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I shake my head, wondering how I can ask if that’s a permanent state of affairs for him, or whether it’s just tonight that he’s available, and he’s normally busy… with someone. How can I, though? I’d be too embarrassed, and I’m worried he might give me an answer I don’t want to hear.
“I guess I’d better be prepared to make a fool of myself in front of other people,” he says, scratching his head and messing up his hair.
“Are you still feeling nervous?” I ask. “Even though you did so well earlier?”
“A little.”
“You’ve got no reason to.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You know what you’re doing.”
“No, I don’t. This is all new to me. It’s my first job.”
He frowns. “In television?”
“Anywhere.”
His face clears, and he smiles. “It doesn’t show.” He looks at his watch. “I guess we’d better get some lunch before we run out of time.”
“I can make us something, if you like?”
His smile widens. “Do we have enough ingredients?”
“Sure we do. We’ve got eggs, so I can make us an omelet, if nothing else.”
“Okay.” He nods toward the side kitchen. “Shall we?”
“I’m not cooking in there. The only thing in that kitchen that’s worth using is the coffee machine.” He laughs. “Why don’tyou sit?” I glance over at the stool, where his script is still lying on the countertop.
“And watch you work? That doesn’t seem very fair.”
“I’m pretty sure I can make omelets all by myself. They were one of the first things I learned to cook when I got to France.”
He doesn’t argue anymore, and wanders over to the stool, sitting down, and pushing his script aside as he gazes across at me.
“So that’s where you studied cookery, is it… in France?”
I nod my head, then walk over to the refrigerator, grabbing some eggs and an omelet pan from the cabinet before I return to him.
“It wasn’t just in France. I spent about six months in London, and then just over a year in Madrid, before I moved on to Paris.”
“And how long did you spend there?” He watches, while I quickly get out two plates, and then put the pan on the stove to heat. After that, I crack three eggs into a small bowl that I put out earlier but didn’t end up using, and start beating them with a whisk.
“A little over two years.”
“Was that because you liked Paris the most?” He’s teasing. That much is obvious from his smile… and I like it.
“No. It was because the course there was the longest… although I will admit, I loved living in Paris.”
“More than London?”
I smile at him. “Maybe. Sorry.”
I lean over toward him, grabbing a handful of fresh herbs from the pot, and he watches my every move. I’m usually a lot more self-conscious than this, but I enjoy being scrutinized by him. There’s something oddly comforting about it.
I take my chef’s knife and chop the herbs, running it back and forth over them. “How do you do that?” he says, shaking his head.
“It’s about rolling the knife.” I make my moves more slowly, demonstrating.
