The Truth About Numbnuts and Chubbs(3)

The sous chef did a good impression of a puzzled Shar-Pei. He didn't speak much English. Just enough to explain that the new owner had left him behind to greet her, and offer a plate of cannolis. "They very good," he explained, setting the plate gingerly down on her binder, as if she was a wild animal and might bite them right out of his hand, plate and all. The devil only knew what Numbnuts had told him about her. "I get you coffee?"

"No. Thank you." No point getting annoyed with him. "I just saw Mr. Petruska in the street, leaving."

"Yes, miss. He had a very, very important meeting."

I'll bet he did, she thought, furious. He'd deliberately gone out to avoid her, leaving this mess for her to sort out. Flinging her wet, torn coat over the chair, she looked at the plate of cannolis. "You can take those back," she snapped.

"He said to give them. You like?"

"Right." Of course, he thought he could butter her up with cream pastries. And that was a curious picture she'd rather not have in her mind at nine thirty in the morning. "How long has he owned this place?"

"Just before I come. He said tell you the files, they all here." He proudly waved his arms around at the multitude of ring binders and notebooks piled on the shelves.

Bry sat heavily and opened her laptop. No one had bothered to tell her the restaurant changed hands. Don Philips, the partner who had always handled Mr. Leonato's taxes, was now retiring—not before time. That was how the file got dropped on her desk, among a pile of accounts no one else wanted. As the newbie on staff she was given the worst jobs, but Bry preferred to look at it as a chance to prove herself.

A quick survey of this small, cramped back room told her that Don Philips had never set foot inside the place, except to eat a large plate of linguine with clam sauce and drink a bottle of wine, probably on the house. Don did most of his work from a golf course. Bryony was more of a hands on person. She liked to attack the problem right at the root.

So now this restaurant was another victim falling foul to that greedy Manhattan Marauder, Benedick Petruska. Otherwise known to her as "Numbnuts". Didn't he own enough properties yet? He was the sort of supremo ass no one wanted to play Monopoly with because he was ruthless and always won. He didn't play games; he just slaughtered opponents. She'd read that line about him in a Time magazine interview once.

"I get you coffee," the sous chef muttered, backing out.

"I told you I don't....ok," she sighed, "fine."

Might as well drink the extra caffeine to get through this. She took out her glasses and slipped them on, waiting for her laptop to boot.

Leonato's wasn't the usual sort of place Petruska targeted. It was a small, cozy restaurant, nothing fancy, not a hang out for the "in crowd", but a haven for regulars. She'd been there once on a wretched blind date, when she was, unfortunately, too conscious of her weight to be able to order what she really wanted. It was torture to sit in a restaurant with a rumbling stomach, knowing everyone in the place was looking at her, thinking maybe she ought to cut out the pasta and picking at their own food guiltily.

Then she went through a self-punishment period when she ate only salads, but that was equally embarrassing since it made other diners look at her with surprise and then—worst of all—pity.

"If you only eat salads," one little girl had said to her once at a baby shower, "why are you fat?"

People assumed that because of her weight she loved food. Truth was, food terrified her. It had such a hold on her life.

When the recession struck and her last firm downsized, she was one of the casualties. Bry knew that old enemy—food— was lurking in wait, offering solace, eager to make her feel less about anything else. Rather than run away from it by forcing herself onto another ridiculous, miserable diet, Bry decided to embrace her enemy. Much to her mother's horror, she'd spent a large chunk of her savings on a six month-long Cordon Bleu course... in Paris.

"Got to hand it to you, Bry," her father said. "You never do things by halves."

But if she was going to learn to cook, why not take it seriously? If she was going to change the way she did business, why not kickstart the process in an entirely new city and country? If she was ever going to take a sabbatical from work, why not do it while she was still young enough to enjoy herself? She was twenty nine. By the time she was thirty she actually wanted to be happy, not just existing in the same routine. Her night life had been non-existent for eight years so she had money saved and then she had a severance package too. Why not have one adventure to look back on?

Her mother called it impulsive; Bry preferred to think of it as decisive.