but I’m still falling more than a little short.”
“For you, anything.” Her voice perked up, determined, a mama bear springing into action. “I’ll be in touch if anything comes up.”
“Thanks, Megan. I owe you.”
“You don’t,” she told me firmly. “You’ve always taken care of my Han. I’ll keep you posted.”
The wait was horrendous. I spent the next couple of days in a persistent state of anxiety that manifested in twice double-charging customers at the coffee shop.
I burnt breakfast sandwiches and screwed up even the simplest orders.
My mind was entirely elsewhere. I thought about having to give up my spot at ACE and spending another year at the Drip with no plans and no direction.
Hannah kept reminding me that if I put out positivity, the universe would provide, but I had serious doubts about the universe’s track record.
Then on Sunday, just before midnight, things started to look up.
I had just finished cleaning my kitchen after spending my entire day off from the shop preparing hors d’oeuvres for an upcoming catering gig and baking two dozen chocolate croissants for Megan’s breakfast meeting when my phone buzzed with a text from the woman herself.
Megan : Found a potential job. We can discuss tomorrow.
Me: Any hints? I’m dying here. PS The croissants are finished.
Megan: I know I ordered them for the office . . . But I might just keep them all for me.
Me: That’s cold, but I do know how much you love them. The suspense is killing me!
Megan: You’re worse than Hannah.
Me: Don’t let Hannah hear you say that. She won’t let me live it down. One hint.
Megan: Pays well but . . .
Me: You can’t leave me on a but!
Megan: It’s in Maplewood Creek.
Me: Where?
Megan: Maplewood Creek. Suburb of Aspen. Potentially tricky client.
Before responding, I googled Maplewood Creek, Colorado, and let out a low whistle at the median salary and home prices. Though, calling these buildings “homes” was probably offensive to the owners.
Mansion chalets? Chalet mansions?
Either way, the town was fancy, which made sense if it was in such close proximity to Aspen.
The photos online were like something out of a Christmas movie: snow-covered rooftops nestled within the valley, buildings down the main street framed by twinkling lights, brochure-ready families ice-skating in the square and strolling past the shops with steaming cups of hot cocoa.
It was a small town, but in the middle of a huge resurgence, thanks to a number of wealthy families buying up mountainside property to build luxurious, state-of-the-art chalets.
That meant plenty of upscale restaurants accommodating a wealthy clientele, demand for private chefs, and the nearby ski resorts would have hotel kitchens and catering, with plenty of opportunity for making tips.
It also appeared that the population wasn’t year-round, which meant short-term work during the ski season.
Perfect.
I started to imagine what life in a resort town might be like. There had to be plenty of hours for the taking in the high season. And good tips, hopefully. Maybe even the added benefit of access to the amenities from time to time. The idea started to grow on me.
Me: I’ll get the details from you tomorrow, but unless they’re some sort of crazy Hannibal Lecter type, count me in.