6. Vivienne #3
“Instagram is free marketing,” Frannie counters. “But we’ve had this argument seventeen times, so I’ll spare Vivienne the replay.” She turns to me. “We have two other servers on staff. Becca and Morgan are coming in later for the dinner shift, but — oh, wait. There they are.”
I follow her gaze to see two women coming through the front door, both in their mid-twenties, laughing loudly as they enter the restaurant. One is brunette, tall and pretty. The other has blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Morgan wanted to pick up her check,” the brunette says.
She’s got the kind of easy confidence that comes from working in hospitality.
“And I wanted to — ” She stops, her eyes landing on me for half a second, and something in her expression recalibrates, a quick scan, before her gaze slides directly to Callum and her whole demeanor shifts.
She smiles, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Oh. Hey, Chef.”
“Becca,” Callum says, nodding. His voice is less cold than it’s been with me, and my heart gives a traitorous twist at that.
The other woman, Morgan, I assume, notices me and raises her eyebrows. “Who’s this?”
“Vivienne Lane,” Callum says. “The consultant the investors hired. Vivienne, this is Becca and Morgan.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, keeping my voice professional. I shift my weight, suddenly very aware of how I’m standing.
“The consultant,” Morgan repeats, her eyes moving over me in a slow, deliberate sweep. “So you’re here to tell us what we’re doing wrong?”
“I’m here to help,” I correct gently.
“Same thing,” she says, but she’s smiling.
Becca moves closer to Callum, and I notice the way she angles her body toward him. “How are you doing, Chef? You look tired.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re always fine,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Which means you’re probably running on three hours of sleep and too much coffee.”
“Four hours,” he corrects, and his voice is dry but not unkind. “And the coffee is necessary.”
She laughs, light and easy, and touches his arm. Just briefly, her fingers on his forearm, but I notice it. My stomach tightens, and I look away, focusing on the tablet in my hands.
“You need to take better care of yourself,” Becca giggles, her hand still on his arm.
“I’ll add it to the list,” he says, stepping slightly away from her touch.
Morgan joins them, leaning against the hostess stand, completely at ease. “So what are we thinking for tonight? Any new specials?”
“Halibut,” Callum says. “Pan-seared with crispy skin, over fennel and citrus salad. Brown butter sauce.”
“Ooh, fancy,” Morgan says. “I love it when you do the brown butter thing. It always smells amazing.”
“Remember that time you made us try the duck with the cherry gastrique?” Becca adds, her whole face lighting up. “I still dream about that dish.”
“That was a good dish,” Callum agrees, and I can see him relax slightly. Just a fraction, but the tension in his shoulders eases.
I take a small step back, giving them space by making myself smaller and less intrusive. I pretend to look at something on my iPad, scrolling through notes I’m not actually reading.
“So, Vivienne,” Frannie says, pulling my attention back. “What do you think of the space?”
I look around, forcing a smile. “It’s beautiful. The windows are incredible. The view alone should be bringing people in.”
“It does,” Frannie says. “We’re usually pretty booked on weekends. Weekdays are harder, but that’s normal for this area.”
I make a note of that, actually typing this time. “What about marketing? Any social media presence besides Instagram?”
Frannie winces. “We only have an Instagram, and Cal barely lets me post on it. We have like two hundred followers.”
“Two hundred and thirty-seven,” Callum corrects, the edge back in his voice. “And I don’t ‘barely let you’ post. I just don’t think we need to photograph every plate that goes out.”
“That’s literally what successful restaurants do,” Frannie says.
“Successful restaurants focus on the food. Not the aesthetic.”
“The aesthetic is part of the food,” she shoots back.
They’ve clearly had this argument before. Multiple times.
I clear my throat. “Social media is important. Especially for a restaurant like this. People want to see what they’re getting into before they make a reservation. They want to feel like they’re discovering something special.”
Callum’s jaw tightens. He turns to look at me fully for the first time since I got here, and his eyes are cold. “We are something special. The food speaks for itself.”
