Skinnydipping (32 page)

“What?”

“I overheard her in the hallway last night. She wants me off the show. Don’t tell anyone.”

He looked around, then looked at me. “You mean … Sybil?”

“Yes!” I hissed. “Because I know Ian.”

“She can’t do that.”

“Maybe she can.” I tapped the eraser against the table nervously. Chaz put his hand on top of it to stop the annoying noise.

“You realize of course that you just said ‘Don’t tell anyone’ into your microphone?” he said.

“Oh God! I get so flustered.”

“Quit worrying. Just be so good that they can’t kick you off. Be too good to fire.”

“You’re right,” I said, looking around me. “I just need to be the best one.” If I could just be the best, the only real choice, then Sybil Hunter would have to choose me. Plus, I had a feeling the network really was on my side. I couldn’t imagine any of the other contestants hosting their own television show. “It has to be me,” I told Chaz. “Not that I’m saying you shouldn’t win. I’m just saying, look around us … how much competition do we really have?”

“Honey, not much,” he said. “I don’t know where they came up with this group. What a bunch of freaks. And
I
don’t even want to be here. I’m already so stressed, I’m about to have a heart attack.”

“Calm down, we’ll be fine,” I said. “We can do this. I know I have what it takes to go all the way, as long as the contest is fair. They told me they wanted a ballbuster who had the guts to stand up to Sybil.”

“Who told you that?” said Chaz, surprised.

“Roxanne Howard herself,” I said.

“Well there you go,” he said. “Start busting some balls and Sybil’s not going to get the OK to kick you off. She’s just the talent. Roxanne Howard is the producer. That’s where the power is.” He paused. “But don’t make the mistake of thinking this contest is fair.”

“We’re not going to lose this one,” I said. “Let’s get to work.”

At nine, one of the tech guys from ePhone was coming by to consult with everyone about formatting their recipes for the ePhone. Then we had to go to the art department to meet with photographers and layout artists. We needed sketches and design ideas. At eleven, we were going to the store to buy supplies. Then it would be back to the test kitchen to make our recipes, in time to serve them artfully at Sybil’s party. While Chaz looked up ePhone recipes for ideas, I sketched out design concepts. When we thought we had some good ideas, we paused long enough to look around.

Everyone was frantically scribbling, erasing, arguing. I gave Chaz a knowing look. “I think we’ve got this one in the bag. Ours is clean. Simple. I think everyone else is overcomplicating it.”

“I hope so,” he said.

At nine-fifteen, it was our turn to meet with the ePhone guy, then
we planned a fun pink and green layout with the art department. I was moving on high speed, but I could tell Chaz was stressed. Occasionally, the cameramen caught various contestants for OTFs and I heard a few of them mention my name, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I didn’t care. I just knew we were going to win. Finally, one of the production people came into the room and directed everyone to gather their things and head downstairs to the vans. On the way to the market, everyone sat in stony silence, afraid to give anything away, too stressed to talk.

Finally, I tried to break the silence. “So, Monica,” I said to the blonde lifestyle coach who obviously loved champagne. “You’re the … what do you do in your line of work again?” I said.

She looked offended. “I’m a lifestyle coach, if that’s what you mean by ‘line of work,’” she said, flipping her feathered hair and rolling her big eyes. “But it’s not work to me, it’s a calling. I’m really good, especially at past-life regression. I have this talent for manipulating energy.”

“You have a talent for manipulating champagne bottles,” muttered Nadine in her fake English accent.

“Just because you’re married to an ATM machine doesn’t make you better than us,
Queen Nadine
,” Monica said, defensively. I couldn’t help laughing. I hadn’t heard anybody call her Queen Nadine to her face yet.

“Just because you spew a load of self-help crap doesn’t mean you’re better than
us
,” said amnesiac-party-girl Katie.

Everyone was silent for a while, but after catching Katie staring at me with a disgusted look on her face, I’d had enough.

“What is your deal?” I said, looking her in the eye.

She just looked away. I felt like I was back in high school.

