As it rang for another five seconds, she groaned and squeezed her eyes shut, wishing it would stop or, better yet, the battery would just die in the stupid thing. But of course, she knew it wouldn't stop. She thumped her head back against her pillow and cursed under breath. Grudgingly, she rolled over onto her side, her long brunette hair falling across her face, and slapped her hand around on the nightstand, fumbling for her phone in the dark.
"What the fuck do you want, now?!" That was what she wanted to scream as she raised the device to her ear. Instead, she cleared her throat, took a deep breath and said, "Yes? Is there something that you want?"
"Oh, I think you know what I want," a low, slithery voice spoke on the other end.
Teaghan rolled onto her back, her head sinking into the soft down pillow. "Isn't it a little late for this?" she said wearily. It was more of a plea than an actual question.
"It's never too late for this and you know it," the breathy voice replied, "I really want it now. You have to do this for me now."
She rolled her eyes and sighed, "Andres, I'm in no mood to play games with you. Can't you just leave me alone tonight? Please? I'm exhausted."
"I want it hot and I want it sticky and I want it fresh. I can't wait to sink my teeth into your sweet, sweet meat and lick your tender flesh," he droned on, ignoring her. "And you know you're the only one who knows how to do it right. The only one who can give it to me. The only one who can...satisfy me."
Teaghan paused and rubbed her forehead. She slapped her hand down beside her on the bed sheets and said tersely, "Alright. Enough! I'm getting up."
"So you're going to do it?" Andres said. She could feel his stupid grin through the phone.
"Yes," she sighed. Of course she was going to do it. The jack-ass knew she had no choice.
She sat up in bed. Yawning she asked, "You want it the usual way?"
"You know it!" he piped in. "But make it a sour dough bun instead of onion. And I want some of your sweet potato strings too."
“Why not a salad, as well?” Teaghan asked, sarcasm mode on.
“That's a great idea!” Andres chimed. “Balance out those carbs. Drizzle some of that honey-balsamic dressing of yours on it, Tigger.”
Teaghan seethed quietly. Fuck...you...
She opened her mouth to say something but was cut off by the click of his phone. Holding up the cell phone, the words "Call Ended" glowing back at her, she stuck her tongue out at it. Flipping it on the bed, she threw her covers off, stood up and stumbled in the darkness across the floor of the guest house. She pulled her halter-top down past her belly. Her body was hating her for this right now.
“Bastard,” she grumbled. As she picked up her track pants from a chair by the window she muttered, "Why can't you get your own goddamn pulled pork sandwich?"
***
About three weeks ago...
Teaghan Luang leaned over a couple of white square plates on her marble prep counter. Alone, she worked like an alchemist in the large, pristine kitchen. On each plate, she carefully laid down a set of mini-crepes, fanning them out across the centre, and topped each off with a bud of fresh ricotta. After applying a tablespoon size wedge of her mango-basil “pâté” on the side, she arranged slices of peach and avocado around the edges of the plate. Finally, she drizzled everything with raspberry sauce and dusted her master-piece with lemon sugar.
Any person would have stepped back to admire such a delicious piece of art. Teaghan didn't bother, though. She knew it was great. A quick wipe of her hands and she picked up the plates and brought them to the Nikolaous, awaiting their morning breakfast in the sun room.
Teaghan had the second best job she could ever have. The first would be for her to own and run the kitchen of a bistro restaurant in Napa Valley; a place she could unleash her inner bitch and boss around three or four slaves --preferably men; sweaty, obedient men-- in her own kitchen, all the while receiving accolades for her amazing culinary creations. Reservations would be made months in advance and some of the dining plebs would offer to suck on her toes just to garner a seat outside by the bistro's dumpster. Until she could afford to do so though, working as a personal chef to an elderly couple on their private vineyard estate in California and making a crap-load of money for it would just have to do for now.
She had been working for the Nikolaous for the last five months. They were a funny, boisterous couple. Maybe it was because they hadn't felt the weight of financial struggle for the better part of their lives now. Maybe it was that bold and passionate Greek blood that flowed through them. Whatever it was, they were still very spry and alert for a couple who were over seventy.
It was her job as a chef and nutritionist to make sure that they stayed that way as long as possible. Fortunately for them, Teaghan was an excellent chef if she did say so herself. She had years of training packed into her ripe old body of twenty-nine years. She was still riding along the plateau of enthusiasm for her art and would continue to do so for a good long time.
