Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
But there’s a Cordon Bleu in Paris, right? And maybe other places?
I bolt back to my desk and bring up the website. Yes, there are schools all around the world, from Peru to Canada.
I start going through the different schools and find scholarship pages in Shanghai. And India.
My heart inflates in my chest and my heartbeat bangs in my veins. This could be it. I really think I could have found something.
My instinct has me reaching for the phone. I want to tell Zach. He’d think this was a brilliant idea. But he’s working and I shouldn’t disturb him, even if by some miracle he had a signal. I’ll email him tonight.
I pull out my notebook and start to make notes on the closing dates of each available scholarship. Some I don’t fulfil the criteria for because I’m not Spanish or I don’t have a certain number of years in the industry. When I’ve finished going through all the various websites, I am eligible for three scholarships: Wellington, New Zealand; Melbourne, Australia; and Paris, France.
Excitement chases up my spine and I set to work.
All the scholarships have deadlines for applications at the end of the year, so I don’t have long. But if I’m successful in any of them, it means starting in January—less than two months away. All three are full scholarships, covering all fees. My current savings would cover accommodation costs, so I’d be able to press fast-forward on my future.
It’s not until five hours later, after writing twelve thousand words about why I want to study at Le Cordon Bleu, that I realize I need to pee, have a coffee, and take a break.
I also need to check emails. I know Zach is closing the office down, but I could at least pretend I have a job to do.
When I click into my inbox, my pulse trips in my neck. There’s one from Zach.
I open it. He tells me he misses me, and how he’s taken a trip to the post office to make sure I get the email.
It’s so romantic.
I imagine him, bundled up in his coat and scarf and gloves, a thousand layers unable to hide how beautiful he is. How sweet he is, to interrupt his writing time to think about me and reach out.
He says he sent a text this morning but doesn’t know if it’s come through. I check my phone but see nothing from him.
It’s good to hear that he’s made good progress on the book and I laugh when he gets to the bit where he burnt some toast this morning.
He asks me to write to him and tell him about my day, even if it’s just a few lines about how little I had to do.
I go to the loo, make a coffee, and sit down to reply when it hits me: If I end up with a scholarship and have to go to Australia, that will be it for Zach and me. Hell, even Paris is likely to spell the end for us.
I’m deliberately vague when I reply. I tell him I’m looking into scholarships and sponsorships to try and speed things up. Then I tell him I miss cooking for him, that I miss the noises of appreciation he makes when he eats my food. I tell him I miss him naked, over me, watching me as I come.
I press send and then go back to the beginning of my application to read through everything, including the recipes I’ve devised in accordance with the brief. The website says they’re looking for someone who can put flavors together and has “flair”—whatever that means. All I know is that I like to cook.
Just before I leave the office, my phone rings. My rib cage squeezes when I see it’s Zach. How did he manage to get reception?
I slide the phone open.
“Hey, where are you? Hanging out of the bathroom window?”
There’s no answer.
“Zach?”
“Ellie? Hey, I wanted to hear your voice.”
My stomach swoops and I squeeze my eyes shut, wanting to drink in the sound of his voice. “I miss you,” I say.
There’s just silence in response. I think of something I can say to backtrack. “I miss cooking for you,” I say, as if correcting myself.
Still there’s silence.
Then finally, “Ellie, can you hear me?”
I laugh and pull the door shut, the lock clicking behind me. “Yes, can you hear me?” Of course he can’t hear me. He’s in the middle of nowhere, right where he’s meant to be.
And for now, here is where I’m meant to be. I just hope that in January, I’m meant to be in Paris.
Twenty-Five
Zach
Mrs. Fletcher’s grin tells me that I did a good job, but I want to hear what she has to say, just to make sure.
“This is excellent,” she says, nodding. “Really good. I couldn’t put it down last night. You’ve really captured the way Benjamin falls for Madeline without really realizing it at first. I like the way his thaw is so gentle that he doesn’t even notice he’s not so cold anymore. Excellent work. I couldn’t have asked for more.”