Chapter 10 A Typical Roberts
A Typical Roberts
— T ODAY —
Ian is… a Roberts? How is that even possible? How did I not know this?
The dining room, filled with patrons chatting loudly and clinking forks and knives against their plates, feels distant, especially as every person sitting at our table seems to have gone still. It feels like time has frozen.
Ian blinks once, twice, three times. He swallows, then remains completely still. Horrified. As horrified as I am. We’ll spend the next week in this hotel, going to the same places, attending events together. We’ll sleep under the same roof. It’s much more than I could have hoped for, but that was before I knew my Ian is Ian Roberts.
The son of the man who ruined my life.
When Barb’s elbow sinks into my hip, I notice the table has gone silent and everyone is gawking at the two of us as we gaze at each other in disbelief.
“Nice to officially meet you,” he eventually says, his voice hesitant, as if he’s not sure of his own words. “Ian Roberts, co-owner and manager of the Marguerite.”
“Amelie Preston.”
People start murmuring, hopefully unaware of the staring match going on between us. Of the fact that our whole lives just shifted. I’m the daughter of his father’s sworn enemy. He’s the son of my father’s sworn enemy—actually, scratch that.
William Roberts is my archenemy.
Ian must know what happened to me. At this point, everyone in the business has read the article about the daughter of Hammond Preston falling into disgrace. Now he knows that’s me. He must be putting two and two together, which means he surely knows about Frank too.
The chain around my neck and tucked under my shirt feels heavy, the air saturated and thick. Ian is here, in front of me. I’ve wanted to see him every day for the past six months, and now he’s here.
And he’s a Roberts.
Pam talks of the other speakers coming in tomorrow from all over the country, then points at two of the nearest tables and explains who’s who. Her voice vibrates with an excitement I honestly can’t bring myself to share. Food isn’t that necessary, is it? Maybe I could just skip dinner and spend my night hyperventilating with my face hidden in a pillow.
“So, how have you structured your seminars?” Pam asks, turning to Ian. She’s sitting right beside him, but he doesn’t appear to hear her: his eyes are on me, a cryptic expression on his face. He’s definitely not happy, though I can’t tell if it’s because he can’t stop looking or because he doesn’t like what he sees.
Discreetly widening my eyes, I look toward Pam, hoping to redirect his attention.
“Oh—sorry. What?”
“Your seminars? There are so many interesting ones this year. I forgot what you’ll be delighting us with.”
He nods, straightening the collar of the white shirt under his sweater. “How to cook and sell affordable French delicacies that can relate to diverse palates. The Marguerite was the first restaurant to spread low-cost French cuisine on a national level, so—”
“ Tsk .”
Seven sets of eyes turn to me, and it’s the first hint that my mocking noise wasn’t internal. Barb’s strong grasp of my thigh is another great one, but Ian’s glare takes the cake. “Yes, Amelie?”
Focusing on the menu between my hands, I shake my head. “N-nothing. Sorry.”
“Right. As I was saying, we’ve—”
“It’s…” My eyes meet his, the murmurs at the table flattening out. “You weren’t.” Everyone stares at me, waiting for what will come next. “The first ones to bring French cuisine to this country.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It is. You said—”
“I said we were the first to do it at affordable prices.”
The waiter pours some wine into my glass. I could—I should—let it go. Except I can’t, because despite the intensity of my feelings for Ian, I am fighting with the hateful monster that takes over my brain every time William Roberts is involved. Though not long ago I didn’t care about him in the slightest, the past six months have irrevocably changed my mind. Ian’s father is the devil incarnate. “Same thing. And you weren’t.”
His lips disappear behind his teeth, as if he’s trying to hide his amusement. “All right, then. Who was?”
“Jaques Moreau? Even my father started long before William Roberts decided he was done doing taxes and got into the restaurant business.”
The clinking of forks and knives stops in a second as the whole table stills, Barb hiding behind her menu and mouthing, Shut up.
Ian, whose eyes narrow to slits, takes a long, deep breath, then rubs his hands on the napkin at the side of his plate. A line of white teeth peeks through his lips as he fights rising laughter. “Amelie, your father’s restaurant is not affordable. It’s pretentious, ancient, tedious.” Threading his fingers through his hair, he shrugs. “But not affordable.”
