I paused, taken aback. I hadn’t been home in almost six years? What in the world did that mean? What about my dad and Daphne? There was a niggling sensation in my stomach, the premonition that something was amiss, stronger this time. I would never not see them for that long. It was unthinkable.
Leaving Nicola in capable command of the kitchen, I discreetly poked around until I located my office, thankfully identified by my name on the door. It was oddly similar to my office back at the Eatery, albeit slightly larger and with a window that opened. Definitely an upgrade.
I sank into the chair at my desk and took a deep, gasping breath. I’d done it. Navigated the first full hour of my alternate life. Once my pulse had slowed and I was feeling not quite so high on adrenaline, I began to spy on myself. The office was far more lived-in than my house hadbeen. Tidy but cluttered. A mug of cold, bitter coffee balanced on a stack of ledgers, a laptop open to an accounts page that showed, at first glance, that Toast was in the black. That was a relief.
I opened the desk drawers. A toothbrush and deodorant and an extra set of clothes. A historical novel that still had the receipt tucked under the front cover. Apparently, I didn’t have much time for reading. Still no family photos anywhere in sight. Just one of my mother as a young woman in Denmark. She was standing by the sea next to a large rock on which was perched the famous bronzeLittle Mermaidstatue. They both wistfully gazed out across the water. I’d never seen the photo before, though her thick golden hair and the strong set of her shoulders were unmistakable.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the names, curious to see who was listed in there. So few I recognized. Most seemed like business associates. Thomas Drew—butcher. Kate Fowler—organic flower supplier. Eve wasn’t listed in my phone, which gave me pause. Why was she not in my contacts? Surely we were still friends? It was a long but strangely impersonal list of contacts. I sat back and gazed around me, feeling a bit lonely, trying to get a handle on the shape of this life. Who was I? What kind of life had I built for myself? Was I happy? Was I living the dream?
A knock at the door pulled me from my questions. Chandice stuck her head in.
“Hugh just dropped off the cheese selection for the week. I thought you’d like to sample?”
I perked up immediately. Sampling cheese sounded fun. I was starving. The Hobnobs hadn’t been particularly filling. The light, airy dining room was a beehive of activity. Four servers buzzed around, readying tables, wrapping silverware. Outside someone was watering the ornamental cabbages. I sat at a table with Chandice and tasted a half dozen local cheeses. A sharp English cheddar with a bite thatlingered just at the hinge of your jaw, a creamy goat cheese lavished with a sweet onion chutney. Stuffing the last of a very toothsome local blue cheese into my mouth, I looked around at the happy bustle with satisfaction. This is what I had always dreamed of, this bright hive of positive energy.
Chandice sampled the cheeses with me, then brought up a few points of business. I muddled through the conversation by asking her what she thought was best and agreeing with all of her suggestions. Afterward we chatted for a few moments. There was a lovely sense of calm about her. I could see why I’d hired her.
“How long have you been at Toast now?” I asked.
She calculated in her head. “It will be five years next month.”
“And do you enjoy working here?”
“Absolutely,” she said without hesitation. “I’ve been working at restaurants since I was sixteen, and this is by far my favorite. I like what we create here, the experience we give people. It’s a special thing we’ve built.”
I sensed a hesitation.
“Is there a but?” I prompted.
She smiled with a touch of self-deprecation. “My family always asks why I chose this life. They don’t understand. The long hours on the floor. Difficult customers. Your feet aching so badly you can hardly walk up the steps to your flat. Never a weekend off. You know it’s hard to make a living in this business. They want me to get married and give them grandchildren or at least get a proper job with normal hours.”
I nodded. I identified. She was describing every day for me at the Eatery. And now here at Toast too. Sore feet and surly patrons happened regardless of location. It was the restaurant life.
We sat for a minute in silence. I wanted to ask her so many things about myself. Was I happy? What sort of boss was I? But I didn’t know how to do it without seeming weird.
“Is now a good time to confirm the menu changes for today?” she asked.
