I double and triple check the boxes of ingredients and pre-prepared elements as Zac helps me stack them into the back of Matt’s Range Rover. I hang my chef’s whites on the jacket hook and make sure my knife roll is secured in the locked box I like to keep it in when I travel around with it.
“I’m so sorry I can’t be your sous chef tonight,” Zac says again for the millionth time since I told him about this gig. He’d already made plans to go to Santa Barbara for some sun with his new boyfriend and their flight leaves this evening.
“It’s fine, honey,” I reply, patting his arm. “The woman assured me there’ll be plenty of wait staff and her own personal chef will be there and is willing to help out if I need it. But with all the prep you’ve helped me with today, it’s just a case of cooking the fresh elements and plating up for ten people. That’s a walk in the park.”
“And Thor’s coming after his game?” Zac asks, side-eyeing me as he loads the last box.
“Yes, he’s coming, but only to repay me for the cooking lessons and to give the donors a little extra for their amazing donation. I told you. We’re keeping it friendly until after the playoffs. No need to worry your pretty little head about me.” I grip his face with my fingers so his full lips pop out and I plant a firm kiss on them. “Now go and pack for Santa Barbara and make sure this guy treats you well.”
“Oh baby, Daddy’s gonna treat me so good.” Zac waggles his eyebrows and I make a fake gagging noise.
“Get outta here.” I shoo him away, close the tailgate of the Rover, and walk around to the driver’s door, having to hoist myself up into the high seat. Doesn’t anyone make an SUV for little people?
As I drive out to the exclusive neighborhood, my excitement builds. I’ve designed a five course Parisian menu which has been such good fun to design and shop for. I found an adorable French food market and had a blast conversing in French with the elderly owner.
I made sure to design the menu so a lot of the elements can be prepped beforehand, transported to the house, and cooked there. I want to start with an apéritif, a Lavender French 75 cocktail that will refresh everyone’s palette. As the guests enjoy their cocktail, I’ll serve the Hors d’Oeuvres: fig and goat cheese tartlets with a watercress garnish, followed by duck in a bitter cherry sauce and summer vegetables. For the salad course, I’ll serve pea and carrot salad and a fromage platter and chocolate mousse to finish. I feel a little self-conscious about handing over the bill for the food because I’ve spent more than I would hope to spend on a month’s rent, but Cam assured me that they’re happy to pay.
And as the GPS says that I’ve reached my destination, I can see why. The tall wrought-iron gates open, and I drive up to a huge mansion that makes a lot of hockey player’s houses look like run-down shacks.
Shit, if I wasn’t intimidated before, I sure am now. I carefully slide out of the seat and wonder if I should use the back door as technically I’m here to cook and not a guest. As I stand by the car feeling like an idiot, the front door opens, and a very glamorous woman beckons for me to approach.
“Darling, are you Lana?” she asks in a husky French accent, the smell of cigarettes and Chanel No.5 surrounding her.
“Yes, I’m Lana Landon, your chef for the evening. Is there somewhere I can unload the food without walking through your beautiful foyer?” As I stand on the doorstep, I’ve already spied the huge crystal chandelier and sweeping double staircase.
“Of course, darling. Raymond will move your car round to the kitchen door at the back and unload for you.” She clicks her bejeweled fingers and a man I assume to be Raymond appears out of nowhere and holds his hand out for my keys, which I hand over before I’m pulled over the threshold by the woman.
“My name is Cherie, and I’m so excited to eat a good French meal.” She kisses the tips of her fingers and guides me into the huge caterer’s style kitchen. I thought Matt’s kitchen was my dream, but this place is better than anything I’ve ever seen.
“Well, I’m excited to cook for you,” I reply, accepting a glass of champagne from Cherie who then perches elegantly on a high stool. It’s hard to judge her age because she has flawless skin and perfect makeup; however, I’d guess she’s in her mid-fifties but looks much younger.
“I was intrigued by your menu when you sent it over; it’s like you knew all my favorite things.” She reaches over and lights a thin French cigarette, and I move slightly away as she blows a plume of smoke in my direction. “My son was also thrilled by the food. He’ll be joining us later.” Cherie stubs out her barely smoked cigarette and picks up the ashtray and her champagne.
“Thank you so much. I’m really looking forward to hearing what you and your guests think.”
Cherie waves her hand at me absently. “It’ll be beautiful, darling. Raymond will show you where anything is and he’s available if you need another pair of hands in the kitchen.”
At that moment, Raymond enters the kitchen through a door at the back and places several of my boxes on the counter.
“Thank you. I’ll be ready to serve the apéritif at eight if that works for your guests,” I state, walking over to the boxes to check which ones need moving to the fridge.
