Too Many Cooks (10 page)

She heads for the stairs, and Poppy follows.

“Have fun,” I call after them. “I can't wait to hear all about it—especially the food.”

“We'll definitely report back,” Natasha says. Then she turns to face me, a tight smile on her face. “Maybe we'll try that chocolate mousse Hugh ordered while I was shooting
Unhinged
—the one your version seems to have dethroned. I guess we'll see if he was right—or if he was just trying to make you feel good about yourself.”

Then she turns back and, with Poppy nipping at her heels, disappears upstairs.

CHAPTER 12

I roll over the next morning to the sound of my phone buzzing on my nightstand. I turned off the ringer, as I do every night, though that's more out of habit than necessity, since the only person who uses this dedicated line is Poppy, and we barely speak. But when I glance down at the screen, I see Poppy's name flashing up at me. Why would she be calling me? Isn't she in Paris?

“Hello?” I say, my voice still scratchy with sleep.

“Where are you?” Poppy barks into the phone.

“At home. Why?”

“Because Olga has been waiting for you for twenty bloody minutes, that's why.”

I glance over at the clock. It's 8:20. Crap!

“I'm so sorry—I have no idea how this happened. I must have forgotten to set my alarm.”

“This is precisely the sort of thing Natasha didn't want to happen. She will be very unhappy when she hears.”

“Please don't tell her. Please? I'll leave right now—I'll just throw on clothes and grab a taxi. I won't even shower.”

“I don't need the details, thank you.”

“Okay. Just . . . don't tell Natasha. She'll kill me.”

Poppy hesitates. “Fine. But I can't make any promises for Olga. I have no control over her.”

I jump out of bed. “Thank you, Poppy. I swear this won't happen again.”

“Good,” she says, and hangs up.

I tear through my apartment, throw on clean underwear and clothes, and run a brush through my hair. I toss a random assortment of makeup into my purse, then burst through the front door and hail the first taxi I see. Fifteen minutes later, after hitting a brief traffic jam on Chalk Farm Road, the cab deposits me in front of Natasha's house, where I find Olga tapping her foot as she points to her watch.

“You late,” she says.

“I know—I'm so sorry. I forgot to set my alarm.”

“Natasha say eight o'clock.”

“I know,” I repeat. “I made a mistake. It won't happen again. I promise.”

She lets out a grumpy
hmpf
and unlocks the front gate, leading me around the house to a side entrance I've never seen before. Her purse is slung over her shoulder, as if she plans to leave as soon as I get inside.

“I buy salmon and onion and extra carrots,” she says as she opens the side door. “For testing.”

“Perfect. Thank you. That will save me a lot of time.”

“No chicken today?”

“I think the version I made yesterday will do the trick.”

She nods without smiling. “Was good. Very good. Mr. Ballantine, he liked very much.”

“Really?”

“He finish whole plate.”

By the time I'd baked the chicken yesterday, Natasha and Poppy had already left for Paris, so I'd used Olga as my guinea pig and left a few pieces for Mr. Ballantine as well. Olga never displays much emotion, but she quickly wolfed down her entire piece, picking every last bit of meat off the bone. I'm glad to hear Mr. Ballantine had a similar reaction.

Olga leads me through the door into a utility room, which connects directly to the kitchen through a closed door I'd never noticed before. I guess I'd always assumed it was a closet.

I make for the refrigerator, but when I don't hear Olga behind me, I glance over my shoulder. She is standing in the utility room, watching me.

“Could you . . . I mean, would you mind keeping all of this between you and me?”

She narrows her eyes. “I no tell Natasha this time. But next time? Big trouble.”

“There won't be a next time—thank you.”

She stares at me, expressionless. “You work now,” she says, then shuts the door and leaves.

 

Nine hours later, I stand in front of a thick piece of poached salmon, its surface carnation pink. I cooked the fish first thing this morning, slipping four filets into a simmering bath of vegetables and white wine, then let it chill in the refrigerator all day, while I searched the Internet for descriptions of Bon Cuit's carrot salad. I made two different versions of the salad, neither of which was bad, but neither was very good either. The first was under-seasoned and bland, and the second tasted overwhelmingly of vinegar.

My fork glides through the salmon's supple flesh, meeting almost no resistance. I take a bite and close my eyes, trying to focus on all of the flavors: what works, what doesn't, what's too strong, what isn't strong enough. The silky texture is perfect, but the flavor could use a little . . . something. Maybe a leek in the broth? Or some shallots? I'll have to work on it next week. While Natasha is in Paris, surrounded by what are probably the most amazing pastries in the world. None of which she will eat.

I pack up the leftover salmon filets and leave them in the refrigerator with a note:

I finish cleaning the kitchen and pack up my bag. As I zip it shut, Olga walks in.

“You ready?” She clutches her purse strap.

“Yep. There's some salmon in the refrigerator if you want to take some home with you.”

She looks as if she is about to decline, then stops herself. “Is good?”

“Pretty good. Not perfect. I'm still working on it.”

She considers my offer, then waves her hand. “Meh. I leave for Mr. Ballantine.”

She escorts me out the side door and locks it behind her, and then the two of us head for the tube station, where we take different trains on the Northern line to our respective destinations.

As I emerge from the Warren Street stop, I feel the split-splat of rain on the top of my head. The sprinkle quickly escalates into a full-fledged downpour. This wouldn't be a problem if I had an umbrella or anything resembling appropriate footwear, but in my rush to leave this morning, I forgot my umbrella and managed to throw on a pair of flats that are quite possibly the least rainproof shoes ever designed.

