Vanity Fare (13 page)

Portrait of a Ladyfinger

What happens when a classically brash young American, in this case a dessert, encounters the staid tradition of Europe, in this case classic French baking? At least this story has a happy ending. Egg whites, granulated sugar, and flour are combined to make the usual—and delicious—ladyfinger. Then fresh Maine blueberries, Washington apples, Jersey peaches, and California grapes are heaped on top, all lavishly adorned with fresh whipped cream, straight from Iowan cows.

13

“ITALIAN TONIGHT,” SIMON ANNOUNCED AS HE LED ME
down East Fourth Street. I bit my tongue before I told him I was allergic to tomatoes. I liked Italian, what carb-loving woman wouldn’t? But I didn’t like being told what cuisine I was eating for dinner. Even my mother had never done that.

It was Wednesday night, and Simon had called the night before to ask me out. Really,
telling
me out. My mother had overheard and almost jumped through the phone in her eagerness to get me out of the house and on a date. I had no choice, especially when Aidan chimed in.

Apparently Grandma had promised some sort of ice cream fiesta, but only if Mom was away. So Mom
had
to go out. Clever, clever Grandma.

We met at St. Mark’s Bookshop in the Village. It was raining, a slow, damp drizzle I felt all the way down to my bones. Simon arrived about ten minutes late, carrying a plaid Burberry umbrella. Because of the rain, his curls were even curlier, which made him look that much more adorable.

I exhaled when I saw him. I really should take this for what it was, and stop fussing. Not that I knew what this was. I felt my breath catch again.

I just knew it was likely to end up in something inappropriate.

We walked onto the wet sidewalk, and Simon held his umbrella over us. I pulled the hood of my sweater up over my head, too. The streets were fairly quiet, for the Village at least. I looked around, remembering hanging out when I was young, punk and oh-so-cool. How things had changed. I knew I had.

We stepped down into the restaurant he had chosen and were assailed with the clash of silverware, clinking glasses, and a noisy hubbub of conversation. It seemed as if a lot of people had the same idea as Simon. There was only one empty table, the one closest to the door, and we sat while Simon frowned and glared at the other diners, as if he blamed them for his poor positioning.

The waiter came and deposited the menus. I wondered for a moment if I should even bother to open mine, since I was willing to bet Simon would order for me.

“I was thinking we’d start with the mussels, then a salad, and then whatever pasta you want,” he said, snapping his menu shut.

Who said I wasn’t psychic?

“I don’t like mussels,” I replied.

“You don’t? They’re great, especially the way they make them here. We’ll order them, you’ll try one, and if you don’t like it, I’ll let you order something for me to try next time we’re out.”

“Sure, but—Oh, never mind.” It was easier to agree than to argue. Pretty much described my marriage.

The waiter came just as I had decided on my pasta. “What can I get you?”

“Mussels in Pernod, two house salads, I’ll have the fettuccine
con due salmoni,
and the lady would like—”

“Penne with endives, please,” I said, handing the menu to the waiter. At least he let me choose my entrée. Thank you, Mr. Prix Fixe.

“Excellent. And wine?”

“Pinot grigio,” Simon answered.

“Water too, please,” I said as the waiter started to walk away.

“So is the pastry chef here all right, then?” I’d seen they had tiramisu; they had to have someone making it.

Simon shrugged. “I’ve never been here before. I just wanted a place where I wouldn’t be recognized.” Well, didn’t that make me feel special.

Simon reached across the table and took my left hand. He began to stroke my fingers in a very determined way. My body, traitor that it was, reacted immediately. How long had it been since someone had touched me this way? I mean, someone other than Simon, who had touched me not even a week ago.

“I missed you,” he said, lowering his mouth to kiss my palm. “It was a lonely weekend.”

I hadn’t seen him on Saturday because I was too busy schlepping my mother’s essential items from Short Hills to Brooklyn. We put most of her stuff in storage while she sorted out whether or not she would actually lose her house, but my apartment was now a sea of books,
I LOVE CATS
sweatshirts, and tiny Swarovski crystal figurines.

Plus I had thrown my back out, and had to force myself not to hobble or wince every time a spasm hit. I’d called my doctor, but he couldn’t see me until next month and my insurance ran out at the end of
this
month.

So, once again, I was fucked. Or not.

