I’m currently in the process of writing an anthology for my friend’s birthday in September. This series is about a politically incorrect and cynical English teacher who works at a private girls’ school. His name is George Rothschild.
I had been refraining from posting a story because I don’t want to ruin the surprise for my friend. However, I haven’t posted anything for over a month and besides, she’ll probably like to “try before she buys.”
The chef set a deliciously colourful martini in front of me, earning him an impressive tip. “Thanks, Chef,” I called before dipping a piece of scallop into the correct dipping sauce. Whoever came up with the idea of combining a teppanyaki restaurant with a bar was a genius. I heard a rustle of material as a young woman with money sat one seat away from me. She was wearing a cut-out red evening gown, and her perfect blonde hair tumbled over her shoulder, and her fake tan wasn’t even orange! She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t pretty. She wasn’t stunning, elegant, or graceful. She was hot. If I put a piece of bacon on her, it would burn. I enjoyed looking at her. “Can I buy you a drink?” She turned and looked at me seductively. Her eyes were an unattractively muddy blue, but she had more than enough curves to make up for it. “Vodka and tonic, if you don’t mind, Mr…?” “Rothschild. George Rothschild.” “Mr Rothschild.” She looked no older than 22, ten years my junior. She slid onto the bar stool next to me, however when I followed her gaze, a Japanese chef on the other side of the room had caught her eye. “I’ve never had teppanyaki before,” she hinted, taking a sip of her concoction. She looked at me innocently. How I would love to corrupt her. “Chef!” I called. The squat Japanese man who’d made a habit of serving me waddled up to the hot plate. “Yes, Mr Rothschild?” “May I please have a small fried rice? The Miss will have a medium rare steak.” “Certainly.” The blonde smiled at me secretively. “So what is your profession that allows you to make accurate predictions about a girl’s favourite style of meat?” she asked. I struggled not to squirm in my seat at the question. What is it with twenty-somethings and questions about jobs? “I’m a teacher,” I replied. She raised her eyebrow. “Well,” she said, placing her drink down. “I’m a shopgirl at Chanel.” Maybe teaching wasn’t so bad. The Chef started cooking the steak and a flame rose up, bathing her in a thin orange light. He cut up the steak finely and placed it in her bowl. “Thanks, Chef!” I smiled. She nibbled on her meat and then began waving her chopsticks around. “No, don’t do that! That’s rude in Japanese culture!” She put the chopsticks down hastily. “I’m so sorry, you must think me culturally ignorant.” She batted her eyelids apologetically. Of course I thought her culturally ignorant. She was a Chanel shopgirl, for goodness sake! But I didn’t say this. “No, it’s fine. You know now.” The chef took our plates away. “Thanks, Chef!” I called, handing him my credit card. The blonde faked a yawn, thrusting her breasts out provocatively. “I’m afraid I have to go to bed. I do wish that I could invite you up for a drink.” She smiled at me coyly, her hips swaying naturally as she entered the lift. “Apartment 70, level 12,” the chef said. I blinked, confused, and then it hit me. “Thanks, Chef,” I called, and, grinning like an idiot, I followed her into the lift. I didn’t even know her name.
There’s the first story! I’ve written another two, and I’m in the process of writing a third. At this rate, it’ll be a Christmas Present.
Ugh, I really need to get my creative juices flowing. I’m currently in this bland, unimaginative blur. This time last year, I was writing daily. What is wrong with me?
Anyway, I’ll post soon.
But for now, that’s it from me!
– The Empress
P.S: Is it too much to ask you to nominate me for the Liebster Award (what does Liebster even mean?)?
Actually, given my current state of blogging, it is. Yeah, it is. Okay, just ignore my egotistical ramblings.
– The Empress