“But only if people know you exist,” I add gently.
He stares at me, and I can see him biting back whatever he wants to say. Finally, he just nods once. “Fine. You want to fix our Instagram? Fix it. Add it to your list of everything else we’re apparently doing wrong.”
The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees.
Becca and Morgan exchange a glance. Frannie suddenly looks very interested in her tablet.
My throat tightens. “Callum, we should talk about this.”
“Is there anything else you need to see?” he interrupts. “The kitchen’s covered. Dining room’s covered. You’ve met the staff. You’ve taken your notes. Are we done?”
He’s dismissing me. In front of his entire front-of-house team.
The familiarity of it hits me like a wave. Being dismissed. Being made to feel small in front of an audience. My chest tightens and my breathing goes shallow, and for a second I’m not here. I’m in another kitchen and another chef is making me small, and I can’t breathe.
I force myself back. This is different. Callum isn’t him. This is frustration, not cruelty.
But it still stings.
I take a breath, pressing my lips together. I keep my voice level even though my hands are shaking again. “I’d like to come back tonight to observe a dinner service and see how everything flows during actual hours.”
“Fine.”
“What time should I —”
“Doors open at five. Service starts at five-thirty. Show up whenever.” He’s already turning away, heading back toward the kitchen. “I’ve got prep to finish.”
And just like that, he’s gone. The kitchen doors swing shut behind him with a sound that feels final.
The silence he leaves behind is deafening.
Suddenly, I’m standing there, feeling completely alone, in the middle of the dining room, holding my iPad like a shield, feeling the eyes of three women on me.
Frannie is the first to speak. “So,” she says brightly, trying to salvage the situation. “That went well.”
I let out a breath that’s almost a laugh, but it catches in my throat. “Did it?”
“No,” Morgan says bluntly. “That was a disaster. What the hell is going on with him?”
“He’s stressed.” Becca frowns. “I’ve never seen him like that. He’s usually grumpy, but that was something else.”
They’re all looking at me now, clearly trying to figure out what happened and what I did to make their chef look like he wanted to set something on fire.
I grip my iPad tighter, my knuckles white. “It’s — he’s under a lot of pressure. The consultation, the financial situation. I’m sure it’s overwhelming.”
It’s not a lie.
Frannie studies me for a long moment, her head titled slightly, and I can see her trying to put pieces together.
But she doesn’t push. “Well,” she says finally.
“For what it’s worth, we do need help. The restaurant is amazing, but something’s not working.
So, thank you for being here. Even if Chef is being —”
“An asshole?” Morgan supplies.
“I was going to say difficult,” Frannie corrects, but she’s smiling slightly.
Becca nods. “He’ll come around. He always does. He just doesn’t like change. And he definitely doesn’t like admitting he needs help.”
I manage a weak smile.
Like I didn’t know that already.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“See you tonight?” Frannie asks.
“Yeah. Tonight.”
I gather my things and give them a small wave before heading for the door.
The walk to the exit feels impossibly long. Each step echoing in the quiet dining room. I can feel them watching me, and I force myself to keep my spine straight and my shoulders back.
The second I’m outside, the professional mask I’ve been holding in place all morning cracks.
The afternoon air hits me, and I breathe it in like I’ve been underwater. My legs feel shaky as I walk to my car. I fumble with my keys, dropping them once, and I have to crouch down to pick them up from the gravel.
I make it to my car and lean against the driver’s side door, my forehead pressed against the cool metal.
The shaking starts in my hands first. Then my arms. Then my whole body.
My legs give out entirely, and I turn and slide down until I’m sitting on the gravel, my back against the door with my knees pulled up to my chest. The iPad falls to the ground beside me. My bag slips off my shoulder.
And I just sit there, shaking, trying to remember how to breathe.
In through my nose. Out through my mouth.
In through my nose. Out through my mouth.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes and try not to cry.