| |
The next evening, Jemma nosed into a parking slot beside the grey-sided warehouse that housed the Reservations for Two studio. She clicked off the ignition, but didn’t get out. She simply sat for a few moments, gathering her wits, preparing for the upcoming live show.
And for seeing Paul again.
When she pushed through the door leading backstage, Lainie pounced. “Where the hell have you been?”
Jemma scowled. “Goddamn Greta wouldn’t start again.” It wasn’t a complete lie. The car hadn’t started, but the wire brush trick had worked again. She strode to the large ramshackle room she shared with other junior staff, Lainie beside her.
“Who’s Greta?”
Jemma pulled a face as she tossed her bag under the desk she shared with Naomi. “Miriam’s car. I managed to get her going, but she needs a new battery, or a new starter, or something expensive.”
Lainie bounced from foot to foot impatiently. “One more reason you can’t afford to lose this job. You were needed in studio as of fifteen minutes ago, so get a move on.”
Jemma slipped her phone out of her pocket and checked the time. “What do you mean? I’m not late. I don’t start for five minutes yet.”
“Yeah, well, Benedict wanted you fifteen minutes ago.”
“Dammit. Why?” Jemma hurried into the hall, Lainie scurrying after.
“You’re his favourite PA. When he wants you, he wants you now.” They entered the sound stage where Benedict and Larrey huddled together over a laptop in a dim corner of the set.
Jemma stopped short. “Favourite PA?” She’d seen no evidence of such a statement. In fact, he yelled at her more than anyone else.
Lainie shrugged. “Yeah, surprised me, too.” Jemma shot her a dirty look and she grinned. “Despite your sullen attitude, you get work done, and you don’t cry when he shouts at you.”
“Of course I don’t.”
“Thousands would. He’s a scary guy.”
“He’s a redheaded pipsqueak directing a tabloid dating show.”
Lainie’s head swung around in alarm. “Don’t say that—not here, not anywhere,” she hissed.
Embarrassment pinched at Jemma. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it.” She realized she was telling the truth. Despite everything, she was enjoying her job. “I’m just in a bitchy mood today.” She pasted on a fake smile. “There, better?”
Lainie shuddered.
Benedict certainly did shout a lot. Jemma let it roll over her, and did what he said without fussing. Years of dealing with surly chefs and cranky customers had given her practice.
He said nothing about her being late. Which was lucky, because she hadn’t been, and she was in no mood to put up with any crap.
“You!” He jabbed a scrawny finger at her. “Get to the women’s dressing room. We go live in less than two hours, and we don’t have time for make-up or costume screw-ups. Make sure they’re on schedule, then get back here.”
Without pausing to consider consequences, Jemma stood at attention and saluted. “Yes, sir!”
Benedict squinted at her, bushy red brows drawn low between his eyes. Before he could say anything, she spun around and headed down the hallway.
Tension twisted through her nerves. She had to get a grip. She couldn’t take her frustrations out on Benedict. Miriam was relying on her.
Jemma’s day hadn’t been over when the boat docked at the pier yesterday. It continued for several hours at the sound stage, preparing for today’s ‘rejection’ episode, when Paul would eliminate the first woman from the competition. By the time she headed home, streetlights shone and the clear blue sky was cloaked in looming grey clouds. Headlights traced mercury streaks on the pavement.
The apartment was dark when she eased the door open. She tiptoed to Miriam’s bedroom, relaxing when she found her sleeping peacefully, flat on her back, mouth open. Jemma sagged against the jamb. Soon—so much sooner than she had hoped—it wouldn’t be safe to leave Miriam alone.
Her phone call to the doctor’s office this morning hadn’t helped. At first, they refused to book an appointment until the following week.
“Your grandmother’s case is not urgent,” the receptionist said. “Her condition may be worsening, but there is no harm in waiting a few more days.” She didn’t say it out loud, but Jemma heard it anyway. Miriam will get worse and worse. There’s nothing we can do. Other people, who may actually improve, are our priority.
Jemma pushed and prodded until the receptionist gave in and made an appointment for tomorrow. Her heavy sigh spoke volumes about the futility of Jemma’s urgency.
She opened the door of the dressing room and entered mayhem. Sofas and loungers filled the space in mismatched styles and colours. A vast expanse of mirror hung on one wall, under which a long counter was scattered with hairbrushes, lipsticks, tampon boxes, and bras. A fridge held the drinks each woman required— from diet sodas to coconut milk. She knew because she’d been responsible for filling it the night before.
All thirteen contestants flew about like seagulls after French fries, chattering and flittering and fluffing.
The cuddly blonde Paul had chosen for his first date rushed to Jemma. She quivered with tension. “You’re one of the crew, aren’t you? I noticed you the first day. You know, when you spilled the squid.” She held one slender hand, tipped with pale pink nails in perfect ovals, to her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that. It must have been so embarrassing for you.”
Not as embarrassing as going to jail for throttling you.
“You need anything?” Jemma did her best not to growl. “Benedict wants everyone ready on time.”
“Oh, I’m peachy keen. Isn’t this so exciting?” She wasn’t unusually tall, yet she looked down on Jemma. Most people did. “I’m so nervous. It’s the first time I’ll ever be on live television.” She giggled, and Jemma shuddered as if a cheese grater had rubbed her spine. There was only so much frou-frou frothiness she could take. “I wonder who he’ll pick? I’ll literally die if I’m sent home already.” Her eyes widened and she gripped Jemma’s bicep. “You must know. Is it me? Tell me.”
Jemma stepped away, breaking her hold. “I don’t know. And if I did, I couldn’t tell you. I’m not allowed.”
“Oh, pooh.” The woman’s lower lip pushed out in a pout.
