Part 3: The Middle of Nowhere

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"I don't give a shit, Marcus. I want the reports by the end of the week — staffing, food and beverage sales, all of it. And tell the new chef to get his act together, or he's out." Quinn swore and threw his phone on the passenger seat. His latest restaurant was becoming a pain in the ass. Trying to run this one from afar was a terrible idea.

New York was thriving; they hardly needed him. The Vegas spot needed some love but was doing moderately well. The London restaurant was making money hand over fist, but problems behind the scenes led him to believe he may have bitten off more than he could chew. What made him think he could let Marcus and his partner, Élan, run it while he travelled the world, filming? He ran a hand through his hair and rolled the car window down. And where in the almighty fuck am I?

He felt like he'd been driving forever since the plane landed in Halifax. He was so bloody tired. The only thing that was helping was the stunning scenery, bathed in the light of the sinking sun. The countryside opened up ahead, rolling hills and farmland spread out like a gold and emerald tapestry against the expanse of ocean in the distance.

It would have been a gorgeous drive if he'd been more in the mood to take it in. Right now, he just wanted a hot bath and bed. The B&B looked old-fashioned and charming online; he hoped both the bed and the bathtub would be comfortable and large enough to accommodate his six-foot-two inch frame.

He yawned; rubbed his eyes. His latest show, Canada's Worst Restaurant, was one of the most popular on the Restaurant Network. Even he didn't know why. To him, the inner workings of a failing restaurant were unbearably dull. He couldn't fathom why Joe and Jane Public would care. Luckily for him, they did. Walking into people's restaurants and telling them why they suck had been very lucrative for him. He sighed as he double-checked the Ocean Mist B&B's directions. He hadn't heard from his trusty GPS guy in a while.

He pulled up The Black Keys on his phone and blasted the stereo, letting his thoughts wander, like the twisted country road he travelled. He had done all manner of restaurant reality shows for the last six years. The usual formula was to spend the first few days getting a feel for exactly how the owners had screwed their restaurant up, another couple of days training them on management practices they should damn well know already, and showing the staff how to cook the basics without burning the place to the ground. They did a minor interior redesign, new menus, cheery smiles all around and he was on to the next one.

It was a formula that worked well. This was the first time he'd ever been involved in a contest. He thought it was a good twist at first — a competition helping out family-run businesses — but Canada was a big country and the schedule was a grind. He was back and forth to London every chance he could to try and maintain some semblance of a relationship and keep his restaurant afloat.

No need to go back for Natasha now. He rubbed his face with a large hand crisscrossed with ancient burns and knife scars from years working in kitchens around the world. Maybe it was good that he was lost on a Nova Scotia highway. It was as good a place to be lost as any.

He wasn't even supposed to be there. The last restaurant in the national series was supposed to be shot in Prince Edward Island, but the owners backed out at the last minute. So there he was, first time in Nova Scotia. He'd been just about everywhere else and heard good things about the place. So at least there was that.

A couple of his A-list celebrity friends had summer homes in the province. It's beautiful and people leave you alone, they all said. "Nova Scotians don't really give a shit who you are, you stand in line and wait your turn at the grocery store like everybody else," his friend Lucas had said. Screaming fans mobbed the Hollywood actor just about everywhere else he went in the world.

Lucas thoroughly enjoyed the anonymity of summers spent at his quiet cottage in Skir Dhu, on the north shore of Cape Breton. The name was Gaelic for Black Rock, Quinn remembered. Lucas had been asking Quinn to visit forever, and the photos on Facebook looked remote and stunning. Maybe this year, he'd finally get up there to see it.

It is pretty here, he conceded as the scenery slid by, but he couldn't wait for the contest to be over so he could get the hell out of Dodge. He was supposed to do that pub food show in Britain after this. Maybe then he'd slow down, take a vacation. Yeah, right.

More than one girlfriend in the past had accused him of 'sipping the workahol.' Knowing the habits of chefs, and the rampant addiction he'd seen take down friends over the years, he didn't think his was bad as far as addictions went. If his tendency to work all the time was an addiction, so be it. He harmed no one. He liked to work, and it gave him a very comfortable life, allowed him to travel the world; buy a house for his parents. He made a mental note to call his mum.

