1
Safi
“Why did I agree to this?” I put my hand to my head, squeezing my temples, wondering if there’s a quiet way out of this kitchen and back to my old life.
My safe old life, studying cuisine and keeping out of trouble.
My old life where nobody ever really noticed me.
My old life of wondering where the next paycheck will come from. Of wondering if I’m going to be able to make my share of the contributions for my brother’s care this month, or if this is the month he goes into a home.
That’s why I agreed to this, I tell myself. That’s why I have to follow through.
Glancing out of the doorway into the large, softly-lit private room, I watch the two men at the table with a pile of chips sitting between them, cards in their hands as they talk in voices so gruff they’re like sandpaper on a chalk board. Clarissa told me not to speak to them unless they speak to me, and preferably not even then. The client appreciates discretion, apparently. I’m to have no eyes or ears, just provide the food.
Which would be fine, except they’ve already noticed me.
I mean noticed me, noticed me.
How am I supposed to have no eyes or ears when they’re mentally undressing me and making comments that would have a working girl slapping them across the face?
“Just do the job, Safi,” I tell myself as I head through into the main kitchen area. “One evening, then that’s it. A good reference from a clearly well-connected client to get your own business off the ground.” I nod, as if to myself, as I come around the corner to where the main business is going on. “God, I wish Clarissa was here instead.”
“You’re doing fine.”
I turn to Becca, the sous chef Clarissa provided me with, and force a smile. “Thanks, but I’m not. I’m out of my depth.”
“Anyone would be. I’ve done this with Clarissa before and even she ends up rushed off her feet. The client likes discretion and that means far too few people to cover the kitchen in my opinion. But we have it under control, you and me. The appetizers are popular. Main course will be ready to plate up in thirty minutes. You can do it. How is Clarissa, by the way, have you seen her?”
“I saw her this afternoon for a final rundown of tonight’s menu. Her leg’s healing.”
I shrug and Becca nods. What else can she say? A broken leg is a broken leg, and dealing with all this when you’re on crutches would be impossible.
Clarissa and I met on my first day at culinary school, when she just happened to be there to see one of her old instructors. I was running late, tripped over my own feet, landed in her arms and she made a comment about at least buying her dinner first.
In short, we hit it off right away.
She’s amazing. The best caterer in the city. And me? I’m talented, even if I do say so myself, but I haven’t even quite finished my schooling yet. I’m just hoping nobody tells the client I took her place, or we’re both in deep dog poo.
“More of these, malishka. They are fucking delicious.” The larger of the two men, Egor, laughs as he holds up the tray of vol-au-vents and winks at me, and his friend, Mikhail, grunts as he tries to sneak a glimpse of his opponent’s cards.
Malishka. I don’t like it. He doesn’t know me and I don’t know him. I want to tell him I’m not his anything, let alone his malishka.
Whatever that is.
Instead, I draw a deep breath, blowing it out slowly before putting my game face on. “Sure thing, two ticks!”
Clarissa designed the menu. I have her sous chef assisting. I can do this.
What’s a bit of staring and a few lewd comments? A few more hours and I’ll get paid. Turning to the counter, I pick up another tray of vol-au-vents and head back through to the gaming area, which is in darkness with a couple of strip lights above the long card table. A dealer is standing by, but he’s mostly just for decoration, like the statues of Greek gods placed at regular intervals around the walls and the trickle of water from the fountain in the corner.
All just here for the entertainment of the men playing cards, who I’m sure have been discussing business in Russian all evening, and I’m equally sure are not the kind of businessmen that sit in board rooms and have an abiding love of spreadsheets.
“Fyodor, here at last!”
The tray almost tips all over the floor as I flinch out of the way of Mikhail’s flailing arm, turning as I step back and almost falling into the arms of a much younger man, with curly blond hair and a neatly-trimmed beard. He makes no attempt to hide the way his dark eyes linger on my cleavage.