At the market, Chaz and I bought bags of fresh organic lemons, raw sugar, club soda, a bottle of cranberry juice, and white rum at a liquor store. Then I saw a display of retro frilly aprons. “Chaz! We have to get these! They are
so
Domestic Goddess.”

“She didn’t say we were supposed to wear costumes,” Chaz said.

“So what? We’re supposed to serve to businesspeople at a cocktail party, like a 1960s housewife, right? So we should wear these. Or … I should. You should wear a suit or something. Or a hat.”

“I’ve got a fedora,” Chaz said.

“You would,” I said. I bought an apron for myself.

When the wrangler blew the whistle (“Did she really just blow a whistle at us?” Chaz asked me), we got in line to buy our purchases with our allotted money.

The test kitchen was fabulous,
as expected, and inspired by Sybil’s actual kitchen. It had low, wide stainless-steel counters, a bank of double ovens, and twelve burners along a middle island. I memorized every detail, obsessed with the perfection. Each of us chose a workstation, then ran to grab the supplies we needed. Chaz found some antique martini glasses and filled a silver ice bucket with ice. I collected a classic silver shaker and a big, old manual metal citrus juicer. Others were grabbing mixers and blenders, bowls and wooden spoons, cake pans and loaf pans and soup pots.

I squeezed all the lemons, pressing down the handle of the manual juicer over and over, until my arm ached. We made simple syrup from the raw sugar, then mixed the sugar syrup and cranberry juice into the lemon juice until the proportions were right. I adjusted the recipe draft—a little less sugar, a little more cranberry. “We’d better make the actual drink, to be sure it’s right,” he said.

I smiled. “Now that’s using your head,” I said. I muddled the mint and ice in the shaker, poured in the rum and lemonade, and shook. Chaz rimmed two glasses with raw sugar, then I poured in the drinks. We tasted.

“These are amazing,” Chaz said. “Sybil’s going to love them.”

“Let’s hope so,” I said, downing my drink in one gulp. “But I think we’d better make a couple more, just to be sure.”

When a production person came into the room and told us we had
fifteen minutes, Chaz had just come back from retrieving his fedora and putting on a tie. He looked like he was ready to investigate the Kennedy assassination—or at least investigate a martini and a cigarette. Suddenly I had an idea. “I’m going to do my hair,” I said.

“Now? It’s almost time!” Chaz said nervously.

“I have time,” I said.

“Sure, it’s not like the pressure’s on or anything.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

“We don’t have anything left to do,” I said. “We’re good to go.”

I looked around the workroom, but I couldn’t find anything resembling bobby pins. Then I noticed Mikki was wearing a few. I begged her to lend them to me, and being the nice and nondramatic person she was, she slid them out of her cloud of hair and handed them to me. I ran to the bathroom, a cameraman following me, and piled all my hair up onto my head in my best imitation of a beehive hairdo, teasing my hair with my fingers to give it volume. Then I ran back to the workroom. I twirled around for Chaz, my frilly apron billowing out. “How do I look?”

Chaz stared at my hair. “Like you’re from Jersey?” he said. I slapped him on the arm.

“I was going for Audrey Hepburn in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
”

“Oh sure, that, too,” he said, rolling his eyes.

The reception area was tastefully
decorated with flowers and six cocktail tables. As we brought in our food and set it up at our designated table, the other teams were making fun of my costume, but it didn’t even faze me. I wanted to stand out. I realized how far I’d come since my insecure days in L.A., when Donna Shannon’s snub put me in a tailspin. This group was even worse than the cast of
Hollywood & Highland
, but they weren’t going to intimidate me.
Look at you
, I thought to myself.
Maybe you’ve actually grown up a little.

We set up our station, and then I noticed that our ice was almost
completely melted. “Chaz!” I hissed. “Chaz, the ice is melted! We need ice!”

“Oh crap,” he said, looking around. “Does anybody else have some?”

“Nobody’s going to help us!” I said. “We’ve got to get more.”

