The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,15
weren’t going to find out about this. At least the people who didn’t have the Times delivered to their front doors. I raced to the entryway, throwing on a pair of boots and my coat, grabbing my purse.
“Where are you going?” asked Walter. “You’re wearing pajamas. You can’t leave the apartment like this.”
“I know,” I said. “But I am. There’s something important I need to do.”
Everything in my vision blurred. I raced past Frank, our day doorman. I bolted out the door and looked around frantically. Darting through traffic like a crazed frog, I scrambled up to our local newsstand and purchased every copy of the Times. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man swaggering down the sidewalk. I’d recognize that walk anywhere. Eric. What was he doing on the Upper East Side? This was not his neighborhood. The devil of a douchebag lived in Hell’s Kitchen. His eyes widened when he saw me. I froze. Before I could get away, he ran toward me and grabbed my arm. I whipped it away.
“Don’t touch me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t even look at me.”
“We need to talk,” said Eric with surprise—as if he’d actually believed I’d race back into his arms after what he’d done.
“What are you doing here? How did you get my address?”
“We do have records at the restaurant,” he said smugly, his breath reeking of whiskey. It was clear he’d been out all night. He eyed the stack of papers. “Since you didn’t respond to my text, I was going to drop off a note, extending my offer for you to work for me. Your choices are limited, Sophie. Extremely limited.”
We stood in front of one another, me wanting to claw his eyes out.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I did what I did for us.”
“After you killed my career? I’m never talking to you again,” I spat. He grabbed me by the arm once more, gripping it tightly, pulling me closer. He smelled of cheap perfume and cigarettes. I yelped. “Let go of me, Eric.”
“Sophie, I need to tell you—”
“Save your lame-ass words for somebody who wants to listen to them,” I said, whipping my arm from his grip. “You are certifiably insane.”
“I’m not the crazy one here, Sophie. You are. I’m thinking it must run in your family.”
His words delivered a punch, rendering me numb.
He ran his hands through his hair. “You’d be nothing without me. A complete zero. I’m the one who taught you everything you know. Let’s face it, you’re just a talentless lackey. I’d be surprised if you made it into cooking school on your own.”
“Of course I did,” I said, mostly trying to convince myself. I’d gone above and beyond to get into the CIA. Nobody had pulled any strings for me because there wasn’t anybody to pull them. I’d done everything on my own. “I worked my ass off, graduated at the top of my class. You were the one who sought me out.”
“You sure about that?”
My blood boiled with an all-consuming rage I’d never felt before. I slapped Eric as hard as I could with my free hand.
I turned to bolt into my building, a cab nearly running me over as I dashed across the street. Once inside the protection of the lobby, I glanced over my shoulder. Eric stood on the sidewalk, a smug grimace twisting his face. When I returned to the loft, Robert and Walter eyed the stack of papers shaking in my arms. “Should we have a bonfire before we head off to work?” asked Walter.
“Yes,” I said with a whimper, “and I’m never leaving the apartment again.”
6
flambéed with a capital F
For weeks I stayed holed up in my room, which was filled with half-empty containers of meals I couldn’t bring myself to finish. Thankful for the fact that I lived in the city, I could order in anything—Chinese food, tampons, and Chunky Monkey ice cream. I lived in my pajamas, because when I wasn’t scouring the Internet reading about what an abomination I was, I slept. I tried calling O’Shea numerous times, but the second he heard my panicked voice saying, “Chef, Chef, please let me explain,” he hung up. And I gave up. My breakfast, which usually came at one in the afternoon, consisted of some kind of sustenance like a poached egg with a side of vodka and orange juice, which I also ordered in. I wanted to sleep forever, oblivious to everything.