Did I have true feelings for Paul?
EX 4: PAUL D’SILVAAKA The Missed ChancePART ONE
A’Diva Restaurant
The doorstep
7.40am
Being the new person is always the absolute worst.
I mean, I knew this already. It’salwaysthe worst. But I thought starting at this new place alreadyknowingit would be the absolute worst would mean I’d be better prepared for it to be the absolute worst. But no such luck. It’s the absolute worst.
There’s always that first few days where a new situation is kind of OK. Where the excitement and the novelty carry you through and you think, ‘Hey, actually maybe this won’t be shit!’ But then that passes and you realize you have nofriends and no idea what you’re doing and nobody really cares if you live or die.
And you remember that being new is the absolute worst.
It’s my second week working in the kitchen at A’Diva as a commis chef – basically one up from a trainee – and after a few days of people being vaguely friendly and interested in who I was – and whether I’d be potentially fuckable – I’m being completely ignored. Today is the worst of it so far.
I worked until two o’shitting clock last night! Two in the morning, after starting at 8am. And as I left, one of the snotty, superior sous chefs informed me he needed me here early. I was to arrive by seven at the latest, or I’d be fired.
It genuinely nearly killed me, dragging myself out of bed at that ungodly hour after so little sleep. But I got here! I bloody well made it here for 6.58am! Only to find the restaurant all locked up, exactly the way I left it, with no one around to let me in.
I’m so unbelievably cold, it’s down into my bones.
What’s most annoying about this situation is that I know a couple of the chefs live upstairs, above the restaurant. So Iknowthey’re in there. They’re inside, snoring away under their big, cosy duvets while I freeze out here. And of course they’ve ignored all my attempts at ringing the bell and banging frantically.
I don’t know if this is some kind of rite of passage – some kind of frat initiation – or if they’re just running late today, but either way, I’ve been hovering on this doorstep, freezing my arse off for forty minutes now. I can’t even sit downbecause I’ve got my chef whites on and will be sent home to change if I mess them up.
‘All right?’ I start at the sound after so much silence. It’s one of the chefs de partie, Paul. I memorized everyone’s names so carefully on my first day last week, desperate to impress. Not that it made a blind bit of difference.
‘Have you got a key?’ I snarl, too cold for a greeting and already too over this job to care what he thinks.
He nods, looking at me closely. ‘You OK? You’re the new commis, right? Emma, is it?’
‘It’s Esther,’ I snap. ‘Thanks,Saul.’
‘Sorry,’ he smiles winningly, retrieving the key from under a stupidly obvious flowerpot. ‘And you can call me Saul if you like.’
I hang my head, feeling bad. ‘Sorry. I’ve been sitting out here in the cold for ages. I feel like I’m dying. And I’m so tired.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He opens the door, standing back to let me in. The warmth from inside hits me and melts away some of my frostiness. Especially when he adds, ‘I know it’s the absolute worst being new.’
I stop just inside the doorway and look at him properly, taking him in. He’s good-looking – but not necessarily conventionally so. He’s quite short and hairy, but stocky in a dependable way. He’s got that triangle thing going on, typical of men who seriously work out. He’s also tanned and glowy, which is hard to put together in my head. The chefs I’ve worked with tend to be more apple shape, from years oftasting their own food, and sickly pale, thanks to long hours spent hidden away from the world in basement kitchens. Honestly, it’s not a healthy profession.
In the kitchen, I watch Paul and his clearly often-squatted bum move to fill the kettle.
‘So,Esther, what brings you to A’Diva? It’s not our famously handsome and talented new head chef, is it?’ He winks and I laugh because I’m too embarrassed to admit that, yes, the head chef is why I’m here. Not that he’s given me the time of day since I started. Our last full conversation was in a car park on the day of my job interview, and I clearly blew him away because he hasn’t looked in my direction even once since.
‘No.’ I take a steaming cup of tea from him. It looks rank – like watery milk – but I take a sip anyway. ‘It was all about the chef de partie. The food world is abuzz with talk of you, Saul.’
Paul laughs openly and it is like having a drink of water when you wake up from a fever dream. It’s been such a lonely time here at the restaurant, having no one to acknowledge my existence. I’ve felt so rejected since I arrived, and the sixteen-hour days mean I haven’t even been able to vent to Shelley or Lou about it. Genuinely, no one’s shouted more than two words in my direction in this kitchen, and there’s been so much to do. There were moments cleaning worktops and prepping ingredients all alone when I wondered if I was maybe dead and this was purgatory.
But Paul is real, so I must be. And he’s sonice.
‘Where were you before here?’ He takes a seat next to me and I sip my gross tea again. Actually, it’s not that bad. He’s added a lot of sugar and the sweetness soothes me.
‘A little family-run Italian restaurant,’ I explain. ‘It was a lot lower stakes. Not like this place.’ I wave a hand at the freshly tiled walls of the swish new west London eatery. It’s very clear money has been lavished and the owners are hoping to make it the go-to place for the London elite. I should feel lucky to be here. I mean… I do. Don’t I?
