He had to find a way to fix that at least – he owed her that much.
16
BEING IN THE KITCHEN was good for Isabella. It was like slipping into a pair of comfortable old slippers. She knew what to do, how to behave. Everything about it was familiar. She’d spent two days prepping for the New Years Eve dinner and now, everything was ready. The exclusive venue with views out over Times Square had been decorated with a single table and eleven chairs after a last-minute addition of some mega donor, who’d paid five times the ticket price to secure a seat.
She hadn’t had time to look into the details, but the contribution alone meant she’d never dream of saying ‘no’.
Nerves – the good kind – fired through her as the hour drew close for guests to arrive. She had just enough time to go back to her hotel and change into a fresh outfit – sleek black pants, a gold metallic singlet which she wore under a crisp white chef’s jacket with her YouTube show’s name emblazoned across the left breast.
She wore minimal make up and secured her hair in a high bun. In a tilt of the cap to the event, she added a pair of dangly earrings, gold to match her top. After the cooking was done, she’d be expected to join the table, to share stories over cognac. It was a photo opportunity to raise profile for her professionally, and also to highlight the charitable work she was involved in.
All in all, it was a night Isabella had been looking forward to for a long time. But Gabe was everywhere. He’d taken over her mind as she’d cooked, as she’d chopped, as she’d rinsed her knives; he’d been in her head as she’d kneaded bread, whisked zabaglione, cracked eggs. She’d seen him as vividly as if he’d been there, and her heart had never once stopped aching.
She’d cooked a feast fit for eleven kings and queens but she herself had barely eaten in days. An apple with her coffee in the mornings and a dry biscuit in the afternoons, perhaps a piece of toast for dinner, but nothing more. She couldn’t do it.
Meeting with her publishers had required a maximum of effort – to appear happy and vibrant, to talk excitedly about a book that now bore all the flavours of Gabe’s recipes, and his grandmother’s traditions. Her heart was impossibly heavy.
She caught a taxi back to the restaurant and ran through the final checklist with her team, educating the waitstaff on the dishes, presenting each with a tasting platter so they could speak confidently about what was being served, describing each wine that would pair with the dishes. She ran through the motions as she’d done for countless other dinners in the past, putting herself into work ‘autopilot’ mode until the first guests arrived.
She supposed she should be grateful to Gabe. Obsessing over him, grieving him, had meant she’d had very little time to dwell on the fact she was about to cook for some of the most famous individuals in the world.
A pop star was the first to arrive, her music famous globally, bright, bubbly and unmistakably kind, she raved about Isabella’s most recent recipe book so that Isabella felt more comfortable. A couple were next – Hollywood actors and devoted philanthropists. They knew the first guest. A recording industry executive was next, followed by two financiers, a rock star, a woman who was famous for property development in Manhattan, a world number one tennis player, and then a Senator.
Isabella stared at the table with a strange sense of awe. All these people had paid thousands of dollars to be cooked for…by her? There were times when she couldn’t believe how far she’d come.
“There’s just one guest we’re waiting on,” she explained to the table. “But they’re late, so I don’t see why you should have to wait.” She winked, her easy manner bringing smiles to the diners’ faces. “I’ll have your amuse bouche served. Sit tight.”
“Do you need a hand?” The pop star called, such a genuine and kind offer that Isabella felt a buzz of something like relief. She would feel human again one day. The grief would fade, and other people’s kindness would supersede it.
The Amuse Bouche were served, and still no sign of the eleventh guest. She moved onto entrees next, then a primi main, followed by a palate cleanser. While they were eating that course, she sent an email to her assistant, letting her know that the high-paying guest hadn’t arrived, but given the time difference with Australia, she didn’t expect to hear a reply. She really hoped whoever it was wouldn’t expect a refund. The charity had already been given the money – though she could personally reimburse it, of course.
The main course was served, then they took a break to look over Times Square as festivities built to a crescendo. It was only an hour until midnight.
She oversaw the presentation of the desert, placing berries as necessary, then stepped back as the waitstaff delivered it to the table. Just before midnight, cheese platters were brought to the table, coffee and Cointreau, champagne glasses filled, and now Isabella removed her chef’s jacket and took a seat – down the opposite end of the table to that which one guest had left conspicuously absent. The night had been a success, but she felt no relief. Instead, Isabella simply felt as though she’d survived something she’d needed
