Manon and I exchange a glance. The thick cut of steak is burnt; not charred, but blackened to a husk. The roasted duck fat potatoes have suffered a similar fate. I’m frozen, unsure what to do or say because Camille’s expression is so hopeful. Maybe she had an issue learning her way around a new kitchen, yet she’s happily served us charcoal with a smile on her face.
‘I’ve also made an apple tarte tatin, so I hope you’re hungry.’
‘Uh, I – um…’ How can I be the person who steals her dreams away? She is clearly not the chef for us. There’s a very big chance she’s not a chef at all.
Just as I’m about to drop a bomb on her culinary hopes and dreams, something catches my eye, or more accurately something catches fire. ‘FIRE!’ I yell in case the flames licking the rangehood aren’t as obvious to Camille and Manon. There’san ear-piercing chirp as the smoke detector bleats a warning. At least we know for sure they do in fact work.
I run to the kitchen and see Camille’s left a pot of oil on the stove – did she deep fry the steaks?! – and it’s caught alight. I switch off the gas and put a lid on the pot, trying hard not to burn my arm in the process. The flames soon dissipate, and I suck in a lungful of oxygen. The rangehood is sooty but doesn’t appear to have sustained long-term damage; I can’t say the same for myself. I’m sure I’ve sprouted a hundred grey hairs at the thought of the hotel burning down before I found the manuscript in suite nineteen.AndI suppose because my money is tied up in the place.
I take a deep centring breath and face Camille.
‘I didn’t get the position, did I?’ Her eyes are glassy with tears.
I give her an apologetic head shake. ‘Non,Camille. You did not. Are you really a chef?’ She nods her head vigorously. ‘Aproperly trainedchef?’
‘Oh, no, I don’t have a formal education or anything. Self-taught. I learned a lot from?—’
Please don’t say YouTube.
‘—TikTok.’
I bite down hard on my lip to stop any sound from escaping as I teeter between anger and fear at what might have happened with a TikTok-trained ‘chef’.
Manon reads my mood and says quickly, ‘Merci, Camille. Perhaps stick to TikTok for the safety of others?’
When Camille leaves with her head hung low, I fold my arms and stare down Manon. ‘Let’s make a hard-and-fast rule that we check all references from now on,oui?’
Manon does her best to look contrite but fails. Manon doesn’t do contrite. Soon her eyes pool as laughter finally bursts forth and I can’t help but join in. Once we get a handle on ourselves,I say, ‘TikTok?’ And the laughter starts again. We have one of those ridiculous uncontrolled moments, almost like a release of all the good, the bad and the ugly, that, by the time I’m finished giggling, my stomach muscles hurt. It takes an age but we eventually compose ourselves.
‘What if wedon’thire a chef? What if instead we offerformulepetite-dejéuner?’ The kind of typical breakfast you see at most Parisian cafés. Coffee, juice, croissants, baguettes and pastries. ‘We can get morning deliveries from the boulangerie, L’epi du Prince, around the bend of thejardin. Keep it simple.’
Manon considers it before asking, ‘And just who will be serving the handful of guests their orange juice at sevena.m.?’
I pull a face. I’m not a morning person and never will be. ‘Toi?’ I ask hopefully.
‘Moi?’
‘Oui?’
She harrumphs to get her point across. Neither of us are morning people, although my writing block has changed me somewhat and I’ve found myself getting up earlier, wanting to get stuck into work around the hotel. I’m sure that will soon pass when I’m back in the zone and bashing away at my laptop into the early hours. ‘Let’s do alternate breakfast days, then? Will that work?’
‘Oui, breakfast isn’t so bad. We can set up a table with everything and they can help themselves. We’ll just replenish drinks and condiments as needed.’
‘Parfait. And we won’t have the added expense of a chef. Let’s find a good fromagerie and charcuterie nearby too for our cheese platters.’
‘And for the dessert boards? We need to find a patisserie.’
Kiki and Juliette appear, waving their hands through the residual smokiness. ‘La Parisienne Madame is very close and is one of the best patisseries in Paris, although Juliette has her ownfavourite but that’s in Montmartre. Dare I ask what happened in here?’
I take my phone and jot down the name of the patisserie for later.
‘Oh,’ Manon says. ‘We did a safety check, to make sure all the smoke alarms were working, and you’ll be happy to know they are.’ We exchange a smile. No one need know we interviewed a TikTok hopeful.
That evening, just as I’m preparing to go to my suite to write, I meet Manon coming down the stairs. At least, I presume it’s Manon. Gone is the black winged eyeliner; her dramatic makeup has been toned down and replaced with shades of subtle pink. She’s wearing a long beige and white knit dress,mybeige and white knit dress, paired with my white cashmere coat and white high-heeled boots.
‘Ah – whoa, Manon. You look beautiful, of course, but do you think it’s the best idea to hide who you really are?’
She gives me a decisive nod. ‘Oui.It’s time for a change.’