I tried not to look uncomfortable as he stroked my hand. Why was I so determined to question it all? He met my gaze, and I felt my insides wobble.

Stop questioning, Molly. Just start doing, and see what happens.

“Your mussels.” The waiter placed the bowl on the table. My nose smelled the Pernod, garlic, butter, and the distinct odor of the shellfish. Except for the mussels, I liked every ingredient.

Simon let go of my hand and reached into the bowl, pulling out the biggest shell and holding it toward me. “Here, try it,” he coaxed, gesturing toward my mouth.

I reached my hand to take it, and he shook his head, motioning for me to eat it from his hand. I felt exquisitely self-conscious as I leaned forward.

The mussel was just as I had remembered: awful. I forced it down my throat and reached for my glass of water, which the busboy had thankfully brought when the mussels arrived.

“Delicious, right?” Simon said, reaching into the bowl and downing a mussel with a big smile on his face.

“Mmm,” I murmured noncommittally.

“You liked it, right?” he said, an aggressive tone in his voice. I bet this was how he sounded when he ordered his kitchen staff around.

“No, actually. I like the sauce, though,” I offered with a placating smile.

He frowned. “Mussels are one of the best foods in the world,” he stated.

Okay, Simon the Objective. Since you say so.

I took another sip of water. The waiter brought the wine over and presented it to Simon, who nodded in approval.

“To us,” he said, raising his glass.

“To us,” I echoed, clinking my glass cautiously against his.

The wine slid down my throat all too easily, and I had to force myself to place the glass back down on the table to avoid downing it all in one nervous swallow.

Simon leaned forward. “So. How are you doing, Molly?”

He extended the
l’
s in my name, adding an almost imperceptible break in between the two syllables in his refined accent. It was deliberately, ridiculously alluring, and I felt a warmth start to spread from my belly to my breasts. So what if he ordered me around? Made me eat nasty seafood? He was interested in me,
me,
Molly Hagan.

Wasn’t he?

“Fine, thank you,” I said. I tossed my head to prove his complete and utter sexiness hadn’t unnerved me. A complete and utter lie.

He chuckled, then placed his fingers on my arm and began to stroke my skin. Up. Down. Up. Down.

Forget it, I was going to throw caution to the winds and have this guy on the white linen tablecloth if he wasn’t careful. The waiter came with our salads just as I was assessing how much room there was between the saltshaker and the breadbasket. Simon pulled his hand away and smiled at me like he knew just what I was thinking.

“I’ve roughed out more of the copy, I’ll be giving it to you—”
oh, God, had I just said that?
—“within the next few days.”

He speared a piece of lettuce. “No work discussion, love,” he said in a dismissive tone. I felt the warmth of my insides turn a little fiery. I was proud of the work I had done for him, and I didn’t want to be scolded, as if I were a little kid talking about boogers at the dinner table.

“Right. Sorry,” I said, spearing my own piece of lettuce and chewing vigorously. I wanted to bite
his
head off for chastising me, but maybe I was being thoughtless. Maybe he worked hard. I could tell he played hard, that was for sure.

“What are your plans for this weekend?” he asked, pushing an olive to the side of his plate with a moue of disdain.

“My son has two birthday parties, my mother needs help with—well, she needs some help this weekend, and I have to finish the presentation I’m not supposed to discuss,” I replied.

He pursed his lips. “Couldn’t someone take your child to those parties? I mean, I was hoping we could get away this weekend, my friend has a little cottage in upstate New York.”

“No, sorry, I can’t,” I said, a lot more apologetically than I would have liked.

“Well, can we do dinner Saturday night?”

Why were we discussing the next date when we had barely begun this one? Which, except for the whole “throw me on the table and ravish me” thing was not going so well. And even though I knew I didn’t really, it still felt like I could taste that mussel. Ugh.

“No, but if you want to get brunch while my son is at a birthday party on Saturday, we can do that. You’ll have to come to Brooklyn, though.”

“Brooklyn, hm? Do I need to bring my passport?”

Gee, that was original. Not. I gave him a weak smile. “No, not necessary.”

“Great, then. We’ll figure out the details later.” He hauled his napkin off his lap and wiped his mouth. “I’ve been reading the most amazing book,” he said.

“Fiction?”

He nodded.

“What’s it about?” I asked.

