eating for comfort, but didn’t care. I deserved any pleasure I could get at the moment. This ersatz meal was a lurid example of what chefs eat when they’re not working, and I inhaled it with gusto.
With the heat off in the car, I was freezing. It was the bone-deep damp that can’t be escaped here. Why does England have to be so cold? My cottage on the grounds was likely to be as freezing inside as it was outside when I arrived. Had taking this job been a panic choice or the right thing to do?
Slugging back my Lucozade (which was making me even colder…why in God’s name didn’t I get a cup of tea?), I wished I could beam myself back to before I’d even met Ben. I longed to be in Posy’s lavish Parisian apartment, where she’d taken me in for nearly three years. She rescued me in Paris after I’d followed Stephen there, although she’ll tell anyone who’ll listen that I rescued her.
Given my start in Paris – struggling junior chef barely earning enough for rent – that level of luxury was something I never dreamed of. Well, to be honest, given my middle-class suburban ranch house growing up, being in Paris was something I never dreamed of either. Like a lot of things before I’d met Stephen. Like being stone-cold dumped in the most romantic city in the world.
Stop dwelling, Juliet. That’s “anti-luck thinking” according to Aunt Suze. Positive visualization will manifest positive results. God, Mother would have a field day if I said that out loud. I secretly subscribe to “Suze Wyatt’s Make Your Own Luck” e-newsletters. My aunt also authored the book Follow Your North Star to Happiness. Following her lead, I created my own “Heart Phrase”. Goofy, I know, but when Aunt Suze explains that we should all pick a mantra and proclaim our truth, it sounds so right.
“Food is my new passion.” I’d tested that out on Mother from Paris, when I’d started working my first kitchen job at Chez Henri. After being humiliated in the city of love, I couldn’t go crawling home, so I took the only job I could get, and made the best of it.
“I’m sorry,” she’d said. “Did you just say, ‘Food is my new passion’?”
“No,” I’d answered quickly. At this point, most people could say, “Put Dad on the phone.” I imagined a jolly father who would say, “Don’t mind your mother. You know she loves you. I’m proud of you for following your dream.” Although, unfortunately, there is no jolly father.
Back in Paris, Posy introduced me to Charles, an American, and his lover, Luc. They opened my small-town eyes. Charles threw legendary parties, during which he draped the apartment with red velvet swags and rigged up champagne fountains from fish-tank pumps and vintage birdbaths. His motto had always been I know it’s too much, but is it enough? Luc got me that first job at Chez Henri, as a hostess and busser, lying wildly about my French. I was a spectacular failure at front-of-house. My first night, I insulted the local commissaire de police by seating him next to the kitchen, and delivered an expensive bottle of port to a restaurant critic’s table, calling his mistress by his wife’s name. I forced myself to suck it up. In my halting French, I apologized and told the chef and owner Henri that if he wanted to send champagne to make up for my blunders, I’d work the hours to pay for it. Impressed, Henri told me something in French that sounded like, “You are a man, and I like that in certain women.” Instead of a pink slip, he gave me an apron, and sent me to the kitchen where I learned to cook through trial by fire, under Henri, that exceptional chef with a mercurial temper. To this day, when people ask me where I trained, I tell them, “In Paris, at The School of ‘Not Like That, Stupid!’”
After living through the shock Stephen had handed down, I needed a purpose. Henri pissed me off enough to want to show I could win. So far in Paris, my only goal had been not to curl up and die. Now I had something to master. It was weird, because it was the opposite of intellectual, but I worked better when I turned my brain off.
And I was enchanted. I cooked my way through a variety of restaurants in Paris, took weekend courses and did short stints in France’s other regions, always staying just long enough to learn the best of what each chef had to teach me. And that was my life in France. Work, sleep, an occasional free day, when I went to museums or bought cheap seats at the ballet or theatre. I was happy socializing with Posy and my new gay best friends, or curling up with a good book. I had a good run there. Until London. Until Ben.
I started the engine, cranked up the heater, and checked my phone. I was both furious and relieved that there were no messages from Ben. I imagined him sitting at his huge desk. Smug and satisfied, he was probably having an office drink about now, gearing up for the holiday. I supposed he hadn’t yet realized I was gone. There was only one text:
Call me anytime, day or nite. need ur advice urgently P xx
Fumbling with my earpiece, I had a brief thought that I probably shouldn’t drive and talk about stuff that upsets me, but I needed to hear her voice.
“Are you sitting down?” Posy demanded. “I’ll bet you’re lying down, you right old slapper! I suppose you couldn’t be troubled to ring Posy back because you were on the receiving end of an epic shagging. You American girls,” she teased. “When the boyfriend shows up, it’s all ‘Bye-bye, Bestie, I’ve got a ride to climb aboard…’”
Normally, I’m delighted at this send-up. I’d never worn the “bad girl” label, and it made me sound sassy. Part of me dreamed of donning thigh-high boots and false eyelashes, and falling into bed with strange men who smoked. Between slow drags, they’d slide their eyes up and down me and say, “Juliet, you are one hot slut.” Anyway, um, back to the present!
I’d never admitted to Posy that Ben and I weren’t exactly chandelier-swingers. Ben’s only the second man I’ve been with, in fact. And now, I wasn’t with him. My throat closed as I choked on a giant sob.
“Hello? My little tartlet? Aren’t you speaking to Posy? I’ve called to tell you I’ve been proposed to!”
“What?” I sputtered. “By whom? Oh God, not Baz! I mean, it’s Baz, isnt it? I mean, what?”
I’d been tiptoeing around confessing that I wasn’t a fan of Posy’s latest boyfriend. Trashing someone’s love interest is dangerous territory. One minute a couple splits up and you’re pointing out that the guy has bad breath and talks with a whistle, and the next thing, they’re having a baby and you’re not invited to the christening.
“I’m lying. It’s a joke!” Posy exclaimed. “I called to tell you I gave Baz the boot!”
“Really?” I asked, relieved.
“Too right! He may well murder in the sack, but hadn’t you noticed? He’s a bit of a wang! All he ever cared about was having the latest Gucci sunglasses to wear on that yacht of his. We were aboard that thing every weekend, and he mostly just got plastered with his mates and yelled ‘I’m king of the world!’ whilst peering off the bow. We broke up just in the nick of time, too. You know that uber-sexy, silver fox author of Get Fit the Yogi’s Way? Well, after his book launch party, he took me to his flat and showed me how to bend in ways I’d never dreamed possible, if you catch my drift.”
“Isn’t he kind of old?”
“Who cares, as long as he’s hot and fit. There are lots of older blokes I fancy. Like the new James Bond, you know, what’s-his-name. And your man Piers Conley-Weatherall.”
“Eew, I don’t think of him like that.”
“Maybe I have more of an open mind. He’s cute and he can cook.”
“Posy,
