“Had?” He put his hand gently on my elbow and escorted me back to my cooking space. “I’m sorry that this has been such a nightmare,” he whispered, his eyes flashing over toward Glenn and Max pretty much continually.
I wondered if he was worried Max would hear him call it all a nightmare, or if he was worried Glenn would hear him apologize. Maybe, if he was a true friend, he was just trying to size up the best moment to go over and thump Max on the head.
“Why is Glenn coddling him? He should have been kicked off the set a long time ago.” I matched the quiet tone out of respect for Stuart—no one else.
He shrugged. “You know how it goes. We’re so far into production now that all anyone wants is just to finish it up and move on.”
“I get that, but—”
“Okay, people!” Glenn shouted. “We’re ready. Back to your marks, please. We’ll pick it up there again.”
Stuart repeated his eye roll from earlier and then returned to his spot. He repositioned his headset and called out, “Ten seconds!”
First there were eight. Now there are two. Who will be crowned America’s Fiercest Chef? Will it be Maxwell Cavanagh, the legendary restaurateur who, at thirty-six, is the youngest-ever recipient of nine Michelin stars, or will it be Hadley Beckett, the sweet and sassy Southern belle of the kitchen? We’re about to find out.
My eyes flew open, and for a moment, I thought I heard a familiar bubbling. I briefly wondered if Max or I had left a burner on, but I quickly realized it was only my blood that was boiling.
Cool your jets, Hadley, I warned myself. Sure, I had been downgraded from landmark and on-the-brink-of-legendary to “sweet and sassy,” but all I really wanted was to wrap up the shoot, move on with my life, and leave Max and his nine stars to marinate in their pomposity.
A camera-ready smile still plastered on my face, I tilted my head to look at him and his dish. Well, that should be enough to feed a three-year-old. Are Michelin stars awarded by toddlers, Chef? I caught a groan as it threatened to escape. I’d never understood the gourmet food industry’s propensity for starving its customers while charging them the price of a month’s worth of groceries.
As my gaze wandered upward, however, and I observed the smug expression on his face, I resigned myself to his soon-to-be-announced victory. There was a part of me—a pretty big part, if I were being honest—that really wanted to win. I mean, of course I wanted to win. From the beginning. I wouldn’t have left Nashville and flown to New York in the first place if I didn’t intend to win. I got paid handsomely and publicized excessively win or lose, of course. But to be named Fiercest Chef? I’d already outlasted some of the greatest chefs in the country, and if I could defeat Max Cavanagh—the “Playboy Gourmet” as he was “affectionately” called by the media—well . . . that was the kind of validation and reputation-builder money couldn’t buy.
Plus, I really wanted to see that smug, infuriating smile melt off his face.
Chef Beckett. Chef Cavanagh. Please bring your dishes forward.
I was pretty sure I would never get used to being a chef on television, no matter how long I did it. My competitor, on the other hand, seemed to feed off of the attention like one of those hungry toddlers eating their tablespoon of duck ballotine. Or, you know . . . something a toddler would actually like. As soon as it was his turn to present—his creation or himself—he shifted into a higher gear.
Eh . . . maybe not higher. Higher implies better. And as awful as I had discovered him to be when the cameras weren’t rolling, he was so much worse when they were.
“Okay, hold it there, please,” Glenn instructed as soon as we had approached the judges’ table, like two attorneys on Law & Order approaching the bench.
My mind wandered as Stuart and a production assistant adjusted the angles of our hands and dishes, and the cameras zoomed in to capture various shots of the way we had each chosen to plate. I held perfectly still, as instructed, and wondered if Law & Order was still on the air. When was the last time I had watched TV? Had they launched any additional Law & Order spin-offs? Was Law & Order: DMV a thing yet?
“Hadley, we need you to look at camera two, please,” Glenn stated.
I nodded and did as I was told, until I heard Max sigh. Not a restless sigh. An exasperated sigh.
I turned away from camera two and glanced at him, and wasn’t surprised to see him looking right at me.
Don’t engage, Hadley. You’re so close to the finish line. Go back to looking at camera two, stop your hands from shaking so you don’t have to reset your garnish, and just let it all finally be over!
“What! What is it, Max?” I asked, blatantly disregarding my inner sage’s wise advice.
He looked me straight in the eye and had the audacity to say, “It’s been a long day. Could you please stay focused on your cues so we can get out of here?”
Apron. Blender. Carafe. Dutch ov—
“Hey, Glenn, can you get me another bourbon? And grab one for Hayley too. She seems uptight.” He winked at me, and I squirmed in disgust.
“You’ve been drinking?” I asked.
I was shocked, but I don’t really know why. If anything, it made everything about the day make more sense. Yeah . . . nothing about the lack of decorum shown by Max could surprise me at that point. I guess I was just disappointed to be part of a project that had allowed such unprofessionalism to rule the day.
“We’re almost done, Chef,” Glenn replied. “Think you can hang in there just a few more minutes?”
Max nodded. “You bet I can. Just as soon as you grab me another bourbon.”
Glenn chuckled. “Stuart, go ahead and get Chef Cavanagh a—”
“Are you kidding me?” I shook my head vigorously. I just couldn’t take any more. “I—I—I mean, I’ve never—”
“Hadley, can I see you for a minute?” Glenn called out, as if summoning me to the principal’s office.
Sure. I’m right here. Jump down from your special little stool and join me in my kitchen like you did Max!
I was so irritated with myself for, instead of saying any of that, setting my dish down on the counter and crossing the set to where Glenn sat. Stuart smiled apologetically at me as he passed by, a lowball of whiskey in his hand.
As I approached, Glenn jumped down and then gently pulled me aside. “What an experience this has been, huh?” he whispered. “You’ve been a total trooper, and I just can’t tell you how much I—how much we all—appreciate it.”
“Why are you indulging him?” I asked, not bothering to keep my voice down to match Glenn’s. “This is ridiculous. I know he’s the top dog and all that, but I don’t think anyone is doing anybody any favors by letting him walk all over y’all. By letting him walk all over me,” I added. “I get it. His ratings are higher. But At Home with Hadley is solid, and I really think . . .”
I kept talking. I know I kept talking. But I really don’t know what exactly I said next. I got a little too caught up in the realization that my righteous confrontation was quickly morphing into a situation where I was on the verge of apology. I wasn’t even sure how that had happened.
“That’s not it,” Glenn said as my attention snapped back into focus. “We love you around here. You know that. The network is thrilled with your ratings, and with the magazine launching next week, your audience is only going to grow. It’s just that . . .”