Too Many Cooks (22 page)

CHAPTER 26

Fact: Those apricot canapés were delicious.

Part of me wonders if the reason Natasha doesn't think they were “that good” is because everyone else did, including Hugh. It often seems the more Hugh likes something I've made, the less she does. Some days I wonder how they manage to fake a marriage at all. She seems to regard him with such disdain. Why bother?

The next day, before I draw up a menu for Nottingham, I call Harry. My stomach churns as the phone rings, my mind running through various iterations of the same apology: “I'm sorry. I'm the worst.” Aside from the fact that canceling yet again makes me feel like a horrible person, the incident with Hugh has definitely dampened my interest in Harry. I wish I wanted him as much as I do Hugh, but lately Hugh is occupying precious real estate in my heart and mind, and I'm having trouble making room for anyone else.

The phone rings and rings, and finally it goes to voice mail.

“Hi, you've reached Harry Swift. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you soon. Cheers.”

“Harry—hi, it's Kelly. You're going to kill me.”

I leave a message explaining Natasha's unexpected catering request, apologizing profusely for breaking my promise. At this point, he probably thinks I'm making up all of these excuses, when really, if I didn't want to see him, I'd just come out and say so. But he doesn't know that, so I try to sound as sincere as possible without over-egging my apology.

“Anyway,” I say, “I'd still like to meet up some time, so give me a call when you get this, and we can set a date.”

I know there's a very high probability I'll never hear from him again, but I hope I do, at least to know I haven't hurt his feelings.

Once I've left a message, I move on to next weekend's menu. I'm not very familiar with traditional English cuisine, so I scan the Internet for ideas I can present to Natasha tomorrow. I really should present them to Hugh, since he is English and Natasha is not, but that would involve a one-on-one encounter, and I don't want to think about where that could lead. Or rather, I think about it often, and it fills me alternately with lust and fear. And anyway, if Natasha is going to cook these dishes with me and pretend they're her handiwork, she should have some say in what we make.

As I compare a few different recipes for rhubarb crumble, Meg's name appears on my computer screen as she calls for a video chat. We haven't spoken in two weeks—not since Natasha offered and revoked the trip to Paris, and not since The Incident with Hugh. If I'm being honest with myself, I've been avoiding Meg because I don't want to tell her about The Incident, and I know I won't be able to lie if we speak. But I miss her—I miss having a friend—so I answer her call.

“Oh my God,
finally,
” she says, throwing her head back dramatically. “It's been two weeks. I'm dying.”

“There isn't much to report.”

“Lies. I've been stalking Natasha online. I saw somewhere that she was spotted in Paris—looking fabulous, of course.”

“Yeah, she went again. She was supposed to take me, actually, but she left me behind.”

“Why?”

“Because she keeps changing her mind about what recipes she wants in the book, and I need to keep us on track to meet our deadline.”

“That sucks.”

“A lot. Especially since I've always wanted to go to Paris.”

“You'll get there someday. In the meantime, how is Mr. Hotty-pants?”

“I'm sorry, I don't know anyone who goes by that name.”

“Last we talked, you knew
two
people who might go by that name. Let's start with the famous older one. How is he? Still setting your lady parts ablaze?”

“Meg, stop.”

“No, I will not stop. I spent last week reporting on white-nose syndrome in Michigan bats, and then I went on a date with an accountant who smelled like onions. I need some juicy gossip. Come on—help a sister out.”

“Why did he smell like onions?”

She rolls her eyes. “I don't know. He still lives with his mother. It was a mistake.”

“Are we talking raw onions, or caramelized onions?”

“Does it matter?”

“Kind of. If the answer is caramelized onions, maybe his mom was cooking something, and the smell kind of . . . stuck.”

“That doesn't change the fact that he is thirty-one and still living with his mother. The man is an accountant. He has means.”

“Maybe he isn't very successful. . . .”

“Oh, good, that's what I need: an unsuccessful accountant who still lives with his mother and smells like onions. Someone call Father Francis and set a date at the church.”

“Sorry. Didn't mean to pour salt on the wound.”

She waves me off. “It's fine—as long as you give me a full and unabridged update.”

