The rest of the interview went well enough. I took him through my sample menus, dutifully reeled off my culinary résumé, and then sat back and waited for him to do his part and ask me some questions. But only one question came, eventually.
‘Ms Jones, I’m a busy man.’
I remember biting the inside of my cheek to stop a laugh from slipping out.I’m a busy man. No shit, Sherlock.
‘I don’t have time for culinary… theatrics or pretentious menus.’ He waved a dismissive hand over the sample menus I’d laid out in front of him and I swear a small part of me nearly shrivelled up and died.
Culinary theatrics.
Pretentious menus.
Ouch.
‘Your meal last Christ—’ He grimaced as if tasting something vile on the tip of his tongue, and then shook his head. ‘Your meal last year showcased your talents well, but I really don’t need that every day. I just want someone who can whip up something that’s nutritious, tastes good, and isn’t going to make extra work for me every day. Bonus points if you can tidy up after yourself and know what discretion means.’ For the first time since I’d walked into his sterile office, he met my gaze with something other than thinly veiled boredom with a dash of contempt, and asked, ‘Can you do that, or should I continue to look elsewhere?’
I should’ve laughed in his face.
Should’ve jumped straight out of my seat and stormed right out of there. Because who the hell talks to someone like that without expecting an immediate fist in the face? Alexander Hoxton, that’s who.
But I knew in my heart of hearts that I couldn’t return to The Avalon after an opportunity like this. I couldn’t get a job at any restaurant after this. As much as I still hate to admit it to this day, getting that email from Hoxton’s assistant on Christmas Day was the best gift anyone could have ever given me. For the first time since I allowed myself to dream of a culinary career, I felt like I had an actual plan that would allow me to get to my end goal: a restaurant of my own. I’d never be able to save up enough working for someone else but, as a personal chef, I could make my own hours, charge my own rates and specifically seek out the ridiculously rich as clients. I’d be doing something I love and finally, finally, be earning what I deserve for it.
And it all started with him.
That’s why, two years on from quite possibly the worst interview I’ve ever had, with a roster of other clients to cater for, Alexander Hoxton is still one of them.
His only redeeming quality – aside from being a literal Adonis – is the fact that he only really communicates via email, and even those are a rarity. I’ve taken to leaving stickynotes around his kitchen if I need to ask something of him and, since the day he hired me, I don’t think we’ve shared more than ten actual words between us.
It’s a strange working dynamic for sure, but it works for us and I’d like to keep it that way. Eve, as the main recipient of all my Hoxton-related complaints, knows this just as well as I do, so I can’t exactly blame her for being confused as to why I’ve chosen him over driving to Nan’s house together like we’d planned.
‘First off, I’d be surprised if Hoxton even knows the meaning of Christmas spirit,’ I say, glancing away from the phone screen as I turn down a familiar side road. The large houses on either side of the street are decked out in glittering lights and artful decorations that send a warm jolt of Christmas joy shooting through me.
You just don’t get this kind of festive fun in the city where we’re all crammed into dull, grey tower blocks and nobody wants to make eye contact with their neighbours. The houses out here, in Hoxton’s rich Surrey suburb, are like something out of a film. Almost every home is covered in twinkling lights and more than a handful have doused their sprawling front lawns in fake snow.
‘And secondly,’ I continue, a wry smile playing on my lips as I crawl past an elegant reindeer sculpture outside a particularly grand house, ‘you remember how much he’s paying me for tonight, don’t you?’
‘Money isn’t everything, Noelle,’ Eve says loftily, but I can hear the grin in her voice.
I suppose that’s one more good thing about Hoxton: he pays ridiculously well. So well, I thought there had been a mistake the first time he paid one of my invoices and added a tip so large, I was convinced my bank would shut down my account on suspicion of fraud. I still haven’t quite managed to shake that fear every time he pays me.
The tech company Hoxton founded, almost a decade ago, has a reputation for paying some of the highest salaries in the field and it seems that this admittedly admirable generosity filters down to his other expenditures too.
He’s never had a problem with my fee. Has never tried to arbitrarily haggle it down a few hundred pounds like some of the other clients I’ve amassed over the last two years. And he always throws a good tip my way – though this, I suspect, is less from genuine satisfaction with my work or delight with me as human being, given that we never speak, and more just a habit he’s picked up over the years for all his auxiliary staff. Either way, I can’t complain. As much as Hoxton irritates me, I’ll take his well-paying, moody ass over the clients who smile in my face when I’m in their homes but are always late paying my invoices.
‘Money isn’t everything,’ I concede, ‘but if you want me to come on your hen party trip to Cancun next year, I need to take this job.’
Eve giggles with familiar wedding-related excitement. From the corner of my eye, I watch as she holds her hand in front of her and admires the rock Nathan proposed to her with six months ago. It’s so big, the glare from it is almost blinding. ‘You’re right. Get the bag, girl. We’ve got first-class flights to pay for!’
My laughter mixes in with hers. In typical Eve fashion, she and Nathan are going all out for their wedding and, as the maid of honour, I’ve got to be there every step of the way. Not that I’m complaining. I’m exactly three minutes and forty-two seconds older than Eve, and I take my ‘big sister’ role seriously. If there’s anything I can do to put a smile on her face, I’ll do it. And besides, you’ll never catch me complaining about a trip to Cancun, of all places.
It does, however, mean that I’ve had to pack out my business calendar with bookings recently in order to pay for all the festivities. Celebratory drinks. Multiple dress fittings. A bridal shower and a seven-day hen party in Cancun that I’ve been tasked with planning… It all adds up and I’m determined not to dip into my ‘start my own restaurant’ savings to make it happen. That’s why accepting Hoxton’s last-minute request for tonight was a no-brainer.
Half a day of work, doing what I love to do, and my first-class return flight to Cancun will be almost entirely paid for.
I don’t often give Hoxton praise, but today I find myself grateful to him.
Just a teeny bit.
‘Oh shit,’ Eve breathes.
