The Traveling Tea Shop (6 page)

I’m about to step into the revolving door when Ravenna comes scurrying down the carpeted steps toward me.

“You said you can get whatever we need?”

Here we go. “Within reason.”

“I need a fake ID. For tonight.”

I stare back at her. “Really?”

“It’s totally ridiculous—this morning I was legal drinking age and I get here and suddenly it’s off limits. I mean, I’m twenty years old.”

Diplomacy, remember diplomacy. “I totally understand your frustration—”

“Great. You can just have it sent up to the room.” She turns to leave.

“Ravenna.” I lay a hand on her bony shoulder. “I’m sorry. That won’t be possible.”

“Why not?” She looks outraged.

“Because I like living here. And I don’t want to get deported.”

“So it’s all about you? I thought you were supposed to be taking care of us.”

“Without turning to a life of crime, yes.”

“It’s just one lousy ID!”

“That’s all it would take.”

“So you’re saying no?”

“I’m saying no.”

She steps closer, eyes flitting with desperation. “If I’m going to get through this trip, I’m going to need to drink.”

“Well, I’m sure we can come to some arrangement in the hotel rooms, with your mother’s approval of course, but as far as going out on the town goes . . .” I give a little shrug. “Not going to happen.”

For a second she stares openmouthed at me. I don’t think she’s used to hearing “no” too often. That’s fine. I’m more than happy to up the quota.

“All right,” she says, pacing now like a prison inmate trying to figure out how to get even with her guard. “But just know that it’s been noted.”

“What has?”

“Your unwillingness to help me out.”

“As has the unreasonableness of your request,” I counter.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m watching you too, sister.”

No doubt Ravenna now thinks I’ve been hanging “in da hood,” but I guess it’s more of a Freudian slip than anything. I know her type. All. Too. Well.

It always amazes me, how different two siblings can be. Same parents, same upbringing, two polar-different attitudes to life.

I was the little workhorse—always wanting to be occupied in some productive capacity, always making lists and laying out little stepping stones to get from A to B. I would have made an excellent scout because I was Always Prepared.

Jess was a sleepier individual, more the type to wait for things to come to her. Somehow harmless daydreaming morphed into a sense of entitlement and she would become utterly indignant when she didn’t get her way. “How could Mark Allen ask Claire out instead of me! I’d already picked out the dress I was going to wear on our first date!” This in turn became a sense of deprivation—everyone else had it easier than her; she was the one who had to struggle against a cruel world. Her misfortunes had nothing to do with the choices she made (or the lack of effort on her behalf); she was an innocent bystander, randomly cursed and often beginning her sentences, “It’s all right for you . . .”

Mum used to say that Dad leaving had affected her younger daughter in a profound way. She thought that was the trigger for the sense of lack. But he left when we were nippers and elected never to see us again. I hardly think him sticking around would have been a bonus. As far as I was concerned we were extremely lucky to have a mother who was so devoted, so encouraging, such fun—how ungrateful would it be to focus on a disappeared dad? Shouldn’t we be glad for the good things?

Instead Jess seemed hell-bent on finding a way to make us suffer as deeply as she supposedly was. She needed to bring us down to her level. At least, that’s how I saw it.

Of course you can look at the drugs as a cry for help or a means of escape. And we certainly tried to put an empathetic spin on it when we first found out. Our initial instinct was to help her through this, to get her back on track. My mother and I even went to a “family skills for drug abuse prevention” workshop. But I must confess I struggled with their insistence that we had to let go of any judgment.

I wanted to thrust my hand up and say: if addiction is a disease, how do you first catch it? I mean, if you’ve never tried a single sodding drug in the first place, how could you become addicted? You couldn’t. It wouldn’t be possible. You are making a choice that first time. You are volunteering for the addiction. You know it’s wrong and self-destructive but you do it anyway.

Alcoholics I understand better. Alcohol is everywhere. Alcohol is foisted on you at every turn in every walk of life. Even in church communion.

I don’t mean to be deliberately controversial. This stuff just gets me
riled up.
I think more than anything it’s the waste—the waste of life. Of your life. Of other people’s. The toll it takes is so far-reaching. So insidious.

“Why did you do it?” I wanted to ask Jess, over and over and over. “Why did you even begin? You knew no good could come of it and you did it anyway. You wreaked havoc on all of us. And you don’t even seem sorry.”

I feel the emotions flare within me again. I mustn’t let this overwhelm me. I mustn’t let frustration take hold because when I do it throws off everything in my life. And I need the next few days to flow smoothly.

That being said, if Ravenna thinks I’m going to look the other way while she depletes and dishonors her mother, she’s mistaken. I don’t have my mother to defend anymore. I didn’t do a good enough job of protecting her.

I heave a sigh.

