“I made a casserole.” I gesture towards the slow cooker. “My class finished a couple of minutes ago. I needed something that would cook itself.” Plus, tough meat is cheap meat, rescued solely by the application of many, many hours of cooking.
When we arranged our second meeting, I insisted on providing a meal for the occasion. I’m still unsure of how I’ll be helping Tristan, since he himself is unsure of what he needs. At least this way, I know I’m contributing to our strange partnership.
Opening the oven door, I pull out the rewarmed loaf of crusty bread I made this morning. Tristan groans as the smell fills the room. “When you say dinner you really meandinner.”
Wow. It’s only casserole and bread. How long has it been since he had a decent meal? “You don’t cook?”
“Sure, I do,” he assures me, putting his notebook and pens beside a place setting at the table. “In the microwave, for however long the directions on the packet tell me.”
“I see.” Stifling a laugh, I slide the bread onto a large, wooden board and cut it into thick slices.
“Your mother taught you to cook?” Tristan leans one hip against the counter as he watches me, his arms crossed.
Smiling, I nod. “I didn’t even know pre-made meals were a thing until I was a teenager.” His eyebrows raise in surprise and I shrug. “We were on a tight budget. Those things aren’t big on value.”
“That’s not the only thing they aren’t big on,” he agrees. “They aren’t big on flavour, or satisfaction, or comfort.”
“Ah, comfort.” Taking one of the smaller slices of bread, I slather it in butter and offer it to the man at my side. “Comfort is something this kitchen will always provide.”
Tristan eagerly accepts the bread. When he bites into it, another groan spills from his mouth. “Delicious.”
My smile widens as I pile slices onto a plate. I like feeding this man, he seems like he needs it, and not just for the nutritional content.
Tristan takes the plate while I dish up generous helpings of casserole and we sit down opposite each other at the old wooden table. It bears the scars of three generations of my family, but it’s clean and sturdy. That’s all I need.
After a few appreciative bites of dinner, along with compliments on my cooking, Tristan gets down to business. “I have your plan ready. Shall we go through it?”
Taking a deep breath, I nod. Chants ofI can do this, I can do thisstart up in my head. No matter what the plan contains, I’m determined to follow each and every instruction down to the letter.
He pulls a printed document from between the pages of his notebook and lays it on the table between us.
My eyes widen. It’s thicker than I expected.
Tristan begins to go through the bullet point summary on the first page. It starts simply enough. Increasing my student numbers. Finding more people to hire the studio when I’m not using it. Negotiating hourly rates and contracts.
I nod at appropriate intervals and choke down bites of food, despite the churning in my gut and the thump, thump, thump of blood in my temples.I can do this. I have to do this.
“Then we’ll contact the media,” Tristan says.
My chant falls silent. The riot inside me goes nuclear.
Tristan catches the expression on my face. “It’s an idea. You don’t have to do it.”
Yes, I do! I know my brain. If I don’t vow to do everything, I’ll find a way to put off doing anything and then all of this will be for nothing.
“I’d like to get you on one of the morning TV shows.” His smile has dimmed, but he pushes on, speaking faster as he goes. “The filming is done in Sydney, but they’re broadcast nationally, which would be perfect for theSleep with Meapp. My friend, George, has some contacts down there and you have a great angle. By the time we’re done, everyone in Australia will want to sleep with you.”
He waits for me to laugh at his joke, but I’m busy trying not to pass out.
I can’t do this. I can’t.
“Sam?”
Any attempt to think otherwise is me deluding myself into thinking I’m someone I’m not.
“Please, talk to me.” Concern lines Tristan’s face as he waits for my response.
What am I supposed to say? Thank you for spending hours trying to fix my ailing business but I’m going to ignore it all in favour of sticking my head in the sand—or maybe into my pile of unpaid bills.