“I guess it depends what you mean by ‘affordable.’ See, La Brasserie doesn’t compromise on the quality of the ingredients. It’s based on the assumption that people would rather spend a few more bucks and be served high-quality food instead of overly seasoned grub—”
Barb’s nails dig into my thigh. I might have taken it too far.
Everyone’s head at the table ping-pongs from Ian to me, different degrees of shock etched on their faces. When I look at Ian, I expect him to be livid, but he’s not. His eyes are wide, his eyebrows arched, and there’s a full, jubilant smile on his face. With a loud snort, he pinches the bridge of his nose. “The Marguerite placed first in the ‘Best New Restaurant’ category at the Fine Eats Awards. We won prizes for our marketing, our design, our inclusiveness, and our dining experience. We’re listed among the hundred best French restaurants in the country.” He fidgets with the cutlery. “Your father is a successful man, a damn skilled cook, but despite what you Prestons believe, that does not mean he’s the only one.”
Why am I not surprised there’s no food-related award on his long list?
“You’re right,” I say, taking a sip of wine. “My father isn’t the only talented chef around here.” Nonchalantly, I add, “In fact, you’ve got plenty of examples at this very table.” After a quick look around, I set my gaze on him again. “But you won’t find any in the Marguerite’s kitchen.”
It’s Ian’s turn to be stared at as I try to control my rising anger, and, judging by his expression, he’s thoroughly enjoying pushing my buttons. It doesn’t surprise me in the least, and it doesn’t make what I said less true. The only reason the Marguerite is so damn successful is because of how much smoke is blown in the customers’ eyes. Circus-like performers hanging from the ceilings, QR code menus, champagne fountains, and many more attempts to distract the diners from a simple truth: their food is substandard.
“By the way,” Ian says, snapping his fingers. “Looks like your language skills are a little rusty.” When he’s met by my dubious gaze, he explains, “Marguerite isn’t French for ‘too much onion.’ It means daisy, and it’s my mother’s name.”
The tweet.
I avert my gaze, making myself small on the chair, as the silence between us stretches.
“Well, this is surely an explosive start to our week,” Pam says in a tentative, cheerful voice after a while. Everyone half-heartedly laughs, and soon the chatter is back in full force, except for Ian and me, who continue to glare at each other until, eventually, I lower my gaze.
God, what a shit show.
“You know, I’ve met your dad.” Ian speaks over the others’ voices, and the laughter and chatter die down as people realize we’re about to start round two.
Barb raises her hand, frantically looking around the dining room. “Where is the damn waiter?” she asks worriedly.
“Have you?” I ask.
He slowly nods, sucking his cheeks in. If he thinks there’s anything he can say about my father that will upset me, he’s way off. I’m very much aware of his flaws and limitations. So aware, in fact, that I could list them alphabetically.
“And?” I ask with a fleeting smile.
A slow chuckle bubbles out of his lips. “Let’s just say… I get it.” He gives a cold, assessing look. “Why you’re like that.”
By the time the waiter approaches the table, Ian hasn’t uttered another word, and neither have I. I also haven’t been able to really grasp anything written on the menu, so whatever Barb’s getting, I say I want the same. Considering she’s pregnant, I hope it’s not too weird.
At some point, other brain functions kick in. I smile and respond when asked a question, then examine the little ceramic flowers on the rim of my glass until I’m served a chicken fried steak. After I’ve eaten half, I go back to staring at the flowers.
I get it. Why you’re like that.
I can’t believe he’d half insult me at a table full of colleagues. Actually, I can’t believe he’d insult me at all. Sure, I wasn’t exactly kind when I spoke of his business, but he’s attacking my personality. The very fiber of who I am. Like that.
As soon as he’s done with his soup, he stands. We throw each other a sullen look—a pissed-off, frustrated, sad look. This isn’t the end of it; we’ll have an entire week of these delightful exchanges, now that we’re more than Ian and Amelie. Now that we’re a Roberts and a Preston.
The thought of it makes my stomach churn.
Ian was a friend for a while there. The best one I’ve ever had, despite having only really met him a few times. And there was also something more, though we messed that up. I sure as hell won’t be his enemy, and he won’t be mine, so once he wishes the table a good night and walks away, I stand and follow him.
“Ian,” I call.
He turns to me with a glare, then looks away.
“ Why I’m like that ?” I mock. I realize this isn’t the best way to bury the hatchet, but I can’t let it go.