It’s one of those situations you replay in your mind, trying to force history down a different path, to a different outcome.

It should have been the other way round.

I can’t get this thought out of my head—it should have been my sister the drug addict who died, not the mother who loved her too much to ever give up on her.

I’m mad at Ravenna for bringing up these feelings in me but, to be honest, it doesn’t take much. I have no idea how to lay this to rest. I’ve become quite skilled at squishing down the tears and the raging sense of injustice out of necessity. But I can’t seem to make peace with my mum being gone. How can I? There’s no “everything happens for a reason” platitude that can make sense of this.

Once in a while, Jess will try to get in contact. But I’m not convinced her motive is remorse. I just think she’s coming for me next and I need to stay away. Right now I cannot even contemplate being in her presence. Ever again.

Okay. Enough. I just have to block her out and focus on where I am now. She can’t get me here. I’m safe, nestled amid the skyscrapers—she finds them intimidating and threatening. To me, they are like bodyguards.

Perhaps you’ve seen
Maid in Manhattan
—the movie where Jennifer Lopez plays a hotel chambermaid who borrows a socialite’s Dolce & Gabbana ensemble and catches the eye of senatorial candidate Ralph Fiennes? Or
Scent of a Woman
? Or
Serendipity
?

If so, you know the Waldorf Astoria—its art deco frontage, the sleek silver-gray stone contrasting with the luxe gold lettering, the legendary Starlight Lounge with its retractable roof.

I barely gave the property a second glance yesterday, so today I got here half an hour early so I can drink in the understated swank and class. Before the Lambert-Leighs arrive and ruin it all.

I had prepared a little introductory talk—I wanted to tell them that the Waldorf Astoria was the first hotel to have room service, that this is where Marilyn Monroe stayed while filming
The Seven Year Itch
and that the Conrad Suite was the chosen venue for the engagement party of His Serene Highness Prince Rainier III and Grace Kelly. But, after the utter lack of interest at my itinerary talk in the limo, I’ve decided to ditch it and cut to the cake.

It’s funny, in all the time I’ve known Charlie (and his lovely wife Rosaria), I’ve never before asked how Red Velvet Cake is made or what makes their version so legendary.

It would have been like seeing behind the curtain at Oz. That being said, I am really excited to see Pamela’s Victoria Sponge materialize before my very eyes. I can’t tell you how much I “heart” Victoria Sponge. We chose it as a match because of the red and cream pinstripe of the jam and cream filling and also because British royalty has favored the Waldorf Astoria (specifically Elizabeth II). I wonder if it will be the best I’ve ever tasted? I mean, the M&S triple layer version is hard to beat . . .

“All right, all right,” I soothe my stomach as it yawps impatiently. “Not long now.”

I check my watch against the ornate bronze clock centerpiece and smile. The rich mahogany wall panels, the black marble columns, the inlaid ceilings with their abundance of gold flourishes—the whole room feels like being inside a 1930s jewelry box.

I settle into one of the velvet-hug chairs and people-watch. Or rather, people-judge. I cannot for the life of me understand those folks who spend an arm and a leg to stay on Park Avenue and then put said arm in a T-shirt and said leg in a jean. And I’m not talking some chic little Helmut Lang scoop neck and J Brand denim but Walmart’s finest. Look at this one family—bundling through, yanking and scrapping as they go. It’s just so uncouth!
I know.
I sound like I’m eighty years old, despairing at the youth of today. But I do. I really do.

And then my face brightens—now that’s more like it!

A woman has emerged from the lifts looking as if she’s been performing a Noël Coward play between floors. I do love a dame who can wear a scarf with flair. I wonder if she’s French? Or maybe she really is an actress? That dress is beautiful, silky with raised velvety patterns. I bet her lipstick casing is heavy gold and her compact mirror exquisitely engraved.

Oh gosh. She’s caught me staring. And now she’s heading straight for me.

“Laurie?”

“Yes?” I startle to my feet.

She extends her hand. “Gracie Lambert-Leigh.”

I know my mouth is gaping but yours would too. The transformation is extreme.

“Judging by your response, I must have been quite a sight yesterday!”

“No, no, not at all!” I gulp, trying to regain my composure. “How are you feeling after, er, your lovely rest?”

“Rest? It was more like a coma. Still, I had to do something to get away from that awful girl.”

My eyebrows rise. “You mean your granddaughter?”

“Oh don’t!” she shudders. “The fact that we are genetically connected gives me chills.”

I remain stunned.

“Of course, her mother is a co-conspirator. Or, what’s the modern term for that, remind me . . .”

Dare I say what I’m thinking? “Enabler?” I venture.

“That’s it. Here she comes now.”

