Gorgeous Rotten Scoundrel (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

"
Well, I guess this is it," Brock said as I packed the last of his meals for the week in his fridge.

"Yup," I replied, shrugging.

"What are your plans now that your world won't revolve around me?" He said with his usual playful cockiness.

"I'm meeting Mindy for lunch today to discuss potential clients." She didn't know that, but that's what was going to happen.

"Good luck. And like I said, you can always come to Houston if you want. My door is always open," he said, extending his arms for a hug. "I think you'll be begging to join me in warm Texas come January."

"I know, thank you." I walked over to him and he engulfed me in his gigantic frame. "So, I gotta go meet Mindy. Don't forget me just because I'm not cooking for you any longer."

"You know I won't. I'm still not convinced I can't get you to come."

On my way out of the building, I stopped at a mirror in the quiet lobby, touched up my makeup, and pulled my long black hair out of its ponytail so that it fell into thick waves down my back. The restaurant we were meeting in was only a few blocks away, and so I headed over on foot, arriving slightly earlier than Mindy.

I heard Mindy before I saw her. She is one of those people who is always on her cell phone. She's not obnoxious enough to walk around with a Bluetooth like it's some hideous earring, but she might as well.

"Yes, if you can increase the royalties by two percent, then send over the contract. We'll have a deal. That's what he wants, and he's not taking a penny less. Listen Al, I have to go. You know what to do." She sighed and sat down across from me. "Sorry about that. Fucking cheap assholes." She slid her phone in her purse, which was a good sign; it meant I might have her attention for more than 30 seconds at a time. "You look amazing, woman!"

"Thank you. You do too." Mindy is a bottle blonde, but she actually looks better that way than as her original brunette. Her hair was slicked back into a ponytail that said: I care a lot about my appearance, but not as much as I care about my job. She hung her latest Chloé bag from the table on one of those portable purse hooks.

"So, tell me what's going on! By the way, I heard about Brock, tell me you are not moving to Houston to be his live-in chef!" She said, dramatically palming the table as if she would just die if I left.
I told you she was a lot
to handle
.

"No, he asked me to, but I don't think it's smart. I can't follow one man around the country like that, no matter how good the money is."

"That's a wise decision. Those sports careers don't last forever, or he might get married and the new lady won't want a fine-looking thing like you prancing around the house."

"I hadn't even thought about that."

"That's what I'm here for," she said, tapping on her temple with her index finger. "So, is it a big hit? Do you have something else lined up?"

"Yeah, he paid well so that I could be at his beck and call."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I liked working for Brock, I just came and went as I pleased as long as I got his meals prepared and did whatever else he needed me to. He was pretty easy to please. I would love something like that. Restaurants are crazy, totally different atmosphere."

"I am so glad you said that!"

"Why?"

"Well, I think I have someone for you. It would only be for the summer, but it could buy you some time. You could also meet some other potential clients through this gig. I just didn't want to propose it if you didn't want to remain in the personal chef game."

"I'm intrigued! Who do you have in mind?"

"You know me, my wheels are always spinning!" She beamed with her unnaturally boundless energy, which seemed to come from some sort of never-ending supply source.
Was it nuclear?
"Where the hell is the waiter? Anyway, I have a client who is going to be in the Hamptons for the summer. He is a bachelor, needs to stay fit, yadda, yadda. He asked me a couple of weeks ago if I knew anyone who could kind of be a live-in chef slash assistant. I thought of you, but I knew you couldn't do both the Hamptons and Brock so I told him I'd look for someone. You don't mind being an assistant too, do you?"

"My position with Brock kind of morphed into that anyway. I guess it depends on who it is."

"Sadie, I am saving the best for last."

The waitress finally arrived at the table and I could tell that Mindy was annoyed. She always has several hundred to a thousand thoughts running through her mind at once and cannot tolerate those around her who do their jobs slowly.

"We'll just put our entire order in since it might take a while for you to come back again," she said, so nonchalantly that it was as if she had no idea she was being insulting.
That's Mindy!

The server graciously nodded. I am sure she has dealt with Mindy types many times in this restaurant.

"I'll have a Caesar salad. No croutons, no parmesan, no dressing." I wondered why she would pay $20 for chicken on dry leaves.

"I'll have the salad as well, no modifications, and a cup of tomato bisque. Thank you." I hoped my politeness would assuage Mindy's harshness.

By the time the server left, I was bursting. "Well, tell me dammit!"

Mindy glanced around the room and leaned in. She said it in an almost-whisper: "Heath-fucking-Hillabrand." This is where she lost me. I responded with a blank expression. "Ugh, you need to get out more. Here." She pulled out her phone and rapidly bounced her thumbs off the screen. "Look at him," she said, shoving the screen in my face. On her phone was a black and white photo of a man with both a perfectly chiseled physique and jawline. He looked off into the distance gazing at some invisible sunset.
Damn, his everything is perfect.
Printed across the white briefs adorning his ample crotch were the words
Calvin Klein.

"That guy? I've seen him on Times Square!"

"Yeah, he's one of the highest-paid male models right now. He does some TV hosting too, and woman, he is just as stunning in person. He's also kind of a socialite, or whatever you call a male socialite? Maybe it's socialisto or something. So, he's known to rent a house in the Hamptons every summer and throw great parties. He wants someone to not only cook for him, but help organize these parties. It sounds like he is taking it up a notch. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

"It actually does."

"Great! Because after I saw the headlines about Brock, I told him I had someone. I knew you wouldn't leave," she grinned mischievously.

I shook my head. Mindy always gets ahead of herself; luckily she was right this time.

"So what's next?"

"I am going to set up a meeting. You'll have to drive out to the house. Does early next week work for you?"

"My schedule is very open these days," I said dully.