“Unabridged? Okay, well, after we talked two weeks ago, I did a load of laundry, which I hung on my drying rack because I don't have a dryer. Then I tidied up the apartment and—”

“Okay, okay—abridged. Abridged. For the sake of all things holy, abridged. Just give me the high points. Did you see Foxy Ballantine?”

I swat a fly off my table. “I did.”

Meg rubs her hands together. “That's what I'm talking about. Details, please—where, when, yada yada.”

“Well, I saw him a few times while Natasha was in Paris. . . .”

“You saw him? How? Where?”

“In the house, mostly.”

“Mostly? What does that mean? Were you alone? Tell me you were alone.”

“Yes, we were alone.”

“Where?” She lowers her voice. “Was it in the bedroom?”

“No—jeez. What kind of person do you think I am?” My cheeks flush. “It wasn't like that at all. I just . . . ran into him.”

“With your vagina?”

“MEG!”

“Sorry. But I know you, Kelly Madigan. You're equivocating.”

“I'm not!”

Meg raises an eyebrow and says nothing.

“Okay, fine. I saw him as I was leaving on Monday night. Then on Tuesday, I ran into him on the way to the tube, and he invited me back to the house for some wine and cheese.”

“Oh my God. You had a date. You had a date with Natasha Spencer's husband.”

“It wasn't a date! It was wine and bread and cheese.”

“And sex?” Meg asks, smirking. When I don't answer, her smile fades. “No. Shut up. No. Oh my God. No. Shut up. Holy Jesus. I can't breathe.”

“No—it wasn't . . . I mean . . . Meg, calm down.”

She gasps for air. “Oh my God. Oh my God. This is . . . oh my God.” She fans herself with her hand. “I can't. I just . . . oh my God.”

“Stop—you're going to pass out if you carry on like that.”

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, letting the air out in a slow, steady stream. “Okay. I'm calm. Now. Walk me through this. What happened?”

“Well, things sort of... progressed. . . .”

Meg starts to get riled up again, but presses her hand against her chest. “Okay . . . And how, exactly, did they progress? Be specific.”

I contemplate glazing over the details, but before I can even attempt to do so, the entire story comes pouring out, every aspect of it, from the moment I ran into him on Glenloch Road to the encounter in the kitchen last night. On some level it feels good to lay everything out in the open, like a confession. That was one of my favorite parts of church growing up, when I still actually went to church. I remember going to confession in second grade and pouring out everything, even things I hadn't done (“. . . and I ate too much chocolate . . . and then I coveted my neighbor's wife . . . and also his goods . . .”). It just felt so good to unload, to share my sins and then expunge them with a few Hail Marys. If only adult life were that simple.

When I've finished telling Meg everything, including the planned dinner next weekend in Nottingham, she sits in silence, staring back at me through the screen. She nods slowly, her lips pressed together. Given her earlier behavior, I expected her to respond with fits of squealing, but now that the fantasy she hinted at has become real, her excitement has cooled.

“Right,” she finally says. “Well.”

I rest my head in my hands. “It's awful. I know; it's awful. And the worst part is . . . I still have to be around him. If I could avoid him, I could pretend like none of this ever happened.”

“And what good would that do? It did happen.”

“But I wish it hadn't.”

“Really? Deep in your heart, do you really wish none of it had happened?”

“Of course I do.”

“No, you wish it had happened under different circumstances,” she says. “I know you. I can see the look in your eyes, even through a computer screen. You like this guy. You
really
like this guy. You just wish he weren't married.”

“But he is married, so it doesn't matter what I wish, does it?”

“It isn't a real marriage, though. You've said so yourself.”

“So? The rest of the world doesn't know that.”

“Didn't he say something last night about how that might change? Maybe he and Natasha are considering divorce.”

I replay the interaction in my mind, as I've done countless times since last night. Could he really have meant divorce? And if he did, would he honestly ever consider me in Natasha's place? Of course he wouldn't. In what world would I, a blond slip of a thing from Michigan, be a rival for Hollywood royalty? No world I can think of.

“So what if they are? That doesn't make what we did right.”

“But it kind of makes it less wrong.”

“And how is that?”

“I don't know . . . Like, if you two end up together someday—”

“End up together? Meg, I've known the guy for like six-and-a-half weeks. A little soon to be talking marriage.”

“I didn't mean marriage.”

“Then what did you mean?”

