Skinny Bitch in Love (25 page)

Chapter 17

“Who would steal your recipes?” Sara asked the next morning as I sat at the kitchen table, rewriting as much as I could remember of five recipes I needed to get straight for Stark 22. She handed me a mug of coffee, which I rarely drank but needed this morning. And lots of it.

“No one. It makes no sense that anyone would take them. Why would they?”

She sat down and dunked soy milk in her coffee. “Maybe someone’s taking them as a surprise, like to transcribe for you or something.”

“Who’d do that?”

“I would. But I didn’t.”

“This party was more your friends. And the only other person who’d take them for that kind of weird do-gooder act would be Ty, and he’d know I’d freak out if they were just suddenly
gone. Someone took them. Or I accidentally threw them out when I was cleaning up after class.”

Except I knew I didn’t. When I scrubbed down the sticky counter, I remember glancing at the packet in the mail sorter and thinking I’d work on the avocado paste for the lasagna after the party. I hadn’t touched it.

The buzzer rang. Then again. And again. And again.

“Okay, Jesus,” I said, going over to the intercom.

“Maybe it’s your recipes, saying they want back where they belong,” Sara said, then disappeared into the bathroom.

I pressed TALK. “Yeah?”

A wail came out of the tinny intercom. Then another. “Clementine? It’s Jolie.” Another wail.

“I’ll let you handle this one,” Sara said from the bathroom, the sound of the shower turning on.

I pressed UNLOCK and opened the door. I wouldn’t even have to ask her what was wrong. My money was on Rufus cheating. Or saying maybe they shouldn’t get married so fast.

Her head appeared on the stairs, followed by her skinny body. She was wearing dark gray yoga pants and at least four long, tight, ribbed tank tops with her usual pound of jewelry. Her light blond hair was in a loose ponytail with strands sticking to her wet face.

“Why are guys such assholes? Whyyyyyy?” She covered her face with her hands and slid down the back of the door onto her butt.

I called that one. “You and Rufus got into a fight?” I pulled out a chair for her. “Come sit.”

She dragged herself over and dropped down on the chair. “There’s a new background vocalist in his band. A gorgeous girl named Bebe. I showed up at rehearsal last night, and he could barely take his eyes off her. He hung on her every word. And every suggestion she made for how to play the song, he took.”

I poured her a cup of the coffee Sara always forgot to shut off. “Maybe it just seemed like that.”

“He was totally flirting. And she touched him at every chance she got. ‘How about aiming the bass like
this
when you hit that chord, Rufus?’ ” she mimicked. “While finding every excuse to put her hands on him. He was loving it.”

“It’s just the new chick syndrome. She’ll get attention for, like, five minutes, then become one of the guys. You’re worrying for nothing.” Not that I was so sure.

“She’s too gorgeous for that. She’s prettier than
I
am. Sexier, anyway. Huge boobs. He’s probably with her right now.”

“How long have you and Rufus been together?” I asked.

She sipped the coffee, then asked for milk and Equal. She’d have to settle for soy milk and the real thing, since I dumped Sara’s toxic fake sugar long ago. “Since sophomore year. Almost three and a half years.”

“So you know him pretty well, right? Do you trust him?”

“I guess. But this isn’t high school anymore where there were, like, two other girls he might have been interested in. There are girls
everywhere
here. One more gorgeous than the next. I hate it.”

“So Rufus is only with you because you’re gorgeous?” I asked.

“No, he really loves me.”

“Why?”

“He thinks I’m really smart. And I’m the only person who gets his weird sense of humor. He thinks it’s really cool that I turned down my father’s credit cards to make it as an actress. He respects me.”

“So big boobs and a gorgeous face wouldn’t be enough to make him cheat probably.”

“Yeah, I guess not. He hates phonies. And stupid girls. And snots. And Bebe is totally phony. She was kissing up to their manager, this short, bald dude who discovered Fierce and Brothers Beck. She’s as fake as her chest.”

“So you have nothing to worry about, do you?” I asked, glancing at the recipe I’d written up for the lasagna.
Go have make-up sex with your boyfriend so I can get to work,
I sent Jolie telepathically.

“You’re totally right,” she said, her face lighting up. “I really, really, really love him.”

“And from what I saw, he really loves you. But you guys
are
eighteen. You’re gonna meet a ton of different people. Have wild experiences. That’s what you’re supposed to do at eighteen.”

She sat back, crossing her arms over her chest. “So now you’re saying it’s okay if he cheats on me?”

“No, I’m saying that maybe you guys shouldn’t be talking about marriage right now. If you stay together, great. If you do both end up meeting other people, that’s okay, too. You’re supposed to do all this now so that by the time you do get married,
you’ve been through enough shit to know who you want, what you want.”

“I just want Rufus.”

“So tell him his flirting with that girl made you feel like shit. Just tell him outright. Don’t get all passive aggressive and give him the silent treatment and act like a bitch. Just tell him what’s up. See what he says.”

She nodded and took a sip of her coffee. “What’s all that stuff?” she asked, upping her chin at the counter where I’d set out everything that went into making lasagna.

“Want to help me make the best lasagna you ever tasted?”

“Not really,” she said. “I want to go talk to Rufus. I actually did give him the silent treatment all night and acted like a bitch this morning.”

I smiled. “Go.”

“We had a good time at the party last night,” she said. “Your friend Ty is really great.”

“Yeah, he is,” I said, giving her a vanilla chai cupcake for the road.

