Chef Michel wants to “talk.” I think this might be it!
ART:
That’s my girl. You deserve it more than anyone.
ME:
Don’t jinx it.
ART:
Not jinxing. Call me when you’re home?
ME:
Always.
Nerves zing up my spine as I walk to the office and when Iknock on the doorframe, Chef Michel holds up a finger. He’s on the phone, his back half turned to me, and I catch the tail end of whatever he’s saying.
“Yes. I understand. Are you sure we can’t… No, I wouldn’t want that… Of course, ma’am.”
When he hangs up and turns to me, his expression makes my stomach dip.
“You wanted to see me, Chef?”
He stares and rubs his chin. This already isn’t how I imagined this would go.
“Ginny.” He clears his throat. “In every chef’s life, there comes a time where staying stagnant isn’t beneficial to their long-term goals.”
My lungs cramp.This is it, oh my God.
“Would you agree?”
“Yes, Chef. Of course.”
“Good. Sometimes, it’s best for a pupil to spread their wings and try other avenues.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, Genevieve,” he says at the same time I say, “I accept.”
My body locks up tight, and I laugh. “I’m sorry, I misheard you… What?”
He’s holding his phone in one hand and tapping it against the other, and he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“We’re letting you go, Genevieve. You’re fired.”
The words don’t compute. They’re sounds without meaning, syllables that bounce off my eardrums and fall to the floor.
I laugh again, because this has to be a joke. “I don’t understand. You said last week my beurre blanc was the best you’dtasted since you’d visited Lyon. I’ve done everything to get this position.”
“I know what I said. This isn’t about your performance.”
The room tilts as I shove to a stand. “Then what’s it about?”
He doesn’t answer.
“If I did something wrong, just tell me. I can fix it. Whatever it is.”