All thanks to shitty restauranteurs. There seemed to be no end to trust fund millennials and wealthy boomers with more money than sense opening restaurants, and then promptly running them into the ground. They sent in hundreds of applications, pleading for Quinn's help, hoping the public humiliation was worth it for the publicity and the free reno.

Hell, some of them didn't care if the place tanked — they just wanted to get on TV. That was truly shocking: some people were satisfied with making fools of themselves on TV for attention, social media follows, or a bit of notoriety. He was used to these types, and they were the best. Ratings gold.

He liked being on TV, especially at first. It was fun, and he was good at it. It was helpful that he minored in drama in college. He tried his best to teach bored, unqualified chefs to cook, or lazy, spoiled egomaniacs how to run a business. He wasn't a screamer like the other celebrity chefs dominating TV, but he could take down a pompous, deluded restaurant owner with razor-sharp insults, and took pleasure doing so. He played it up for the cameras, enjoying the game. But lately, people started looking at him in a different way, thinking that scathing TV Quinn was the same as Quinn in real life.

It was a small price to pay for the lifestyle it afforded him. But this contest was killing him. He had profiled countless restaurants across Canada, and this was the last one. He couldn't wait to get this last one done and get back to London where he needed to rescue his own fucking restaurant.

It was a long way from his beginnings washing dishes in his parents' Irish pub, to university, to endless dishwasher and busboy jobs, culinary school. His star quickly rose and he soon became head chef in the restaurant he eventually bought in New York. A chance meeting with a producer led to a six-episode reality show as he set up his first restaurant.

He acquired more restaurants after that, then the Michelin stars, then his current quasi-fame as host of assorted food reality shows. It was a fast life, one he enjoyed immensely — until lately. His lifestyle was starting to cost him his sleep, his sanity, and his relationships.

"You'll end up alone, just the way you want it. You don't know how to commit to anything but your job. I told you in the restaurant, we're done," one of Natasha's kiss-off texts had said. She signed off in an especially shitty way. "Keep it loose," she texted, throwing his signature phrase back in his face.

It was his approach to cooking in general. He said it once on TV and the marketing department ran with it. He was serious about food and his career, well aware of the years of training, ball-breaking work and talent it took to be a successful chef. But when it came to teaching others to cook, 'keep it loose' was his personal philosophy. Take it easy and don't stress — follow some basic principles, learn which flavours complement each other and then get in there and experiment, without fear.

It was also his approach to life and relationships, if he was honest — keep things light; never get attached. How could he when he was on the road most of the year?

The mantra always seemed to work for him in life and love — until now. He was restless lately. He had everything in the world he ever wanted, but he still wanted more, something else. Whatever it was, Natasha wasn't it.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. Fucking hell. He couldn't wait for filming to wrap, so he could get back to London and try and put his life back together. Get the restaurant back on track. Then what. Dating? He sighed.

Maybe he'd call that model, the one who'd been texting him since they met at the Restaurant Network gala. He told her he didn't cheat, but still, every once in a while he'd get a saucy text from her, and even saucier photos. He never texted back, but there was nothing stopping him now. With his 40th birthday just around the corner, the thought was exhausting.

Where the hell is this place? It was late as he approached the seaside town, struggling to read street names in the growing darkness. Finally, the crisp, British voice on his GPS directed him to a towering Victorian at the top of a hill. He parked and grabbed his bag from the back. It was late and his stomach growled. His heart sank as he realized the kitchen in the quaint little place was probably closed.

A sharp wind came from out of nowhere and took him by surprise, slicing him to the bone as he slammed the trunk shut. The weather seemed to change here on a dime just like Ireland, he thought. It was sunny and warm earlier. He could just barely make out the dark ocean in the distance. He smelled the salt air and felt calm. Must be beautiful in the daytime, he thought.

He entered the warm foyer and approached the front desk where a small woman in a light pink sweater smiled. "You must be Quinn," she said in a soft, Irish lilt.

"I am indeed, and you're Irish," he grinned.

She smiled. "Aye, and so are you?"