She squeezed me into a hug, then raced down the steps, which made me wonder if I’d get a call from Zach in a couple of hours about how I should have advised her to dump the boyfriend.

“God, Clem,” Sara said from the bathroom. “Did you just counsel a Confused Young Person? Impressive.” The blow-dryer started up, then Sara came into the kitchen. “My hair looks nothing like Ty’s sister made it look yesterday.”

“Still looks great, though,” I told her.

She promised she’d help me look for my recipes when she got home from work, just in case someone had drunkenly mistaken them for a bunch of napkins or something and they were in the garbage or behind a table. Which they weren’t. I’d looked everywhere.

When Sara left, I checked my calendar. I’d cleared today to work on the final recipes, so at least I didn’t have to bake anything or deal with any personal chef clients. For the next half hour, I re-created the lasagna recipe on paper, using Sara’s copy of the recipe I’d handed out the first night of class, which was more Desdemona’s than mine. I’d changed it around over the past couple of years, making it mine, but now I couldn’t remember the exact amounts, which sucked. At least I had the cooking class copy, or I would have forgotten the sea salt, which I was out of. I was also running low on tomatoes, so I headed to my favorite farmers’ market by the Santa Monica Pier.

I detoured past my new dream space for Clementine’s No Crap Café. Which made my blood boil. All my years of work on those recipes—and just like that, gone. The menus I created for the restaurants had to be the
best
—and original. Not trumped-up copies from restaurants I’d worked in.

And five recipes were due to be demonstrated for the owner and chef of Stark 22 on Friday. Two days.

Because I had no time to stand there and whine about it, I hit up the farmers’ market, stuffing my bag with tomatoes and sea salt and olive oil, and then couldn’t resist the chocolate bark table. I bought a piece and then stopped at a juice booth—and did a double take.

Because there was no fucking way I was seeing what I was seeing.

Alexander. And Rain Welch. All over each other on a bench across from the market.

My Alexander. And Rain Welch, who’d gotten me fired from Fresh and then tried to screw me out of an account with Julia’s for Skinny Bitch Bakes. They were both sitting, and she was leaning back against him, her head tilted back for a kiss. Then she practically straddled him and they were making out.

Alexander and Rain?

The thought slammed into me that Alexander had been at my party last night. The party where my recipes had been until someone there had taken them.

And now here he was getting a lap dance from Rain.

She must have talked him into screwing me over somehow. Alexander knew that the
L.A. Times
reporter would be coming to the class; I’d told him when I called to invite him to Sara’s party. Maybe Rain had told him all kinds of lies about me and now he thought I was the asshole, so he’d stolen the recipes as payback or something. Or just to ensure a good lay that night.

Maybe he
had
been sent by Emil to check up on me that first night he’d showed up in my apartment clutching a cooking class flyer, all apologetic about getting a great gig at my expense. To find out what my plans were, where I was working. To report back so Emil could get his revenge somehow. Or maybe he and Rain had always been seeing each other, and he’d been doing her dirty work that night. I tried to remember the times I’d mentioned her, if Alexander had
said anything about her, but I couldn’t. I was pretty sure he’d said everyone knew she’d sabotaged me. But maybe he was bullshitting.

And like anyone really brought their ill grand
mum
soup.

But then I thought about him placing a chef’s hat on Jesse’s head and showing a shy girl how to fold a burrito. Giving Jesse a standing ovation and wolf-whistling at his school concert. Standing in his kitchen in his sort-of tux, thanking me for being such a cool friend and helping him with the Dr. Who cupcakes.

Kissing me at Fontana’s.

No way would Alexander screw me like that. He wouldn’t. But I wouldn’t have believed he’d hook up with Rain either. And there he was, all over her.

By the end of the day, I had a whole wheat lasagna noodle on my foot, my orgasmic red sauce on the ends of my hair, and vegan mozzarella under my nails. And I smelled like vegan ground “beef.” But I’d re-created the lasagna recipe to my very high standards and then made Ty taste it.

“Incredible,” he said, standing next to me by the oven, where I’d barely been able to wait for the lasagna to cool enough not to burn his lips. He forked another bite. “Perfect.”

Relief. If it was good enough for Ty and me, it was done.

On to fettuccini. Stark 22 wanted at least two pasta dishes. And my fettuccini with porcini mushrooms was one of my own
favorites. I was deciding between whole wheat or brown rice for the pasta when Ty grabbed my long yellow pad from me. “This can wait a half hour. Go talk to Alexander—not to accuse him, just to bring up seeing him with Rain.”

“What am I supposed to say, exactly?”

“Whatever comes out of your mouth will work,” he said, handing me my phone.

I called Alexander and said I wanted to talk to him about something and when could we meet up.

Now was no good because he was on his way to work. After work was no good because he was meeting Jesse. Later tonight was no good because he had plans.

Yeah, no doubt with Rain. He was clearly trying to avoid me.

“Tomorrow sometime? It’s kind of important.”

Now,
Ty mouthed at me.

“Scratch tomorrow. I really need to talk to you
now
.”

“You could meet me on 14th and walk me to work,” he said.

Yeah, so he and Rain could ambush me and stuff me in the freezer, never to be found again. You never knew, right?

He was standing on the corner in front of the used bookstore and tapping on his phone when I arrived. He wore a gray T-shirt, low-slung jeans, and a messenger bag probably stuffed with my recipes across his torso.