“Right.” The chef looks down at his list, and his eyebrows rise. “Mebel Tanadi?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Right, yes, I have your name here. I’m Chef Clarke.”
Mebel gives him a warm smile, still painfully aware of the fact that everyone is staring at her. But that’s just one of the many qualities that trophy wives have had to get good at—accepting that in every room, you will be the one they stare at. “Nice to meet you, Chef Clarke.”
“Er, yes. Uh, sorry, Mebel, did Agatha not give you your chef’s uniform when you checked in?”
“She give me, yes.”
“Right.” Chef Clarke looks up at the ceiling for a second, then looks back at her. “Then, why are you not wearing it?” He gestures at everyone else, who is clearly wearing their chef’s uniforms.
“Oh!” Mebel laughs. “Well, is not to be rude, but I think mychef’s uniform is better, no? I order custom-made from Hermès. The trim is in their signature orange. Isn’t it beautiful?” She lifts her arms and does a little twirl so they can better admire her outfit.
“Very nice,” Chef Clarke mumbles, “but this is really—I don’t think—the purpose of uniforms is so everyone is, well, uniform.”
“Not a problem,” Mebel says cheerily. “I will order for everyone else too. And yours will have extra-tall hat.”
“I—uh—I don’t think that will be necessary.” Chef Clarke dabs at his forehead as the class breaks into excited whispers.
“Okay, no tall hat. Same hat as everyone.”
“I meant—uh—never mind. Please go to your station. We have wasted quite enough time this morning, and we have a lot to get through.” He gestures at an empty worktable.
Mebel slides behind the workstation and smiles at her classmates, all of whom are staring at her. Everyone else in the room looks significantly younger than her. She supposes it’s to be expected, but she would be lying if she said she wasn’t slightly intimidated by that. What generation are these people? Are they of the dreaded millennial generation? No, they look even younger than Sammy, which means they must be—oh my—of the Z type. She has heard that the Z generation is so scary that even millennials avoid them at all costs. And now, here she is in a roomful of them.
The girl next to Mebel leans in and says, “I think your uniform ate.”
Mebel blinks. “I’m sorry? What is it eating?”
“No, I mean, like, it ate. You know, it’s cool.”
“Ah.” Mebel considers this. “It does eat. Thank you.”
The girl smiles at her. “I’m Gemma.”
“Mebel.”
Chef Clarke clears his throat. “Right, can everyone please pay attention? In front of you is your toolkit. You may now open it.”
Mebel looks down, and sure enough, there is a big black bag on the worktop in front of her. She unlatches it and is surprised to find how heavy the bag is. It’s shaped like a massive scroll, and when Mebel unrolls it, she finds a highly impressive selection of knives strapped onto the inside of the bag. It makes her think of a bag that a serial killer might find handy.
“This is your chef’s toolkit,” Chef Clarke says. “You must turn up to class with it every day. Inside, you will find the classic nine-inch chef’s knife—this is the knife you will be using most of the time. Yes, that’s the one. It will behoove you to get used to this knife as soon as possible. Think of it as a natural extension of your arm.”
Mebel takes the nine-inch knife out from its clasp and studies it, feeling the weight of it in her hand. She can’t remember the last time she cooked anything, and therefore she can’t remember the last time she held a knife.
As though reading her mind, Chef Clarke says, “Now, can everyone share, what was the last thing you cooked?”
Gemma, the nice girl next to Mebel, raises her hand and says, “A beef Wellington.”
“A classic,” Chef Clarke says, nodding with appreciation.
“Shepherd’s pie,” a boy with a pimply chin says.
“Roast chicken,” someone else calls out.
Chef Clarke nods at all of them before looking expectantlyat Mebel. She stares back. She’s painfully aware that they all probably expect some impressive answer from her, given she is older than anyone else here by miles and therefore must have a lot more experience in the kitchen. For a second, Mebel considers lying and telling them that the last thing she cooked was some elaborate Michelin-star-worthy dish that required fourteen different ingredients. But she quickly rejects the idea—one of her many rules to be a successful trophy wife is to not tell stories that she cannot back up. So she lifts her chin, and meeting him in the eye, she says, “A Nespresso.”
