Serving Fate

Emma~

“...And that, my friend, is a wrap,” I exclaim excitedly to no one in particular.

Everyone else is too busy serving drinks to the guests upstairs or preparing for the dinner service that is about to commence.

I still can’t believe that I managed to find the time to fix my hair and pull on a black dress as part of the uniform. It was tempting fate to try it on too soon, but the sauce of the main dish wouldn't show anyway so I chanced it before plating.

Derek, Abbey, and Craig have come down to help me with the food trolley, and I allow myself to marvel for a second at the perfect presentation of this first dish.

“Wow, Emma. I’ve never seen you cook so fancy!” Craig exclaims while Derek lets out a low whistle of respect.

Each plate is a carbon copy of the other, right down to the placement of the decorative cress. There are three Caesar salad croquettes in the center, surrounded by the smoothest spinach and romaine purée that I have made to date.

My mother would be proud of me tonight just with this course, as this one was her recipe. I like to have at least one belonging to her per dinner party that I cater, and this is a personal favorite of mine.

With a deadline like this, I could use all the luck and good vibes that I can get, and it’ll cheer my brother up as well. He loved this even more than I did.

“Thank you both, now let’s get this up so I can prepare for round 2!” My words are strictly business, but I doubt they miss the grateful blush on my cheeks.

They might know nothing about food, but even complimenting how it looks is enough to warm my heart. I’m biased at the end of the day with it being my work, and who doesn’t love a compliment? I just don’t want to jinx anything by accepting their praise; nobody’s even tasted it yet.

We use the trolley to migrate the food over to the elevator and then up to the first floor. The whole time my nerves are suddenly starting to get the better of me when usually I can keep a lid on anxiety if I’m hosting someone so important.

It must have been that late afternoon espresso! I shouldn’t have risked it knowing what effect it can have even on a good day, and now that I know who sits opposite my father, I might as well be going into overdrive.

Breathe Emma, Breathe!

The large oak door creaks open in front of us, allowing entry into the grand dining room reserved for the more formal occasions and elite circle. I’ve been in here many times both eating and serving, but never have I felt so ill at ease. I wish I didn’t ask Derek to tell me who was here; it doesn’t take a genius to explain the tension in the room.

I smile at my father as I move to present his meal first on the placemat in front of him, and he winks at me after an exaggerated look of appreciation. He’s always been my biggest fan, and I try to control the affection on my face. This is a professional affair after all, and I’m not really meant to make eye contact with anyone sitting down.

While turning to collect another for Owen, I finally start to get better control over my anxiety. The hardest part is over now; my father’s okay and was in good enough spirits to joke with me. It’s going to be fine, it has to be.

I chant as much to myself anyway, as I make my way around this section until everyone is finally served, allowing me to make my escape.

“Did they say anything to you?” I ask as Abbey follows me downstairs, clearly not wanting to stay in the dining room with the others, and I can’t say I blame her, to be honest.

“Mr. Neville? I wasn’t serving him, thank goodness.” She replies with a nervous look towards the ceiling before moving over to the blender to dip a finger in the now-served purée.

“You’re lucky I always make spares, there’s a croquette or two in the fridge if you want a snack while I heat the main?” I offer, and her face lights up.

There’s no point in dwelling on upstairs any longer, and now that she’s out of my hair, I can start to cook the racks of lamb while they eat and rejuvenate the tangy orange sauce. If there’s any spare for this one, I sure as hell won’t be sharing it with Abbey.

The lamb doesn’t need to be left in for long, which is why I’ve left it to the very last minute. To me, it would be a crime to serve it anything other than medium rare, and I don’t want to risk any of them becoming well done.

I feel like a tornado as I weave around the kitchen, stirring, taking temperatures, and finally plating. This is where I feel the most in my element, and it’s a shame that all of my hard work is going toward the guests above.

The thought makes me shiver, and I eye the door in trepidation as I gain the courage to make the journey back up again. It shouldn’t be so hard to serve in my own home, and yet here we are!

It doesn’t matter though, I have a job to do, and my anxiety is not going to spoil this for me. I want to see my father’s reaction. It was his newest supplier after all that was able to get us lamb this big, and he’ll be so pleased with how they turned out, I’m sure of it.

So I march upstairs with all of the fake confidence that I can muster and plaster on my most professional of smiles. Only, this time around when I step forward to serve him, I make the mistake of allowing myself a glance around the room. Noticing in the process the heathen visiting.

The beautiful villain I was far from expecting.