7
I hate to complain, but…
Emma
It’s a grey, rainy day, which suits me just fine because I'm every bit as miserable today as I was when I first arrived back home three days ago. Phyllis and Alfred are really cold, which means I’m basically living in solitary confinement out here. It’s more like Ryker’s Island than the Island of Eden. I’m a social girl. Ilovepeople so this is definitely not for me.
Plus, it’s honestly a little scary out here at night. I find myself laying awake half the night wondering if Phyllis and Alfred are actually axe murderers waiting for their chance to off me.
During the day, it’s not much better either. It’s desperately boring and lonely so I’ve been going back to the resort as often as possible. I tell Alfred and Phyllis my frequent trips are supply runs, but I’m secretly doing a little recon to see if any of the other chefs at the resort might want to trade places with me. I considered telling Harrison how badly I hate it here, but since I’d rather bring him solutions than problems, I want to find someone willing to swap before I approach the subject.
Actually, that’s not entirely true. The truth is—and this is between you and I because I could never admit it to anyone else—I don’t want to ask Harrison for a better position because I’m the teeniest bit angry with him for sticking me out here. Well, more than a teeny bit, actually. Extremely pissed would be more accurate. I suppose I’m more hurt than angry.
Very, very hurt.
I know he and Libby said this is a super important position and all, but I can’t help but wonder if maybe I wasn’t given a proper kitchen to manage because they thought I couldn’t handle it. I know I’m young, but I’ve been working in the restaurants in one capacity or another since I was in a training bra. And deep down, I know I can do it. I could run the hell out of a kitchen. (In a good way of course. That didn’t sound quite how I meant.) I just need to get someone to give me my shot, and it hurts that Harrison doesn’t have the confidence in me to let me try. He says he’s proud of me, but then he sticks me out here like I’m the family screwup or something.
So, I figured I’d be like Tess McGill inWorking Girland decide that ‘I make it happen.’ Unfortunately, it turns out no one wants to be stuck on a tiny houseboat with no air conditioning, scrubbing their own pots, when they can be in a nice, cool, well-equipped kitchen planning meals and delegating all the crap jobs. I approached the subject with Frieda, who runs the Japanese restaurant. She basically laughed when I tried to Tom Sawyer her. Norman, the head chef at the buffet said he’d love to trade with me but couldn’t on account of his seasickness. Apparently, he completely forgot he was standing in front of a framed photo of himself on a boat with a marlin on a fishing line at the time.
Word must be getting around that I want off Eden, because yesterday afternoon all I did was smile at Junior Gonzalez when I saw him on the way to the Brazilian steakhouse and he shook his head and said, “No way, Emma. I’m not trading.”
Unfortunately, this means putting my dream of becoming a world-famous chef on hold indefinitely. I’m basically working as a personal cook for parties of one or two, which is going to get me exactly nowhere. And, let’s face it, it’s not like the next guests will be any better than this guy. They’reallgoing to be uppity rich people who treat me like the help while they spend their stay posting photos of their ridiculously expensive vacay to make everyone back home jealous.
The truth is, the longer I stay here, the longer it’s going to take for me to earn any R-E-S-P-E-C-T from the culinary world. I’ll wither and die here on this shitty little houseboat, having never shared my talents with the world.
Oh dear, I am a whiny thing when I’m alone too long with my own thoughts. Think on the bright side, Emma.
It has given me the chance to relax after all that hard work at school. I’ve actually started reading again for pleasure, which is rather nice, really. And I’ve been taking mid-afternoon naps to make up for the rotten nights out here. Oh, plus I haven't had to seeHe Who Shall Possibly be Maimed in dayssince Alfred is bringing the meals up to the villa. I do have to take his calls on the radio which, quite frankly is bad enough, but at least I don’t have to see him in person.
The radio crackles and I hear his snooty voice. “Mr. Davenport here. I require breakfast now.”
“I require breakfast now? What an arse,” I murmur as I pick up the mic. Pushing the button, I say, “Yes, Mr. Davenport. I’ll prepare some French toast, eggs, bacon, and fruit, if that would be to your liking.”
“That will definitely hit the spot, thank you,” he says, his voice straining at his attempt at being human.
Raising my middle finger at the radio, I put on a syrupy voice, “I’ll have it to you as quickly as possible, sir.”
By the time I’ve finished preparing everything, I’m like a ball of rage. Between Big-Brother-Knows-Best and Mr. Thinks-His-Shit-Doesn’t-Stink, I’ve had it with anyone with a Y chromosome.I require breakfast now.Grrr. Icannot waitfor him to get back on his stupid jet so I never have to hear his snooty voice again.
A knock at the door snaps me out of my thoughts. “Come in!”
Ohperfect. Another irritating man has just walked in. Alfred stands at the door, dripping wet in his Paddington Bear outfit, complete with the red rain hat and blue coat. “I'm afraid we can’t use the golf carts today.”
“What? Oh no! Why not?” I’m only acting like I care. This really isn’t my problem. It’s his. I'm the chef,he'sthe guy in charge of butlering and maintenance.
“The carts can’t make it up the hill when it’s this wet. Mr. Banks said as soon as he can afford to, he’ll replace them with all-terrain vehicles, but for now, in cases of heavy rain, we have to walk.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be too much of a problem. The cooler is insulated so it’ll keep the food warm on your trek up to the villa.” I snap the lid on and hold the cooler out to him.
Alfred looks down at it, but makes no move to take it from me. “I'm afraid I won't be able to make it up there in a timely fashion. I have a trick knee that acts up during storms.”
Well, isn’t that convenient?
We stare each other down, while I try to determine what exactly the trick is even though I'm pretty sure it's on me.
Alfred continues, “I'd ask Phyllis to go since you did all the work so far this morning, but I'm afraid she has terrible bunions and wouldn't be able to walk that far.”
Narrowing my eyes, I say, “Why don't I go?”
