12. Chapter 12
Chapter 12
C emre let herself pretend for exactly half a day more. The change of heart came during the interval on the next day when Mr. Ogleby pulled her aside.
“I’ve been very impressed with you, Mr. Ashburn,” the dark elf said, his thumbs tucked into his waistcoat pockets. “And you’ve built quite a reputation for yourself during this competition.” He wiggled his brows in the direction of the auditorium. “Once all this to-do is over, I’d like you to come and work for me at The Stuffed Duck. ”
Cemre barely concealed a gasp. If the newspaper critics were to be believed, The Stuffed Duck was his most renowned restaurant.
“You’d be a commis chef to start, of course.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Can’t begin at the top now, can we?”
“Th-thank you, sir,” Cemre stuttered, head swirling with visions of herself in a restaurant kitchen, a really prestigious kitchen. She’d be working under and learning from some of the best chefs in the business. The executive chef was naturally the most skilled, but even the sous chefs would have years of experience to share with her. “I’m very grateful for the opportunity.”
“Yes, yes, I don’t invite just anyone to work at my restaurants,” he said with a sniff. “And you’ll have to prove yourself to the executive chef, naturally. We maintain a high standard. But your notoriety from this production is certain to benefit us, er, you.”
Cemre’s fingers curled into her trouser leg. “Th-thank you,” she stammered again, but the wobble wasn’t from elation as it had been the first time.
As Mr. Ogleby strode away, two of his words spun a wad of candy floss in Cemre’s brain.
Notoriety.
Reputation.
It all came back to her performance on the stage. The act she’d put on. Her disguise.
They didn’t care about her cooking skills. They didn’t care about her unique flavour combinations or inventive use of scraps.
And she only had herself to blame. She’d become exactly what they wanted, dressed for them, played the man for them, wasted so much food to cook the type of dishes they valued.
And for what? So she could spend the rest of her life in disguise, being the opposite of everything she truly was?
Chef Santini’s face flickered before her mind’s eye, his disappointment at what she’d presented over the last few rounds – mounds of expensive ingredients with no heart, no meaning, no passion. She certainly couldn’t keep Mel alive with food like that. It wasn’t art. It couldn’t inspire magick.
Her vision of an excited Cemre soaking up experience at The Stuffed Duck turned grey. She saw Algernon, a scrawny lad with a drooping moustache, morosely shovelling caviar onto a plate for pretentious patrons while the head chefs shouted for him to hurry up. She saw boxes of less-than-perfect produce being chucked into the bin. She saw urchins like Thumper chased down the alley behind the restaurant, empty-handed.
She wanted to rip off her moustache and have a good cry. But could she afford to turn down Mr. Ogleby’s offer? A solid job like that could keep her family fed and housed. And if she did well and moved up the ranks, she’d earn more.
If she turned it all down, lost the competition, and returned home with nothing . . . would they even want her back? With Taurine managing the food collecting and Rubella handling the cooking, what need did they have for her?
Massimo had talked about her working for him . . . but that was before she’d known he was the prince. He must have been joking, simply trying to cheer her up with silly ideas. Even if he helped her find something through Chef Santini, how would it be any different from The Stuffed Duck ? She’d still have to wear a disguise for the rest of her life.
She flicked away an unwelcome tear and slipped behind some scenery. The last thing she needed was to be caught crying – that would be a dead giveaway that she wasn’t a stupid man.
That blissful feeling she’d had yesterday in Massimo’s arms, thinking only of the fun they’d had cooking together, cooking with all their friends, not scrounging for leftovers but having access to the most beautiful produce that replenished itself daily, winning top five and top three and first place . . . It all seemed like a distant daydream, a flight of fancy that vanishes with the opening of the eyes.
No illusion can last forever , Mel had said.
And her eyes were fully opened now.