Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
Ben
When my lunch date offered to lend me his driver to take me back to my office, I declined and waved him off.
I’d deliberately chosen this restaurant because I wanted to walk a little after lunch.
I hadn’t caught up with this particular contact, Declan Flannagan, for a while, but when I found out Patrick O’Leary was the seller of the Boston hotel that Avril wanted, I invited him to lunch.
I couldn’t help thinking that they’d know each other.
My hunch was right. They’d known each other since they were kids.
He gave me some interesting insights about his negotiating tactics.
It’s not the first time he’s pulled a disappearing act, apparently.
But lunch wasn’t just about getting information about Patrick O’Leary, it was also about being here.
Downtown, overlooking the Hudson River, at a rooftop restaurant that happens to be just around the corner from the Institute of Culinary Education.
They’re having an open day where anyone can drop in. There’s no need to register or give an email address.
What have I got to lose?
My walk finds me at the entrance of the building and I make my way through the lobby. My phone buzzes in my hand.
I stop when I see it’s Avril calling, and I scramble to answer as my heart rate picks up speed. “Avril? Are you okay?” There’s no reason for her to be phoning me. Is she in trouble?
“Hey, Ben. How are you?” She doesn’t sound panicked. She sounds nervous, if anything.
“Good. What do you need?”
“Oh yes, I was wondering if you had five minutes this afternoon. And if I could stop by.”
“Stop by? I’m not in the office. What’s happened? Is something wrong?”
“No, no, not wrong, exactly. It’s just that I’d rather tell you in person.”
Is it me or is her voice softer than usual?
It’s the tone she uses when she’s opposite me at dinner, rather than the one she uses when she’s in bed watching TV, or the one when she’s with her friends, which is all fun and full of life.
There are so many different sides to Avril.
I wonder if I’ve seen them all. An ache tugs inside me at the thought that I won’t get to experience them again.
She’s got what she needs from me. There’s no reason for us to stay in touch.
And it’s not like I can offer her anything.
But wanting to tell me something in person doesn’t sound good. Is she going to tell me that Worth no longer has the money? Is she going to ask me to invest? I don’t know why else she might want to tell me something in person.
“Tell me what?”
“Well, if I tell you now, I won’t be telling you in person, will I?” she says, her tone a little more clipped than it was before.
I stifle a chuckle at her irritation. “Okay, well, I can give you a call when I’m back in the office. In fact, I’ll pass Hotel on Ninth Street on my way back. I’ll call in.”
“Back from where?” she asks. “Where are you?”
I laugh at her question, partly because she’s being so nosy and partly because she’d love to know that I’m about to go and see what culinary school would involve.
But I haven’t made any decisions yet, so I’m not telling her anything. I’m just here to see what kinds of courses they have on offer. I’m not committing to anything.
“I’m just going into a meeting,” I say. “I’m going to have to go.”
“But don’t come to the hotel. I’ll meet you at your place.”
“My apartment?” A thrill travels up my spine as I think of her back at my place. But she can’t come back there. It’s perfectly obvious, from my book on the nightstand, that I’ve been sleeping in the guest room—the one she stayed in—since she left.
“Your office,” she clarifies.
“Oh, yes. Okay.”
“Or I could meet you for a drink,” she says. “Or I could stop by tonight at your apartment, if you’re going to be busy this afternoon.”
My mind is full of thoughts of hope and terror stitched together. What on earth does she want to talk to me about?
I glance up at the list of occupants of the building and my eyes catch on the Institute of Culinary Education.
“I’ve got to go,” I say. “I’ll see you tonight.
” But I can’t see her in my apartment. I can’t risk an omelet turning into more.
“Let’s meet for a drink. I’m not sure what time I’ll be able to leave the office though. ”
“Okay,” she says. “Text me when you’ll be free.”
I agree to let her know the time, and just as I hang up, the lift doors open.
I don’t often get nervous, but my stomach dips as I step inside the car and I push thoughts of Avril to the side. I need to focus.