I bolt into a small pharmacy on Tottenham Court Road, where I buy a cheap umbrella, but by the time I do, I'm already soaked. My cream T-shirt is dripping wet, and my jeans are thick and soggy with rain. As I leave the shop, I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror and flinch. My blond hair clings to my neck and face in long, stringy pieces, and the mascara I applied during my cab ride this morning has stained my face with streaks of black. If I ran into someone on the street who looked like this, I would probably cross to the other side.

I wipe off the mascara as best I can with the back of my hand, and then, with my new umbrella in hand, I rush outside and hurry along Warren Street toward my flat. I step in no fewer than six puddles, soaking and most likely ruining my shoes, and by the time I reach my building, my fingers have turned blue. Today definitely has not gone according to plan.

Just when I'm about to let out a sigh of relief that I'm back at my building, I reach into my purse for my keys and panic.

My keys. Where are they?

I riffle through my purse, digging past my wallet and notebook and various cosmetics I threw in this morning, but the keys are nowhere to be found. No. No, no, no. This can't be happening. How could I forget them? How?

Convinced I'm simply looking in the wrong place, I squat beneath the building's negligible overhang and dump everything in my purse onto the ground. No luck. I am officially locked out.

I stuff everything back into my purse, leap to my feet, and press the buzzer for Tom, the building manager. No answer. I press again and again, but no one picks up. I glance down at my watch: 5:58. Tom works until 5:00. Perfect.

As I get out my phone, a young woman comes out of the building, letting me in. I take cover in the warm lobby and head for my flat, though I'm not really sure what my plan is. I have no way of getting inside.

I jiggle the knob once I reach my unit, more out of hope than anything else, but as expected, I can't open the door. I let out a groan, and as I do, a middle-aged man comes down the stairs from the floor above and rushes past me.

“Excuse me,” I say. He slows his step and glances over his shoulder. “I'm locked out of my flat. Do you know of anyone who can help? Someone who might have a key?”

He looks at his watch and frowns. “Tom's left for the day, I'm afraid, and anything to do with keys has to go through him. Perhaps you could stay with a friend until the morning, when Tom gets in.”

A friend? Like . . . who? The only person I could maybe, possibly call a friend is Poppy, and she is in Paris. Also, I'm pretty sure that if I referred to her as my friend in her presence, she would gasp in horror.

I brace myself for the awkward proposal about to cross my lips. “I know this is going to sound crazy, since you don't know me, but . . . would you mind if I slept in your flat tonight? I don't really know many people in town and—”

“Sorry,” he says, his cheeks red. “I'm . . . going out for the evening. You'd have better luck with an acquaintance, I'm sure. Good luck.”

He nods stiffly and hurries through the lobby and out the front door.

Great. Now what am I supposed to do? I don't know anyone in this whole damn city, other than those connected to the Ballantine-Spencer household. Natasha and Poppy are in Paris; Olga is . . . well, wherever the hell Olga lives, and Mr. Ballantine is . . .

I catch myself mid-thought. Mr. Ballantine. I can't call him. Can I? Maybe he could get ahold of Tom or knows how to pick a lock. Or, at the very least, maybe he'll suggest something better than sleeping on a stranger's couch.

I grab my phone and run a search for his office number. He is a member of Parliament, so his parliamentary address and phone number are easy to find. As soon as the number pops up, I dial it. The phone rings a few times, and then a woman answers.

“Hugh Ballantine's office.”

“Could I please speak to Mr. Ballantine?”

“I believe he's left for the day. Would you like to leave a message?”

I slump against the door to my flat. “No, thank you. I need to speak to him tonight.”

“I'm sorry. Perhaps you could send him an e-mail.”

“I guess that might work.”

“Best of luck.”

I am about to hang up, when she yells into the receiver.

“Hello?”

I pull the phone back to my ear. “Yes?”

“You're in luck. Mr. Ballantine just popped back in to pick up some papers. Who shall I say is calling?”

“Kelly. Kelly Madigan. I work for his wife.”

She presses the phone to her chest, and I hear the muffled sound of her voice: “
A Kelly Madigan? She says she works for your wife?
”

“Ah, right, yes. Put her through to my office.”

“Just a minute, please,” the woman says.

A few moments of silence pass, and then he picks up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hi . . . Mr. Ballantine . . . it's Kelly. The cookbook writer.”

“Yes, hi. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I clear my throat. “I . . . well, the thing is . . . I've locked myself out of my apartment, and the building manager has left for the day, and I don't know what to do.”

“Oh, dear,” he says.

“Do you by any chance have Tom's number?”

“Tom?”

“The building manager.”

“Afraid not.”

“Oh.” I grasp for an alternative. “What about a locksmith? I'm not supposed to, for security reasons, but I can't think of any other—”

“Why don't you just stay at our place for the night.”

My heart nearly stops. “At your house?”

“Of course. We aren't exactly short of space.”

“I don't think Natasha would be okay with that,” I say. “She's been pretty clear about maintaining . . . boundaries.”

“Then this can be our little secret. Really, I insist. It'll be a lot simpler than anything else.”

My heart races. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” He presses the phone to his chest and tells his secretary that he'll just be a moment. “Where are you now?”

“In my lobby.”

“The flat Natasha rented you in Marylebone?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Okay. Sit tight, and I'll be there in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“Oh, no, I can take the tube.”

“Don't be silly. Sunil is driving me home anyway. It's basically on the way.”

“Really? Because I don't mind taking the tube—honestly.”

“I'm sure you don't, but I'm offering to pick you up.”

“I know, but . . .”

But what? I don't want to impose or overstep? A little too late for that, if I'm already planning on sleeping in their house. It's a free ride, after all, and he wouldn't offer if he minded....

“Okay,” I say. “If you're sure it isn't any trouble.”

“None at all. See you soon.”

He hangs up, and I slip my phone back into my bag, wondering if what I feel deep in my chest is excitement or dread or, more likely, a combination of both.