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She oversees my work for a moment, and internally, I dare her to say one word. She doesn’t know a thing about fine cuisine, probably eats a microwaved Lean Cuisine each night or nibbles on celery stalks to maintain her harsh, angular shape.
“I received the menu . . . this time.”
Ah, come to rub my nose in the fact that in the end, I did acquiesce to her request. She seems to feel some victory in my choice to send on the list of courses this evening, but it’s reasonable for an event like this one. I will not be going out to make course announcements as tonight is all about the bride and groom, so it’s common courtesy to let the guests know what they’re eating.
“Yes.” I don’t have time to play her games or invite further conversation.
Still, she lingers. “What is that?” she asks sharply as I begin adding small yellow blooms to each plate.
“Marigold.”
She balks, her voice reaching high into the screech zone. “Flowers? On the tuna?” She makes it sound like the most ridiculous idea she’s ever heard.
I pause and turn to face her fully, standing to my full height. “Ms. Wildeman, Claire hired me to provide her guests with a wedding feast and I am doing so with the full skill and scope of my years of experience.” I let my judgement of her lack of pallete shine through. “If you, as the wedding planner, would’ve liked ingredient by ingredient approvals, then you should’ve requested it long ago. Right now, as the chef, I have two hundred more plates to prepare. If you’ll excuse me.”
Cold fury freezes her face with her lips pressed into a thin line and her penciled-on brows drawn up . . . well, as high as they can be, considering her forehead doesn’t move.
“Chef Toscani, you would do well to remember that I might be a wedding planner” —she mimics my obvious distaste, mistaking it for her profession when it’s entirely personal— “but I work with a long list of clients on a multitude of events. And I find your lack of professionalism alarming. I’m not sure I would be comfortable recommending your services to my clients in the future.”
“Okay.”
She thought her threat would hold water with me, but I don’t give a fuck about her snooty list of clients. I want to cook, to create, and will happily do so for people who can appreciate that.
Hell, I don’t even know where I’m going to be next week! Why would I bend to this imaginary list of clients in one town that she’s holding over me?
But Meredith Wildeman is a cunning woman. She might not have anything to lord over my head, but she does have an ace up her sleeve.
“I do wonder,” she muses as she taps her red lips with an equally red-tipped finger, “where you got these marigolds? Is it from the flower girl? I hope she hasn’t let her work suffer from providing the kitchen staff with flowers. I guess I’ll have to see, won’t I?”
Flower girl. Kitchen staff. Every word she speaks makes it quite clear that she feels we are all beneath her, puppets for her play.
And her threat is thinly veiled. If she can’t get at me, she’ll go after someone else I care about.
“You mean Abigail?” I correct, feeling my blood heat. How dare this bitch!
Meredith smiles serenely. “Ah, yes, Miss Andrews, the flower girl who gets by on her name. Or her father’s, I guess I should say,” she clarifies snidely. “If her work isn’t up to snuff, I guess I shan’t be recommending her either. Such. A. Pity.”
Who the fuck says ‘shan’t’ in regular conversation when they’re not quoting Elizabethan literature? Or wanting to sound like a fucking Disney villain?
“I’m sure the arrangements are exactly as Claire ordered,” I reply coldly, gritting my teeth. I want to smash things. I want to go out there and tell Abigail that this bitch is threatening her business. I want to tell Claire exactly where she can shove her wedding planner, and it’s nowhere as nice as an island paradise.
No, I’d leave Meredith in the desolate cold of Siberia where she belongs. I bet her blood wouldn’t even freeze, cold bitch that she is.
But this a battle of words, of leverage. And she does have some power over Abigail, working in the city she does and with a similar clientele. Meredith Wildeman could sabotage Abigail’s plans.
“I suppose you would know. You’re rather close with Miss Andrews, are you not?” Meredith tilts her head, looking down her nose at me smugly. And that’s saying something considering I’m a good six inches taller than she is in her black heels.
“We have people in common, as you’re aware.” I’m hedging, not mentioning this week but playing on Violet as our common denominator the way Abigail and I decided to early on. It’s not the best look for the staff to be fraternizing, even if it hasn’t affected our work in the slightest.