"My parents are from Kilmore, but we moved to Cape Cod when I was a youngster, so my accent's a bit muddled. I can certainly put it on, especially after a few glasses of whisky," he said, the last sentence coming out in a perfect Irish accent.

The innkeeper laughed and extended her hand. "Evelyn Barry, from County Clare. I've lived here for 20 years so this is my home now. The cliffs along the ocean remind me of the west coast of Ireland to be sure, so it feels quite familiar."

"I'm looking forward to exploring the town tomorrow so I can see for myself," Quinn said, stifling a yawn. She frowned in sympathy.

"You must be wrecked," she said. "Kitchen is closed, but I saved you some of my seafood chowder and homemade bread, if that's okay?"

If he had the energy, he would have vaulted over the counter and hugged her. "You're a lifesaver, Evelyn. That would be great," he said.

"Here's your key — we put you in the Seafarer's Room. Go on into the dining room, we have a place set up for you. Charles," she called softly and a white-haired gentleman in an almost-matching soft grey sweater appeared. "Could you bring Mr. Allen's bag up to his room? The poor man's half-starved."

"Yes, love. Nice to meet you, Mr. Allen." He pumped Quinn's hand and took his bag. "I hope you enjoy the wife's seafood chowder, it's the best in the province, to be sure."

"Can't wait," Quinn said and he meant it. I'll take a bowl of homemade chowder from a dear, Irish lady over the priciest gourmet meal any day, he thought, his stomach growling in anticipation. He tried to remember his last decent meal. He refused to eat airline food, so he had just ordered a cheese plate and wine in first class while he worked on his laptop. But that was hours ago.

He walked into the dining room. All the chairs were stacked onto the tables except for one beautifully laid out table in the corner.

He took a seat, pouring himself a glass of pinot gris which sat next to a basket of fluffy, homemade biscuits and bread. He placed his napkin on his lap, and tore off a chunk of what he quickly realized was the best bread he had ever eaten. Evelyn had baked in a touch of honey, some sea salt and fresh rosemary into the crusty loaf, he noted. Brilliant. He sipped the very good wine; surprised to read it was a local vintage. He thought the winters would be too cold in this part of Canada to cultivate the grapes needed for decent wines. Nova Scotia was already surprising him.

Mrs. Barry arrived minutes later with a large, steaming bowl of seafood chowder with a fresh, tender lobster tail curled on top. He ate a spoonful, sank back in his chair, closed his eyes and sighed.

"Marry me," he said, diving in for more.

She laughed and swatted him with her tea towel. "Charles might have a thing or two to say about that! But I'll tell you what, if it doesn't work out with him, I'll ring you."

Quinn laughed. "Seriously, this is good. Better than my ma's, but don't tell her. You've got just the right balance of flavours here. Nice amount of fresh dill, and just a touch of cream. Most people overdo it on the butter or scrimp on the seafood. This is perfect."

"I'm impressed. You figured out my secret family recipe in about three seconds." Evelyn beamed. "All right, Mr. Allen, I'll leave you to it. I hope you have a wonderful sleep. It's so exciting you're helping out Lucy with her business. Such a shame, Cal's used to be a wonderful place. It's really gone downhill."

"What's wrong with it?" Quinn asked. "Since you clearly know cooking."

She looked around, almost as if she might be overheard even though they were alone in the room. "It's that Vincent — Calvin's nephew. He's got the whole thing ruined." With her accent, the word came out as 'ruint.' Quinn smiled. She sounded like his mother.

"That lazy good-for-nothing's been taking advantage of Cal for far too long, if you ask me. Everybody knows it. He's the chef there now, the big man." She used exaggerated air quotes. "He's rude and he can't cook to save his life. Thinks he's a big shot because he's been to the States and worked in a restaurant there. Washing dishes most likely, and he probably cocked that up, too."

"Aha." Evelyn had told him everything he needed to know. He's seen hot shots like Vincent before. In love with the idea of telling everyone they were chefs, walking around the restaurant like Mr. Big, but with no real training, no love of food, no care. Lazy. Entitled. Should make for a great episode.

