Peel back enough layers, and everyone's a selfish bastard.
Jillian got to work a little later. I still hadn't told her about the charity dinner. There were a lot of things I hadn't gotten around to telling her yet. It was bizarre, but somehow I found it difficult to talk to her. Not because she was judgmental, or awkward, or anything really in particular - she was certainly intimidated by me, but that was hardly a new experience. Something about our dynamic was just...skewed.
I wondered if it was just me. I couldn't remember the last time I really felt tongue-tied around someone, and I didn't care to analyze why.
The point was, it made communication difficult. I'd have everything planned out, then I'd look at her...eyes bright green and expectant, often with her hands clasped in front of her, often biting her lower lip a little bit, which I assumed she didn't even notice...
I wouldn't describe it as nervousness, exactly, but that was the closest feeling to what I experienced around her.
Maybe it was some residual sense of guilt for our first encounter. But really, that seemed as unlikely as my actually feeling nervous around someone who had no power over me.
"What's this, Chef?" Jillian asked me, after we'd exchanged perfunctory greetings. She had Beckett's wine list in her hand.#p#分页标题#e#
"Pairings," I said. Which would be obvious to anyone with eyeballs. What a stupid answer. "For an event we've got this weekend."
"I thought we didn't open until next week." She set the list down, and went to her station. Even though I supposed she didn't intend it that way, it sounded like a challenge.
"Well, yes, that's true. But I was offered the opportunity to cater this thing and since we're ready - I figured, why not?"
"Yes, Chef," she said. I both loved and hated when she said those words to me. They could mean all kinds of things - yes, Chef, I respect your authority or yes, Chef, I respect the hierarchy but I think you're being a complete idiot. This time, I couldn't quite read between the lines.
"You have catering experience?" There was almost no chance she didn't, with her extensive resume, but at least it was something to say.
"Yes, Chef."
"You don't have to answer every question like that," I said, before I could stop myself. She looked up at me.
"Sorry," she said. "How would you prefer to be addressed, Chef?"
She was angry with me. I heard it now in her tone, though she'd been carefully suppressing it. You didn't speak that way to someone unless you were on the verge of murdering them in their sleep.
I should know.
Shaking my head, I made a quick attempt to backpedal. "No, no, I just mean - there's no need to be so formal all the time. Even when we're discussing work issues, you don't need to address me like I'm the captain of the ship. Especially when it's just the two of us."
"All right," she said, after a moment's consideration. I half-expected her to spit out yes, Chef in the same insolent tone, but she didn't. I wanted to really take her to task, to remind her that it didn't matter how respectful your words were, if you spat them out like poison. But I couldn't bring myself to do it.
I remember Giovanni's, and I couldn't.
There was nothing I wanted to do more than apologize. But I knew it didn't matter. Whatever I'd said, I couldn't even remember now, whatever I'd made her feel - it was too late to take it back. Much, much too late.
My mother had explained it to me once. Years later, I learned it was an old chestnut, something she'd probably stolen out of whatever books were the hellish precursors to Chicken Soup for the Soul. But at the time, I was just a kid, so I thought everything my mother said was pure invention.
Break a plate on the floor.
Now, tell it you're sorry.
Is it still broken?
Now you understand.
As an adult, I wanted nothing more than to laugh at the overly-simplistic sentimentality. People weren't plates. They grew back together in the places where they cracked. Stronger.
But then I looked at Jillian, and I still didn't know what to say.
***
"You're going to have to meet the donors," I said to Jillian, the day before the event. "So...you know."
This was accompanied by a vague gesture in the facial region. I didn't even know what I was talking about, but I knew it was a mistake as soon as I'd said it.
"Okay," she said, slowly. "So...what does that mean, exactly?"
"Nothing," I said. "I don't know. Just, uh, keep it in mind, yeah?"
She cleared her throat. "Chef, I'm afraid I really don't know what you mean. Is my appearance not professional enough?"
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"No," I said, quickly. "Absolutely not. I just...I didn't want it to take you by surprise, is all."