Oh, pooh? “Sorry, got to get going.” Jemma made her escape.
It was a frying pan/fire scenario. She escaped Blondie only to be pounced on by Laurette, the lanky, dark haired woman whose generous dashes of spice and overcooked squid had landed her in the bottom ranking. “It’s me, isn’t it? I know it’s me.” She cornered Jemma between the coffeemaker and a recliner. “I’m going home, aren’t I?” Jemma shook her head and the woman’s eyes lit in relief. “I’m not?”
Jemma shook her head harder. “No, no, that’s not what I meant.”
The brunette’s face fell. “I knew it. I knew I was.”
“I don’t know!” Jemma yelled. The room fell quiet and all eyes turned toward her. She stood as tall as she could and spoke firmly. “Let me make this clear. I don’t know who is going home. I don’t know the results. I am a lowly peon. I was sent here to find out if anyone needs anything. Nylons, make-up, hairspray?” No response, just blank faces. “Chocolate, yogurt, granola?” Nothing. “Okay then.” She pointed at the clock on the wall. “There’s less than two hours until we’re live. You are expected on set half an hour before. Between now and then, you need anything you call for me, Jemma. Got it?” A baker’s dozen heads nodded in unison. “Right then.” Jemma marched out the door.
––––––––
“When we return, our Chef d’Amour makes a decision that will affect his life, and the lives of two of the women you see here. Who will go home—Laurette or Fenella? Find out, right after this.” Calynn beamed at the camera with the red light on top. A beat of silence, and another.
“And we’re out!” the floor director shouted. “Back in three.”
Paul let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, sucked in another, and promptly stopped breathing again.
As the commercial break rolled, he concentrated on exhaling and inhaling in a calm, deliberate rhythm. The hair and makeup people swooped in. Calynn held her face up to be powdered, then turned to him. Her grin was predatory, sharp, and made him think of peasants waiting for the guillotine to slice through a royal neck.
“That was the easy part,” she said, “watching the edited recap of your date with Fenella. Now comes the good stuff. Ready to do this?”
“No.”
She laughed and patted his knee. “Perfect. That’s exactly what we want. Emotion, drama, tension.”
“Believe me,” Paul said, trying to ignore the wispy man in skintight jeans plucking at his hair, “there’s plenty of tension.”
“Don’t think about being live. It’s no different than any other segment we’ve done. Forget about the hundreds of thousands of people watching. Don’t look at the cameras. You’ll be fine.”
The thirteen women were ranged on two extra-long couches on either side of Paul and Calynn’s club chairs. Laurette sat closest to Paul, Fenella closest to Calynn. They’d all watched the dating segment on a monitor off stage. Paul squirmed more than once. Was that really how he looked when he smiled? With those deep lines cutting his cheeks, and the horizontal one below his bottom lip? Maybe he should grow a beard.
“One minute!” yelled the floor director.
At least they hadn’t shown his reaction to Jemma on the boat. Either the cameras hadn’t caught it, or the editor had chosen not to use it.
He couldn’t get that kick of connection out of his head. When he was a kid, he’d had the wind knocked out of him playing hockey. The feeling was similar— disbelief, panic, shock.
“Thirty seconds!”
The bright lights illuminating the set made it impossible to see the rest of the darkened sound stage. Was Jemma out there, watching him? His groin tightened.
“Ten seconds!”
Calynn smiled at the women, gave Paul another encouraging pat.
“Five...four...three...two...”
At the floor director’s point, Calynn took over. She smoothly delivered her intro, before turning to Paul.
“You’re an internationally trained chef, and a restaurateur. Explain to me what results you wanted in this week’s Kitchen Challenge.”
As Paul answered, slipping into dialogue with Calynn, another part of his brain marveled at how skilled she was. Starting with a question in his comfort zone, she warmed him up, let him relax into the taping, while moving the process forward.
“So that’s how you came to choose Laurette’s dish”—she smiled apologetically at the dark-haired woman to Paul’s left—“as the least palatable to your tastes. Now, your chosen dish was created by Fenella. We saw your date with her, but give me your take on how it went.”
“I’m afraid Fenella was a little uncomfortable. I hope it wasn’t me.” Giggles rippled through a few of the women on set. Not Fenella, who sat rigid, hands clasped. She hadn’t taken her eyes off him since the segment began. Sweat dampened the base of his spine. “It was an inspiring experience, for both of us. The orcas were simply awesome. It’s hard to realize how big they are, how exhilarating, how free, until you’re right there beside them, in their own environment.”
Calynn’s eyes lost their focus for a split second, as they did when she listened to directions from the earpiece she wore. “What about Fenella? What was it like, getting to know her better?”
He didn’t miss his cue this time. Less whales, more woman. “I was proud of how she overcame her jitters. She was a good sport, and I have to admit, very cute in that survival suit.”
“You’ve had time to consider, Paul. Now it’s time to let Laurette and Fenella know your decision.”
He drew a deep breath. Calynn had coached him before the show to take his time, draw out the drama, but he simply couldn’t do it. The tension was too much for him—he couldn’t imagine what the two women were feeling. He shifted in his seat, toward Laurette on his left. “Laurette, I’m sorry we didn’t have time to get to know each other better. But I’ve decided Fenella will stay.”
He heard a gasp from his right. Laurette stood up, and he followed suit, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “Be well, be safe,” he said. Laurette walked off the set.
Calynn closed the show, inviting viewers to make comments on Facebook and Twitter. “Did Paul make the right choice? Let us know. Join us next week for a new Kitchen Challenge. Will Fenella win a second date with our Chef d’Amour? Or will it be another of our ladies? And who will go home next? We’ll see you then.”
“We’re out!” shouted the floor director. “Good show, everyone!”