Chapter Two
Olivier – The Channel Crossing
The sea and the sky were grey, only the foam spraying up as the ferry cut through the water and the faint white smudge on the horizon that must’ve been the famous cliffs at Dover, breaking up the dull palette. It was like a monochrome photograph as Olivier leaned against the rail and let the damp air make his cheeks go numb with the cold.
He felt anything but though. The salt in the air, the wind roaring in his ears – almost impossible to tell apart from the hum of the big ship’s engines – it all made him feel awake and like the world was truly alive around him. People sometimes said that the city was a vibrant place, and the kitchen of the restaurant he worked in was non-stop with noise, and smells and heat, but…but this was different. That was a closeted existence, like he was a coal miner, shovelling fuel into a big engine to accommodate people as they lived their lives. This was the real world. There was so much air and sky and sea. It stretched all around him and if he wasn’t careful he was going to do something embarrassing, like hold his arms out and declare he was King of the World.
Luckily, his phone rang before the temptation was too strong and there was no better person to be calling him than his papa, if he needed any crazy impulses squashed. Olivier was neither a coal miner – of course his job wasn’t back-breaking labour – nor was he King of the World. He was a chef, off to visit hismamanin England and one conversation with his papa would remind him of that.
‘Good morning, Auguste,’ Olivier answered, raising his voice over the background noise.
‘Is it morning? No. That can’t be correct. My pâtissier would be here, preparing for the lunch service.’
‘Unless your pâtissier had started his Christmas holiday as you discussed.’
‘I thought we talked about you taking the holiday next week?’
Olivier wasn’t fooled by this. His papa didn’t make those kinds of mistakes. He was just testing him, seeing if he’d left yet or could be called back into the restaurant for a few extra days. ‘If we did, I must have got my wires crossed because I booked my ticket for today. I’m on the ferry as we speak.’
‘Is that what all that noise is? Are you sitting on top of the propellers, Olivier?’
‘Not quite. Hold on, I’ll go inside so that it’s quieter.’ He walked reluctantly away from the railing and went onto the main deck. There were tables and armchairs set around the interior, but most were occupied, so he moved over towards the window to stand.
‘What made you take the ferry? The Eurostar is so much faster and more comfortable. And it’s not like you can’t afford it – first class even – I should know. I pay your wages.’ Auguste’s booming laugh almost perforated Olivier’s eardrum.
‘I’m not in a hurry. I’m on holiday.’ Olivier looked out at the sea from the window, but now it really did look like a black and white photograph. Dramatic but untouchable.
‘And when will you be back?’
‘After Christmas.’Like we discussed.
‘What idiot boss would give one of his best chefs a whole month off before Christmas? I must love you very much, my boy.’
Olivier forced a laugh. ‘You also owe me a lot of annual leave, which I haven’t been taking.’
‘I’m a slave driver. I work you to the bone. This is why you don’t want to take on Veronique’s position when she leaves us?’
‘I…just want to make sure it’s the right thing before I say yes. It’ll be a different role—’
‘Of course, it will. A better one. A step up. More money to spend on ferry rides. Perhaps you could buy your own boat.’
It’s not all about money,Olivier wanted to say. But he knew the debate that would lead to and how ungrateful it would seem. So many others were not fortunate enough to be in the position he had been – able to walk straight out of catering college and into a Michelin-starred restaurant.
He’d worked his way up, because Auguste would never have allowed him to take on a role he wasn’t capable of and damage the reputation of his restaurant, but Olivier had that foot in the door because he was the boss’s son, there was no denying that. Olivier had worked very hard to prove he was worthy of such a generous helping hand, moving up the ranks to pâtissier, and now Auguste was offering him another chance at promotion, but for some reason he hadn’t been able to accept it. Olivier should have been biting his papa’s hand off. He knew that. And so he hadn’t said no either.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d said no to his papa, and that realisation had jolted something in Olivier that he hadn’t been able to settle back calmly into place. Particularly not all the while he was working long hours at the restaurant with Auguste hovering over his shoulder. He needed some time to think.
‘I wouldn’t ever have time to go on it,’ Olivier joked about the boat.
‘Oh dear, is my boy frightened of a little hard work? Surely not? And aren’t you on holiday at this very moment? Even though it’s Christmas?’
‘But would you ever have let me take this time if I was sous-chef?’
‘Well…if it was an emergency. You know your maman could come to visityounext Christmas. She’s always happy to spend time in Paris.’
‘She has a business to run too. And I’m looking forward to Christmas in England.’
Auguste grunted. ‘Hmm. Yes. Soggy mince pies and dry turkey. It will be delightful.’
