“Finally.”
“What does that mean?”
“I can’t remember the quote exactly, but it goes along the lines that having both happiness and beauty would simply be too good to be true.”
While Marcus mulled the words over, Tina clarified. “Walter Benjamin, I think. German poet and critic. Anyway, down to business.”
“No, hang on a moment. You can’t just throw out bumper sticker philosophy like that and expect me to be quiet. What do you mean?”
“I mean you go for a certain… type. And from what I can tell, they’re rarely keepers.”
Oh Lord, thought Marcus. Here we go again. First lecture of the day. “So what are you telling me? Tall, dark, good-looking, and fit are bad things now?”
“Of course not. But you could try for something a little less….”
“Less what?”
“Less—shallow.”
“You think he was shallow?”
“As a mouse’s grave. Unless you’re going to tell me otherwise.”
The snuffled chuckle down the phone at his hesitation sent a trickle of annoyance through him. Why did everybody find him so transparent?
“So what’s on the agenda today?” he said irritably. “Let me guess. More endless meetings and bear-in-a-cage appearances.”
“Four small meetings left for early next week, with the big one on Wednesday. And yes, still awaiting confirmation, but you possibly have a cooking demo Monday morning on a local cable network channel, where you will unashamedly plug your soon-to-be-released cookbook, your London success story, and mention the likelihood of opening a restaurant here in the nation’s darling. And tomorrow evening we have dinner with the main investment candidates. You won’t be expected to rustle anything up at that one, but I do need you to bring your best game—”
“Strip poker?”
“And try to appear charming, sociable, and above all marketable.”
“Can’t I just cook?”
“That could be arranged. But I should let you know that Kurt Bruckmeyer has specifically asked to be seated next to you.”
“Has he now?”
Kurt Bruckmeyer was the twenty-seven-year-old son of Arnold Bruckmeyer, New York socialite and billionaire. He had caught Kurt checking him out a couple of times across the boardroom table. Not that Kurt was his type—too waspish and formal, too thin and groomed, the kind of man who looked completely at home in a tightly buttoned-up designer suit but awkward in anything even vaguely casual. Who ironed pleats into their jeans these days, for goodness’ sake? Still, if push came to shove and it helped his budding career, he could take one for the team.
“Wednesday’s meeting is the biggie. We’ll know by the end of that one if we have the big green apple light. And then we’ll catch the first flight home Thursday morning.”
“Thank the heavens.”
“I wouldn’t count your blessings just yet. You’ve got an interview with lifestyle journo Donald Kitter from theObserver, and the agents have come up with half-a-dozen potentials for your UK Birmingham site. We’ll need to arrange a trip soon. So make the most of your downtime in America’s very own Elysium.”
America’s Elysium. New York. Still with the phone stuck to his ear, he scanned the room. His investors had spared no expense in romancing him, giving him the star treatment. And of course he was flattered—who wouldn’t be? The beige, gray, and gleaming chrome two-bedroom apartment in the East Village—stylish, spacious, and tastefully furnished—must have been showcased in a real estate magazine or six. On two floor-to-ceiling windowed sides of the main room, the city views alone, both day and night, were nothing short of stunning. Framed in the narrower window, beyond old and new buildings he couldn’t name, flowed the East River, and through the main window that faced north, the instantly recognizable Empire State Building. Sometimes he wished he had someone to share it all with—but then again, maybe not. Eight days away from home and more to come, he ached to be back to the routine of the kitchen. Both sous-chefs—handpicked by Marcus—were perfectly capable of managing on their own, but punters who had waited months for a booking often wanted a glimpse of the man himself. And if Marcus was going to be completely candid, he loved the attention. On his own terms, on his own turf, in his own world. Absently, he took another sip of his coffee.
“What are you drinking?”
“Coffee.”
Down the phone came a sharp intake of breath.
“Not that wonderful spicy Kenyan concoction?”
“What else?”
