The Fortunate Ones
Page 41

I watch as he orders the servers to straighten their shoulders and “act like you’ve been here before. Jesus.”
“Yes, Chef,” they reply with clipped, respectful tones.
With impatience, the chef steps forward and points to each dish, reminding them of what they’re holding on their trays. “Bouillabaisse with poached lobster. Crispy oysters with vegetable salad and citrus mayonnaise. Sea bass with prawn tortellini, fennel purée, and white wine sauce. Serve Ms. Nichols first, and then Mr. Ashwood. If they ask about a dish and you don’t know the answer, for the love of god, keep your mouth shut.”
Then he turns and finally sees me standing there, watching. “You,” he says, pointing to me. “Come help serve.”
I pale. “Oh, I can’t. I’m stationed at the cabana.”
He’s taken aback at my audacity, his oily face turning bright red with anger. “I didn’t study at Hyde Park to be refused by a fucking cabana girl.”
He shoves a small tray at me and releases it, so I have no choice but to grasp it tightly or let it crash down to the floor. The servers eye me with mild curiosity as they pass and then I fall in line, using the last server as a shield between me and our final destination. I could bolt at any moment, but it doesn’t seem worth it; I don’t want to incur the wrath of Mr. Michelin Star.
We descend upon James and Lacy, and I hover in the back, behind the servers and the chef. I can barely see James, which means he can’t see me. Thank goodness.
The chef steps forward and addresses them. I’m shocked at how quickly he can change his tone. Out here, he sounds gentle and kind. “As promised, we have the next round of courses for you both to sample.”
Lacy claps gleefully. “Oh wonderful! It looks amazing.”
“Yes, we’ll just clear these dishes off for you. I’m sorry, that should have been done already. Let me just—”
He turns and peers around the servers, pushing one of them aside until he finally gets to me.
“You,” he clips out impatiently. “Come clear these.”
Another server steps to the side and my cover is blown. There I stand, a few feet from James and his date, wearing my pleated skirt and Twin Oaks Polo. I know how I look: bags under my eyes, messy hair, slightly skinnier than I was a few weeks ago. Still, I try to lift my chin as I step forward and reach for the empty plate in front of James. He’s so close I can smell his cologne, and yet he doesn’t say a word. Maybe he’s shocked to find me here suddenly, but then again, so am I.
My hand shakes as I clear the dishes out from in front of him, and I come an inch away from toppling his wine glass. He reaches out to steady it, for which I am eternally grateful. I’m pretty sure the chef would flay me right here if I spilled wine on James Ashwood.
“Thank you,” he says with quiet formality as I stand and turn to Lacy.
Our eyes lock, and she tilts her head in recognition.
I hurry and collect the few dishes in front of her, but before I can turn and scurry away, she leans forward.
“You’re Martha’s stepdaughter aren’t you? Ellie? I’m Lacy, I’m a member of the Philanthropic League with her.”
I smile tightly. “Ellie is my sister. I’m Brooke.”
“Of course.” She drags her gaze down me in assessment and then smiles. “Martha mentioned you both work here.” She eyes my uniform and her nose twitches almost imperceptibly. It’s like she’s allergic to starched polos. “How fun, it’s almost a family business.”
I wait for James to chime in and announce that he knows me as well, but his imposing silence is worse. I’ve been wondering what it would be like when we finally came face to face, and now that it’s happening, all of my worst fears are coming true. He’s still holding on to the anger. I hurt him in Vegas, and for that, I’m sorry. I need him to know that.
“James, how are you?” I ask, peering over at him beneath my lashes.
Look at me, I beg. Look at me so you can see how sorry I am.
“Fine,” he replies with a bored dismissal.
“James?” Lacy asks. “Do you two know each other?”
“We’re friends,” I reply with a small smile.
“Is that so?” Lacy asks, her perfectly manicured brow arching in surprise. Her gaze scans back and forth between us, alight with cunning mischief. “I would have thought it was frowned upon for employees to befriend club members.”
Just then her hand shifts so quickly and so deftly that I know I’m the only one who sees it, and then her napkin goes tumbling to the ground. She claps her hand to her chest. “Oh, goodness, I’m so clumsy today!”
She apologizes, but she makes no move to retrieve it. We all freeze there for a long moment before it becomes clear that she expects me to bend down and pick it up.
“Allow me to get you a clean napkin,” I suggest as my mind races to find an escape from the humiliation.
“Don’t bother, this one is just fine!” she insists.
Her message is received loud and clear: it’s not about the napkin, it’s symbolic. In this moment, I’m the help. I’ve never felt so degraded, and a part of me wants to leave right here and now, but the chef clears his throat and I know I have no choice. I bend slowly, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. I wrap my hand around the napkin just as Lacy’s heel shifts one inch to the right, pinning it to the ground. I tug it once, and when she doesn’t release it, I tug again, harder this time. Her heel lifts at the last second, taking the resistance with it. My momentum carries me back and I land on my ass, the dishes sliding off my tray in a mess of crashing porcelain and leftover food.
Some kind of disgusting green goop flies up and blankets my hair, and the edge of the heavy tray drops heavily onto my ribs. James leaps to his feet to help, and as he hooks his hands under my arms and lifts me up, more dishes clatter to the ground.
I aim a furious glance at Lacy, but she’s wearing a perfect mask of shock and concern.
“Oh my gosh, you poor thing! Are you okay?” she asks. “My clumsiness must be contagious.”
James brushes bits of food off my shirt and skirt before I realize what he’s doing. When I do, I yank my arm away from him and take a step back. By this point, the chef has gone completely apoplectic. He flits around me, yelling obscenities and calling me a “stupid philistine”. In a last-ditch effort to preserve a modicum of dignity, I fling as much food off my body as I can and then storm out of the dining room. I’m still due to start my shift in the cabana any minute now, but I could not care less. Right now, I have a job offer to accept.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Diego and Nicolás sit across from me at Starbucks, smiling as I fill them in on my resume and experience. They’re both in their mid 40s, well-dressed artist types. Diego wears clear-framed circular glasses and Nicolás has long blond hair that could rival James’. I decide there’s no point in leaving out the details of why I left my former position as a tutor. Fortunately, they find the whole ordeal amusing rather than concerning.
“She thought you’d sleep with her new husband?” Nicolás asks with wide eyes.
I shrug. “She never said those exact words…”
“Well fortunately Nicolás prefers blonds, so I think we’ll be fine—oh, and men, in case you hadn’t guessed!”
There’s half a moment of hesitation before we all crack up laughing.
For the next hour, we get to know each other better. They tell me all about their daughters, Olive and Luciana, bragging about their Spanish and English skills.
“We’ve been here in the United States for a few years,” Diego explains, “so they’ve picked up quite a bit, but it’s important to us that they continue speaking English once we return to España.”
I nod. “Of course.”
After that, they outline what they’re looking for in an au pair. They don’t expect me to be at their beck and call, and more importantly, I wouldn’t be viewed as the help. They want me to feel like I’m part of the family. I’d only work on the weekdays, and I’d get plenty of time off to travel. Diego will begin his position as a professor at the University of Barcelona in two weeks, so he’s flying out in a few days. Nicolás and the girls will join him soon after.