“When did you turn into such a negative Nelly?”
“When did you start saying things like negative Nelly?”
Max laughed as his nose was powdered and his already perfect beard was fussed with ad nauseum. “I guess you’re rubbing off on me.”
“I don’t say negative Nelly.”
“Maybe not, but you most definitely say things like negative Nelly.”
Chef Simons sat in the chair strategically placed across from us and said, “Okay, Chefs. This is it.” He reached out and grabbed my hand and Max’s and squeezed them both. “I simply don’t want to believe that our time together is over.”
Max could only move so much, due to the fuss that was being made over his face, but he managed to shoot me a look that I had no difficulty at all interpreting. The new and improved Max Cavanagh—whose potty mouth had very nearly disappeared—would never actually say it, thank goodness.
“We just can’t thank you enough for the opportunity,” I said, and I meant it. Even if I also would have meant a cleaner version of what I was pretty sure Max was thinking.
“Ah well. There is no time for sentiment,” Chef Simons said, yanking his hands away. “If I’d known Chef Maxwell was going to treat the call sheet as only a loose guideline, I would have had Lowell pad the schedule. Lowell!” he shouted, and Lowell came running.
As they whispered intensely—probably about how western civilization was on the brink of collapse because we were behind schedule—Max and I leaned closer together and did some whispering of our own.
“At least he hates us both now,” I said.
“That is nice,” he agreed.
“I just never understand the need for the whiplash. Either we’re his teenagers going off to college for the first time or we’re the bedbug-infested hotel he’s checking out of. We can’t possibly be both.”
More than anything, over the course of the eight weeks prior, Chef Simons had seemed annoyed by us. I think he thought we were always on the precipice of doing something he thought was really interesting, but we never quite took the leap. At least not since the risotto episode. Since then, there had been no major revelations, and Max and I had mostly managed not to fight in the kitchen. In the kitchen and everywhere else, he was respectful and considerate, and when he did make fun of my cooking, it had nothing to do with the fact that I was a woman, or that I was the less-experienced, not-yet-as-successful chef.
It was usually just related to the amount of butter I used.
Who could have imagined, all those months ago, that the drunk, obnoxious, sexist chef who threw food and couldn’t remember my name would actually be a joy to cook and create alongside? Or that he would become one of my favorite people in the world?
“All right, let’s go, people. Hadley? Max? You ready?” Lowell asked.
The hair and makeup artists scurried away, and Max and I nodded. Max leaned back slightly into his corner of the loveseat and crossed his ankle onto his knee. He looked so relaxed and casual, while I was pretty sure I gave off the vibe of a sixteen-year-old boy in an uncomfortable suit, meeting his date’s parents on prom night.
“You okay?” Max asked me in response to my slight fidgeting.
“Sure. I’m fine.”
“Quiet everyone!” Lowell bellowed. “Counting down . . . Chef Simons, we’re on you in five . . . four . . .” His fingers took over the count at the same time an expression of serenity overtook the one of vexation on our host’s face.
“And here we are. The final episode of this season of Renowned. A season which I dare say none of us will ever forget.” He spoke to the camera and came across just like the Marshall Simons I had watched and respected for years. “Chefs Hadley Beckett and Maxwell Cavanagh walked onto the Renowned set two months ago as bitter rivals. And today they sit here as . . . well, let’s allow them to tell us. Shall we? Chef Hadley, how would you categorize your relationship with Chef Max?”
Oh boy. “Wow. Not even a warm-up question, Chef Simons?” I chuckled and began fiddling with the hem of my blouse as the thought occurred that maybe that was the warm-up question. “Well, the truth is we’ve become very good friends.”
“And that’s been truly beautiful to watch,” Chef Simons said. “And, frankly, surprising.”
“I’m pretty sure no one’s as surprised as we are,” I added with a smile.
“So how did it happen?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I think everyone saw it happen, actually—”
“No.” He shook his head. “I believe our viewers had the privilege, as I did, of witnessing milestone moments, but what was happening behind the scenes?”
I glanced over at Max, who, as was usually the case in these sorts of moments, provided no help whatsoever. He just raised his eyebrow, tilted his head, and smiled.
“Well,” I croaked, and then cleared my throat. “We were getting to know each other—”
I think Chef Simons was already bored with my answer. “But to move past your public shared history could not have been an easy thing.”
“No. It wasn’t. But—”
“And then to be forced into a situation in which you had to share the Renowned stage—”
“We weren’t forced into—”
“Still, to know that your nemesis—”
“Max was never my—”
“To know that he was also reaping the benefits of—”
I let out a frustrated growl and jumped up from the loveseat. “For cryin’ out loud, Marshall! Are you going to let me finish one single thought?”
Mandoline. Nutmeg grater. Oven mitt. I performed a quick inventory. Maybe . . . maybe . . . nope. Not enough. Poultry shears . . .
Max’s hand enveloped mine as he said, “Will you excuse us for a moment?” And then he pulled me into the kitchen. He looked around the room which, with my dazzling open floor plan, didn’t do much to keep a cameraman and his equipment from rolling on in there. “Get out,” Max ordered.
“We have every right to film right now, Max,” Lowell said. Then he added, more quietly, “I’m sorry, but this is the show.”
I turned my back to the camera and leaned forward against the sink, but I wasn’t there long. Max pulled me away again, and I did all I could to keep up with him as he hurried up the stairs, down the hall, and into my bedroom. As soon as we got inside, he closed the door and locked it. He dropped my hand, but then he looked at the door, back to me, and then to the door again. Then I was once again being pulled, into my bathroom. He shut and locked that door, and then he looked instantly calm.
I separated from him and buried my face. “I can’t believe I lost it like that.”
“I’m glad you did.”
I shook my head inside my cupped hands and groaned. “No, that was bad. That was so unlike me.”
“Not really.”
I lowered my hands and placed frustrated fists on my hips. “Yes, it was. I’ve never lost my temper like that. Not on television anyway. Not with Marshall Simons! Oh my gosh, Max. What did I just do?”
He sat down on the edge of my bathtub and smiled at me. “You stood up for yourself.”