“Chef Maxwell,” Marshall began. “One of the greatest unexpected occurrences ever on Renowned has been, in my opinion, the thawing we have all witnessed between Chef Hadley and yourself. Talk about that, if you will.”
Talk about that? Talk about the thawing? Should he admit that they’d messed up a good thaw by not handling things properly, and what had once been thawed was now spoiled?
“Truthfully, that was pretty unexpected to me too.” You have no idea. “I’m really grateful that Hadley and I were able to get to know each other and find some common ground.”
Wow. That’s sexy stuff there, Max.
“How would you classify the current relationship between the two of you?”
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “She’s someone I care about a great deal, and I value her role in my life.”
“Chef Hadley having any role at all in your life is quite a feat indeed. Wouldn’t you agree? Considering you’ve put down her food, her cooking style, the way she handles herself in the kitchen . . . You even, as our viewers will see in an upcoming episode, called her a fraud.”
Max shot Marshall Simons a look of warning. Yes, the man was his hero, but he was skating very close to the line.
“That was off-camera. That was a private conversation.”
“Is there a distinction in your mind, Chef Maxwell, between what is acceptable on-camera versus what is acceptable when the cameras are not rolling?”
Max scoffed and looked toward where he knew Lowell to be standing, near the cameras. He was searching for answers, but he couldn’t see anyone in the bright studio lights so he turned back to Marshall.
“What is this? Why am I under attack here?”
Marshall looked briefly down at the index cards in his hands and then carried on. “No one is under attack, and I apologize if you have been made to feel as if you are.”
Max was overreacting. He knew he was. There was no doubt Simons had crossed a line by asking about something that had happened off-camera—although they had been miked at the time, Max realized right then, far too late. But Marshall was just asking the questions on his cards. He’d seen chefs take tough questions from him for years. Reputations had been ruined and reputations had been saved on the Renowned couch. The last thing Max needed was another breakdown for the highlight reel.
“No, I apologize,” he stated, with his best attempt at a humble, contrite smile. “I admit, you did take me off guard, asking me about what I had thought was a private conversation. But, no. There is no difference in what is acceptable when the cameras are rolling. It’s just that Hadley and I both said some things we regretted that evening. We have since made amends.”
Good save. Even if “amends” stretched the truth a little too far.
“Let’s go back a bit further,” Marshall continued with a nod, looking up from his cards. “To a conversation that was very public. Take me back to that infamous night on the set of America’s Fiercest Chef.”
Max should have known, he supposed. He should have known it had to come up sometime. It was relatively miraculous that he hadn’t been forced to talk about it until the second week. But now it was time, and they were no doubt in pursuit of the juicy sound bite that would be used to promo the show throughout the season. Proceed with caution, Max.
“I’m pretty sure there isn’t much that’s left to say on the topic.”
“I’d like to know—I think we’d all like to know—what was going through your mind?”
Max ran his hand through his hair and shuffled again in his seat. “The truth is, Chef Simons, I don’t fully remember. I had admittedly and very clearly had far too much to drink.”
“Do you remember interacting with Chef Hadley?”
He’d tried. He really had tried to remember. Oh, he remembered the first day of filming, and part of the second, but he knew Marshall was asking if he remembered the moments when he threw his career into the toilet.
“I don’t.” He shook his head slowly and deliberately. “To be honest, I do remember cooking. I remember them calling out her name instead of mine as the winner, but my reaction . . .” He shrugged and then instantly regretted it. A shrug probably came across as flippant, so he leaned forward, lowered his head, and rested his elbows on his knees. “Trust me . . . I deeply regret everything that happened.”
“I think what everyone really wants to know, Chef Maxwell, is what caused the destructive cycle that finally reached the point of no return on that horrible day?”
Max clenched his hands in front of him and raised his eyes to look at Marshall. “Is that what everyone wants to know, Chef Simons, or is that what you want to know? See, I think that you want to know, because you think talking about it will lead to ratings.”
“And it wouldn’t lead to ratings, Chef, unless people were out there, watching and wondering.”
He smiled at his prey in that same iconic way Max had been watching him smile at chefs for years. Funny how, until that moment, he’d never realized what a jerk his hero actually was.
He really should have known. Through the years he’d seen chefs he respected cry to Marshall Simons about the children they’d neglected and the drugs they’d abused; the parents who hadn’t loved them. How naïve Max had been to believe they’d all just felt like they could finally be open and honest, because Renowned had created a safe environment for them.
Well, it wasn’t going to happen this time. If he came across as evasive and withdrawn, that was a million times better than unnecessarily digging up the pain of the past.
“The fact is, Chef Simons, that I’ve worked very hard to become a better version of myself—”
“Yes, you spent a month in a rehabilitation facility, correct?”
Max sat up straight as heat rushed to his head. “I did go away to work on my anger issues, yes. I know I’ve done some damage, but I’m really doing all I can to put that all in the past. So, Chef Simons, while completely understanding why there is an interest in all of the drama, I’m afraid that at this time, I’m going to need to respectfully ask you to mind your own business.”
“I heard the sit-down was brutal,” Leo said to Max as he made his way through the parking lot. He was leaning up against Max’s Range Rover, parked in its temporarily designated parking space at the studio.
Max shooed him away as he approached, and Leo snickered as he removed his hands from the sparkling vehicle.
“It got better after I told Marshall Simons to mind his own business.”
Leo’s jaw dropped. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“Max—”
“He went too far, Leo. He was just looking for dirt, and I have far too much respect for this institution—”
“You mean Renowned?”
“Yes. I have far too much respect for it to allow it to turn into Hard Copy.”
Leo laughed as Max reached for the door, and he moved out of the way. “Hard Copy? When was the last time you watched television?”
“You mean television I’m not on? It’s been a while. Apart from Renowned, of course. And that’s the point. I’ve watched this show my entire life, and I know that they air the dirty laundry. But I don’t think Simons has ever pushed the way he pushed me today.” Leo walked around to the passenger side of the car, and Max stared at him in confusion. “What are you doing?”