Something Like This

Melanie

One of my best friends, Bree Vega, once asked me why I didn’t believe in love and monogamy, and I led her to believe my parents’ divorce was the reason. And while I’m sure watching their marriage crash and burn in magnificent glory and surviving the aftermath has something to do with my phobia of relationships, it’s not as significant as the man standing across from me.

Finn James Orlic.

The son of my father’s best friend.

Head chef of my father’s restaurant.

First kiss.

The first man I truly hated.

Sex appeal oozes from him clad in the tailored black suit, stretched by his broad shoulders. His blond hair isn’t as long as he wore it in our youth when it playfully swayed and grazed the sharp angle of his chin. Today it's slicked back with enough product that the persistent mist has no effect on it as we stand in the cemetery with my father’s casket between us.

In a strange way, it’s good he’s here. Sheer stubbornness won’t let me shed a tear in front of Finn Orlic. Not even as the final prayers are recited and my stepmother drops the first rose on the glossy wood. Not even when it becomes evident that my older brother, Collin’s, eyes are rimmed in red behind his shades though his expression remains stoic. Not even when it is my turn to step forward to place a rose as a final goodbye to the man who inspired nearly every step of my life.

I can feel Finn watching me. Those molten chocolate brown eyes judgemental and condescending. I keep my head angled so that the veil of my hat blocks my face from his view, but it doesn’t stop sensation of his gaze from washing over my body. Lord, I’m bloody weak.

Collin takes mine and our stepmother’s arms and we walk back towards the black cars waiting for us. He helps Carol in first. I wait, watching as a car slowly approaches the end of the long line of cars winding through the cemetery. My father knew a lot of people.

Then recognition kicks in and I nudge Collin.“Look over there.”

He follows my gaze.“Mum,” he murmurs.

For a moment neither of us say anything. She stays in her car.

“Should we go say hello?” I whisper.

Collin shakes his head. “There’s a reason why she waited until the end.”

Other than my graduation from culinary school, I can’t recall the last time my parents were in the same room together, so the fact that my mother came to the funeral is surprising. The fact that she waited until the end is not. Carol and my mother never got along. My father married Carol mere days after the ink dried on their divorce papers and my mother never forgave him.

And yet, she’s here.

No one says much on the ride back to London. Grief is exhausting and now we must go back to the restaurant, my father’s restaurant, and allow people to offer their condolences. I’d rather go to a restaurant where no one knows my name, enjoy a good glass of wine and meal by myself. A silent tribute to my father and his love of food.

But that won’t be happening.

I check my phone, finding messages from Bree and Mia in our group chat. My two American best friends feeling guilty they can’t be here. Mia’s pregnant with her first baby and due next the month so she can’t fly. I told Bree not to worry about coming. She has two kids of her own to take care of. But I appreciate the texts checking in on me and the copious heart emojis. I send hearts back and put my phone away, turning my gaze out the window.

Finn will be at the restaurant. Of course, he will be at the restaurant. He is the head chef at The Velvet Cow. My father’s right arm. Even when I graduated culinary school two years behind Finn, it was clear my father would promote him before me. Rebelling against nepotism and the potential to get burned, I started my own catering business which has had its ups and downs. But when my father got sick six months ago, I sold my business and stepped in to manage The Lacy Duck, his other restaurant in the suburban town where we grew up outside of London, while Finn ran The Velvet Cow, the Notting Hill steakhouse.

But the repass will be held at The Velvet Cow. For one, it is closer to the cemetery and two, it’s bigger. Which means there’s no avoiding Finn. At some point I’m going to have to talk to the damn man.

The staff greets Carol, Collin, and I with solemn respect. Carol immediately asks for a drink and Collin escorts her to the bar. Sasha, the head waiter, pulls me aside to go over the menu. It includes some of my father’s favorite dishes including his signature lamb stew that became Instagram-worthy thanks to Finn’s plating skills. I still remember Dad perfecting that recipe in the kitchen of the house my mother still occupies outside the city. I sat there for hours watching him, creating little mountains of fresh herbs while we listened to Motown music. It felt like we ate lamb for months.

My lips twitch at the memory. I hand the menu back to Sasha. “Looks perfect, Sasha. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Finn knows what your father liked.”

Right down to the wines, I notice. I should be appreciative but I’m not. I’m resentful. It sits bitterly in my throat like burnt fish. Finn stole many things from me, but the time working side by side with my father stings the most.

Guests start arriving. I join Collin to greet them, tolerating the hugs and sympathy for as long as I can before slipping off. But instead of stopping in the loo, I continue to the end of the hall and duck into the office. Still paneled like it’s the eighties, it’s tidier than when my father occupied it regularly. There’s a picture of Collin and I in when we were primary school in a wooden frame tucked in the corner of a shelf, a faded poster of the Four Tops, and a green file cabinet with a broken top drawer that never fully closes, but it’s not the same. The scent of his after shave is gone, replaced by genetric lemon wood polish. The desk is spotless, not a single pile of papers, receipts, or invoices to be seen. No bowl of candy on the corner or crinkly wrappers underfoot.

I move around the desk and sit down in the worn leather chair, remembering the days I did homework in here while my father was working, sneaking out to the kitchen to watch them prep for the dinner rush. I loved the constant bustle, the smells, the delectable samples the pastry chef would slip me.

When I was young, I dreamt of working here. A little girl’s fantasy of working side by side with my father. Then my parents divorced and I grew up. I pulled away, declared I wanted nothing to do with the food industry and went to business school. Typical, cliché teenager rebellion. Eventually, I changed my mind and went to culinary school.

But by then my father had found a replacement.

The office door opens and that replacement frowns at me. “What are you doing in here?”