Writers & Lovers(27)

Clark is waiting for me at the door. His face is slick with grease and bubbled with sweat. ‘I break my fucking balls for your rush, and you can’t be bothered to come get it.’

‘Welcome to brunch. I’ve got to be eight places all at once, up and down, and I get stiffed if I’m not. Sometimes I have to leave a plate of pancakes under the heat lamp for three minutes. I’d like to see you try it. All you do is stand back there and crack eggs and shit all over people.’

Angus, my only ally in the kitchen when Thomas isn’t cooking, lets out a long whistle.

Clark whips around and tells him to shut the fuck up.

‘I’m going to get you fired, you little cunt.’

‘I’m not scared of a fucking brunch chef,’ I say and push past him to get my order.

Out on the floor I tell the boys the plates are really hot and not to touch. I put Oscar’s eggs down last. They look overcooked. ‘More abused than coddled, I’m afraid. The chef today is an untalented prick.’

The boys stare at me.

Oscar’s mouth twitches.

‘I mean a jerk. He’s a jerk. I’m so sorry.’ I look at the boys. ‘That is an awful word, and I should not have used it. He’s a man with a lot of anger, which he tends to dump on me.’

‘He probably has a crush on you,’ Oscar says.

It’s such a clueless, grandfatherly thing to say that I wonder if he’s older than he looks. ‘Definitely not,’ I say. ‘He truly loathes me or whatever I represent to him. I actually think he likes her’—I point to Dana—‘but she’s after him.’ I point to Craig at the bar. ‘But I think he’s pretty asexual.’

The boys stare at me again. I am not used to children. ‘Ketchup?’

‘On eggs?’ the older boy says.

‘There’s a whole swath of people who like ketchup on their eggs.’

‘Really?’ He looks to his dad for confirmation.

‘True fact,’ I say.

‘We are not a part of that swath,’ Oscar says.

‘Nor am I. Bon profit.’ I figure Oscar can handle a little Catalan. I’m eager to get away. I can feel the heat where the hollandaise sauce hit my cheek. And their kindness after Clark’s vulgarity is making my throat hurt.

I get the rest of my tables squared away while they eat.

‘Is that a smile?’ Tony says as we wait at the bar for our drinks and I drag an ice cube over the burns on the inside of my right arm.

‘Fuck no. Put your fake glasses on, four eyes.’

‘You are smiling, and I have never seen you smile.’

‘That’s bull.’

‘Okay, without Harry around. Harry makes you smile.’

‘Harry is very funny.’

‘Is he? I think he’s an arrogant ass.’

Tony has tried to hit on Harry many times with no success.

‘That’s just his accent.’

‘Those kids are staring at you.’

I look over, and they look down.

Craig hands me my screwdrivers.

‘You want to split an apple papillote later?’ I say.

‘Sure.’ Tony says.

I’ve surprised him. It suddenly seems easy to make people happy.

Once he’s had his pancakes and bacon, Oscar’s younger boy comes alive.

‘Do you like mammals or amphibians?’ he asks me.

‘Mammals.’

‘Cards or board games?’

‘Both.’

‘You have to choose.’

‘Cards.’

I know my desserts are up in the kitchen and that two tables downstairs are waiting for their checks.

‘Let her get back to work, Jasper.’

Jasper. He looks just like a Jasper should. Little mushed face with thick lips and long lashes and his father’s green eyes.

‘Blue or red?’

‘Blue.’

‘Ms. Murphy or Mr. Perez?’

‘Ms. Murphy.’

They laugh, Jasper the hardest.

‘Tennis or golf?’

‘Tennis. But I don’t play either.’

‘Then how do you know you like it better?’

‘Because I hate golf.’

This seems to upset him. ‘Even miniature golf?’

‘Mini golf is okay.’

‘Our dad is really, really good. No one can beat him.’

‘I could.’ I don’t know why I say that. Apart from it being true.

Both boys protest. They make so much noise the tables around them turn. ‘You could not!’

They look at their father to defend himself. He shrugs. He isn’t grinning exactly, but he’s pushed his plate away, and his fingers are laced in front of him. I smile, thinking about telling Muriel. I clear their table and leave.

I return with dessert menus. ‘I know there was a no-chocolate rule earlier, so dessert might not fly.’

The boys watch their father.

‘Dessert will fly.’

They cheer. I pass out the menus. Behind Oscar’s chair, I mime sticking a candle into something and blowing it out. His brother nods discreetly, but Jasper squeals. Oscar turns around and I look away. When he turns back I wink at the boys.

Jasper orders the basil-lavender crème br?lée, his brother chooses the Tahitian coppa, and Oscar goes with the cookie medallions. Cookies are not conducive to candles so I go to the pastry chef, Helene, in her far alcove of the kitchen. It’s a different land back here. She plays classical music. Her team wears white caps, not bandanas, and their white aprons are clean save small artistic smears of chocolate and raspberry.