The Chef

At 27-years-old, I was madly in love with my superstar chef boyfriend, had a prestigious job at a leading public relations firm and was living in Beverly Hills. Granted home was a dumpy, tiny one bedroom apartment above a garage in an area referred to as the Beverly Hood but the zip code was 90210 where rich, successful people lived. Things looked good. I looked good. But something was missing from my life. Siesta had died of old age a couple years before and I was dogless. I thought (and hoped) a man might fill that hole in my heart. I dreamed of getting married, having kids and then getting my own canine, in that order.

Secretly, I fantasized that Chef Dave would be the one I would walk down the isle with, but I never let anyone in on that little secret, especially not him. It was important for me to appear totally cool, not too pushy and defiantly not desperate.

Dave was the chef at Restaurant 321, a hip restaurant in Los Angeles. I represented Restaurant 321, getting them articles in newspapers and magazines as well as television and radio interviews. The restaurant was a happening spot, a large establishment on L.A.’s new restaurant row that was packed to capacity every night.

It was the early 80s. I was tall, thin, with long, straight blonde hair. Long gone was my Farah Fawcett hair style from high school. I gave up those whips of hair that framed my face for a simple, sophisticated blunt cut with long bangs that accentuated my hazel eyes. I tried to look the part of a confident businesswoman in my black pencil skirt suit, simple white blouse, and black high heels, conservative and professional.