“You can’t do it, you have to present,” he said. “I’ll go.”

“For God’s sake, hurry up!” He dashed out of the room.

We waited, everyone nervously buzzing with anticipation.

A few minutes later, the door opened and Sybil walked in, followed by Rasputin, looking particularly fluffy, and then Alice and a tall Indian woman. But where was Chaz? We would lose for sure if we were missing half our team! How long could it take to fill a bucket of ice?

“Hello everyone,” Sybil said, stiffly. “Are you all ready to present your dishes to our guests?”

We all nodded, obediently, and I felt a little thrill that I didn’t have a dish, I had a
glass.
But any of us might be going home tonight. My pulse was racing and I felt a little unsteady on my feet. I looked around. Nadine smiled calmly at me. Shari waved. I couldn’t even focus on what other dishes everyone else had made.
Where was Chaz?

“Excellent. But first, let me introduce you to someone very important here at Sybil Hunter Enterprises. You all know my sister Alice, but you may not know Ruby Prasad.” The Indian woman with impossibly long legs nodded. “Ruby is the executive food editor for
Domestic Goddess Magazine
, and an experienced cook as well as recipe tester and recipe
taster.
Ian had to be away on business today, so we brought Ruby in to help evaluate your creations.”

“Hello everyone,” the woman said, her voice low and sexy.

“And now,” said Sybil, “let’s welcome our guests.”

She waved her arm at the door, and it opened, as if by magic. Eight men and eight women walked in, all of them wearing suits and looking very serious. At the same time, Chaz slid in the door behind them, clutching the ice bucket, and quickly walked along the edge of the
room, back around to our table. Sybil watched his every move, but didn’t say anything. Instead, she said, “These are some of my friends, influential local businesspeople who have contributed in one way or another to Sybil Hunter Enterprises.” None of them looked very friendly to me, but maybe that was to be expected.
Any friend of Sybil is… probably not a friend of mine
, I thought, morosely. “And now, everyone, please enjoy yourselves,” she said to the businesspeople.

“Thank God you’re back!” I said. “I thought we would lose for sure!”

“Here,” he said, putting a fresh bucket of ice on the table. “Let’s hope she comes to our table before this one melts!”

It was do or die. Our glasses weren’t chilled anymore and my hair was falling down, but they’d love our cocktail, or they’d hate it. We’d done everything we could do. Chaz wouldn’t stop shifting back and forth and rocking forward and back on his heels and toes.

“Stand still!” I whispered.

“I think I’m going to have a panic attack!” he whispered back.

“You’ll be fine,” I hissed, but I wasn’t sure I wasn’t about to have one, too.

The first person to come to our table was a tired-looking woman in a gray suit with hair pulled back into a tight and unflattering bun on top of her head. “What do you have?” she said, looking hopefully at the cocktail shaker and the bottle of rum.

“Pink lemonade mojitos,” I said. “Would you like one?”

“God, yes,” she said. I muddled, shook, and poured as Chaz began rimming glasses. I poured her drink, finished it with club soda, and Chaz garnished it with a thin slice of lemon and a thin slice of lime.

“This is excellent,” she said, after taking a long drink. She was actually starting to look human. “I like your hair.”

As soon as the guests realized we had liquor, we had a line. We made drinks one at a time—muddle, shake, rim, pour, garnish. Meanwhile, I watched Sybil making her way around to the other tables. She didn’t seem to be saying much, just tasting and moving on.

Finally, Sybil approached our table, with Alice, Ruby Prasad, and, of course, the dog. She looked very tall, and she looked down upon us like a god on judgment day. A Domestic Goddess on judgment day. A disgruntled one.

“So, what do you have for me today?” she said. “This doesn’t look like muffins.”

I had butterflies, and I was suddenly more aware of the cameras than I had been for the last few days. I just had to impress her. I had to make amends. I had to repair whatever damage had already occurred, so the contest would be fair and I could be judged on my performance, not on my past, or on whatever else it was about me that obviously irritated Sybil Hunter.