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“Yes. You apologise for calling me a puppet, and then tell me I’m unprofessional.”
She looks up. “Well, it’s true. You’re not a chef. You can’t even cook.”
I lean down slightly. “Maybe not, but from what I’ve seen, you know nothing about acting, or TV production, which I guess makes us even.”
Things don’t feel very ‘even’, despite my words, and rather than risk any further insults, I beat a hasty retreat to the side kitchen to make a pot of coffee.
As I pour the water into the machine, I do my best to calm down. Ella has a point, after all. She wasn’t told that I can’t cook, so she’d expected to be working alongside a chef, not an actor. That’s the aspect of this job that’s been worrying me the most, ever since I was told I’d landed the role. Even so, I don’t see why she needs to be so rude. We could be working together… helping each other. Let’s face it, I wasn’t wrong. My knowledge of TV production may not be all-encompassing, but it’s greater than hers.
I grab a cup from the cupboard and consider taking down a second one. Should I offer her a coffee? I hesitate and then close the cupboard door again. What’s the point? She’d only tell me I’d made it wrong.
Chapter Four
Ella
I’d decided against querying any more decisions, so why couldn’t I just stick to that? Why did I have to go in, guns blazing?
I’m angry about the way Kennedy’s handled things, but I’m not sure my attitude helped the situation, and now, although I almost never cry, I’m getting really close again, for the second time in as many hours.
I’m not going to, though, if only because I refuse to let Blake – or anyone else – see how much Kennedy got to me back then.
I get up, wandering over to the kitchen area, and I bring back the folder and the sheet of paper I left on the countertop earlier… although I leave behind my knives. I won’t be needing them for a while yet, and sitting back down at the table, I study the question, trying to concentrate on my job, and deal with the tasks at hand… ideally in order of importance. Solving this supposed ‘problem’ is the number one priority. I can worry about Blake and his inabilities later.
Although, thinking of Blake, I notice he hasn’t returned from the side kitchen yet, and I bend forward slightly so I can see him. He’s leaning against the countertop, a cup of coffee in one hand, while the other is in his pocket. I can’t see his face clearly from here, but his pose tells me he’s thinking. There’seven something pensive about the slow, deliberate way he lifts the cup to his lips.
He didn’t offer to bring me a coffee, and a tiny part of me feels offended by that, especially as I’m gasping for one. My offense – and my thirst – are overshadowed by my guilt, though. I can’t blame him for ignoring me, can I? I did just call him a puppet, after all. And he was right. My apology, such as it was, was laced with another insult. He may not be a chef, but that was no excuse for calling him unprofessional. It’s just that our professions are different, and I wasn’t expecting to tutor him in the rudiments of cooking, as well as everything else.
Still… that’s not his fault.
It’s Kennedy’s.
I know I didn’t handle that situation very well, but there’s no getting away from it. I don’t like her. It’s pretty clear she doesn’t like me very much either, but sitting here contemplating that, and my ‘half-arsed’ apology to Blake, won’t get anything done.
I don’t have any writing paper, or a pen, but I have my phone, and I pull it out, noting down the first idea that comes into my head in response to the question about preparing a roast dinner. It’s the simplest thing I can think of, but I guess simple is going to be best. I need to keep it interesting, though, so although I don’t make any more notes, I give some thought to how I can employ easy cooking methods, and tasty ingredients, to achieve what I’m looking for.
It isn’t that difficult in the end, and after just a few minutes, I get up from the table, pocketing my phone and putting the piece of paper back into the folder. I won’t need to take it with me… I know the question backwards now, but I guess I’d better see if Blake wants to come with me. He ought to, really, so he knows what he’ll have to do.
He still hasn’t surfaced, so I wander over to the side kitchen to find he’s standing in exactly the same position, his head slightly bent. I cough to attract his attention and he turns, looking at me, although he doesn’t smile.
“I’m just going to see Ruby.”
“Again?” he says, frowning. “What’s wrong now?”
I’m not sure that was entirely called for. “Nothing’s wrong. I’ve just been doing my job.”Rather than standing around drinking coffee.“I’ve got an idea for this supposedly problematic roast dinner, and I was told to present it to her.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t you want to come with me?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Why?”
Do I have to spell it out to him? For heaven’s sake, if he’s going to be this difficult, how am I going to teach him to cook? “Because this is supposed to be your show. I assumed you’d want to be involved.”
“And I assumed you’d want to keep the conversation between the professionals.”
I stare at him for a moment, and although part of me wants to tell him to grow up, I can’t blame him for being bitter. My remarks were quite derogatory.
“I’m sorry if what I said offended you. It wasn’t meant that way. But if you’d rather stay here and sulk, that’s fine. I’m sure I’ll manage by myself.”
