That's My Business

That's My Business

Ann Progressa stared across the room. She walked briskly toward her target; lips in a stiff line. She stopped in front of a sharply dressed man, who bowed slightly with his head.

“What are you doing here?” she managed to say with just a hint of civility.

“Just the person I hoped not to meet,” Conrad Grey said.

“Answer the question! This is my night! You aren’t invited.”

“I am here in a strictly official capacity.”

“I will not be judged by you of all people!”

“I represent the organization you are dying to get into. What I and the other three judges agree on can make or break your ambitions.”

“To paraphrase Groucho Marx: ’I could never belong to an organization that would have you as a member.’ As of now, I bow out of the cooking contest to become a member of The International Chefs of the World.”

“Are you chicken?” taunted Grey.

Ann bristled.

She turned her back abruptly and stalked off. She was back in minutes, with a scowl on her face.

“They refuse to return my money, so it seems I’m in whether I want to be or not.”

Grey smirked.

“Shall we begin chefs?” he announced to the gathered would-be members.

They scattered to their workspaces and began to make their signature dishes. Ann could feel Conrad’s eyes on her. But she refused to react and worked steadily.

“Half an hour left of your time limit,” announced one of the other judges.

As she slid her dish into the preheated oven, Ann glanced up. Conrad Grey was nowhere in sight!

“Contestants, we regret that we will have to stop the contest, MasterChef Grey has been taken very ill. Please stay where you are while the police come and collect your wineglasses.”