of it, the mess is just a pile of junk that can be digitally stored and then recycled: recipes, invoices, class lists, receipts, and bills. But I ignore it for the sake of my mission at hand—phone calls, mostly voice mails.
Two hours later, I’m done with my calls and drowning in boredom. I didn’t even realize that I’d been organizing the piles of papers on Desmond’s desk as I was talking. Now what? I look around and frown. This room is so boring. It has no windows and no personality. The only touch of anything interesting is another one of Desmond’s signature food photos. This one is of a man’s hand pressed into a ball of dough. There’s flour everywhere—on his hands, all over the wood table, and on the dough itself. But the coolest part of the visual are the bits of flour in midair that appear to be falling onto the table.
I’ve noticed a trend with Desmond’s photography, and I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I am deeply impressed. The man knows how to express his emotions well with words, but he damn well knows how to evoke all the feeling imaginable from a photograph. He has a rare gift, and I’m not sure he even knows it.
I shuffle a stack of papers off a hard black object. It’s Desmond’s camera. Well, well, speaking of photography… I recognize it as the one he had in his hands at the game yesterday. Curious, I pick it up and press the power button.
A photo immediately appears in the display on the back of the camera, and I bite my bottom lip over a laugh. I almost forget about the impromptu shoot of me scarfing down my hot dog. Desmond didn’t argue about stopping, but it looks like he’d been at it for longer than I realized. I tap through the photos, admiring his eye for live-action food photography. If that’s a thing, Desmond is a master at it.
Before the hot dog shoot, there are the photos I saw him taking during Saturday’s class. Meal after meal, I find myself mesmerized with the imagery the man is able to conjure up with a simple photo. I must go through hundreds of photos before I spot one of me again. This time, I’m the prime focus of the photo, and I’m standing at my cooking station, agonizing over my lobster ravioli.
Well, agonizing is how I remember it. But that certainly isn’t the same word I would use to describe myself in these photos. I look content, focused, and perhaps like I’m enjoying myself while I get lost in it all.
“Huh.” I set the camera down and shut it off. That’s when I notice a small monitor sitting near Desmond’s computer. I push the power button and jump back when a black-and-white view of the main kitchen comes to life in front of me, sound and all.
There’s a young woman, probably in her thirties, speaking while Faye asks her questions from off camera. Now this is interesting. I smile as I cozy in to watch the poor girl get flustered when simply asked to act natural. That’s all it takes to get her ejected from the shoot to make room for the next girl that walks in.
Three failed auditions later, I’m still glued to the entertainment, but Desmond’s desk is also as organized as can be. I managed to straighten the array of papers into piles: receipts, bills, recipes, and old promotional flyers. Everything is still in desperate need of filing or tossing, which I would have started on if it weren’t for the door to the office that opens, causing me to jump.
“What are you doing?” Desmond’s tone is accusing. His eyes move over his desk and then to the security monitor that I’ve been watching like it’s showing a daytime soap opera. He moves toward me and pushes the power button to shut off the monitor. “You were watching that train wreck?”
I look up and stifle a laugh. “Yup. But don’t worry. I finished all my calls and organized your desk while watching mindless entertainment. No harm done.”
His eyes narrow. “I’ll have you know, that mindless entertainment is going to bring a lot of attention to this cooking school. And what do you mean you organized my desk?”
I ignore his last question and focus on his first statement. “Attention? Is that what you’re after? In that case, why not just have Zach announce he owns the place? That’ll