Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [51]
The elevator jolted to a stop and she picked up her basket again, smiling at the receptionist cocooned in the taupe and dove-gray carpeted silence of the executive floor of Blakemore and Honeywell, investment counselors and management consultants. The sleek-haired brunette nodded indifferently and went back to filing her long red nails. “Kitchen’s through there, down the corridor on your left.” She offered no help and once again it took Venetia two trips with her load.
After all, thought Venetia inspecting the kitchen, it’s my job, not hers. Still, the office staff in these places did rather treat you as though you were the scullery maid and they the young ladies of the big house! The directors for whom she cooked were usually all right—they either noticed her and smiled appreciatively, or they made a point of not noticing her while they consumed their lunch and discussed business. Either way was all right with Venetia—so long as they liked her food and paid her, and best of all, if they asked her, through their secretaries, of course, to cook for their weekly directors’ lunches on a regular basis so that she could fill up the sparse pages of her engagement book several weeks ahead and know that she would be sure of some income that month.
Work hadn’t been as easy to find as she had expected. Schools seemed to be turning out young ladies with cordon bleu diplomas by the score, and every ad in The Times attracted dozens of applicants who were often more experienced than Venetia. Through the Lancasters and her own circle of friends she had managed to pick up a job here and there—catering a christening party or an anniversary dinner, and through an agency she had ventured into the occasional weekend house party, or emergency dinner—usually when the regular cook had walked out at the last minute.
Most times Venetia didn’t blame them. The attitude of her temporary employers was to act as if she were some irritating servant who should know where everything in the strange kitchen was kept, and should get on with it—fast, without bothering them! Most of the women had proved demanding and difficult to please. The men saw her in quite a different light, as a more decorative kitchen accessory to be plied with gin and tonic while the wife was taking her bath, then an arm around the shoulders and a pat on the bottom and a suggestion of a rendezvous for “a really good meal … get you out of the kitchen, hah hah, then afterward …” It appeared to be a hazard of her profession and it annoyed her, though so far she’d managed to keep her suitors at bay, and she’d also managed to be quite polite about it because she needed the money. But it would have felt so satisfying to walk out and leave them to explain to their wives just why their dinner party was ruined.
Unpacking her hampers, she produced a delicate terrine of salmon in aspic which she arranged on a bed of fresh cress, garnishing it with slices of lemon and cucumber. The middle-aged directors she cooked for liked simple food, not too fattening but with good ingredients, and the rack of lamb, which she had covered with a mixture of herbs, fine mustard, and bread crumbs and would cook until just pink, had proved a safe bet. She tried always to keep the pudding light—a lemon sorbet with wafer-thin curls of fresh almond biscuits that she had made that morning, or a fresh fruit salad and an interesting cheeseboard. The wines came from the directors’ own cellars, so she had no need to bother about those, and with a cold hors d’oeuvre and pudding she had only the main dish and vegetables to cook. These were shopped for the day before and