Scanning the menu she brought me, I found myself nodding approvingly. Everything was local, sustainable, and ethically sourced. There were only a dozen or so dishes on the menu, but each was mouthwatering. Sussex cider pork belly served with homemade applesauce, roasted parsnips, and caramelized onions. A salmon eggs Benedict with house-made English muffins and fresh local free-range eggs. Several vegetarian and vegan options with a South Asian flair. It all sounded delicious.
As we finished up the menu changes and Chandice went off to print the new ones, my phone rang. It was the florist who was delivering new seasonal table greenery. Her van had broken down outside of Bolney, wherever that was. I assured her a late delivery would be no problem, then made a note to tell Chandice about it as soon as I could. No sooner had I hung up the phone than a wine supplier popped in the door, wanting to discuss our order for our Saturday champagne brunches. Apparently, they were very popular. I put him off by asking him to come back tomorrow.
At the same time, I was fielding questions from the servers and was summoned back to the kitchen twice more by Nicola to discuss various tweaks to the brunch specials. By the end of two hours my head was spinning. I escaped to my office with a warm cheese scone I’d nicked from a cooling tray. Munching the scone, I tapped the wine merchant’s next visit into the calendar app on my phone.
My calendar was busy. Appointments and reminders from early morning to evening most days. Once or twice I saw the name Colin. Otherwise it all looked like work. I studied the calendar with a frown. I didn’t seem to have much of a social life apart from this Colin character, he of the reported bedroom eyes. And where was Rory in this life? Why were we not together? I’d been keeping an eye out for anysign of his presence in my life, both in my apartment and here at Toast, but there had been nothing. He wasn’t even listed as a contact in my phone. I frowned. I had no way of figuring out what had gone wrong, why we were still not together even here in this alternate life. That bothered me more than a little.
On impulse I googled his name, glancing around my office as I did so, feeling a little furtive and guilty. I had a strict no-googling-Rory policy in my real life. It kept me sane. In real life I knew he was married to Emily, and it did me no good to follow his life. But here, I wanted to know if things were different. Within a minute I found his social media profile. It listed him as working for the Tampa Bay Mutiny. That hadn’t changed. His profile pic was taken at a soccer game. He and Emily in matching baseball caps and sunglasses, laughing into the camera, arms twined around each other. I stared at the photo in disappointment, then clicked out of it. Evidently some things had stayed the same.
Feeling oddly deflated, I navigated to the photo app on my phone, curious to see what it could tell me about my life. I felt a little like I was voyeuristically spying on someone else’s life. Technically it was my own life, but it still felt illicit somehow. I scrolled through more than a hundred photos before I stopped. What the photos showed about my own life was just plain depressing.
Almost all of the photos were taken at Toast or with the Toast employees at what looked like various pubs. Lots of group shots of me holding a pint with people I recognized as kitchen and waitstaff. There were a couple photos of me and a tall, sweet-looking man whom I surmised was Colin. In all the shots we appeared to be hill walking or standing in a large garden, me holding a bunch of beets or an armful of zucchini. Nicola was right, Colin did have bedroom eyes. In the photos he looked tall and a little gangly, but adorable, wearing an English driving cap and a sheepish grin. He had a freckled complexion and ginger hair. He reminded me of Rory. Apparently I have a type.
I sighed and clicked off the phone. In some ways Toast was just as I imagined it, but in other ways this day was not quite what I’d envisioned. It wasn’t just the question of Rory, although that weighed heavily on my mind. It was my apparent lack of a good work-life balance. Did I have friends, hobbies, interests outside the restaurant? The photos I’d just seen would seem to indicate that I did not. When I’d spent all those hours imagining Toast, I hadn’t really considered the pace and the workload. I’d grown up in a restaurant. I should have known better, but somehow I’d imagined Toast as a little bubble of peace and prosperity. I’d imagined the customer’s experience, not the hectic juggle behind the scenes to provide that memorable dining experience. I slipped my feet out of my kitten heels, already regretting the choice of footwear. Did British me have no common sense when it came to shoes? I longed for my clogs, the friend of servers everywhere.
A knock at the door. Chandice poked her head in. “Sorry to be a bother, but seems we’ve hit a snag with the reservation system. We’ve somehow overbooked several tables.”
“Be right there.” I stuffed the last of the scone into my mouth and slipped my pinchy shoes back on with a groan.
12