The Nikolaous were the perfect clients, undemanding and extremely appreciative of her culinary skills. They loved her seriousness for cooking and her spirited nature in general. She had a bit of brash and cheeky fire, just like them. They often enthused that she was like the daughter they never had, albeit with several notably defined Oriental features and a light hint of a British accent.
So when the Nikolaous asked her to be their on-call chef for the summer, she was already close to agreeing. A proposed increase in salary had her mouth open to say "yes". But even before she could, once they offered her residence in their guest house at the back of the rolling, large, and manicured garden rent free, she immediately went to her apartment to pack her bags later that night.
How difficult could a 24-hour on call chef's job be with this couple, she thought, except maybe a request for some toast and tea at 9 o'clock at night?
"Our grandson, Andres, will be staying with us for a month. He'll be flying in from New York the day after tomorrow," Mr. Nikolaou informed Teaghan as he dined on her crepes.
She nodded thoughtfully and said, "That'll be fine, Mr. Nikolaou. Do you know if he'll be requiring any specific dietary needs? Is he a young person?
The elderly man smiled and waved his hand, "Oh no, no! He's just finished his third year at Stanford. Andres will love your food, Ms.Chef! He won't be a problem at all! But perhaps you could make an extra special meal for supper on his first night here?"
Teaghan smiled and nodded again. "My pleasure."
Two nights later, she did the full court press. Not only did she provide as a main course a succulent braised herbed-lamb with brandy flambéed apricots and mint dressing mesculin salad, but she agreed to "present" the courses for the evening in her full chef's regalia: white hat, tunic, shoes, the whole bit.
Standing uneasily to the side as she tried to adjust her stiff uniform with subtle shifts of her body, she watched as Mr. and Mrs. Nikolaou savoured the meal, her eyes flitting across to the large pendulum clock ticking away on the wall.
"The things you do with lamb," Mrs. Nikolaou spoke after swallowing, "You must have Greek blood in you, my dear!"
Teaghan managed a polite smile. Clearing her throat softly, she asked, "Um, how late did you say Andres might be arriving?" Her eyes were focused on the empty place setting.
Mr. Nikolaou chewed for a bit then said, "Oh, well, his plane arrived hours ago. He said he wanted to stop in with some friends first. But don't worry. He'll be here. Mmm, you have really outdone yourself, Ms. Chef!"
Again she smiled, hiding the slight anxiety in her eyes. The chair remained empty through the entire dinner.
Later that night -much later- Teaghan awoke in bed to the sound of her cellphone ringing. She opened one eye, taking a second to focus on the clock. 3:20 a.m. It didn't stop ringing. With a groggy groan, she picked it up and answered.
"Yes?" she croaked.
"Hey, are you the cook?" a snappy voice replied on the other end.
"Huh? Who is this?"
"Andres. I heard you made some really sweet lamb," he said, his voice way too smooth and easy for her taste right then. "Can you slice it up and throw it on a pizza? With olives?"
"Huh? Pizza?" she replied, struggling to clear her 'sleep-throat'.
"Great. I'm in third bedroom at the right of the stairs. Opposite wing of my grandparents. Right at the end." He didn't stop talking. Why was he talking so fast? "Say -what- maybe twenty-five or thirty minutes is good for you?"
"Twenty-five minutes? Wha-?"
"Twenty-five minutes, then. Thanks, sweets." Click.
"Huh?" Teaghan's head was stuck in a dreamy loop. "Hello?"
She figured she still must have been dreaming when she found herself five minutes later in her robe and a pair of track-pants, shuffling across the expanse of the back garden and into the house. Wearing her glasses, she tied her hair into a neat bun as she walked, something she always did before she cooked. Somehow she found the kitchen and it was only due to her deftly honed skills as a chef that she was able to pull something together.
She plodded up the stairs holding a tray full of pita-pizza with lamb and olives. Walking through the dark hallways she came to the last door on the east wing of the house and rapped it twice with her knuckles.
The door opened, bright light and heavy dance music spilling over her. She winced and squinted. "Andres?" she asked.
