The Hurt Chef

Tobias Fletcher. The man I'd love to throttle if he wasn't such a skilled chef or the most organised. Besides, I prefer the enemies I know to the enemies I don't.

"You still losing more hair than money, Toby?" I call out as I enter the galley, gripping the walls through the continuous rocking. It's good to announce my arrival before he sees me. You should never spook a chef in close quarters such as these. He may have sharp knives or hot pots and pans in his hand and feel inclined to hurl them at me like a skilled assassin. A lesson I learned playing a practical joke one year; I thought it'd be funny to jump him in his galley. He had surprisingly good aim and missed my head by a hair. It helped that he was only holding a ladle, but still. Since then, I never spook Toby unless one wants to die earlier than planned.

"And you're still as sour as a lemon!" Toby smirks as I come into view. He's tall. Any taller and he'd have to find another source of income other than Private Chef for hire to the filthy rich who own such yachts. The pans hanging over his prep bench swing like several metronomes.

"You look good." I groan inwardly, hoping the rocky weather will pass soon as I air-kiss both his cheeks. Sheen of sweat cloaks his shiny bald head. I'm not sure if it's the heat in the galley from the preheating oven or it's the rocking, but I'm tempted to grab his tea towel and dab away the beads. That's Devi Le Fontaine. You want to be her again, don't you?

I almost have my hand on his tea towel when he takes a step back. "Do I?" His tone is biting. "Thanks for ditching me and then demanding I return for this soiree. What's this about?"

I pull my hand back as if it's nothing and hold on to the counter. "I don't know what you mean. You're the one who sent the maid to fetch me."

"This menu, for one." Toby grabs the small cardboard print sitting on the corner of his prep bench and waves it around. "Most of these feature sesame. And it makes no sense. There's no cohesion to the courses. There's Nepali entrée, Italian and Thai mains, and desserts are from all over the world."

Like I said. It's never good to spook Toby. He looks positively horrified.

"I want the night to be memorable."

"Pfft ... no kidding?! With this mishmash and sesame on everything?" He stares at me knowingly. His brows raise high in indignation. "Your head screwed on right?"

"Not since I became a widow."

His softens and his voice drops. "It only clicked this morning. There I was, still in bed, scratching my hair at your strange birthday dinner requests and it clicked... This is about Charlie."

He knows the sordid tale, having found Charlie on the rug that morning himself.

"You don't have any hair, Toby!" I try laughing. It echoes in the claustrophobic space. I can't fool the man, so I sigh.

"You're up to something. I know it," he says, watching me carefully.

"The only thing I'm up to, Toby, is to say goodbye to my old life. How better to do it than on my birthday?" My smile falters. "Anyway, how's life?"

Toby says nothing and stares at the menu. I stay mute too, because I know what his life is like. I like to keep tabs on people, even if they think I don't care. Devi Dhungel doesn't care, but Devi Le Fontaine?

His wife left him just months after I sold this yacht. Gambling. The man lost everything on a few bets. I feel partly responsible. He was used to indiscreet high income. Charlie always paid him well, and for a few years after Charlie, I tried to keep up that tradition. But for what? For whom? I wasn't using the boat, only the leeches were.

Bleeding money more than you earn hurts after a while. Something had to give. So, Charlie's yacht and its crew were the first of many luxuries I relinquished. It never occurred to me, that a man like Tobias Fletcher, so used to Charlie's generosity and employment, would drown without that income.

But I had no use for a yacht anymore, or a private chef. Especially not him—

"I miss him." It comes out of nowhere and I stare at Toby.

So do I. I smack my lips and look away before our eyes can meet. "So you wanted to tell me off about my menu? Is that why you called me?"

"It's bonkers." For a man who hates me—in his eyes, I was the catalyst for his life spiralling out of control—he seems calm, even concerned. "None of your guests are allergic to sesame?"

"Only me ... to wild honey." I chuckle, though it has an opposite effect on him. He grows grimmer. Perhaps he doesn't want another disastrous death-by-food on his watch. "You know I don't blame you, right?"

"I do." Toby turns away, puts a pan on the stove, and pours a dash of olive oil deftly, despite the rocking boat. He moves about with ease, like this is second nature to him; a conductor at a symphony. "Why did you hire me? I barely get hired as a chef by clients like you anymore. Not since ... I get the occasional newly-rich hiring me for parties so they can show off, but not established clients like you. They all think I'm some gambling drunk who killed his client."

Fuck! Why had that never occurred to me? That more than letting him go, it was Charlie's death that shrouded his life, his career.

The aroma of his famous omelette fills the galley and me with nostalgia. It was Charlie's favourite breakfast, and afterwards, mine.

"I'm sorry," I mumble as he expertly folds the dish onto the plate, grates light parmesan on it, and slides it towards me. Then he goes back to ignoring me and makes himself one.

Soon, we're seated opposite one another on stools, quietly shovelling omelettes into our gob. Occasionally, he studies me with an unrecognisable intensity in his eyes, like he's debating whether to love me or kill me.

"You still want to stick to this?" After finishing his breakfast, Toby flaps the menu in the air again. There's disdain dripping off him like molasses.

I polish off my plate and nod.

"Even with this?" He eyes the swinging pots and pans, evidence of the continuous bad weather we're in the middle of. "Captain says there's a storm coming."

If it is not Tobias Fletcher trying to ruin my party with his sour mood and solid logic, it is Mother-fucking-Nature. I chuckle. Freely for once. "A stormy night to say goodbye to a stormy life. How very fitting?"

"What does that mean?" He narrows his eyes.

I shake my head. "Here we are, trying to say a peaceful goodbye to my tumultuous past but the sea has other ideas. Better get on, aye?"

"Even with this weather? It'll get worse before it gets any better. I promise you."

"Aye." I meet his gaze defiantly. "It's my fucking birthday and I want to celebrate it tonight. What's wrong with that?"

"It's going to be hell of a party, I tell you that."

"I hope so." I laugh, dabbing at the corner of my mouth with the tea towel he hands me.

"You're crazy, you know that?" He rises from his seat. "And I have a lot to prep, so get out of my fucking galley," he practically growls.