“Good morning Pamela!” I turn to smile at her, relieved to see that she’s looking a little brighter than yesterday. (Her smock top has a soft lilac print and I really think you only reach for florals when you’re feeling optimistic.)

“Ravenna not joining us?” I check.

“Oh no, she’s still in her pajamas. She was up late with her boyfriend.”

“She has a boyfriend here in New York?”

“No no, he’s back in England. They were on Skype. Or Face-Time or something.”

“Though who’d want to spend any time with his face . . .” Gracie shudders.

“Anyway,” Pamela tuts her mother, “Ravenna is really more interested in going shopping, so she’s going to give us a call when she’s ready.”

“Ready to milk the guilt money.”

“Mother, please. Could we go one day without the sniping?”

Gracie thinks for a moment and then says, “I can’t make any promises.”

“Ah! Here’s our host now!” I’m relieved to see my pal, the executive pastry chef, making his way over to us.

Charlie Romano is a brown-eyed, handsome man with a sweep of dark hair, sheeny olive skin and an Italian accent, which Gracie at least seems to appreciate. She takes his arm as he leads us away from the lobby, through a side door and down into the wonderland that is the Waldorf Astoria’s kitchen.

Or should I say “kitchens”? The food preparation area spans an entire city block. It’s almost like a culinary department store down here—avant-garde reception party nibbles prepared here, sixteen-dollar soups
du jour
over in the West Wing . . .

“You know the Waldorf Salad originated here?” Charlie chirps.

“The clue is in the name,” Gracie tinkles.

“Also Thousand Island dressing.”

“And the Manhattan cocktail!” I chime in.

“And Red Velvet Cake . . .” Pamela’s eyes widen as Charlie opens the doors to the chilled baking department.

“It’s so spacious,” she coos as she enters. “And immaculate.”

She’s right. There’s not a sprinkle or crumb out of place. Just acres of marble countertop and a fleet of stainless steel stacking trays on wheels.

Charlie has already set out all the ingredients, including, rather surprisingly, beetroot!

“We don’t use any dyes or colorings,” Charlie explains. “The beetroot gives the basic chocolate cake batter a red hue, plus beetroot is great for keeping the cake moist.”

Pamela nods in agreement as she takes in the mascarpone cheese and double cream that will make up the filling, as well as the thick layer of “icing” that will cloak the entire cake. This is going to be delish!

“Have you ever tasted pure cocoa before, Laurie?” Charlie asks, directing my attention to a small glass bowl of what appear to be dusty dark chocolate buttons.

“I don’t think so,” I frown.

“In that case, the answer is no,” Pamela laughs. “If you had, you’d remember.”

“Try one,” Charlie holds out the stash. “These pieces are ninety-nine percent pure chocolate.”

How can that be bad? I pop one in my mouth.

Almost immediately my tongue is encased in bitterness. Oh my god!

They all laugh as my face contorts and I try to shift the powder-dense coating.

“Some water?” He offers me a glass.

“Yes please!” I wince, then watch as he empties the rest of the buttons into a metal bowl set over a saucepan of boiling water and gently melts them to a sheeny sludge.

“It tastes better combined with other ingredients.”

From this point he starts juggling assorted bowls, mixers and baking tins. As he does so, I recall one (possibly apocryphal) story that tells of a woman, back in the 1940s when the Red Velvet Cake was first introduced, writing to the hotel requesting the chef’s secret recipe. The hotel obliged by mailing her a copy, along with a bill for $350! She consulted her lawyer who said she was liable for the cost and so, by way of revenge, she distributed the recipe far and wide, to every friend and family member, which actually served in spreading the popularity of said cake.

“Excuse me a moment.” As Charlie steps away to check on the oven, Pamela’s phone rings.

“It’s Ravenna.” Her face falls. “She’s ready to go shopping.”

“Do you think she needs an escort?” I ask, a little bemused.

“Oh, would you? I’d be so grateful! I really don’t think she should be left unattended at the moment.”

Ah. I’ve just inadvertently talked myself out of an up-close-and-personal encounter with my favorite cake.

“Of course,” I tell her, though my heart has just collapsed in the middle. “I’ll go straight up. Just give me a call if you need anything in the meantime.”

“One second.” Pamela reaches into her handbag and pulls out her credit card, extending it to me. “Take this.”

I hesitate. “I tell you what, why don’t you keep hold of that for now. Ravenna can have a good look around, and then if she sees something she falls madly in love with, you can come along later and decide if it’s something you’d like to buy for her.”

“Oh I like this girl, Pamela.” Gracie smirks delightedly.

“I-I . . .” Pamela flusters.

“You keep it,” I guide her hand back to her purse. “Thanks again, Charlie!” I call over and give him a little wave before I head back upstairs, ready for anything Ravenna can throw at me.