In front of her, filling the doorway, was a tall young man wearing a navy-blue golf shirt and grey dress slacks. His smile was wide, his blue eyes, rimmed with thick eyebrows, were bright, and his dark blonde, curly hair had that beach-boy wave in it. He was way too fresh at this point of the night. He held up his finger to her and finished the conversation he was having on his cell phone.
"Yeah. Right. Gotta go," he said with a wink, "Delivery girl is here with the pizza. Yeah, bye!"
Teaghan, in her current state, was duly unimpressed. If she were awake, she'd probably would have been livid and cursing a storm.
Pocketing his cell phone, he leaned up against the side of the doorway and raised his eyebrows. He sighed. "It took longer than thirty minutes. Does that mean it's free?"
The woman simmered for a long moment, a trace of steam actually appearing on her glasses. Then shoved the tray firmly into his chest. "Your pizza," she grumbled.
Barely managing to keep the tray from spilling onto him, Andres smiled crookedly and chuckled, "Hey! Hey! Just kidding, chef. Why so much mean on such a pretty face?"
"Why so...?" The words got stuck in her mouth. She propped up her glasses with her finger...not so unconsciously using the middle one to do so. She dug her fists into her hips then unleashed a surly grumble, "It's 4 a.m. I am dead to the world at 4 a.m. as the world is dead to me. The next time you desire a pizza at 4 a.m. call Dominoes!"
“I'm Andres, by the way,” he said, holding out his hand.
She wanted to punch his smile sideways across his face. “I know who you are!”
The man tilted his head. "I can't place your accent. Where are you from?"
Teaghan's mouth dropped; a bad habit she couldn't break. She was dreaming. That's why she wasn't hearing him grovel and apologize like any sensible man should have been doing. She was sure of it. Her mouth still open, she turned on her heels with a roll of her eyes.
She began to stomp away when he called to her, "It's Meaghan, right? Or Regan? Or-"
She spun around. "It's Teaghan! TEE-gan," she said.
"More like 'Tigger' if you ask me," he mocked.
"Good night, Andres," she droned, "Or should I say good morning?"
"G'night," he said as he turned away from the door, "Tigger."
A couple of hours later, after her normal wake-up time, Teaghan was slumped on the vanity in her bathroom, wearily looking into the mirror through the twists of hair that had fallen across her face. She was still wondering if it had been a dream.
Yet a short while later, there he was, Andres, sliding into the sun room where she serving Mr. and Mrs. Nikolaou breakfast. He looked the same way he had four hours earlier, relaxed and fresh like a peach. Even in the brighter sunlight and with her eyes more alert and focused, his handsome features did nothing for her. That's what she insisted to herself, anyway.
"This is Teaghan Luang, dear. Our chef," his grandmother said.
"A great pleasure to meet you," he said with a polite smile. He offered no hint of their earlier introductions over a late night pizza delivery.
“Yes. Hello.” Teaghan simply nodded then looked out the window.
“I hear you've got the magical touch with a spatula,” he added.
Teaghan mused about a very intimate introduction with Andres and her spatula.
"Prepare to have your taste buds be delighted by her skills, Andres," Mr. Nikolaou said.
Andres chewed on a piece of crusty bread and flashed a wry smile. He said, "I'm sure they will be, Poppa."
“Just stay out of her kitchen, my dear,” Mrs. Nikolaou offered, “That's her territory.”
Andres nodded. He winked at Teaghan. “I'll be sure to respect her domain.”
Teaghan shot him a very cold stare.
Over the next couple of weeks, Andres tested the depth of her admittedly shallow patience. First of all, as it turned out, he had very different tastes in food than his grandparent. Andres liked red meat, lots of it, and all of those other wonderful culinary treats people would find in a shopping mall food court. Teaghan now had to prepare two different menus for each meal, one for Andres and one for his grandparents. And damned if her sensibilities as a chef would allow her to serve simple burgers and fries. It had to be Kobe beef and oyster mushroom patties on a fresh-baked corn bread bun and spicy tempura sweet potato strings on the side.
And forget about “respecting her domain”. She had to shoo him away from the fridge and cupboards so often, he reminded her of a fox in the hen-house. Then he'd perch himself on a stool across from her at the counter, usually munching on an apple or chips, and chat her up while she worked. It took everything she had not to toss a knife at him.
