I delighted in the rapt attention of the line cooks and preps while I demonstrated new ways to plate the final orders, then with the lunch rush over, I left them to handle the cleanup. As I plopped onto the couch in the empty staff room, John entered and said, "It's time to let you go, Gianna."
"Oh! Let me go where?"
"To a position more suited to your talents."
I looked up at him, puzzled by his sad face. "Ooh, sounds exciting. What is it? I thought you said there's nothing more for me to master here."
John laughed. "And that's my point. We're too small to allow your full potential to blossom."
"I'm a bit fagged from three hours nonstop. I don't follow what you're saying."
"Consider it being set free. You've not had a day's vacation in the two years you've been here – not even sick days. You're a workaholic, Gigi. Take a few weeks to unwind, so you're ready for a fresh start."
I pointed toward the kitchen. "Who'll handle that until I'm back?"
John tilted his head. "Hmmm! I should have made it more clear. You're not coming back here."
Oh, God! As realisation swept in, I shuddered. "Does this mean you're firing me?"
"Better to say I'm releasing you from your contract – a necessary step in moving on from your dead-end position. Full short-notice severance and compensation for your unused vacation will be deposited to your bank. I've said this before, Gianna – many times – you've far too much potential to waste, and you're working yourself to a frazzle here trying to satisfy your need for more..."
John blurred as my eyes watered, his words becoming background babble while my mind repeated like a stuck record, Gigi, the unemployed sous chef. Gigi, the unemployed sous chef.
"... let you go ... break ... career ... refreshed ... placement ... talent ... growth..."
Gigi, the unemployed sous chef screamed in my head nonstop, louder and louder while I stared at John in disbelief, his disjointed babble continuing for a long time before he turned and left.
Not fully resigned to the new reality, I trembled and fumbled as I changed into my baggy jeans and hoodie. Then, with my clogs and whites in the backpack, I looked at the wall clock. More than an hour before sushi with Marcy. Home first. Try to wrap my mind around this before we meet.
A few minutes later, when I opened the door to my condo, loud guttural moaning came from the living room, and as I rushed toward it, I asked, "What's wrong, Garth? What's happened?"
"Gigi! Why are you home early?" He looked up at me as I entered the room. "Keep rolling, guys. Include her in the scene – ignore the script – we'll ad-lib from here. Add some excitement."
"What the fuck are you doing, Garth? Who are these people?"
"Actresses and cameramen, shooting a –" He paused and grabbed a bimbo's head and forced her to continue bobbing on him. "Doing modelling for animation."
"Get out. All of you. Now!"
"I paid them for four hours. We can't stop now."
"I. Said. N-now." My trembling voice defeated the emphasis.
"Aww! You're just jealous because you're not doing this." He thrust deeper into the Bimbo's throat. "And that you don't have boobs like these." He squeezed and bounced them; then, he moved a hand down and fingered. "Or a perfect pussy like this, rather than your ugly meat curtains."
"Fuck you, Garth."
"You wish."
Giggles and laughter followed me as I ran to the bathroom, slammed the door and sat to lean against it, trying to deepen my rapid breathing and control my trembling. Oh, God! What now? Who can I get to help? Would the police? Domestic violence? But he didn't touch me. I shuddered.
As controlled breathing began calming me, my mind drifted back to the police presentation during the Hospitality Management course. Humiliation and degradation in front of others. The top of their domestic violence list. Surely, they'll come for this.
I grabbed my iPhone from my hoodie pouch and turned it on. After some fumbles, I slowed my thumbs to allow their shaking to correctly enter 9-1-1.
A few minutes later, emboldened by the response, I returned to the living room to shoot photos and clips for evidence. When Garth spotted me, he lifted his mouth from a bimbo's crotch. "Hey, look who's back. Curiosity get you, Gigi? Come to see what real sex is like?"
Quelling my urge to curse him, I silently chanted, the police are coming, the police are coming, the police are coming, nonstop to deaden his stream of insults. And with controlled deep breathing, my shaking eased sufficiently to continue recording evidence until the entry phone buzzed. I rushed to respond.
After the cameramen and bimbos had been escorted out, and while Garth began disconnecting and packing his computers and hardware, one of the police officers handed me a card. "This is our domestic violence hotline, Ms Gallini. Call and quote this case number. Faster than 9-1-1 if he gives you any more problems."
"Thank –"
Garth drowned my reply, "I gave her no problems. She's the problem."
"Ms Gallini asked that you stop trying to justify. Now, you do that."
"But she doesn't understand."
"From the evidence, she clearly understands – and so do we."
"Am I under arrest?"
The officer pointed to his iPad. "No, my searches find no priors, so once we get you out of here, you're free to go."
"Out of here?" Garth waved his hands around my condo. "But this is my home."
"Not anymore. How many times do we have to tell you?"
"So, where do I go?"
"We'll escort you down and out onto the street. From there, it's your choice."
Garth shook his head. "But what about all my stuff? My clothes?"
"Take what you can carry. What you immediately need. Find a place, then arrange for the rest to be picked up."
The other officer turned to me. "Call us, and we'll provide a guard when that happens, Ms Gallini. Ensure he tries nothing funny." She handed me two keys and a fob. "Also, he may have had copies of these made, so it's safest if you have the locks changed."
"I'll get you for this, Gigi."
"Last warning! Threaten her again, and we will arrest you."
Finally, with his computer bags slung and hauling a huge roller suitcase, Garth was ushered out by the police, leaving the rest of his belongings heaped in the hallway.
I closed the door behind them – with far less force than my churning gut had wanted. After twisting the deadbolt and fumbling the security chain into place, I turned to lean against the door and slowly sank to sit, braced against it, still trembling.
How long had he been doing this? What else had he done in here while I've been at work?
Work? Hah! Fired. Gigi, the unemployed sous chef. Oh, God! Now what?
I remained sitting on the floor, my mind spinning – images flashing, none pleasant. For how long, I don't know, but my bum was numb when the ringtone startled me from my stupor. I reached into my hoodie pouch, dug out my phone, thumbed in and swiped without looking. "Hello."
"Gigi, where are you? I've searched upstairs and down, out on the patio, the washrooms. Nada."
"Oh, God! Marcy! So sorry. Caught by weird circumstances. I'm at home."
"You okay?" She must have sensed my hesitation because she continued, "Hmm? Want me to come over?"
"Might be best. I'm a wreck. Not fit to go out at the moment."
"What is it?"
"Too complex. Still trying to analyse."
"You fit to eat? Maybe have our sushi there? I'll bring wine."
"We've – I've viognier in the fridge, so sushi only."
"Twenty minutes. Hang in there."
"Thanks, I will. Just talking with you is bringing me back."
I clicked off and went to the bathroom for a long-overdue pee. Then in front of the mirror, as I washed my hands, I was grateful for not using makeup. A quick splash and wipe had me approaching normalcy. On the outside, anyway.
Some yoga poses and deep-breathing exercises helped quiet my mind, allowing me to begin calming, and by the time I buzzed Marcy into the building, I felt a little more stable.
When I opened the door, her first words were, "You okay?"
"Fine. Now."
"What was it?"
"I kicked Garth out."
"Oh! I thought he might be a keeper – lasted longer than most." She held up a large bag as she headed to the kitchen. "Your favourite rolls. I ordered for three, in case he hadn't eaten."
"Just us again, Marce."
"Ummm! I like that."
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Points to consider in this chapter:
In the first scene, does it come across that Gigi has difficulty accepting change? That she blocks out much of what John says?
In the second scene, do her anger and humiliation show well?
Do you sense her relief as she talks with Marcy?
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