Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Troy rocked back in his chair. “Both good and bad reviews give you direction.”
“But that’s business.” Clay heard the agony in his own voice. “It’s not like having your creativity crushed right out of you.”
Fernsby spoke then, his voice dipping into a deep intonation. “May I tell you the story of the first time I baked mille-feuille?”
“Mille-feuille is difficult to make.” Gabby looked straight at Fernsby. “Especially when it’s vegan.”
The man snorted loudly, the sound startling the dog before he turned a circle on Fernsby’s lap and settled again. “How many times, my dear, must I inform you that butter and eggs are the staff of life?” The baking rivalry between Fernsby and Gabby was legendary, and he looked down his long nose at her. “May I continue, Gabrielle?”
Fernsby never shortened anyone’s name. Thank goodness Clay was just Clay. Gabby smiled sweetly, almost baring her teeth at him.
“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, my first thousand mille-feuilles were rubbish. Every single person I tried them on gagged or spat them out. My reviews were terrible because my mille-feuilles were not fit for consumption. Luckily…” He raised his finger. “I tried them only on friends.”
Fernsby had a thousand friends? Clay had never seen the man with another soul. He’d never even taken a day off. Or a night.
“Had I not listened to every single review,” Fernsby intoned, “I would never have discovered what I was doing wrong, or perfected the flaky pastry with butter cream or had so many discerning critics say my—” He splayed his hand against his chest. “—mille-feuilles were to die for.”
He stared at Dane for confirmation.
Clay’s brother had to say, “They are pretty damn good.”
Fernsby snorted. “They are perfection.”
Even Clay had to admit they were.
“It’s commendable, my dear man, that you are a supportive force in your artists’ lives, that you have the money to help them, to show their work, to make sales for them. But the delightful Saskia does indeed have a point. Even on Britain’s Greatest Bakers—” Fernsby had won the top award on last year’s show and made sure no one ever forgot it. “—I didn’t always like the criticism I received, but—” He held up a finger to make his point. “—I learned from it.”
This from a man who professed he had nothing more to learn.
But Fernsby wasn’t finished. “As long as it’s honest criticism, one can always glean a helpful tidbit. I’m not saying you should accept maltreatment on your amazing platform. That is unconscionable. But criticism can be useful.”
Clay eyed him. “You learned from criticism? But I thought you already knew everything.”
The man almost seemed to preen, growing taller in his chair. “Everyone has something to learn. Right now, sir, you need to learn from the lovely Saskia.”
Dane grimaced. “I actually have to agree with Fernsby.”
Troy pointed out, “Look what happened after your friend Saskia told Dylan he had to suck it up if he wanted to be a great artist. He turned around and cleaned up the mess he’d made. Now his work will be even better.”
Clay saw it all then, as he looked from one mastermind to the next. Then finally to Fernsby.
He couldn’t baby the artists in his warehouses. Not anymore.
“Maybe my job is to provide ways for my people to deal with the harsh realities out there. Counseling. Classes. Lectures.”
“Let’s brainstorm it,” Dane said.
Clay had come to the right place. To his family. To the ones who always found answers for each other.
Fernsby watched the young man master the char siu, mapo tofu, scallion pancakes, and sticky rice, expertly using his chopsticks. He was a goner, as young people were wont to say, hooked on the girl right and proper. Snared. Smitten. Head over heels. There were so many clichés, Fernsby couldn’t think of them all. And look at how quickly the couple had become close. This was probably their first argument. If it could even be called an argument. Rather, this was a difference in viewpoint.
The boy had blinders on where she was concerned. He saw what he wanted to see—a beautiful, wonderful, amazing, selfless woman.
But Fernsby recalled what she’d said about The Discus Thrower, that he wasn’t throwing away his art, he was throwing all his energy and creativity into it.
Then there was her advice to young Dylan Beck, that artists needed to grow a thick skin and use criticism rather than become a slave to it. If it were taken in the right way, it could work wonders for creativity.
That girl didn’t think like anyone’s assistant. She thought like an artist.
He said to Clay, “Sir, tell us more about the lovely Saskia Oliver.”
The young man seemed suddenly to shine like a ray straight from the sun. He told them everything he knew. Except the prurient details, of which Fernsby was sure there were many.