Page 47 of The Chef

“Well, Cleo didn’t make me feel like what Bay’s making me feel now if that’s what you mean.”

Cove laughs. “I think you fancy the poor waitress then, Cliff. I think that is what’s happening.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“No, it’s an improvement for you. I remember the days when all you were doing was fucking your way around Europe.”

“Yeah, and you weren’t much different back here. What’s the nightclub called?”

Cove rolls his eyes. “Tide.”

“Yeah, you were like the playboy king of that place.”

“You’re right there, and then I met Ripley.”

“It was different times. I’ve grown up now, no more Europe and no more Tide. I’ve grown up.”

“So have we all,” Cove says. “Maybe this waitress might be your Ripley, maybe she’ll get you out of this funk you’re in.”

I growl. “Shut up, loser.”

But maybe he’s right.

Maybe I need Bay.

No, you don’t.

Why does she make me so confused? I’m usually so level-headed, so why does she make my stomach fall into a spin every time I think about her? I can’t see straight.

“Here one comes,” Cove whispers excitedly as he gazes out towards the horizon. He’s right. A giant wave’s coming. “I’ll race you to the shore.”

“I thought you said this was a friendly surf? No competition?”

“Oh, I’ve changed my mind.”

I smile. “Well, this’ll be easy then.”

“Will it now?”

“Right. Let’s race.”

16

CLIFF

I stand in the middle of the restaurant kitchen with the menu in my hands, sighing. I squint to look at the writing on the paper.

There’s too much to take in. Too many items and I don’t even know what half of them contain.

This is hopeless.

Somehow, with no cooking credentials or training at all, I’m meant to overhaul this menu into something that will attract a new load of customers.

Great.

Something tells me that isn’t going to happen.

Fuck.