Molly O'Keefe - Dishing It Out

Almost unconsciously, she touched one of the bracelets she wore on her wrists, tracing the moons that were pressed into the silver. The bracelets were reminders of the lessons she had learned from those times she got more than a little singed by the choices she had made.

The music soared and the lights came up on the main stage where the hosts of AMSF were sitting at their desk.

“That woman could make popcorn sexy,” Rick Anderson, one of the hosts and general all around sleazebag, said, shaking his head. “I think I’m in love.”

Marie rolled her eyes at Simon.

“Well, her food is delicious,” Luanne, the other host, said in agreement. “That cake looked amazing.” The crowd made sounds of approval and Marie felt as if her feet had actually lifted off the ground.

I wonder if I can get a dressing room? Something with a star.

“Let’s go up to my office,” Simon whispered next to her ear. “I have something I want to talk to you about.” Marie nodded and followed him through the backstage maze, up some stairs to his small crowded office with a view of the parking lot two floors below.

Simon’s messy desk dominated the office and a bulletin board covered in colored index cards represented the different segments Simon produced for AMSF. Soul Food was yellow. She smiled and flicked one with her finger as she walked by.

“The show is popular, Marie. Very, very popular.” He smiled at her as he crossed the room to his chair.

“Good,” Marie said expansively. “Great!” She was a little in love with the world right now. Drunk with the taste of success. “That’s what you pay me the big bucks for.” Ha! Nothing funnier than jokes about being broke. Maybe if she made enough of them, Simon would get the hint and give her a raise.

She slid into one of the hard wooden seats across from his desk and smothered a yawn, fighting the exhaustion that was crowding the edges of her adrenaline high. What I wouldn’t give for about a gallon of coffee.

“How’s business?” Simon asked, disregarding her joke.

Marie started to take out the bobby pins that Hair and Makeup insisted she wear to keep her black curls out of the food. She was as hygienic as the next chef, but these bobby pins hurt. “Since Soul Food started going twice a month, brunches are lined up out the door on weekends and we’ve really picked up lunch hours. It couldn’t be better.”

Well, that was a lie, but Simon didn’t need to know about the girl she hired who had been skimming the till for three weeks. He also didn’t need to know about the broken dishwasher.

“You finally getting some sleep since you hired the new baker?”

“He quit.” Simon really didn’t need to know about that.

“Quit? But that guy was so excited.” Simon looked like a little dog when he was surprised. It was cute.

“Apparently, being a baker is exciting in theory but not so much in practice at three in the morning.” Marie shook out the bun her hair had been pressure-formed into and sighed happily.

Marie could have told the kid that baking wasn’t exactly exciting but she had just been happy to get another baker in the door. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, or something like that. “What can you do?”

“So you’re still doing it yourself?” Simon looked sympathetic as he sat down in front of his large window and leaned back in his seat. He probably hadn’t seen 3:00 a.m. in years, if ever. She knew he had to get up early for the show. But 5:00 a.m. was not 3:00 a.m. It was an ugly hour, and Marie had been getting to know it intimately for the last year.

“I am. You want to volunteer?” she asked, trying to keep things light. “We could tape it for the show. I think viewers would like to see my producer make scones.” Between Ariel the thief, the dishwasher on the fritz, her organic milk guy doubling his rates and the sleepless nights she’d been having lately, it was either keep things light or get dehydrated from all the bawling.

“Not on your life,” Simon laughed.

“That’s what everyone says.” Marie tried to push the sleeve of her deep purple chenille sweater up her arm so she could see her watch without him noticing. Simon liked a bit of production with his meetings. Fanfare and other time-consuming things. Normally, Marie didn’t mind obliging him, but right now, time was money and Simon wasn’t paying her enough to chitchat.

“Marie, our viewing audience loves you. People are looking for new gurus of food and style. You make having good taste seem simple and fun, and a little sexy, rather than stuffy or snobby. And of course,” he said, grinning, “your looks don’t hurt.”

What’s this? Compliments from Simon? “You feeling all right?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. Simon didn’t get warm and fuzzy for no good reason. The guy was a television producer. Behind the khaki pants and plaid shirts from the eighties, he was pretty slick.

“I,” he said, spreading his arms out wide, “we,” he corrected pointing at her, “are doing just fine.”

Marie’s bullshit detector went on high alert. Something is up.

“What’s going on, Simon?”

“Your ratings are way, way up. In fact you’ve surpassed…” Simon did a little drumroll with his fingers against the edge of his desk and Marie tried not to laugh at him. “Patrick and Ivan.”

“Really?” Patrick and Ivan had been ratings horses for almost a year. They were local celebrities. They had dressing rooms.

“When a cooking show beats out two gay interior designers you know you’re on to something,” he said in all seriousness.

“So you’ve brought me up here to tell me you’re giving me a raise?” she asked and she would be lying if she tried not to sound hopeful. It was all she could do not to sound desperate.

“Sorry,” Simon said, cringing. “No raise.”

“Then what, Simon? I’ve got to be back at the restaurant in an hour.”

“Well…” He paused and Marie rolled her eyes at his sense of drama. “You are going weekly.”

“Weekly?” Marie gasped, suddenly light-headed. She laughed, tried to control it, but couldn’t. Who cared about not having a baker? Or the broken dishwasher? She was going to be on television every week!

Simon leaned back in his chair looking gratified and a little smug.

“You said ‘no raise.’ I’m not doing double the work…”

He put up a hand to stop her. “Same fee per show so it’s sort of a raise.”

She would take it. She leaned back and felt like she could kiss the water-stained ceiling. She could kiss Simon and his filthy desk. A little more notoriety would bring more people into Marie’s Bistro, her bakery/bistro. More customers meant she could pay off her debts, the loan she had to take out last year, maybe even… “A vacation,” she breathed.

Since leaving France and the horrible mess she had made there two years ago, Marie had gotten her life under control, had forced herself to grow up, to be an adult. She’d taken on the responsibilities she normally ran from and this was going to be her reward. The bright and shiny beginning of her cooking empire.

“Simon,” Marie said, sitting up to look at him, feeling like she was made of fire, “I’ve got so many ideas, so many things we can do with the show.”

“Whoa, before you get carried away, there’s a minor change.” Simon started digging through the papers on his desk. “Where’d I put that thing?”

His distraction was making Marie nervous. But that could be because she was operating on forty seconds of sleep. “Simon, just tell me what’s going on.”

“Found it!” He reached to the floor, picked a stack of papers up and turned back around holding one of them out to her. “Look who is on the cover of the Weekend Magazine.”