"Lucy, that's Cal's daughter — she's back from Toronto and trying to turn things around, but she's got her work cut out for her. Pretty as a picture, she is, and smart as a whip. Lovely girl."

"Well, I'm here to help." He flashed the smile he reserved for super fans and older ladies, and she beamed back. "I'll let you get off to bed," he said. "Thanks for feeding me, Evelyn, and for the intel." He winked at her.

"You're welcome. Just leave your dishes there and head up to your room when you're done. Daphne is just finishing up in the kitchen and she'll collect them."

She pointed in the direction of the kitchen, where a tall, curly-haired woman stared at Quinn from the doorway. He smiled and she jumped like a cartoon mouse, scooting back into the kitchen. He gave Evelyn a puzzled look, and she laughed.

"Good night, Mr. Allen," she said, walking back to the reception desk with a coquettish smile.

Quinn ate every drop of his late supper, demolishing the warm, herbed bread and mopping up the tasty broth with the last of the homemade biscuits. He couldn't remember a meal he enjoyed more, including the £200 dinner he splashed out on a few weeks before with Natasha, only to end up in a huge fight somewhere between the filet mignon and the roasted pear sorbet. He could have cooked a better meal better in his sleep. To overcook beef was unforgivable. It was very dry. Too much peppercorn.

Another dinner, another fight. He couldn't blame Natasha for ending it, not really. He wasn't what she wanted and if he was being honest with himself, she wasn't what he wanted either. She had a gorgeous body any man would die to get next to, except he had to admit, she was kind of bad in bed.

Things were OK in the beginning, but as she gained more fame and attention on reality TV, things began to change. Natasha became more and more over-the-top during sex, asif performing for invisible cameras. It was off-putting and distracting, her antics more of a show than a genuine sign that she was having a good time. He couldn't stand inauthenticity in any form — fake people, fake friendships — or girlfriends who faked wild orgasms for imaginary cameras.

She was proud of her body and liked to show it off, but even that was fake. Natasha was so young, and yet had so much plastic surgery already. It seemed like she got something injected into, taken off or added to her body, the way some women went to the salon for a manicure. It was no big deal to her. She wanted a newer nose, she bought one. She wanted poutier lips, she got them.

She was so attractive when they first met. By the end of it, she'd had so many injections and implants, it was hard to believe she was the same person. Quinn believed a woman could do whatever she wanted with her body, but his personal preference was something more real. And that extended to the bedroom.

He longed for connection and passion in his relationship, not to be used as some sort of prop in a one-woman show. Close to the end of their relationship, after a surprisingly argument-free night, it seemed like she was back to the sweet girl he met in the beginning. When she propositioned him, he was hopeful for the night ahead. Maybe things could be different. Maybe she could be more herself with him, and they could find a way to make it work.

When he came into the bedroom, he wasn't prepared for what he saw.

She had a ton of makeup on, and a pink, frilly get up, complete with some kind of feather boa thing around her neck. She was holding up her phone and taking a series of selfies, her glossy lips thrust forward in a pout.

"What's all this?" He was almost afraid to ask.

"Have you ever heard of an after-sex selfie? It's trending on Instagram!"

"Jesus Christ. What's next, leaking a sex tape?"

Her eyes lit up. "Ooh, I didn't think you'd be down, but let's go!"

He grabbed his pillow and stomped downstairs to sleep on the couch. They never had sex again. If he was honest with himself, he was relieved.

Quinn played with his wine glass, suddenly feeling down. Maybe it was just travel fatigue — he was so tired, his eyes stung. Another day, another new bed. What was that line from the old action movies? I'm too old for this shit.

He stood up, stretched and threw his napkin on the table. He smiled at Daphne, who made her way over to the table. "Everything OK, Mr. Allen?" she asked shyly. "Perfect," he said. She giggled, and blushed. "Good night then."

"Thanks, Daphne," he said and made his way through the small foyer and up the carpeted, oak staircase. No plastic key cards in this place. He opened the door to his room with a large, ancient key. His room was comfortable, if a bit old-fashioned. He took in the gold and burgundy wallpaper, and paintings of various nautical themes: a vivid sunset over the ocean, a ship tossed in a storm. Natasha would have hated this room, he thought — or maybe

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