Glitter Lies

Lavinia

If someone told me that I, Lavinia Harper, would spend my only day off taking a pasta cooking class, I would probably laugh in their face.

It’s all the fault of my girlfriends, who are always trying to “diversify” my life. They gave me a certificate for this master class for my birthday. It’s ridicule, bullying and abuse. But that’s what friendship looks like when you’re almost thirty.

We’re not young anymore, we’ve known each other since college, we’ve seen each other through the darkest times, and most importantly, we’ve run out of ideas for normal gifts. Besides, each of us has everything. So, a few years ago we started giving each other crazy things.

And here I am, creative director of one of the most famous advertising agencies, standing here on my only day off, ready to immerse myself in the world of cooking, which is completely alien to me. And the most important condition of my friends was that I wear a very short cocktail dress and my highest heels. And without photos, they wouldn’t believe me.

I pulled my long dark hair into a high bob so I wouldn’t have to wear a chef’s hat or anything like that. I also decided that you can’t wear a dress like that without makeup. I added arrows, tinted my eyelashes, and put on lip gloss. Not evening makeup, but better than nothing with the Prada dress. After this event, this expensive purchase, which I’ve only worn three times, will probably go to a charity.

Despite all the effort I put into getting to the workshop today, I knew I couldn’t ruin everything. If I missed the event or failed to meet the requirements, the whole point of our fun would be lost.

I exhaled and walked in.

The restaurant was beautifully decorated in the Italian style, with terra cotta walls, vines hanging from the ceiling, and cozy wooden tables. Black and white photos of old Italian streets hung on the walls, creating an atmosphere of coziness and warmth. Inside, about a dozen people were gathered, all looking more confident in their culinary abilities. And dressed appropriately.

The chef was Antonio Bruni, famous for his unique recipes and charismatic style of teaching master classes. His tall figure in a white chef’s uniform with a broad smile inspired confidence.

He was already discussing something with his charges, joking and smiling.

Looking around, I felt a little embarrassed. I never cooked at home; my friends knew that. My work took up all my time and I relied on food delivery from the best restaurants, carefully choosing balanced and healthy meals. That way I was eating right, but not standing over the stove. It just wasn’t my thing...

I decided that the best place for me was somewhere farther away, so after putting my things in a special locker, I put on an apron that the assistant chef kindly offered me. So, I found myself at the table farthest from the chef.

Next to me was a man. Tall, with short dark hair, stylishly styled, he looked focused and confident. He was tall and trim. He was wearing an elegant green t-shirt and dark jeans. His arms stood out for their muscularity — strong, with obvious relief, but without excessive massiveness. The veins on his forearms were evidence of good physical fitness and discipline.

Antonio began by talking about the importance of fresh ingredients and the right mood when making pasta. After me, two or three other people entered the room. They took the remaining tables at the front. And soon we started working.

“Everything seems to be in place. Thank you for being on time. We can start even earlier than planned. I love people who are responsible and respectful of other people’s time,” Antonio’s voice was soft and friendly.

“I wonder if he also talks to his subordinates?” I muttered.

“Excuse me?” The man at the table with me turned to me. The look in his green eyes was cold.

“No, nothing,” I swallowed a nervous laugh.

Everyone here was so serious, and my friends had promised me it would be fun. It wouldn’t be...

Jazz played in the background and was replaced by other instrumental pieces. Antonio explained every detail with such enthusiasm that it was impossible not to be infected by his passion for cooking. I looked at the green-eyed man next to me, his hands were already in the flour and he clearly knew what he was doing.

We began to knead the dough. After some struggle, I tried to repeat the chef’s movements, but I failed. The dough stuck to my hands and I couldn’t shape it properly.

“Damn it!” I cursed quietly.

“If you want, I can help you,” the man offered, turning to me, apparently noticing my struggle.

“Thanks, would be nice.”

My friends’ instructions didn’t say I had to make pasta, I just had to come to the workshop in a dress and high heels. The rest is not so important.

“I’m Alexander, by the way,” he introduced himself, holding out his flour-covered hand. I held out mine, covered in lumps of sticky dough.

“Lavinia,” I said and added. “And that’s your worst handshake ever.”

“It’s not that bad. And believe me, it’s not. I’ve had a lot of bad deals in my life.”

Alexander turned out to be a real dough expert. He left his bowl and finished what I was trying to turn into dough.

“Are you sure you did everything by the book?”

“I hate instructions, they’re boring.”

“But sometimes they are necessary.”

He was quick to explain things in simple terms as he went along, so he went back to his test project. At this point Antonio came over and showered us with compliments about the dough.

“Let the dough rest now,” the chef said, returning to his table, “and we’ll make the sauce in the meantime.”

“Even the dough is resting, but I’m not,” I joked again as Antonio moved to another table.

This time, Alexander appreciated the joke.

“If you don’t like the process, why are you here?”

“My friends gave me a certificate, as if it would help me learn how to cook.”

“And you don’t know how?”

“It’s not that I don’t know how to cook, it’s just that I don’t have the time or the inclination.”

Actually, I could cook, and I’ve done it so many times that I hated it. It reminded me of the bad times in my life when my parents went away and left me with my aunt. They paid her to take care of me, but she got the money for nothing. I cooked, cleaned, did my homework, went to school and came back in a circle. And my aunt lived in our house for free, drank, brought someone to visit while I was away. And I complained to my parents, but they thought that a stranger couldn’t take care of me like a relative would... More stupidity I’ve heard.

Then I cooked when I was a student, when I lived in a dorm. Then when I had my first job. Those were all bad times. And now I can afford not to stand at the stove.

“And I like cooking, I like the process. And I like knowing that no one has ever touched my food.”

“Sounds like a symptom of a mental disorder.”

I know, I have bad sense of humor, but Alexander laughed.

“It really is. But there’s nothing wrong with me. I can prove it.”

“How?”

He stepped back from his desk and gestured for me to take his place. He began to make the sauce for me. His table was neat and tidy. His sauce was already boiling on the stove, only the herbs needed to be chopped.

“Will you finish in there? I’ll take care of things here.”

I expected him to make my sauce for me, but in the end, he just put all the ingredients aside, cleared the table, and then pulled out his dough. I sighed disappointedly, looks like I’m going to be without pasta today. Who cares! I pulled out my phone and took a few selfies while chopping onions and working on the sauce.

“So, what do you do for a living, Alexander, since you have so much time to cook?”

’I work remotely for several IT companies in New York City.”

“I always thought programmers and all IT people were moody people who spend most of their free time in front of a computer, playing video games or coding for fun, even when all the work is done. They prefer technology to real life communication, are withdrawn or awkward in live interaction.”

“Yes, that’s a real mix of stereotypes. Don’t forget to add that IT people drink so much coffee because of the long hours they spend at the computer that we all wonder why they’re still alive. And their hobbies are related to technology, computer games, science fiction.”

“Right,” I added cheerfully.

“But I didn’t say that I was a programmer.”

“Oh, that’s it. And what’s your position in this company?”

“Financial advisor,” he answered.