I hang up and walk to the toilets like a robot, splash cold water on my face and try to compose myself before my guest arrives. Standing, staring into the mirror, I shake my head at my stupidity.
“Jerry is Gerald,” I whisper to the mirror, “the cat disappeared while we were in Vegas – he knew Margarita would follow him; he was prepared. It all adds up, JerryisGerald. Oh Margarita, what have I gotten you into?”
‘And how the Hell do I get us out?’
I walk back to the break room and sit down heavily, my mind spinning over the possibilities, but my reverie is broken by Mr Lam.
“Josephine your guest has cancelled, an urgent business trip, apparently. You can serve table three instead.”
“Thank you, Mr Lam,” I rise and put on my work face.
9
He sits at his table, his long legs folded neatly, and sips his red wine as he reads. And as Donelle said, oh so many weeks ago when I was supposed to first serve him, the urge to lick him all over is strong – he smells divine, and he is possibly the most handsome man I have ever seen.
And one of the richest, according to Cherie, and the most talented playwright since Shakespeare, according to Pierre, the sommelier.
Fortunately for me, and unfortunately for the others who are all clamouring to serve him, it has been my privilege to serve Mr Lumier for the past three weeks. I look forward to coming to work as I have never done before in my life.
Forty-five touches. That is how many times we are supposed, on average, to interact with our guests, although we are so unobtrusive they never know this is how often we have done so. Forty-five every night over several weeks is a lot of interactions.
‘If only they were real touches,’I smirk,‘then the other staff would really have something to be jealous about.’
He looks up now, stares into the fire, and I shift my eyes slightly to follow his gaze. You would think I would be used to him by now, standing as I am, behind his right shoulder, waiting to top up his glass, answer his questions and bring him his food. But he likes to have conversations, and I never know what he might ask. And then there is the fact that he is irresistible; I fought myself nightly not to succumb to his allure and fall into a panting heap at his feet, or at the very least, slip him my number.
“Do you recommend any particular dish for me tonight, Josephine?” he asks quietly, his back to me, as it always is.
“What do you feel like?” I know I’m supposed to ask it in a more professional way, and I do with other customers, but I’ve fallen into more colloquial habits with Mr Lumier. He told me he feels more comfortable with me speaking normally.
“Feel?” he muses, “I don’t know. Taste? What I would like to taste might be more to the point. And perhaps, one wars with the other.”
“The chef recommends the Basque Toro tonight,” I try, although I know he doesn’t often order fish.
“Tell me about it.”
He told me early on that he enjoys hearing my description of dishes, how they are prepared, my thoughts on the ingredients. I wonder if it is just my accent, or the little additional bits of information I know since I’ve been studying recipes for so long.
“It is a mussel dish featuring potatoes and Dublin Bay prawns, the langoustines,” I add, “poached in a fish velout?, full of flavour and intensity, but not overly filling.”
“What would you eat here tonight?”
‘You.’I shake my head to dispel my sick thoughts, glad as usual that he can’t see my expressions.
“Tonight,” I muse, “I think the salade de magret fruit?e for entree. It is a light duck salad with red radicchio and raspberries, nectarines and smoked duck. I saw it being prepared earlier, all beautiful purples and pinks, and I am considering what cheese I might put with it.”
“Ah, yes, you are still being a cheese connoisseur,” he chuckles, “how well is that going?”
“I’ve almost tried them all, I think,” I crinkle my forehead in thought, “so now I need to concentrate on pairing them with dishes.”
“And your pastry?”
I laugh quietly. We have discussed my plan to be a chef on many occasions now, and for some reason, he finds it amusing to hear my failures as well as my successes.
“I have finally mastered the perfect puff,” I giggle.
He turns slightly and looks at me, his own face serious, and I imagine what it would be like to run my fingers across that strong jawline.
“What would you say,” he muses, “if I asked you to dine with me this night?”
