SEVENTEEN
Table for Two
Not long before I started working at the hotel, Joey and I were having dinner at a “friends-and-family” night, one of my favorite industry perks. In exchange for constructive criticism and professional feedback on everything from food to service to lighting, a soon-to-be-open restaurant provides colleagues with a complimentary dinner. It is a system that gives new restaurants a brief chance to work out their kinks before real customers and, even more important, the critics show up.
Since the demise of Scarabée, our amorphous relationship, which consisted of sleepovers, social outings, and work-related conversation, had only grown stronger, despite the fact that each of us silently resolved not to talk about what was going on. It wasn’t until Sal, the restaurant’s manager and a friend of Joey, introduced us to some fellow diners that I was suddenly forced to acknowledge the reality of the situation.
“This is Joey,” Sal said to the two couples seated at the table next to us. “He was the chef at Layla and Scarabée. And this,” he continued, “is his girlfriend, Dalia.”
Girlfriend? I noticed Joey stiffen at the sudden designation hanging in the air, and I felt a little bit panicky at the prospect of being outed. That single word, which up to now had remained unspoken, abruptly gave name to a situation I’d pretended didn’t exist and one that, judging by his reaction to the label, Joey wasn’t keen on acknowledging either. We both nodded at the table, Nice to meet you. Why had Sal said that? Of course Joey and I had bumped into friends and industry people during the many hours we spent together, but we’d always observed an unspoken rule to limit any affection beyond what was appropriate to our relationship as friendly coworkers. I was always introduced as Joey’s pastry chef (it was not unusual for a chef to work with the same pastry chef from job to job, since it could be difficult to find a good match). The last thing I wanted was for anyone to think that I’d been hired as Joey’s pastry chef just because we were dating. Pastry chef was a title I’d worked hard for and one that I valued—and one that got a lot more respect than “girlfriend.”
We left the restaurant in silence. Neither one of us said anything, in fact, until I was at the corner hailing a cab. Normally after a dinner out, we’d get into the same cab and go back to the same apartment, where we would discard all the unspoken pretenses and get into the same bed. When the cab pulled up, though, I was so frustrated with myself for being in this situation and with him for letting me (he was the chef, the one in a position of authority, wasn’t it his responsibility to respect boundaries?) that I practically ran to the cab that pulled up a few feet in front of me.
“Wait, Doll,” I heard Joey say as I walked toward the cab. “Where are you going?” He was smiling, as if nothing had happened. Typical.
“Home,” I answered, turning back to my cab. “I’m going home.” I slammed the door.
It took twenty minutes to get home to Brooklyn, twenty minutes in which I thought about what an idiot I’d been. I’d been loath to think too deeply about our relationship, for fear I’d be forced to acknowledge the very real possibility that the addendum to our perfect work friendship meant nothing more to Joey than a simple convenience or, worse, that I might be just one of many women he was “friends” with.
The truth was that I’d been enjoying all of our time together and I didn’t want to risk ruining it by splitting hairs over its definition. There was so much more than work that held us together. We saw things the same way, appreciated the little things and the bigger ones, too. He had been generous in every sense of the word, helping me fix things around my apartment, driving me for errands, taking me out for countless dinners and movies, always resisting my pleas to pay for something. Save your money, Doll, he always said. Buy yourself something nice. He took care of me. He was adorable and manly and talented and ambitious and perfect, and I had done the unthinkably stupid: I had fallen for my chef.
Idiot.
To make matters worse, in just a few days I would officially start my new job as pastry chef at the hotel with Joey. Another restaurant opening, which meant another extended, stressful period of long hours working closely together. Not exactly the ideal situation in which to work out personal feelings for a boss, especially when those feelings might not be reciprocated.
By the time I got home at nearly midnight, there was already a message from Joey on my machine. Gimme a buzz when you get in, Doll. I gotta ask you something. It was the same message I’d gotten nearly every night for the past few months. How did he manage to sound so vague and yet so endearing? Of course, I called. He picked up on the first ring.
“Hi, Doll,” he said. “What’s going on?” He sounded almost cheerful.
“What do you mean?” I answered. He had to know what’s going on, didn’t he? I hated him for pretending that he hadn’t cringed at hearing me called his girlfriend.
“You seemed so angry, Doll. When you left.” He sounded superficially concerned. He was probably worried that I would quit, that he’d have to find a new pastry chef in a few days. He was going to make me bring it up. I braced myself.
“What are we doing?” I finally said.
“What do you mean, Doll?” he said. “You’re my best friend.” Great. I was his best friend. I’d heard it a million times before. You’re my best friend. This was going nowhere.
“Yeah, Joey, I know,” I said purposefully. “But what are we doing?”
Nothing. He had to know what I was getting at, but he made me spell it out.
“Joey,” I started again. “We spend every day together. We talk on the phone every night.” I paused. “We have sleepovers.”
More silence.
“What are we doing?” I said louder, gaining momentum. “You seemed horrified when Sal introduced me as your girlfriend, and I know we never talk about it, but if what we’re doing isn’t dating or whatever, then aren’t we wasting our time? How can either one of us meet someone to be with for real if we spend every single minute together? Talk every night on the phone? I just can’t keep doing this if it doesn’t mean anything.”
Still more silence. I was getting worked up, aware that I was on the verge of sounding like a crazy drunk girl and I did not want to be that girl. I took a breath.
“I’m just saying, Joey, that we have to decide.” Okay. I was going to do it. I was only going to say it once. “Either we do it for real, or we stop now and we go back to being friends. Just friends.”
“It’s complicated, Doll,” he said.
“I need to know what’s going on with us, Joey. My head is full,” I explained. “In a few days I start working with you at the hotel, and I need to know where I stand before then.”
Joey was quiet on the other end of the line. I could practically see him pacing, rubbing his thumb back and forth across the other fingers on that hand, the way he did when he tried to figure something out, turning his head from side to side, considering all the options.
“Can’t you just come over, Doll?” he finally said. “Just get in a car and come over.”
“Did you hear anything I just said?” I said impatiently.
“Yeah, Doll,” he said, more calmly. “I want you to come over.”
I tried to decipher what he meant until he clarified.
“I don’t want to meet anybody else.” Finally, I was the quiet one.
“Does that mean you want to do this? That you want me to be your girlfriend ?” Saying the word out loud felt dangerous, but I needed to be sure. Absolutely sure. There was a pause. A long pause. Long as death.
“Yes, Doll. Please just get in a car and come over right away.”
I hung up the phone, dialed a car service, and grabbed some clean underwear.