6. Dara
6
Dara
“I’ve already told you,” I snarl. “Things just didn’t work out.
Alex immediately raises his hands and bows his head. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.”
“It’s no one’s business,” I snap back.
I mean, it’s not like we’re best buddies or anything. I’m not going to stand in this kitchen and pour my heart out to a man I hardly know. A man, who, ironically, is like a closed book. A closed book with a padlock on the front, to boot.
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” he says again.
He does sound genuine, and so I turn because I don’t want him to see me struggling to control my anger. I’m not angry at him, of course; I’m angry at the situation. My dream was stolen from me by the very man who ought to have been its facilitator.
Dino Cabrini, a man whose restaurant was awarded three Michelin stars, may well be one of the best chefs in the world, but he’s not everything everyone thinks he is, and unfortunately, I had to learn that the hard way.
Before my big break, I attended culinary school and then went in for a cooking competition that was aired on TV. Yes, that is my claim to fame. I didn’t win, but apparently, Dino had been watching some episodes and saw potential.
I thought it was a joke when I first got a phone call from him. I thought Mark was winding me up, and I swear, I hung up. It was only when the phone rang again and Mr. Cabrini’s assistant was very adamant that this was not at all a wind-up, and that Mr. Cabrini would very much like for me to come into the city to see him, that I realized I was being handed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
And at the beginning, that’s exactly how things felt. I learned a lot from him. I can’t deny that. Things were great for a while, until they weren’t.
I’ve calmed myself down a little, and now I turn to look at Alex. “Can I ask you a question? If I’m prying, you can tell me to mind my own business.”
“You mean like I did just a moment ago,” he said, raising his brow knowingly.
“It’s fine. It’s just….” But I can’t think of any other way to explain it without telling him, and so I just repeat myself like an idiot. “It’s fine.”
“Clearly not, but go ahead. Ask your question.”
“Why did you move here? I mean, I’m looking around this gorgeous house, and your amazing kitchen with every appliance known to man, and…” I hesitate, realizing that what I’m going to say might come across as totally rude.
“Say it,” he presses.
“It just doesn’t strike me that this place is who you are.” I throw a gesture in the general direction of the house.
He holds my gaze for a long moment, and though he hardly flinches, I can tell I’ve offended him. I have a problem speaking the truth. Well, I suppose it’s not a problem as such. I’m just honest. Too honest.
My mother calls it “being forthright.” Most other people, like Mark, call it being opinionated. Sometimes, I just can’t help but say what I think. Wouldn’t the world be easier if we all just said what was really on our minds?
“You don’t think I suit the house?” he says, his lips curling like he’s making fun of me.
I sigh because I am clearly not explaining this very well. Or maybe I am and he’s just mocking me for his own entertainment.
“Not here. Not in Riverdale,” I reply.
“Maybe I’ve decided that the city is no longer for me,” he counters, expertly avoiding answering the question.
“Is that your reason? You’ve suddenly taken a liking to the slow lane, so you’ve moved into this huge house?”
I’m not buying it, if that’s the line he’s trying to sell. I don’t know this man very well, but the little I do know tells me that his reasoning isn’t enough. He’s a big shot in the city. He’s a billionaire who can afford to live anywhere he likes. Why here? It’s such a drastic move, and completely opposite to his life in the city.
“I have found, since I’ve been here, that I’m quite enjoying the peace and quiet. I’d forgotten how quiet country life could be.”
I frown at him. “You lived in the country before?”
He smiles, and I can’t help but admire how handsome he looks when he does it. It’s not something I’ve seen him do very often, and when he has, it’s always looked like it’s taken him great effort. But the smile he’s giving me now is genuine. And a little smug.
“You think I’m originally from the city?” he asks, clearly amused.
“I suppose I always did,” I say, now realizing I was wrong. “Where are you from then?”
“Cherryville,” he says plainly. “It’s not quite as small and remote as Riverdale, but I do have memories of a time before speeding buses, beeping taxis, and sirens going all day and all night.”
“Right,” I say, feeling completely put in my place.
Well, that’s told me.
Trying to cover my behind, I offer an olive branch. “So, this is you coming back to your roots?”
He shrugs. “Of sorts.”
I don’t want to make anymore of a fool of myself, so I decide to change the subject entirely.
“Okay, well, I’m going to need a few more things for the dinner party. You have all the appliances, but I need utensils, trays and serving dishes.”