“This fantastic tale about two business adversaries who create a world defined only by logic and reasoning.”

“A romance, then.”

“What?” He gave me a puzzled, slightly annoyed, look. “No, not a romance.”

“Who’s it written by?”

He waved his hand in dismissal. “No idea. I picked this up at the airport because
Fortune
was sold out. The last time I read a book was at university,” he said proudly. “I’ll lend it to you when I’ve finished.”

“I’m not really big on logic and reasoning books,” I said, smiling. “I read a lot of romance, and of course, the classics, although lately my reading taste is more Jane Airhead than
Jane Eyre
.”

“What?” he said, this time clearly annoyed I was making another joke he didn’t get.

“Never mind.”

“Well, I’ll lend it to you nonetheless, and you can tell me what you think.”

I think I don’t want to read books recommended by someone who never reads,
I thought.
I think I would prefer to make my own decisions, thank you, whether about food or my weekend plans or books.

The waiter returned, bearing our salad plates away with him. There were fewer customers than before, so a few empty tables dotted the landscape and the noise was less obtrusive. I looked around at the walls, which were done in an Italian fresco style, with deliberately faded paint and paintings of Renaissance women wearing gold clothing. It was very homey, and if it weren’t quite so loud, very comfortable.

I sighed and leaned back in my chair. The wine definitely made my back feel better. Simon had pulled his BlackBerry out and was scrutinizing it, so I didn’t have to drum up conversation. I looked at some of the other couples, wondering if any of them were on dates, or were married, or, God forbid, about to get divorced.

I spotted her first. Her blond hair was pulled back into one of those low chignons
Vogue
had always raved about when I had a subscription. I could see the long curve of her neck where it rose from a column of dark rose silk. My stomach tightened. I looked past her, past her graceful hands making a point, past her aquiline nose I could just see in profile to him. He was wearing a sparklingly crisp white shirt, an equally white T-shirt just showing underneath. His face looked tan, as if he had spent some time in the sun recently.

They looked like a fabulous, successful couple. I wanted to throw up.

Just then, he caught my eye, then gave me a tentative wave. I exhaled and waved back. Simon noticed the motion, then followed the direction of my eyes and saw them also. He turned back toward me. “Who’s that with Sylvia?”

“My husband,” I said, then quickly grabbed the glass of wine and downed it in one gulp. Then registered he knew Sylvia, too. Of course he did. The woman sure got around.

“Oh. What does he do again?”

“Lawyer.”

“Sylvia does like a successful man,” he said in a dry tone of voice. I wondered if he had dated her, too. She turned and waved, a light flit of her fingers, as if she were a queen and we her subjects. She gave Simon a raised, knowing eyebrow, then smirked at me.

I felt like I was thirteen again and the prettiest senior girl had just told me I was wearing high-water pants and I was too fat.

Hugh said something to Sylvia and stood up, beginning to move toward us. She just clutched the back of her chair and continued staring. I smoothed my sweaty palms on my pants and swallowed.

“Nice to see you, Molly,” Hugh said. He gave Simon an inquiring look.

“Hugh, this is Simon Baxter. Simon, Hugh.” They shook hands and gave each other appraising stares. I knew I was biased, but I thought Simon fared better in the stare department than Hugh did. Maybe it was because I’d seen Hugh naked.

“You’re with Sylvia, then?” Simon asked, leaning back in his chair and tilting his head up to talk to Hugh.

“Yes, how do you know her?”

Simon chuckled, threw her a quick glance, and looked back at Hugh. “Let’s just say I’ve known Sylvia for a while.”

There was so much left unspoken; did he mean
Let’s just say we’ve slept together and we’re both more beautiful than you
? or was it more like
She tried, but wasn’t able to make anything happen
? or what?

I was guessing that maybe the “or what” was me being paranoid. I mean, just because Sylvia knew John and knew Simon before didn’t necessarily mean they’d all slept together.

Oh, ugh, not at the same time.

I needed to stop thinking about all this. When had I started living in
Peyton Place
?

“So, Hugh,” I said, grateful for once to have highly developed conflict-aversion skills, “are you taking Aidan to that movie he wants to see? He said he had asked you about it, but if you don’t want to take him, my mother said she would.” Maybe she’d have to pawn that crystal swan that kept almost slipping off the table to afford the tickets. Hey, a bright side!