Dishing It Out

“Speak for yourself, Simon,” she said, not taking her eyes off Van, the pirate chef. She was mad, not attracted, and just because she had a hard time looking away from those eyes didn’t make her any less angry. In fact, it made it worse. He was a jerk. And he was her type. All of the careful cultivation of Marie’s calm and reason vanished.

“Is this about what was printed in The Examiner?” he asked. “Because it was taken completely of out context.” The look on his face, contrite and apologetic, made his features softer, his dark eyes somehow warmer. But Marie was not going to be fooled.

“Sure it was.”

“It was.”

“I’m not arguing with you.” She crossed her arms, and even shrugged and batted her eyelashes at him.

“Good.” He was looking at her carefully and she could feel him picking her apart to see if she were serious.

“Okay!” Simon clapped his hands together and sat down, but Van remained standing, eyeing her. She eyed him right back. If this was going to be some kind of staring contest, hell if she’d be the first to blink!

The room felt warmer. Simon seemed far away while Van seemed so close she could reach out and touch the zipper of his coat, or the scar on his chin, which was fascinating to look at.

Oh no you don’t, not this guy! She tried to wrestle her wayward hormones back in line.

“So, we’re ready to get to business?” he asked, like they were going to split a cab or go halves on a pizza. For a moment, Marie had trouble breathing through her anger and disbelief.

“You mean your business of taking over part of what I’ve worked so hard for?”

“Marie!” Simon interjected, but Van held up a hand, curtailing Simon.

“I think we should avoid the words ‘taking over,’” Van said calmly.

“Okay, how about this?” she sighed, looking up at the ceiling, pretending to think. “How about the business where I work my ass off for a year and then just when things start to go right for me you get to come along and share. Share? Do we all like that word?” She glanced around, liking the abashed look in Simon’s eyes and the muscle that was ticking in Van’s jaw.

“Right. So I work hard and you come and share in my success. Which, frankly, I’m thankful for because I was having such a hard time handling it on my own.” She took a step closer to him. “If you want to be on TV, Van, go find your own show.”

The silence in the office had an echo. She could actually hear the blood beat through her veins, her breath in her lungs.

Van cleared his throat. “Point taken.” He nodded, his smile tight.

“Good, then…” She made a move for the door so she could show Van out. “I think our business here is done.”

“But—” Van shifted, blocking her way. He crossed his arms over his chest while he pinned her to the wall with his eyes. She felt the sharp popping shocks from the static and animosity surrounding them. “While I certainly appreciate your little speech, let’s understand something—I was approached by the producers. By Simon.”

“Whom I will never forgive,” she threw in with menacing cheer.

“Because your show was missing something.” He raised one of those overgrown eyebrows and Marie’s fingers twitched. “Something,” Van continued, “I can provide.”

“Maybe you’re right.” She resorted back to sarcasm. “Maybe you do have something I need for the show.” Marie would bet a new dishwasher on the fact that Van had no idea what he would be doing on TV, because his was not a face for television. “Do you have lots of experience with live TV? Hmmm?”

“No,” he said in a low voice.

“No, not lots, or no, not any?” she asked, tilting her head and waiting patiently.

“Simon,” Van put his hand on top of a pile of papers on Simon’s desk, “you said that she wasn’t going to have a problem with this.” He jerked his thumb back at Marie. “I call this a problem.”

Marie’s jaw fell to the floor. Such treason from a man she considered a friend.

“Simon?” she asked, dropping the sarcasm for a moment, and feeling marginally naked in front of Van. “Did you really think that I would be okay with this? That I didn’t have any pride in what I had built? In what we had built?”

“I understand that there are—” Simon swallowed audibly “—challenges.” He shook his head at Marie like she was a child who had disappointed him. She knew her behavior wasn’t exactly sterling, but she had nothing to apologize for. Simon suddenly looked small and wary. “You don’t really have a choice.”

For the first time since Simon had brought this up, the changes in her show became real. Van was in the room sucking up far too much air and taking up way too much space—imagine what he would do to her show! This was just like France. Men thinking they knew what was best for her. Underestimating her, brushing her aside. Well, she had learned her lesson two years ago and it wasn’t going to happen again.

“What happens if I say no?” Marie asked.

“You lose half your airtime, the other half goes to Van.”

She could only blink and try to breathe one small mouthful of air at a time. “Wow,” she finally said, which was an awful summation of what she was feeling. She looked down at her feet, at the lovely black boots she had paid far too much for. She had to fight the tears that suddenly sprang up. She laughed ruefully. “Just when you start to feel on top of things…”

“Marie…?” There was something different in Van’s face, a softness around his hard eyes that wasn’t there before.

“Save it, Van. I’ve got to get back to work at my ‘little coffee shop.’” He sucked in a breath and Marie felt the cool victory that comes with saying exactly the right thing at exactly the right time.

The urge to walk out the door, get in her car and drive away from all of this came over her, but that would have been something the old Marie would have done.

“You have twenty-four hours, Marie,” Simon cut in, ruining her exit. “Twenty-four hours to make up your mind and do the smart thing. The way the world is making chefs into celebrities you could write your own ticket.”

Marie bit her tongue. It was a nice dream. With probably some nice money attached to it. But it wasn’t worth it if she had to share it with Van.

“I’ll call you, Simon,” she said.

She didn’t look at Van, so unsure of what she would do or say to him. But as she left, she walked through the smell of him, rosemary and anger, and her body reacted.

She put her right hand over all five of the bracelets on her left wrist, curling her fingers around the silver.

What the hell am I going to do now?

3

MARIE RAN SOME ERRANDS, trying to strike a new deal with the organic dairy guy, but to no avail, and made it back to the restaurant just in time for the late-afternoon rush.

“I need four caps to go,” Marie called back to Pete, her mostly silent and dreadlocked part-time employee. As long as Pete didn’t have to talk to anybody, he was a fantastic barista. He put together coffee orders almost before they were placed. He nodded at Marie, cranked the steam up on the espresso machine and began steaming milk.

“And a tomato-and-bocconcini salad to go,” she told Jodi, her assistant manager, who stood at Marie’s elbow putting together salad orders and packaging some of the leftover daily lunch specials.

It all seemed very normal. Susan and Margaret from the accounting office next door were having their late-afternoon coffee break and bitch session. Mr. Malone sat in the far back corner nursing his extra-hot milk chocolate over the newspaper.

Marie was her usual smiley and chatty self, but inside she seethed.

Van MacAllister has a small penis was a constant drumbeat in her head.

“Hello, Mrs. Peters.” Marie smiled at the older woman who came in religiously on Tuesdays. Tuesday was clam chowder day and Mrs. Peters, as she frequently told Marie, had been searching for a good clam chowder for years.

Marie was happy to oblige with the best clam chowder in the city, according to Where magazine.