— After her death, money lost its meaning. I handed over the management to Matvey and asked to work in the cafeteria myself. The people there are real, not afraid to tell you the truth to your face. Who would approach the company president with bad news? Everyone just bows.
— But why did you agree yesterday?
— Because you, Nelli Lvovna, proposed to a cook. Not to a shareholder. To a man who wears old shoes. I propose this: at work, you are the director, I am the cook. At home, I cook, you do the dishes. Deal?
Nelli looked at this strange man and for the first time felt like she wasn’t a prize in someone else’s game.
— Deal, Tikhon Ignatievich.
The first few days passed in silence, but a week later Matvey appeared in Nelli’s office.
— Congratulations! As of today, you are the Deputy CEO. Salary of 550,000, company car. A gift from the family.
— I didn’t ask for this promotion.
— Of course not. But having a shareholder’s wife in the marketing department is awkward.
— I want to rise based on merit, not a stamp in my passport.
— The higher you climb, Nelli Lvovna, the stronger the wind blows.
Nelli wanted to refuse, but she received a message from Tikhon: “Use this chance to show everyone you deserve it.” And she stayed.
The chance came soon. The holding was negotiating with “Stroy Invest,” and its president, Stanislav Maksimovich Ryabushinsky, a merchant of the old school, demanded lunch right in the office.
— No restaurant can handle it, — Matvey panicked.
— We have a cook, — Nelli said. — Tikhon Ignatievich can handle it.
Tikhon, upon hearing the guest’s name, perked up:
— Ryabushinsky? I taught him at the vocational school 30 years ago! I’ll cook, but introduce me as a regular cook.
The lunch was a brilliant success. When the gubadiya was served, Ryabushinsky teared up and demanded to see the cook. Seeing Tikhon, he rushed to hug him:
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