“Perfection, darling,” Cherie replies. “And I’m sure my son will drop by and see you once he arrives.”
With that, she leaves me alone with Raymond, who formally introduces himself as Cherie’s personal chef and shows me round his fabulous kitchen. He’s very kind and shows me how to work all the fancy gadgets and quickly finds the equipment that I need. Once I’m all set, I put on my chef’s jacket and apron, pull my hair up into a tight bun, and wash my hands.
“Would Cherie mind if I put the Whalers game on in the background while I cook?” I ask Raymond as I begin to unpack the tartlets and set them out on baking sheets. “My brother plays for them, and it’s the first game of the playoffs.” I feel a bit cheeky for asking, but I really don’t want to miss this game.
Raymond smirks and reaches for the remote, aiming it at the TV mounted high in a corner, the pregame show flashing up on the screen.
“I’m so glad you said that. I thought I’d have to sneak out to my car to check the score.” He laughs. “Wow, so your brother is Matt Landon. Awesome.”
“Well, if you think my brother is awesome, you’ll love the extra surprise I’ve arranged for dessert,” I reply, tapping the side of my nose, happy that at least one person here will be thrilled to see Alex when he shows up after the game.
“Oh, I’m intrigued.” Raymond laughs but turns his attention back to the pregame show and I carry on prepping my tartlets.
The rest of the work is easy, and while the tarts cook, I mix the cocktail into tall cut crystal jugs, adding my homemade lavender syrup to flavor it. I manage to get the jugs into the fridge just as Matt takes the puck drop to start the game, so I join Raymond to watch the first ten minutes which is when the tarts will need to come out of the oven, and I can leave them to get to room temperature.
The Whalers come out strong and have several shots on goal before Ford finally finds the back of the net and Raymond and I leap up and hug each other, trying to keep our cheering to a minimum so as not to disturb the guests.
But as we settle back onto our stools, I wonder if any guests have actually arrived yet. I’ve not heard a doorbell ring or doors opening and closing. But then again, this is a huge mansion and we had to walk through several areas before making it to the kitchen at the back of the house. I push that thought away and look at the timer to see I have two more minutes until the tarts are ready, so I get the cooling racks out and begin to mix the dressing for the garnish.
Just as Alex performs a body bending save and deflects the Pumas’ first real shot on goal, Cherie comes back into the kitchen and Raymond quickly shuts the TV off.
“Raymond, I’m out of cigarettes. Would you be a darling and go pick me up some more?” she says, sipping from her champagne flute.
“Of course, Madame,” Raymond replies, grabbing his keys from the bowl on the counter.
“Merci,” Cherie gushes, sweeping out of the room again.
As I remove the tarts from the oven, I hear Raymond mumbling to himself.
“Everything okay?” I ask, settling the tart cases on the cooling racks.
“Yeah, it’s just my luck is all. The only place that stocks her cigarettes is a fifty-mile round trip. At least I can listen to the game in the car I suppose.” Raymond looks at me a little sheepishly and adds, “If I miss your surprise, and it happens to be a Whalers player, could you get them to sign something for me?”
I laugh kindly. “I’ll do one better. I’m sure I can score you some tickets and a signed jersey if you want.”
Raymond pulls me into an awkward hug. “Thank you. I’ll be as quick as I can. Good luck.” And with that he disappears out the back door and I’m left alone in this huge kitchen. I just hope to god I can find anything I might need that Raymond hasn’t already shown me.
Since Raymond left, I’ve had an uneasy feeling that something isn’t quite right.
I can’t put my finger on what it is, but this house is too big and too quiet to have ten or more people having a party. I hear no music, no voices, no one has been into the kitchen to get ice from the freezer, and I haven’t seen any of the wait staff I was promised would be here to help.
As ridiculous as it sounds, Alex’s warning about serial killers flickers through my brain more than once. So, I keep busy and reprimand myself for being a stupid scaredy cat, reminding myself that rich people can be weird, but that doesn’t mean they’re dangerous.
After quickly checking my phone to see that the Whalers are still leading by one goal to zero, I slide it into my purse and concentrate on plating up the Hors d’Oeuvres. As I move from plate to plate, adding a perfectly baked tart, a sprinkling of watercress and a drizzle of lemon verbena dressing, I’m completely lost in my task.
Once the plates look perfect, I pick up the first two and turn around to place them on the island ready for the wait staff who are still yet to appear.
But as I turn, both plates drop from my grip and fall to the floor, smashing into thousands of pieces. My hands fly to my mouth, and I try to hold in the scream that so desperately wants to break free.
Before me stands the tall, lean figure of Etienne, dressed impeccably in his effortlessly stylish European designer clothes.
He can’t be here. How is he here? What the hell is going on?