Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
I agree to let her know the time, and just as I hang up, the lift doors open.
I don’t often get nervous, but my stomach dips as I step inside the car and I push thoughts of Avril to the side. I need to focus.
I’ve deliberately dressed down today. Like Bray says, it’s good to have people underestimate you. But I still feel like I’m going to be the odd person out. No doubt the people attending this open day will be kids right out of college or something.
As the lift rides up to the thirty-third floor, I get the urge to run. What am I thinking? Am I really considering going to culinary school? Why?
Because I love cooking.
I love food.
I always have.
And I want something more in my life. I want to be moving toward something rather than running away from my past.
I have the same need in me that my father had—to feed people. But I’m not my father. I’ve spent my entire life making sure I’m not vulnerable. No one can break me like our landlord broke my father. It can’t happen. But it has meant I’ve pushed out the good parts of my father’s career, along with the bad. He loved the creativity of food. He liked finding new flavors, poring over recipe books in Goodwill, exploring markets for produce.
Cooking lit him up. He was drawn to it like he didn’t have a say in his path.
I’ve spent my life proving that I control everything. I’m the puppet master.
But it hasn’t made me happy.
Now it’s time to make a change.
I step out of the lift and a deep stillness settles in me. It’s like I’ve come home.
There’s a row of badges set out on a table. Sitting behind the desk, an older lady wearing a badge telling me her name is Misha smiles up at me. “You here for the open day?”
I nod. “I’m Ben East.”
She types my name into her computer and the printer starts to whir into action. She assembles my badge and then hands it to me. “Here you are. If there are any questions you don’t want to ask in front of the crowd, come and find me at the end. I’ve worked here a very long time. There’s not a lot I don’t know.”
That’s kind. I glance around and there’s nobody behind me.
“What percentage of the attendees today will apply for your Easter intake?” I ask.
She laughs. “That’s exactly the kind of attitude that will make a great chef. And believe me, I’ve seen a great many come through these doors. I know what it takes. That competitive streak will serve you well as long as you keep it under control.” She opens her eyes wider, as if silently asking me if I understand.
“I’ll try.”
She laughs again. “Admissions wants to see that you’re motivated to succeed in the course, that you have evidence of your hard work—either at college or in industry, and that you have a love of food.”
That was what I really wanted to know—how to get in. Misha’s smart.
“But as you probably have guessed, we’re oversubscribed,” Misha continues.
“Any tips?” I ask. I’m acting like I’m definitely going to apply and I haven’t even heard their spiel or even thought of how I could figure out my day job alongside a demanding college course.
“We offer a lot of different courses. Make sure you pick the right one.”
That wasn’t what I expected her to say.
I wonder if Beppe from Serenissima would write me a recommendation. Honestly, he’d probably offer me a job if I asked him. But that’s not what I want. I don’t want to work in a restaurant. I’m sure about that. I have that same passion as my father, but I don’t have to follow exactly in his footsteps. I can take a different path. I’m just not sure what my path will be. But ever since Avril suggested it, I haven’t been able to shake the idea that I should put my energy into what I love. And I love food.
This is where I’m meant to be. And Avril made me see it. It’s like she saw through to the man I am at my core and encouraged him out of hiding and into the light.
When I agreed to help her if she could prove we could keep things professional, I thought she needed my help. But I think it was me who needed her all along.
I was an arrogant prick.
I thought she’d never come and live at my apartment, and somewhere along the line, I did actually think she’d fall in love with me in seven days. I’m an idiot. The way I can’t stop thinking about her, the way I’ve been sleeping in her bed, just so I can feel closer to her, the way that every time anything happens in my day. I want to tell her about it. I think I’m the one who fell in love during those seven days. It’s like she’s spiked my coffee and I’m under her spell now.