Strutting toward the stairs with his shoulders closing in on his neck, he doesn’t bother turning around as he says, “Hmm.”
“How am I, Ian?”
He stops on the carpet, which covers most of the hotel’s hall. After a long, deep inhale, he begins walking away again as if he’s changed his mind.
“How am I?” I repeat, loud enough to cause a couple of heads to turn.
Once again he halts, but this time he grabs my arm and pulls me toward the corridor opposite the dining room.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He opens a door, and once we’re both inside, closes it behind us. Even with the low light of a lamppost filtering through the large windows, I can see the clean, polished white flooring and the beige walls. We must be in one of the conference rooms. We stick by the door, and he towers over me, his fresh and clean scent making everything else seem unimportant. Though it’s the very opposite thing I’d like to do, I cross my arms over my chest and wait for his explanation. Starting with why he dragged me in here.
“ How. Am. I? ”
This time I sounded aggressive.
“You’re a Preston. You think you’re better than anyone else. You’re pretentious, critical, and stuck-up.” He leans forward as he speaks, his cold eyes piercing mine. “Just like your father.”
My legs turn weak as a chill moves up my spine. “You—”
“Unlike your father,” he continues in a sharp tone as my vision tunnels, “you value everyone else’s wants more than yours, Amelie. You can’t fight for yourself. You’re a coward and—”
With my ears ringing and my muscles tensing, I beat his chest with the side of my fist, barely creasing his shirt. His lips compress as if he’s trying not to laugh before he looks down at my hand. “Was that supposed to be a punch?”
Well, yes. I’ve never punched anyone before, and it’s not like I want to physically hurt him. I don’t know what I was going for exactly , except maybe hoping that, unlike a jukebox, the noise would stop if I hit him.
I’m unsure of where to go from here, and his derisive look embarrasses me, so I go for a second mock punch. But he grabs my wrist, his fingers delicate but firm around my skin.
“Stop it,” he says as I try to free myself from his hold. The man must have sixty pounds on me, and my squirming does nothing to break his grip, now on both of my wrists. “Stop being ridiculous, Amelie.”
“Is that what you think? Do you really believe I’m… everything you said?” When he averts his gaze, I pull myself free. “Or are you just angry because I didn’t choose you when you asked me to?”
As his chin jerks down, his eyes shoot through me like a bullet. There’s hurt and disappointment in them, and they’re painfully familiar, because despite all my big talk, that’s exactly how I feel about myself. “The problem isn’t that you didn’t choose me . The problem is that you didn’t choose yourself .”
I swallow, trying to hold back the swell of emotions twisting my stomach.
Ian is right here in front of me, he’s a Roberts, and he hates me. It’s all too much to process in the span of one meal. Especially because he’s right. He’s so right, it hurts. I’ve failed myself in more ways than I can count, and by doing that, I’ve disappointed Ian. I’ve hurt him too.
So, he’s right. Except that he’s also completely wrong.
“I told you I couldn’t,” I breathe, my voice so weak and shaky, it’s barely audible. “I was engaged. I never led you on and—”
“Ha!” His eyebrows rise. “You never led me on?”
“No! You asked and asked. And I said no. I kept saying no! No, no, no !”
I stomp my feet, halting at once when bitter laughter bubbles up from his lips. “I remember you repeating ‘yes, yes, yes’ on occasion too.”
My face grows hot and tingly, the memories clouding my mind much too painful to bear. “Fuck you,” I whisper. “Fuck you for using that against me.” I try to walk past him, but he blocks me, not motivated at all by my deadly glare to let me through. “Move!” I shout. “Let me out of here.”
He doesn’t at first, instead running a hand over his face, then steps to the side. Finally free, I open the door and run all the way upstairs to the safety of my room. Only then do I hide my face in the pillow and burst into a snot-filled, desperate crying jag.
I bawl for all the times I dreamed about seeing Ian again, because none of them went like this. I don’t know what I expected, exactly. Maybe that, like in a movie, our eyes would meet across a busy street and we’d walk straight into each other’s arms. That we’d fit into each other’s lives as magically as we did before. That, like in a fairy tale, one kiss would be enough to mend us, to make up for what we damaged and lost.
But this? Insults and hurtful remarks to wound each other? It’s certainly not what I envisioned.
So I weep.
For Ian, for me. For everything that has happened since Barb’s wedding. For everything that happened since mine.