She leans back in her chair. “I don't know. You're right. You haven't been there all that long. And you're lonely. I get it. But hearing you talk, seeing your face . . . Kel, you were never like this with Sam.”

“Like what?”

“Smitten. Enchanted. Besotted. Pick your adjective. Like, you're telling me sleeping with him was a mistake and you regret it and blah blah blah, but the way you look, the tone of your voice—you obviously have feelings for him.”

I look at the keyboard. “And what if I do?”

“Then maybe you should figure out how serious those feelings are. Like, is this some crazy rebound crush after Sam? Or is this something more serious and real? Because if it's the latter, you should probably find out if he feels the same way, if only to prevent yourself from getting hurt.”

“I guess. . . .”

“I'm just trying to look out for you. I don't want you to waste your time. It's like your mom always used to say: ‘You get one life, so you better make the most of it.' ”

“I think her exact words were, ‘You get one life, so don't waste it drinking bad whiskey.'”

“Whatever. Same idea.”

We stare at each other through the screen and then burst into laughter, cackling like wild hens until tears roll down our cheeks. If there's anyone who knows my mother as well as I do, it's Meg, and though we may both be misquoting her terribly, we know exactly how she would feel about this entire situation: She would love it. She'd love the sense of adventure, the messiness of it all, and would support my missteps wholeheartedly, prodding me on like the devil on my shoulder. “Have fun while you're still young!” she'd say. “Be the dancing queen!” It's why she loved that ABBA song so much. She never left the Midwest and didn't do much with her life, but if she closed her eyes and turned up the music, she could pretend she was the girl in the song, living life to the fullest and enjoying the ride. That's what she wanted for me. She wanted me to live a life filled with passion—with adventure.

Tears of laughter stream down my face, and I wonder if it's a coincidence that for the first time in my life, I'm embracing my mother's sense of irresponsibility and running with it full steam ahead and that, in spite or because of this, my heart has never been fuller.

CHAPTER 27

The following week, in addition to testing a new round of recipes for the cookbook, I firm up a menu with Natasha for the dinner in Nottingham. We decide on a simple meal of roast beef with horseradish and mustard sauce, sautéed green beans with caramelized shallots, and rosemary-and-garlic roasted potatoes, to be followed by an offering of cheddar and Stilton and a warm rhubarb crumble. To me, the menu strikes the perfect balance of sophisticated and homey, but Natasha is already having a mild panic attack about the main course because she's (allegedly) allergic to white potatoes and, apparently, hasn't eaten red meat since 1995.

“We can make something else,” I suggest on Thursday, as she picks manically at the hem of her shirt. “Rice instead of potatoes. And roast chicken for beef. Or maybe duck?”

“Do you have any idea how many ducks and chickens we'd need to roast for ten people? Eleven, if we're including you, which I guess we are. No, it has to be beef.”

“We could do pork,” I say. “I know that's red meat, too, but it's less ‘red,' I guess.”

“That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. No, we'll stick with the beef and potatoes. It's what these people eat, and the whole point of this dinner is to cement their relationship with Hugh. I'll just . . . figure it out as we go.” She rests her hands on her hips. “Some days I think this marriage is going to kill me.”

Then why don't you end it?
I want to ask, which makes me think of Hugh's comments last weekend, which, of course, makes me think of Hugh. Every time I'm convinced I've put up an emotional barrier between him and me, someone says something to knock it down. Ironically, that person is usually Natasha.

The next thirty-six hours fly by in a blur, and before I know it, I'm standing in front of my building on Saturday morning, waiting for Sunil to pick me up. Natasha and Olga left yesterday morning, and Hugh left in the afternoon, so that they could get the house in order. I sent many of the ingredients up with Olga ahead of time: the cheese, the produce, the beef. By the time I arrive, she will have unpacked everything into the refrigerator and cupboards, and I can dive right into preparation for this evening.

Sunil arrives in his silver Mercedes and pops the trunk, lifting my small suitcase and battery of kitchen equipment inside. I slip into the backseat, resting my tote beside me and a brown shopping bag on the floor. The bag contains a vat of horseradish mustard sauce, which I made last night, and a tin of homemade oatcakes, which I plan to serve with the cheese. I'll do most of the recipe prep at the house in Nottingham, but to save myself time, I decided to make a few accessory dishes in advance.

