Skinny Bitch Gets Hitched (10 page)

The restaurant was closed on Mondays, but despite that
Good Morning, L.A.
was bumping my ratatouille segment until next month, I still had a packed day, starting with an interview with a local magazine, lunch with my sister, who thought the whole thing with Dominique was hilarious and some sort of karmic payback—for what, I had no clue—a trip to the farmers' market for fresh produce for the next few days, and a coffee date with Alanna to plan the specials for the week. I had no time to think up excuses or white lies or even think about my wedding for a minute.

Every time my cell phone rang, I looked in dread at the caller ID, expecting it to be Dominique. But she hadn't called once. Maybe she was off and running without even asking me what I thought. Or maybe she wouldn't be so in my face about her ideas. Maybe I'd been worrying for nothing.

“Okay, here's the plan,” Sara said into my iPhone on Tuesday morning as I headed up Montana Avenue to the restaurant. “It's so brilliantly simple I can't believe I didn't think of it yesterday. Just decide what kind of wedding you want,
tell Dominique, and she'll plan that, your dream wedding. Done.”

“The weight of the silverware at the restaurant wasn't good enough for her. What I'd want and what she'll want are two very different things.”

“Just arm yourself. Know what you want and stand firm. You should have no problem with that, Clem.”

Sara was right.

Except my relationship with Zach had taught me a word I was never familiar with before:
compromise
. I was used to it now. And I liked it. I felt that I was growing up. Not everything would go my way. Caring about him meant seeing things through his eyes too. I was marrying a man who owned a steak house, for fuck's sake. I was the Queen of Compromise. I'd tell Dominique I wanted vegan food only at the wedding, she'd demand a mix, and I'd compromise. Fine.

As I was about to pass Weddings by Francisco, a bridal boutique I'd never noticed before even though it was next door to Tea Emporium, where I got my morning chai to sip on the way to the restaurant, I stopped in front of the window. My eyes! A rhinestone-studded hanger was suspended by wire from the ceiling, and flowing down was a hideously poufy, white gown with overlays and tiers and puff sleeves and a pale pink bow between the boobs. Gah. Who wore this stuff?

At least I knew what kind of dress I didn't want.

Just decide what kind of wedding you want and she'll plan that, your dream wedding. . . .

So what kind of wedding
did
I want? Eloping to Vegas or Paris was out since it would break my dad's heart.

I thought about the bunch of weddings I'd been to in the past few months. There was my culinary school friend's Disneyland hell, with Mickey and Minnie hanging out at the reception. And the get-married-where-you-met idea, à la my sister's wedding in a bookstore—definitely not big enough for three-hundred-plus guests. Besides the place where Zach and I actually met—the space where he'd almost opened his steak house, across the street from my apartment—was now an expensive hair salon. Forget lotus position in the woods; Zach couldn't even get into lotus position. Jolie's wedding was beautiful, but I'd been to so many beach weddings in the past year that it was getting old.

The only place I wanted to get married—Clementine's No Crap Café—was a no go.

I had no idea what I wanted. Nothing sounded right. Not the beach, not a hotel, not some random space.

Yet I still had a feeling that no matter what Dominique came up with, my answer would have nothing to do with “letting it go.”

Maybe I was impossible too.

A
s I walked up Montana Avenue, I had nightmare visions of standing on a little step stool in the fitting room of some horrendous bridal salon with the five seamstresses hemming and pinning my huge, heavy, white princess ball gown, and Dominique Huffington barking instructions at them: “Tighter, tighter, tighter, until she can't draw breath!”

With a half hour to spare before I had to hit my office in the restaurant, I ducked into the Tea Emporium for a chai and to decompress and focus. Not on Zach's mother. Or the wedding. I settled into an overstuffed chair and pulled out my notebook, flipping toward the end where I'd written,
New York Times Travel Section: Ideas for recipes
. I had six weeks to settle on five dishes, in addition to five appetizers and three salads, to serve the reporter, who was bringing three friends. Based on
her and their reactions to the food, ambience, service, locale, and me, Clementine's No Crap Café would either make it into the article—or not.

Butternut squash in garlic sage sauce. My kick-ass chipotle chili. Mediterranean lasagna. My award-winning blackened-tofu stir-fry. Maybe the roasted-vegetable napoleon—in phyllo. Perhaps my spaghetti and wheatballs, which Gunnar's little girl liked better than the “real” thing. The bruschetta, which no one could resist.

“Hey, Clem.”

I looked up to find one of my favorite people, Alexander Orr, fellow vegan chef, standing in front of my chair with a blueberry muffin in one hand and a take-out cup of something in the other. He looked fresh scrubbed and cute as always with his tousle of sandy-brown hair and dark brown eyes and constantly popping dimples. I stood up to hug him. “Got a sec? You're just the guy I need to see right now. The
New York Times
might include my place in a piece on vegan restaurants and I have to get in. What five dishes would you make?”

He mock-stabbed himself in the heart. “I should have known you'd be my competition.”

Of course Fresh got the call too. It was one of the best vegan restaurants in LA. Alexander had replaced me as sous chef after his asshole boss fired me last summer for supposedly adding butter to a food critic's ravioli.

“Wow, congrats. Can I bribe you to take a dive the day the
reporter comes to Fresh?” He raised an eyebrow as though I could possibly be serious. “Kidding. May the best chef win.”

