More lightning and thunder so close Christa screamed. Was she inThe Shining? What was happening?
‘Seth, Ethan, let her in for God’s sake,’ said a booming voice with a Californian drawl.
Christa stepped inside the foyer of the home and looked up to see a man standing at the top of the staircase. He was tall or maybe that was because he was looming large above them all, like an omnipotent god in a hoodie, jeans and sneakers. He leaned over the railing to peer down at her.
‘You’re Christa the cook? Yes?’
‘Chef,’ she corrected.
‘Chef, okay, sure,’ he said. ‘If that’s what you want to be called.’
For some reason his dismissive comment felt like he had scolded her. She was sick of being overlooked, invalidated, and patronised by men, and this person was giving her the same energy as Simon.
‘Actually, I earned that title,’ she said, crossing her arms and tilting her head back further so he could see she was serious.
‘Pardon?’ He frowned at her, dark blonde hair falling into his face, and he pushed it away.
‘I’m not a cook, I’m a chef. I worked in a Michelin-hatted restaurant in Paris and owned a restaurant in London for over ten years. And theSunday Timessaid my hot cross bun ice cream served with spiced wine-soaked quince tart was a miracle and resurrected the once maligned fruit.’
As Christa was speaking, she heard herself and tried to stop but the words just kept coming out of her mouth.
‘So yes, I am a chef. Not a cook,’ she finished, feeling weak at the knees from looking upwards for so long and feeling her blood pressure rising.
The man laughed. ‘This is Christmas, not Easter, so you can leave your hot cross bun ice cream for next year. But thanks for the CV. I am sure you will chef for us very well,’ he said, putting emphasis on the word chef, which annoyed Christa, but she had already said too much.
This whole taking charge of her life thing wasn’t going quite to plan.
‘I didn’t catch your name,’ she said, holding her ground.
‘I didn’t throw it,’ he said and she stared at him, her eyes narrowing, as she tried to take in this level of arrogance and entitlement.
He paused and she saw his shoulders drop. ‘Marc, Marc Ferrier,’ he said in a softer tone.
She nodded her acknowledgement, trying to recall if she had ever heard his name before but it drew a blank.
Two men in raincoats ran up towards the door, one holding a fancy green umbrella with a gold handle.
‘God, it’s hideous outside. We’re drowning,’ called one of the men in a booming voice, also with an American accent. A crack of thunder was heard closer than Christa would have liked.
The children were skating on the marble floors, which she was pretty certain couldn’t be good for the floors, or the children if they fell.
‘Stop skating on the marble,’ yelled the man above, as though reading her mind. ‘And shut the door – it’s freezing.’
‘Shut the door,’ one of the children yelled.
‘Shut the front door,’ yelled the other and Christa couldn’t stop herself.
‘Stop yelling. You don’t get anything done faster or better by yelling, okay? There will be no yelling at me or around me or I will leave. Shut the door, stop skating and stop dripping water everywhere,’ she said to the men in raincoats.
Everyone stared at her and Christa wondered if she should turn and head back to her car and drive back to London.
The man at the top of the stairs looked over the ornate bannister at her.
‘I thought chefs liked to yell.’
‘Not in my kitchen,’ she answered, tipping her head to look up at him again and feeling the blood rushing to her face.
He caught her eye. ‘And not in my house – you’re right. I hate yelling,’ he said and he gave her a slight nod and then walked away as though he had her approval despite the unorthodox entrance.