Once Sunil has packed up the car, he hops into the front seat and zips out from his parking space, heading north onto the M1 toward Nottingham. I doze off in the backseat, resting my head on the window frame, and the next thing I know, Sunil is pulling into a gravel driveway, nearly two and a half hours later.

“Are we here?” I ask.

“Yes, ma'am.”

I look out the window as he continues along the crushed gravel path toward a two-story Victorian house made of orange brick and covered with thick patches of ivy. The front bay windows are framed with bright white sashes, and a brick chimney rises high above the rooftop. The house isn't vast, but it certainly isn't the “quaint little cottage” I'd imagined when Natasha said Hugh had bought an old vicarage for next to nothing and turned it into his local residence. The house is easily three times the size of the one I grew up in and is surrounded by a smorgasbord of shrubs—rhododendrons, hawthorns, viburnum, holly—all interspersed with wildflowers, ferns, and green mosses.

Sunil parks the car in a large area that looks a little like a parking lot and opens my door. I grab my things and make my way across the crushed gravel to the entrance. Olga opens the door and greets me with the sort of unreadable salutation that has become her signature.

“Miss Natasha, she is resting,” Olga says.

“Is Poppy here?”

Olga furrows her brow. “No. Poppy is home. In London.”

Given the purpose of tonight's dinner, it makes sense for Poppy not to come, but I have never known Natasha to travel without her assistant. Poppy must not know what to do with herself.

“Maybe you could show me around the kitchen,” I suggest. “So I know where everything is when Natasha wakes up.”

Olga leads me into the house, the inside of which is covered in rich wood paneling and parquet floors. A baronial staircase rises to the floor above, and Olga leads me through the reception hall, past the drawing and dining rooms, to the kitchen at the back. The floor is made of square terra-cotta tiles, which run up to the oak cabinetry and jet-black Aga oven and range. Silver and copper pots and pans hang from the ceiling, along with a few terrine and cake pans that appear never to have been used. The entire room feels very self-consciously “English Countryside.”

“Ah, you made it,” Hugh says as he walks into the kitchen. He wears beige chinos and a baby-blue-and-white-striped Cambridge rugby shirt.

“The house—it's lovely,” I say.

“You sound surprised.”

“Natasha made it sound a little more . . . rustic, I guess.”

“As she would.” He looks around the kitchen. “I suppose it was a bit more rustic when I first saw it. It was a rundown vicarage in need of repair. I bought it for a song and made it my little project. Natasha has helped with a lot of the decorating—though I made her promise to stick to the English spirit of the place.”

“Ah, so no Lichtenstein paintings.”

He laughs. “No Lichtenstein, I'm afraid. Unless there was an English Lichtenstein who happened to be chums with Constable or Turner.”

“I'll go out on a limb and say there wasn't.”

“There you have it, then.” He smiles softly, then stops as he catches Olga's stare. “Anyway, sorry for interrupting. I know you have lots to do to prepare for tonight. You're okay with the plan?”

“Fine,” I say.

“Good. I promise these people aren't as tiresome as Natasha says. Some do, indeed, have frightening haircuts, but they're lovely people. Once you and Natasha have got dinner on the table, you can relax and have a good time.”

“I look forward to it,” I say, even though I cannot imagine a scenario in which Hugh, Natasha, and I sitting together around a dinner table could possibly be fun.

 

Five hours before the guests are supposed to arrive, Natasha joins me in the kitchen, dressed in black leggings and an oversize gray sweatshirt. Her hair is tied in a messy bun atop her head, and even though she doesn't appear to be wearing any makeup, she is more beautiful than almost anyone I've ever met.

“Sorry,” she says, covering her mouth as she yawns. “I needed that nap. Last night really took it out of me.”

“Oh?” I ask, trying to sound casual, even though what I'm thinking is,
Why? Why did last night take it out of you? Were you and Hugh having sex? I thought you didn't do that.

“Hugh had a few old friends over for drinks. I haven't drunk that much Scotch in years. And now I remember why.” She rubs her forehead.

“Well, the good news is that we're in really great shape for tonight. I already made the horseradish mustard sauce and the oatcakes, and I've trimmed the beans and prepped the shallots. I was actually just about to start on the rhubarb crumble, if you wanted to help.”

She glances up at the clock. “You're making it now?”