I’ve deliberately dressed down today. Like Bray says, it’s good to have people underestimate you. But I still feel like I’m going to be the odd person out. No doubt the people attending this open day will be kids right out of college or something.
As the lift rides up to the thirty-third floor, I get the urge to run. What am I thinking? Am I really considering going to culinary school? Why?
Because I love cooking.
I love food.
I always have.
And I want something more in my life. I want to be moving toward something rather than running away from my past.
I have the same need in me that my father had—to feed people.
But I’m not my father. I’ve spent my entire life making sure I’m not vulnerable.
No one can break me like our landlord broke my father.
It can’t happen. But it has meant I’ve pushed out the good parts of my father’s career, along with the bad.
He loved the creativity of food. He liked finding new flavors, poring over recipe books in Goodwill, exploring markets for produce.
Cooking lit him up. He was drawn to it like he didn’t have a say in his path.
I’ve spent my life proving that I control everything. I’m the puppet master.
But it hasn’t made me happy.
Now it’s time to make a change.
I step out of the lift and a deep stillness settles in me. It’s like I’ve come home.
There’s a row of badges set out on a table. Sitting behind the desk, an older lady wearing a badge telling me her name is Misha smiles up at me. “You here for the open day?”
I nod. “I’m Ben East.”
She types my name into her computer and the printer starts to whir into action.
She assembles my badge and then hands it to me.
“Here you are. If there are any questions you don’t want to ask in front of the crowd, come and find me at the end.
I’ve worked here a very long time. There’s not a lot I don’t know. ”
That’s kind. I glance around and there’s nobody behind me.
“What percentage of the attendees today will apply for your Easter intake?” I ask.
She laughs. “That’s exactly the kind of attitude that will make a great chef.
And believe me, I’ve seen a great many come through these doors.
I know what it takes. That competitive streak will serve you well as long as you keep it under control.
” She opens her eyes wider, as if silently asking me if I understand.
“I’ll try.”
She laughs again. “Admissions wants to see that you’re motivated to succeed in the course, that you have evidence of your hard work—either at college or in industry, and that you have a love of food.”
That was what I really wanted to know—how to get in. Misha’s smart.
“But as you probably have guessed, we’re oversubscribed,” Misha continues.
“Any tips?” I ask. I’m acting like I’m definitely going to apply and I haven’t even heard their spiel or even thought of how I could figure out my day job alongside a demanding college course.
“We offer a lot of different courses. Make sure you pick the right one.”
That wasn’t what I expected her to say.
I wonder if Beppe from Serenissima would write me a recommendation.
Honestly, he’d probably offer me a job if I asked him.
But that’s not what I want. I don’t want to work in a restaurant.
I’m sure about that. I have that same passion as my father, but I don’t have to follow exactly in his footsteps.
I can take a different path. I’m just not sure what my path will be.
But ever since Avril suggested it, I haven’t been able to shake the idea that I should put my energy into what I love. And I love food.
This is where I’m meant to be. And Avril made me see it. It’s like she saw through to the man I am at my core and encouraged him out of hiding and into the light.
When I agreed to help her if she could prove we could keep things professional, I thought she needed my help. But I think it was me who needed her all along.
I was an arrogant prick.
I thought she’d never come and live at my apartment, and somewhere along the line, I did actually think she’d fall in love with me in seven days.
I’m an idiot. The way I can’t stop thinking about her, the way I’ve been sleeping in her bed, just so I can feel closer to her, the way that every time anything happens in my day.
I want to tell her about it. I think I’m the one who fell in love during those seven days.
It’s like she’s spiked my coffee and I’m under her spell now.
I’m not a puppet master when it comes to Avril.
I’m a guy who doesn’t know the first thing about relationships or how to do anything but keep people out.
Avril deserves better. And honestly, so do I.
I want to enjoy my life, and not feel like everything I do is an insurance against disaster. I want more.