“That can be arranged,” Alex says. “So, you still want to do it?”
“Sure. I mean, look at this kitchen.” I throw my hands out to everything around us. “This is a chef’s dream.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
There’s a moment of awkward silence and then I feel like things are getting weird.
“Okay, well, I better get going.”
“Here.” He grabs his wallet and begins rummaging in it.
“No, it’s Okay. You don’t need to pay me now. We can sort all that out later.”
And then my face goes bright red as he hands me a business card. He’s trying so hard not to smirk at my presumptuous comment. I, on the other hand, just want to fall through these beautiful marble tiles and let the earth swallow me up.
“My number,” he says, trying to keep the smile out of his voice. “I’d be grateful if you could send me yours. That way, I can let you know if anything changes.”
Snatching the card, I hurry past him, not able to look him in the eye.
“Sure. I’ll do that.”
I get to the front door and just keep going. I’m nearly at my car when I hear his voice again.
“Goodbye for now, Dara.”
When I turn, he’s full-on grinning, and I now just want to die.
“Yes. See you.”
I start the car and can’t pull away from beside his super-duper looking Mercedes fast enough.
My face is still hot when I pull into my driveway, which to be fair, is likely because it only took me ten minutes to get from Alex’s house to mine. The entire drive back, I’ve been denigrating myself, and even now, as I step out of the car, I’m still shaking my head at my complete stupidity.
Why on earth had I thought he would pay me up front? It’s not like it had been discussed. I mean, I haven’t even told him what he needs to get in for the dinner. I haven’t even figured out what I’m going to make for each course.
Idiot!
I put the key in the door and walk into my humble little abode, still muttering to myself as I go.
“Oh no, Alex,” I mock myself, “you don’t have to pay me now.”
Hanging the keys on my wooden key rack, I walk into the living room and drop myself down onto the sofa. His card is in my pocket, and when I dig it out, I’m still mad at myself.
The plain white card is thick and of good quality. Of course it is. No expense spared for Mr. Fancy Pants. His name, qualifications, and all the letters that follow are embossed on the card in gold, and slightly indented to make them stand out even more.
I run my finger across them, feeling the change against my skin, and then notice the address. My eyes widen slightly. His office was literally four blocks away from the restaurant. How had I not known that?
Why would you care?
True. It’s not like I would ever associate in his circles.
My mind wanders back to his house, and I can’t help thinking it was a strange experience. On the outside, the house looked like every other Georgian-style house. On the inside, it looked like something from the future. It nearly didn’t match.
I can imagine his apartment looks exactly the same. I just don’t get it. If you’re going to move to the country, why would you bring your city ideas with you? Surely the whole point is to have a change of perspective.
I don’t hate it, but as I look around my own living room, with my soft furnishings, paintings on the wall, and my collection of weird and wonderful teapots, I’m struggling to get my head around the whole clinical appeal.
Again, why do you care?
I don’t.
Sure, you do. You started caring the second he opened the door, and you saw him wearing those suit trousers and white shirt that lay open at the neck.
Okay. I’ll admit he got my attention. But my excuse is I’ve never seen him without a jacket and tie before. That’s probably it.
Sure, it is.
I shake my head. Alex Bennett would be the last man on earth I would look at. He can be as handsomely striking as he likes, but looks aren’t everything. I’ve had more interesting conversations with my toothbrush.
Talking to yourself doesn’t count.
Fine. But the man is a paradox. A grumpy, introverted paradox.
He wasn’t grumpy when you were leaving.
Sure, because he was laughing at me, not with me. Big difference.
Eventually, I push myself up off the sofa and move into the kitchen. Opening a large drawer, I pull out a pile of notebooks. These are all the notes I made when I was working for Dino. This dinner party has to impress, so I need to take a good, long look at what I’m going to create.
It’s really not as easy as it sounds. Each course has to complement the next, and so, I have to get it just right. At the same time, I want to have fun. Lord knows when I’ll get an opportunity like this again.
I suddenly find myself smiling when I recall the conversation in Alex’s kitchen.
“An amuse what?”
Okay. Maybe I was showing off just a little bit. I had to do something to compensate for the walk of shame I had been forced to do last week at the diner. And yes, a part of me was secretly delighted that he had no idea what I was talking about. Him with all his showy suits that he fills out so well, and me in my scruffy chef whites. It leveled the playing field, if only for one tiny second.