staff. It was a relatively small affair but it would serve nicely as a gateway for the more prestigious foundation events.
A slightly evasive cough warned her she wasn’t going to like the next words out of Mason’s silver-spoon-filled mouth. “The dinner is going to be bigger this year, maybe sixty or more. I think you said you could only accommodate thirty.”
This was exactly why her job sucked. Jack’s reluctance to give her free rein meant she was stuck with the Mitzies and Betsies and their bachelorette lunches.
“Well, Sarriette’s dining room has seating for close to seventy.” Of course, Jack would never let her close it down for one event, especially during the busy holiday season. He insisted it created the wrong impression for the regular punters. “And we’ve also taken over the lease on a new space. Right next door.” Please God, don’t strike her down, at least not until she’d had a chance to talk to Jack. She’d had her eye on the defunct space for the last three months; it fit perfectly with her plans to double the seating for Sarriette.
“You know restaurants and hotels practically fall over themselves to get this gig,” Mason said. “And I’ve heard your boss isn’t really interested in the big stuff.” Every refused booking came back to bite her neck. Trust Mason to know about that. “I’m pretty sure my mother’s just going to go with the Peninsula like she did last year. It’s a known quantity.”
Cara could feel her face crimping. Once these banker types brought out the corporate speak it was usually all over but the shouting. Hard to get a businessman to plump for the new kid on the block over the establishment.
But he wasn’t hanging up. Willing to let him lead, she waited it out. Her eyes wandered to the seating plan for Jack and Lili’s wedding reception. Colored stickies circled a map of pie charts as she tried to figure out who should go where. Uncle Aldo might be persona non grata but she would find a way.
“I’d have to talk to her,” Mason said in a brighter tone. A lightbulb tone, she might have called it. She had something he wanted and he was thinking of how to ask for it. Was she really going to have to date this guy just so she could get his mother’s business?
Yes, she would, because she needed this to start something— anything —and if that required breasts blazing and eyelashes batting, then so be it. A nagging voice reminded her that she was still Mrs. Shane Doyle. Not for much longer, she sniped back a few seconds too late. The “Mrs.” had already created a soul-deep rut in some forgotten corner of her brain, one that had been masked in dusty old cobwebs since she was a girl. Good Lord, it didn’t sound half bad. She would need to shore that up PDQ.
“I did ask what I can do for you, Mason,” she prompted, wishing he’d just get on with it.
“I want Jack.”
She almost dropped the phone. “Jack?”
“I want to eat in the kitchen.”
Cara flipped through her mind’s nostalgia Rolodex while she tried to get to grips with the fact Mason didn’t want to date her or, shudder, anything else. Chef’s tables, popular about ten years ago, were lately back in vogue if last month’s issue of Restaurant Magazine was to be believed. Clearly Jack’s celebrity still counted for something, and if that’s all Mason wanted, she would make it happen.
“You want a chef’s table?”
“Yes, a chef’s table. I’d like to have dinner with a couple of friends in Jack’s kitchen.”
The temptation to mutter “Is that all?” was so close to spilling she had to mash her lips together to keep it in.
“You can make it work, right, Cara?” Mason purred down the line.
“Leave it with me,” she purred right back.
* * *
It is a truth universally acknowledged that he who rules the kitchen rules the iPod, and this was especially true at Sarriette where Jack Kilroy ruled with a velvet fist and heaven help the man tempted to ask for
A slightly evasive cough warned her she wasn’t going to like the next words out of Mason’s silver-spoon-filled mouth. “The dinner is going to be bigger this year, maybe sixty or more. I think you said you could only accommodate thirty.”
This was exactly why her job sucked. Jack’s reluctance to give her free rein meant she was stuck with the Mitzies and Betsies and their bachelorette lunches.
“Well, Sarriette’s dining room has seating for close to seventy.” Of course, Jack would never let her close it down for one event, especially during the busy holiday season. He insisted it created the wrong impression for the regular punters. “And we’ve also taken over the lease on a new space. Right next door.” Please God, don’t strike her down, at least not until she’d had a chance to talk to Jack. She’d had her eye on the defunct space for the last three months; it fit perfectly with her plans to double the seating for Sarriette.
“You know restaurants and hotels practically fall over themselves to get this gig,” Mason said. “And I’ve heard your boss isn’t really interested in the big stuff.” Every refused booking came back to bite her neck. Trust Mason to know about that. “I’m pretty sure my mother’s just going to go with the Peninsula like she did last year. It’s a known quantity.”
Cara could feel her face crimping. Once these banker types brought out the corporate speak it was usually all over but the shouting. Hard to get a businessman to plump for the new kid on the block over the establishment.
But he wasn’t hanging up. Willing to let him lead, she waited it out. Her eyes wandered to the seating plan for Jack and Lili’s wedding reception. Colored stickies circled a map of pie charts as she tried to figure out who should go where. Uncle Aldo might be persona non grata but she would find a way.
“I’d have to talk to her,” Mason said in a brighter tone. A lightbulb tone, she might have called it. She had something he wanted and he was thinking of how to ask for it. Was she really going to have to date this guy just so she could get his mother’s business?
Yes, she would, because she needed this to start something— anything —and if that required breasts blazing and eyelashes batting, then so be it. A nagging voice reminded her that she was still Mrs. Shane Doyle. Not for much longer, she sniped back a few seconds too late. The “Mrs.” had already created a soul-deep rut in some forgotten corner of her brain, one that had been masked in dusty old cobwebs since she was a girl. Good Lord, it didn’t sound half bad. She would need to shore that up PDQ.
“I did ask what I can do for you, Mason,” she prompted, wishing he’d just get on with it.
“I want Jack.”
She almost dropped the phone. “Jack?”
“I want to eat in the kitchen.”
Cara flipped through her mind’s nostalgia Rolodex while she tried to get to grips with the fact Mason didn’t want to date her or, shudder, anything else. Chef’s tables, popular about ten years ago, were lately back in vogue if last month’s issue of Restaurant Magazine was to be believed. Clearly Jack’s celebrity still counted for something, and if that’s all Mason wanted, she would make it happen.
“You want a chef’s table?”
“Yes, a chef’s table. I’d like to have dinner with a couple of friends in Jack’s kitchen.”
The temptation to mutter “Is that all?” was so close to spilling she had to mash her lips together to keep it in.
“You can make it work, right, Cara?” Mason purred down the line.
“Leave it with me,” she purred right back.
* * *
It is a truth universally acknowledged that he who rules the kitchen rules the iPod, and this was especially true at Sarriette where Jack Kilroy ruled with a velvet fist and heaven help the man tempted to ask for
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