“I’ve had a few.”
“And you think I’m not so bad?” Mebel holds her breath, suddenly feeling vulnerable. She tries to convince herself that it doesn’t matter what Alain thinks, but she knows she would only be fooling herself.
“Better than that. You have a natural instinct for it.”
The blush spreads across her entire body, and for a second, Mebel nearly starts giggling uncontrollably. Fortunately, she is of sound enough mind to wrestle the giggles into submission. There is also a tiny bit of shame inside her at being told that she has a “natural instinct” for something as lascivious as sex. It goes against every part of her moral upbringing as a CHIP.
Then again, CHIPs rarely turn into professional chefs, somaybe Mebel is only finding out now, at the ripe age of sixty-three, that perhaps she is not a CHIP, after all. Maybe she is something entirely different, though what it is, she has no idea. But as Gemma and Bella would say, she does not hate it. Not in the least.
Chapter 14
Mebel should have known thatnothing good can last. It has been over two months since she arrived at Cowley, England, and she has made the best of her time there. She has gone to an appropriate number of events that require her to dress up in luxury attire, which, for someone who is unfortunately living in Cowley, is quite the feat. She has a clear goal that she is working steadfastly toward, she has a solid group of friends who broaden her horizons every day, and she has a lover who broadens her…horizontally. Oho! And she is in such high spirits that she makes little dirty jokes now and again, which says a lot, really.
She should’ve known that things were going too well and life was about to swoop in and shit all over it, just as it is wont to do.
It happens on a Thursday, which feels doubly offensive because all bad news should arrive on a Monday, everyone knowsthat. But, no, this piece of bad news not only has the audacity to swoop in on a Thursday but also has the cheek to come in parading as good news.
“Attention, everybody,” Chef Clarke says that cursed morning. “I have a rather exciting announcement to share with you.”
Mebel and her classmates stand a little straighter. In the past couple of months, Mebel has been bitten by the culinary bug, and she now finds herself being motivated by silly things like being praised for making the perfect consommé (she is still glowing over that one) and removing the beard off a scallop efficiently.
“For the first time in the history of the Saint Honoré School of Culinary Arts, we are proud to present an exciting end to the year.” Chef Clarke spreads his arms wide open. “We will be catering the prestigious Pemberton College Ball at the end of the Michaelmas term. Oh, that’s the end of the fall term for those of you not familiar with Oxford terms.”
An animated whisper rises from the group of students. Gemma raises her hand, her face bright and lively.
“Gemma?”
“Chef, are you saying we will be cooking the food for the Pemberton Ball?”
“Yes, and not just cooking it, but you will be designing the menu.”
A handful of gasps rises around the room.
Chef Clarke raises his index finger. “Now, to make things even more exciting, this will be a competition. You will be pairing up with a fellow classmate to design one course of the menu. The students who come up with the winning course will win acash prize and a spot in the kitchen of Canard et Vin, the restaurant in Paris with three Michelin stars.”
Everybody gasps this time. Even Mebel does so, because by now, she knows the importance of Michelin stars and how they are coveted with the same amount of fervor that a CHIP would covet a crocodile-skin Birkin. The students begin to chatter animatedly among themselves.
Gemma catches Mebel’s eye and points to her, mouthing:You and me?
A flush of pleasure washes across Mebel’s body, and she nods. Designing a course with Gemma sounds like a dream come true. But then she looks over at Bella, Adam, and Bruce, and her smile wanes. There is an odd number now, and she wonders, for a moment, if she should step aside and let one of them partner up with Gemma instead.
But then Chef Clarke calls out their names and assigns them their partners, and Mebel is partnered up with Gemma anyway. Well, she’s not about to complain about that. She exchanges a glance with Gemma and throws her a smile, which Gemma returns with a full-on sun-at-midday grin.
After class, Gemma goes to Mebel’s room, where she immediately makes herself comfortable by trying on Mebel’s extensive shoe collection.
“Yes Gemma, you can try on my Manolo Blahniks,” Mebel says dryly.
“They kind of pinch my toes,” Gemma says, trying on different poses in the mirror.
“That is Manolo for you. I don’t think he likes women very much.” Mebel hands Gemma a cup of tea.
“Neither does Jimmy,” Gemma says.
“You mean Jimmy Choo or Jimmy in our class?”
“Both, come to think of it.”
“Yes, I think you are right.” Mebel sips at her tea. She isn’t a big tea drinker in Jakarta, mainly because it’s so hot and humid there that to drink anything warmer than tepid water is asking to be bathed in sweat. But here in England, she has found a taste for the hot beverage, and now she can’t go five minutes without holding a hot cup of tea in her hands. “So, what are you thinking for our course?”