Andres would never eat at the same time as his grandparents. In fact, he never had any meal at the same time from day-to-day. The most annoying aspect of this problem being his after midnight -way after midnight- 'snacks'. The only saving grace of having to bring him something to eat after 2 a.m. each morning was that he never fulfilled her dread of knocking on his door and possibly walking in on him in bed with a woman. To her mild surprise, he was always by himself at that point in the night. Each time he would invite her to join him in his bedroom --”Just to eat and chat, I swear!”-- each time she'd decline, sometimes politely, sometimes not so much.
She tried her best not to snap at him, though it never really bothered him when she did. Always that impish smile on his face, he seemed to enjoy her attention, no matter how sour she got. She reminded herself that her payment was enough, barely, to put up with the wise-ass. Mostly, she was trying to avoid hearing that "Tigger" nickname he was quickly growing fond of.
Surely a professional like herself could put up with him for the rest of the summer.
Or maybe one morning the Nikolaous would wake up to find a thousand dollar set of chef's knives harpooned in Andres' back.
***
Teaghan forked the tender strings of pork dripping in her fresh-made zesty stout-barbecue sauce onto the oversized sourdough bun. The sweet potato strings sat in a bowl lined with parchment paper dusted with a chilli powder blend.
As she put down the bowl with the pork, she brought her thumb up to her lips to lick some of the sauce that had dripped onto it. She caught herself, tongue sticking out, and glared at the sticky red sauce.
"Whoops," she said with a slight, wicked smile as she instead wiped her thumb off with a towel.
Three minutes later she was at his door, handing him the platter.
"Thanks, chef," he said with a smile. He motioned with his head back towards his room, "You want to come in for a bit?"
"Not unless you have a bowlful of pomegranates," she replied.
"Ten minutes," he cajoled, "I'll be good."
Teaghan shook her head. She eyed him and said, "It's just a tad late, Andres. I'd like to go back to bed."
"Come on, Teaghan. Just to talk. I've hardly gotten to know you since I've been here," he said.
He wanted to get to know her at 3:00 in the morning? Whose fault was it that he was hardly ever around the house during the normal hours of the day? "If you'd like to talk," she replied, "Breakfast is at 8, lunch at 12:30, and dinner at 6."
Then she pivoted and walked away.
"Sorry to get you up, Tigger," he said from behind.
Half-way down the hall, Teaghan turned around. “Read the salad, Andres,” she said.
“Read the salad?” Andres frowned and looked down at the plate of greens. An elegant scrawl of balsamic dressing around the edges read, “Please choke.”
“That's nice penmanship, Tigger,” Andres conceded with a wide grin.
"Enjoy your barbecue sauce, jerk," she said softly, grinning to herself. Andres may have woken her up, but he was the one who was going to stay up all night.
***
Teaghan -- Age 19
It was 1:30 a.m. After a six-hour dinner service at Le Chanteur Heureux, slaving in the kitchen chopping sack-fulls on vegetables, prepping endless plates of salad, and then working like a fiend to scrub down the entire kitchen with sponges and mops, Teaghan could have been forgiven if she came off as a bit fatigued.
Yet, this was the hour that her senses and talents truly came alive. With vigour and inspiration, she worked at the hot stove and kitchen counter, chopping, mixing, simmering, seasoning, tasting. The light sheen of sweat brought out the rose in her high cheeks, added a gloss to her curled, pink lips, and a brightness to her almond-shaped eyes. She looked great when cooking, and she knew it. She hoped Daniel knew it, too.
Her mentor, head-chef, and co-owner of the restaurant stood aside and watched her intently. It was just the two of them in the kitchen, in the entire restaurant; the rest of the staff had gone home unaware that the lights had come back on the moment the last of them had exited.
Within a short while, Teaghan served a lovely salmon-red, smooth and lightly creamy soup in a bowl, topping it with a dollop of fresh cream and sprinkles of parsley. She looked at it and smiled, before pushing it over toward Daniel and offering him a spoon.
She pulled off her tam, letting her short brunette hair fall into its relaxed bob, and held it between her hands. Nodding, she said, “It's a simple recipe...I wanted to start with something simple...but it's my own.”
Daniel indulged the young woman with a bemused smile. Taking up the spoon, he swirled the cream into the soup for a few deliberate seconds then had a taste.
Teaghan twisted the tam in her hands.
After a few more sips, he leaned back and smiled at her. “It's good.”
“Yeah?” Her eyes widened.
He nodded.