Duchess had asked Perdita to get in touch with Remy Francoeur, famous 5-star chef and owner of Remy’s. Obviously.
This would not usually be a big deal. Perdita was not someone who was easily starstruck. Growing up around people who were famous had desensitized her to such encounters. No, it was not about that for her. It was just that--Remy had been her boss. For what? Six months?
And she’d been a terrible employee. She was late and she was tired and she cried in the walk-in freezer. She snapped back at guests. She was awful, she really was. And, she could excuse all of that way, say “I had diagnosed post-partum depression, it wasn’t my fault” but she’d rather die than admit such a thing. In fact, she’d just--avoided Remy’s entirely.
Perdita walked in through the back, where the employees came from, her heels clacking on the linoleum floor. She felt better now, more in control, dressed to the nines instead of in the black uniform of the waiters.
Taking the stairs up to Remy’s office, she knocked on the half-open door.
“Monsieur Francoeur, do you have a moment?”
