Part 6 (2/2)
Nearly under his breath, Jennings said, ”Can't I just try the vegetables?”
”Don't make me force you into seconds.” Then louder. ”Okay, Chef, I know you're listening. You can bring the entree. Skip the appetizer. Let's get on with this.”
I asked, ”Where's the wine?”
”You've already had your fair share today. Just drink the water. Jennings can get some Aleve for you when we're done.”
She flashed a fake smile towards the other end of the room, and Harriet came out, a new chef's coat, her name st.i.tched in immaculate Gothic lettering, black with a shadow of red. She was desperately trying to balance our three plates as if the ground might fall from beneath her at any second.
Yes, it was a wonderful meal, full of flavor and complexity, the natural flavors of the beef and potatoes and sauce unfolding as if you were listening to a beautiful song, moving along from verse to chorus, changing keys and building in intensity. If anything, I'd say it needed some more salt, but that was perhaps because I was pretty drunk, and also because I'd watched so many cooking reality shows with Frannie, in which the judges always thought the dishes needed more salt.
By the end of the meal, I felt myself refortifying, vision clearing, noise in my head fading. The three of us sat as if in a moment of silence. Octavia didn't make Jennings eat all of the steak, but he ate more of it than I figured he would-a full third, even with it rare. Octavia looked to him for a response.
”I hate you.”
”The beef?”
Snorted. ”Wonderful. You b.i.t.c.h.”
”Get your nose back in joint or I'll make you try the lamb tomorrow.” Waved him away. ”Go get her.”
Jennings pushed his chair back and threw his napkin onto his plate, a pathetic protest. As he started away, Octavia turned to me.
”If this boy confesses, you'll need to make sure he's willing to go on the record.”
Like whiplash. I'd forgotten all about David and robot writing and my now s.h.i.+tty position within my department. I'd experienced joy from a meal again. And after, back to the grind. ”Of course. I mean, I'm sure he likes his job-”
”No, he liked your wife's p.u.s.s.y more. Remember that when you speak to him. He looks down on you. He thinks you're weak. And whatever punishment you can think up for him, the b.i.t.c.h and her lover can think of rewards to balance it out.”
I slumped into the chair. ”What would you do?”
”Smack him around.”
”What?”
She mirrored me, slumping back and crossing her arms across her chest. ”I don't think he'll tell anyone. First, after a few smacks, he'll fight back. Second, he'll be too embarra.s.sed to tell anyone you hit him, or that he beat you up. Either way, it'll shock him onto your side. Something about violence that brings men together.”
”Um...I'm a tenured professor. It's very hard for them to fire me. But hitting a student is probably in the top five instant job enders.”
”Oh, higher than that.”
”Exactly.”
She shook her head. ”He won't tell anyone.”
”Are you insane?”
”You asked my advice. There's no need to be rude, Mr. My Wife f.u.c.ks Everyone But Me. Just a suggestion. But keep it in mind. Here she is.”
Jennings led Harriet into the room. She'd lost the s.p.u.n.k we'd seen at the Dakota-one pair of earrings instead of the sc.r.a.pyard she'd worn before. Tattoos mostly covered. Holding her fingers together in front of her, twisting them. Octavia surprised me again by standing to her feet and applauding, big smile on her face. Exactly what Harriet needed, the breath she'd been holding gus.h.i.+ng out, her shoulders relaxing, cheeks all rosy. Jennings stared at me, jerked his chin a few times before realizing I was so stunned by Octavia's reaction that I had kept my seat. I rose and joined the applause.
”Bravo. That was great. That was f.u.c.king great. The job's definitely yours if you want it.”
The chef beamed. All it took was the clean new coat and a vote of confidence to transform her into someone I'd take seriously behind the grill. In fact, it looked as if she had just won one of those reality shows Frannie liked. ”Okay, cool, thank you, Miss VanderPlatts, yeah, that's great.”
”Even the vegan liked it.”
She didn't know how to take that. A quick glance at Jennings, who answered, ”Yes, it was fabulous. I look forward to what you can do with vegetables.”
”All right.”
”You know,” Octavia spread her hands wide. ”I can't think of one complaint. Not one. How about you, Mick?”
Salt. I wanted to say it needed salt. Instead, ”As good as the best steakhouse. Better.”
Harriet didn't seem impressed with my input. She crossed her arms, waited for Octavia to say more.
”If you'd like, we can talk about the contract now.”
”Sure, uh, yeah. That's cool.”
”How about taking a few minutes to change, get your things together, and then meet me in the office?”
Nods all around. ”Nice job” and ”Congrats” and ”Excellent”. Jennings said he would need to tidy up the kitchen, even though Octavia had a service I knew would handle it in the morning. I suspected he was really going to throw up. Harriet followed him out, and Octavia started for the door.
She looked back at me. ”Coming? Going?”
”Give me a few minutes, okay? I'll be right there.”
”You feel all right, Mick?”
I rubbed the back of my neck. ”Let me stretch it out, get some fresh air.”
”Face it. You weren't built to be a heavy drinker. Are you going to want the after-dinner smoke?”
She meant marijuana, of course. I shook my head. ”No thanks. Already swimming up there.”
After she left, I headed after Harriet.
She had just taken off her chef's jacket, carefully hanging it on the pantry doork.n.o.b rather than just tossing it off somewhere. Octavia surely would give her one for every day of the week, but the care with which Harriet handled the coat twisted my guts a little. She had pulled her unders.h.i.+rt halfway up her back when I cleared my throat.
A quick turnaround, ink-sprawled arms covering her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, bunching her t-s.h.i.+rt tighter, her midriff bare but for the tattoo ringing her belly b.u.t.ton.
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