“I figured we could reheat it just before we serve it. And then you could bring it to the table.”

“I was hoping to squeeze in a workout before getting ready. . . .”

“No worries. I can do it myself. I just thought I'd extend the invitation.”

She considers the offer. “You know what? Fuck it. I'll cut the workout down to one hour instead of two. Where's the knife? I'll trim the rhubarb.”

I hand her the chef's knife and the ruby stalks of rhubarb, which I picked up from the market yesterday morning. Natasha grabs a wooden cutting board and begins chopping the rhubarb into inch-long chunks, and as she does, I'm impressed by the finesse and dexterity of her knife skills.

“Where'd you learn to hold a knife like that?” I ask.

She scoops up the rhubarb and dumps it into a large bowl. “I don't even remember at this point. My mom, maybe? And then people like François and Pierre sort of refined my technique along the way.”

“You haven't mentioned much about your mom,” I say. “Does she still live in Philadelphia?”

Natasha hesitates. “She's dead.”

“Oh,” I say. “I'm sorry.”

“It is what it is.”

“When did she . . . ?”

“About six years ago. Cancer.” She smoothes the front of her sweatshirt. “I don't really want to talk about it.”

“Of course—I just . . . My mom is dead, too. She died a few months ago. Right before you hired me, actually.”

Natasha fixes her eyes on mine. “I'm sorry. I had no idea.”

“There's no reason you would. It's not something I tend to bring up.”

“Yeah,” she says, her voice almost sympathetic. She runs her fingers along the cutting board. “Were you . . . close?”

“Not exactly. I mean, we weren't
not
close, but we were very different people. My mom, she was a little . . . quirky.”

“Quirky? Like how?”

“Like . . . when I was in third grade, she started singing ‘Dancing Queen' in front of all of my friends at my birthday party because she'd had a little too much to drink, and then tripped and fell and knocked over the birthday cake. Though I'm not sure if that was worse than my fifth grade birthday party, when I had to bake my own cake because she forgot. . . .”

“Oh,” Natasha says. “I see.” Clearly this is beyond her notion of what “quirky” might entail.

“I take it your mom didn't do those sorts of things,” I say, trying to defuse the awkwardness.

“No.” She clears her throat. “She was a class act, all the way around. My best friend, actually.”

“And she liked to cook?”

“Loved it. So did her mom.”

“The one who made the Cornish hens?”

“That's the one.” She plays with the hem of her sweatshirt. “My mom had a few specialties, too. She used to make this banana bread that . . .” Natasha takes a deep breath. “I can't even think about it without getting choked up.”

I think back to the banana bread I baked for Hugh, and the shit fit she threw when she caught a whiff of it baking in the oven. Maybe that's why she freaked out—not because she fears gluten or sugar, but because the smell reminds her of her dead mother.

“Losing her must have been very hard for you.”

She nods. “It was.”

Her voice is soft, and I realize this is the most real I've ever seen Natasha: sad, honest, with unwashed hair and no makeup. Until now, I have, on some level, regarded her as if she weren't a real human being. She was a diva. A prima donna. A bitch. But standing with her in the kitchen, talking about our dead mothers, I'm grasping, as if for the first time, that there is a person inside that polished shell, an actual person, with emotions and fears and regrets. Maybe she isn't so horrible after all.

“Anyway,” she says, after a long silence, “I told you I didn't want to talk about this. So let's not.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

“What's next? What do I add to the rhubarb?”

“A cup and a half of sugar, some cornstarch, and a vanilla bean.”

I grab the bag of sugar and deposit it next to her on the counter. She picks it up as if it's toxic. “A cup and a half of
sugar?
God, I can't believe how these people eat. It's a wonder they don't all have diabetes.”

“Everyone deserves dessert once in a while,” I say. “I'm sure they don't eat like this every night.”

“I wouldn't be so sure.” She measures the sugar into the bowl and sighs. “Some days I'm really not sure how much longer I can play the politician's wife.”

My breath shortens.
Then don't,
I think.
Leave
. She stirs the sugar into the rhubarb and catches my stare as she reaches for the cornstarch.

“What?”

I hold my breath for a beat, trying to keep my thoughts from pouring out in a messy gush.

“Nothing,” I finally say, and reach for the bag of flour.