“Or both of us.” He sat down across from me. “Because guess who'll get promoted to chef if the reporter includes Fresh in her piece? Emil's hardly ever in these days because he and his wife are trying to adopt a baby, so his head's there instead of in the kitchen. My lucky break. I'm still sous chef, but I'm acting chef. If I get Fresh in, Emil promised me the job.”

Fuzzballs. That kind of sucked. Figured Emil—my former bosss—would tie Alexander's promotion to publicity for the restaurant. The guy was a classic douchecanoe. I hated Emil's guts for firing me, though he'd ended up doing me a huge favor by forcing me to kick-start my own business. I wanted Alexander to get his totally deserved promotion, but I wanted Clementine's No Crap Café in that article.

“No one, not even me, can come close to your blackened-tofu stir-fry,” he said, getting up. “But you didn't hear that from me. Emil would bloody have my head.”

I smiled. Alexander was one cool dude.

“I miss hanging out with you, Clem. I haven't seen you in weeks.”

“Me too. I'm always at the restaurant.”

“Who isn't?” He went completely still for a second. “Whoa. Is that what I think it is?” He was looking at my diamond ring.

“Just got engaged Saturday night.”

I caught the slight slumping of his shoulders. “Zach's a lucky bloke,” he said in his usual earnest, wistful way that
always made me want to hug him. I'd met Zach and Alexander around the same time, had everything in common with Alexander and zippo in common with Zach. But kissing Alexander had had the same noneffect as kissing my own brother on the cheek. And kissing Zach? Firecrackers. Marching bands. Sappy love songs.

“If you want to try out some recipes on me, you can count on me to be honest,” he said. “Even if we're competition.”

“Same here.”

Then he took one last look at my ring, bit his lip, and was gone.

By noon, my ring was covered in pastry dough and lemon zest as I made blueberry pies for tonight's dessert. I was my own pastry chef, so it was just me in the kitchen. ABBA's “Take a Chance on Me” blasted from the iPod dock, six pies were either done or baking, and I was ready to move on to the other dessert specials, the baklava and mini vanilla-chai cupcakes.

For me, baking was as good as yoga and hikes with Zach and Charlie on the trails up in the mountains. The process unwound tight muscles, unclenched overworked brain cells. I always got the hard stuff out of the way first, so I'd attended to the books and inventory and paperwork in my office for the first hour, then I'd put on my apron, turned up the iPod, and forgot all about future mother-in-laws, soulless weddings,
and competitions that might get a good friend fired and got baking.

I'd just measured out a cup of agave nectar for the baklava when ABBA's “Fernando” was cut off. Startled, I turned around, and there stood Dominique and her stepdaughter, Keira.

“Sorry to startle you, Clementine,” Dominique said, “but that music was so loud you didn't hear us arrive.”

What were they doing here? They looked so out of place in the kitchen.

Dominique wore a bright white sundress with the usual pound of bling, her huge pearl-white sunglasses atop her head. “Keira and I were shopping in the neighborhood and took a chance you'd be here. Zach says you practically live here.”

“That's true,” I said, covering the agave nectar.

Dominique was staring at my ring, coated in dough. She looked horrified. “Of course, we haven't discussed the actual date for the wedding, but if we're to secure the places I've jotted down, I'll need to give my personal assistant the information.”

Personal assistant—perfect. I could boss him or her around and wouldn't have to deal with Dominique herself. “We haven't even thought about a date yet. Zach and I are both so busy that—”

“Yes, well, we'll likely choose the date based on availability,” she said, whipping out her iPhone, white like her dress. “I'm thinking the Beverly Hills Hotel, Chateau Marmont, or the
Peninsula. I've taken Shutters off the list, since Jolie got married there, and of course you'll want an original venue.”

No on all the above.

And I loved how it didn't even occur to her to ask me what I was thinking.

“Dominique, Zach and I haven't even discussed where we want to get married. For all I know, we'll elope to
Vegas
and get hitched by an Elvis impersonator.” I said that only to piss her off a little.

She visibly shuddered. “Darling, no one is eloping. I'm so delighted to plan the wedding.” She stepped toward me and lowered her voice. “As you may know, Zach and I have had our differences, and we've only started to get closer recently. It means the world to me to help plan the most important day of his life.”

Dang. Was she being decent?

Keira, in bright red, skinny jeans and a long, flowy tank top, was making “aww” faces at her.

“Clementine,” Dominique said, “I can see you've got your own style. Of course I'll take that into account. I'm having one of my favorite designers sketch some dresses, including, of course, the Kate.”

“The Kate?” I repeated.

She rolled her eyes. “Kate Middleton.” At my blank stare she said, “Future queen of England.”

Hadn't I seen Prince William and Kate Middleton's wedding photos on the cover of a zillion magazines? Kate's dress
had sleeves.
Long
sleeves. “I can tell you right now that my wedding dress will not have
sleeves
.”

“Open mind, darling.
Both
of us.”

I raised an eyebrow and she smiled. Which meant she was trying. I could hear Zach's voice asking me to try too.

“Okay,” I finally coughed up, in the name of compromise. “But I get veto power. Everything gets run by me.”

She stared me down. “It's usually others running things by me.”