"Perfect. I'll get back to you later with a time after I get in touch with him."

After the quick lunch with Ms. Important, the lost feeling I had about Brock leaving began to subside with news of this potential new client. It sounded like a nice change of pace: planning parties, organizing the caterers, rubbing shoulders with the Hampton elite. Mindy has always been so clutch. Sometimes I felt like I was drowning in her boundless energy, but it was times like this that I realized she is really a great person to have on my side. I met Mindy in high school. She came from a rich family and she was one of those people who bought her friends. She took me on vacations, bought me clothes (even when I insisted she didn't), so much so that I often felt like I was using her. But really I liked having her around. She was secure, she would always be there, and she could be a lot of fun. She just wanted to have the same in return.

I felt so great about the news that I decided to walk the 20 blocks to my Nonna's instead of taking a train. Maybe Brock leaving would be a good thing after all, just the kick in the butt I needed to step up my career-game.

CHAPTER THREE

I arrived at my grandma's rent-controlled apartment on the Upper West Side about 40 minutes after ending lunch with Mindy. Although she had slowed down in recent years, she loved her apartment and was fiercely determined to stay there. I was going to help her do that until it was no longer possible.

I usually helped prep her meals for the week, and we also paid for a part-time home attendant to visit for a few hours every day and make sure she had everything she needed. This was the only reason I knew she would be fine with me in the Hamptons for the summer. I should still have been able to come down a couple of times a month, but even if I could not, the nurse would make sure she was taken care of and had company. I would have never even entertained the idea otherwise.

"Oh, hi dear!" she said cheerfully as I entered the living room. She was sitting in her usual floral upholstered chair.

"Hi Nonna," I scooted down to kiss her on the cheek and took a seat on the floor beside her. Almost all of her furniture was covered in clear plastic, the kind that nearly rips off a layer of hamstring skin if you sit on it while wearing shorts on a hot day, so I avoided sitting on it as much as possible.

"How are you sweetie?"

"Good. I think I have a new opportunity for the summer."

"That is lovely."

"Yes, but I don't want to get too excited about it. It's not even close to being in the bag. Watcha watchin'?"

"Come again?"

"What-are-you-watching?"

"Oh, yes.
The Price is Right
." Her speech had become more labored in the past year. I could tell her mind was still sharp, but her mouth couldn't quite keep up. I would also have to speak loud and slow, the way you speak to someone who barely understands English, otherwise I would have to repeat myself indefinitely.

"Your favorite."

She smiled, revealing her pristine dentures.

"So I am going to make you some chili and some chicken soup. You can alternate throughout the week. How does that sound?"

"Whatever you like to make. Just make sure the chili is mild or my hemorrhoids will act up."

"Noted!"

As I was prepping the veggies for the chili, I got a text from Mindy.

Mindy:

He wants to see you sooner than I thought. Can you do tomorrow at 11?

Of course I was available, so I accepted the meeting. She replied that I would need to drive to his house and meet him there. He'd fill me in on everything, including the requirements, payment, and the length of my stay should he choose to hire me.

Mindy:

My advice is to wear something that highlights how attractive you are. Not slutty, but this is not a corporate thing, so you have some freedom.

I thought the suggestion bizarre, but I figured what Mindy was alluding to was this was not just a chef opportunity, but a party planner opportunity and I needed to look the part. Not a problem, I am a clothes horse and had plenty to choose from to show him that not only could I cook, but I could be hip too.

With no real chores for the rest of day, I stayed with my grandma until after dinner, far later than I usually did, until she was ready for bed. After saying our good nights, I headed home.

Home was on the border of Williamsburg and Bushwick in Brooklyn. Unlike my grandmother, I was not one of the lucky ones to have one of the few dwindling rent-controlled apartments in NYC and I wasn't an NBA superstar or Wall Street banker. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't Oliver Twist or anything, I lived comfortably. I wasn't going on any yacht trips to the French Riviera anytime soon, but I paid my bills, I had food, and some money left over for treats to myself. Really though, I loved living in Brooklyn. It always felt more like home to me than Manhattan. And since I was at Brock's and my Nonna's all the time, I got my fair share of life in the center of the city.

I lived in an old warehouse turned apartment building. My apartment was a studio, about six hundred square feet, which is a shoebox in most of the country but is pretty spacious for New York City. The building hadn't really been updated, and it was one of those work/live spaces, so it had that rustic (
read: old and weathered
) appeal. Despite not being rich, I had a taste for the finer things when it came to fashion and design. So, in my free time, I scoured eBay and Craigslist for furniture and decor. I was lucky to have a friend like Mindy who was often sent designer duds for free or received them in swag bags at events. She also revised her wardrobe nearly every season. So, between my thrifting and Mindy, my clothing collection was pretty impressive, even to the astute eye.

My apartment had gray-painted concrete floors, chipped throughout to reveal the cracked gray bare concrete. Why my landlord painted gray floors gray is beyond me. These weren't the luxurious, heated concrete floors you see in the magazines. No, they were cold as ice, even in the Summer. So I almost always wore house socks and covered my floors with an eclectic collection of rugs. In fact, my entire apartment was a well-curated hodgepodge of items I had picked up over the years. It wasn't huge, and nothing was new, but it was my little personalized box of space in this enormous city.

There were no closets of course. The space was literally a box. So all of my clothes were hung on rolling garment racks placed against the wall or folded in various mid-century modern dressers I had snagged online. I stared out the original-to-the-building windows, which tilted open instead of sliding up and down (they sucked as insulators, but were still one of my favorite features of the apartment), and looked out through the dozens of rusty panels at my view of the city: industrial buildings, an elevated subway station, storage facilities, and squat red brick buildings. I sighed resolutely, and turned back to face the apartment to prepare for my unexpected interview.