“Why, what’s wrong with it?” Marcy tapped the steering wheel. “I love my girl. She’s reliable, spacious, beautiful…”
Bisou laughed even harder at the ‘beautiful’ comment and shook her head. “Oh, God. So, you live in a caravan and drive a truck. You’re such a stereotypical lesbian. All you need is a cat and you’d tick all the boxes; I can’t wait to tell my friends about this.” She was typing on her phone as she spoke.
“I guess I am.” Marcy felt a pang of annoyance at her barbed comment because she liked her life, and she wasn’t ashamed of anything. The caravan site was a nice place to live and her truck was her best friend. Deep down, she kind of wanted to show Bisou her project, just to see the envious look on her face, but if she were to choose anyone to see it first, it would be her father. Instead, she pulled over a few minutes’ walk away from Paradise Hotel. “Well, this is my turn,” she said, pointing to the right. “Your hotel is just a short walk that way.”
“Oh… you’re not dropping me off at the door?”
“No. It’s not far, but it takes forever to turn there with all the tour busses waiting. Besides, what if your friends see you in my nasty old truck?” Marcy added with a hint of sarcasm.
Bisou looked taken aback as she stepped out and for a brief moment even stopped looking at her phone. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine, I’m just kidding. It was lovely to meet you, Bisou. I had a great night. Enjoy the rest of your holiday.” Marcy sped off before Bisou had the chance to ask for her number and saw her stunned expression as she looked back in her rear-view mirror. What was it with people and their phones? She hardly spent any time on hers.
Relieved to be alone again, she turned on the radio and hummed along to a song she didn’t know the lyrics to. Driving out of town, the scenery gradually started to change, with high-rise buildings soon replaced by the mountainous landscape of Benimantell. She passed the Guadalest Reservoir with its emerald-green water, and dozens of farms until she reached the private road that spiralled through forest and fields, heading for her soon to be home.
4
The hotel was smaller than it looked in the pictures she’d seen. Zoe looked up at the building that was being renovated for the reopening in late October when she would start her first job as an executive chef.
Returning to Spain had been a conscious decision. Not only did she miss her parents, but career opportunities were also thinner on the ground in Hong Kong, and the competition was killing. She’d worked hard in the past five years, and although she’d made it to chef de cuisine—which was pretty impressive for her age—the management team had made it clear they thought she was too young to progress any further in the coming two years.
So, she’d looked for jobs in her home town and liked the concept of the hotel being so close to her family home.
She hadn’t found a flat yet but moving wasn’t a priority at this moment in time. For now, living with her parents wasn’t so bad, and besides, it gave her the opportunity to take some much-needed downtime and recharge her batteries before she started her new job and became responsible for running a team of eighteen.Executive chef.She liked the sound of her new title and was looking forward to cooking up some magic at El Escondite. As long as she she stuck to Spanish cuisine, she’d been given free rein to utilise her creativity, and she planned to do just that.
Zoe walked around the building to the temporary rear entrance where Lisa, the woman who was running the refurbishment project, had arranged to meet her. Being early wasn’t a bad thing. It would give her some time to check out the space that would soon be her responsibility.
Builders were paving the outside space where the pool, a lush tropical looking garden and a half-built bar were situated. A woman with a tablet in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other was talking to two decorators who were covered in white paint. Her short, blonde hair was sticking out from underneath a yellow safety helmet and her tanned skin was paint-stained too. When Zoe approached, she turned in her direction and looked her over like she was lunch. Although Zoe would have normally welcomed the flirtatious look, her stomach dropped when she recognised her admirer.Fuck.
“Hey there, can I help you?” The blonde smiled widely.
Zoe continued to stare at her, expecting a hint of recognition from the woman’s side, but there was nothing.
“Are you okay?”
“Ehm, yes.” Zoe cleared her throat. “I’m the new executive chef.”
“Oh, great. I’m Marcy, the site manager.” Marcy held out her hand and Zoe shook it half-heartedly. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Zoe.” Again, after introducing herself, Zoe waited for the penny to drop, for some spark of recollection, but Marcy clearly had no idea who she was. Instead, she pointed to her head.
“You have a butterfly in your hair.”
“I know, there’s usually one or two attached to me. They seem to like the way I smell.” Unable to return Marcy’s smile and unable to walk away as she had business to take care of, Zoe asked, “Can you direct me to the kitchen?”
“Okay… to the point, are we?” Marcy looked a little irritated at Zoe’s unfriendly reply, but she remained polite and nodded. “Sure. Follow me.” She patted the man she’d been talking to on the shoulder. “Excuse me for a moment, will you? I’ll be right back.”
Zoe didn’t care if she’d just come across as rude. She owed Marcy nothing, especially not kindness. Following her inside, she tried to concentrate on the space around the bar which would serve as the inside dining area, then checked out the pass. Seeing Marcy had thrown her off guard, she felt anxious and unsteady on her legs.
“Through here.” Marcy pointed to the other side of the pass. “The door will move over there; this entrance is just temporary.”
The kitchen had already been kitted out with basic units and the location of the sockets still to be installed were taped onto the freshly tiled walls. “Why is the sink over there?” Zoe asked, gesturing to a space with a huge sink and room for two large, industrial-sized dishwashers underneath.
Marcy shrugged. “That’s where it was before. Why?”
“It needs to move to the other side, underneath the window.” Zoe pointed to the left. “It’s not practical to have the porter station right next to the ovens. The chefs and the kitchen porters will be in each other’s way, not to mention it will be much too warm for my porters to work there.”
Marcy’s expression told Zoe she didn’t like her work or her ideas to be criticised. “Well, it was there originally. For twenty-two years,” she said. “So, I don’t see why we need to change it now.”
