Too Many Cooks (13 page)

“Natasha Spencer.”

Jess comes to an abrupt halt. “Natasha
Spencer?
”

I nod. The nondisclosure agreement doesn't say I can't tell people I'm working on her cookbook. I'm not supposed to give details about personal stuff—the kinds of things I told Meg when I swore her to secrecy. But I can talk about the book in broad terms and, per my contract, can even include it on my resume. What I can't do is run to the tabloids and tell them Natasha and Hugh sleep in separate bedrooms.

“You know she's a huge supporter of the Tate, right?”

“I didn't,” I say. But given the impressive work in her house, I probably could have guessed.

“Oh, yeah—huge. She gives like hundreds of thousands of dollars a year.”

“Wow.”

“Imagine having that kind of cash to burn.”

“I don't think I can.” I adjust my purse strap on my shoulder. “So tell me more about—”

“Ruby!” Jess cuts me off as she waves at someone over my shoulder. “Sorry,” she says, looking back at me. “I have to talk to Ruby for a second. But make yourself comfortable. The food is free, and it's an open bar, so drink up! I'll only be a few minutes, and then I can introduce you to some of my friends.”

“Okay, sure.” I glance around the room. “Where should I—”

But before I can finish my question, Jess is already on her way to meet Ruby, and I stand in front of the bar, alone, fearing this night isn't going to be quite as much fun as I'd hoped.

 

Okay, so maybe Jess isn't going to be my new best friend after all.

It's not that she isn't nice or interesting or fun, but I haven't spoken two words to her since she ran off to speak to Ruby. She has waved to me a few times from across the room and mouthed “
Sorry—work
” several times while frowning apologetically, but that doesn't change the fact that, thirty minutes later, I'm still standing in front of the bar, alone. The only difference between now and thirty minutes ago is that I'm on my second glass of wine instead of my first. The crowd has also ballooned to a swarm of some three hundred people.

Rather than drink myself into a stupor, I decide to take a lap around the room and survey the art on display. I push through the smartly dressed masses, trying not to spill my Malbec on the various designer boots and heels. I know this is a work event for Jess, but part of me wishes I'd known in advance how much networking and schmoozing she'd have to do because I feel just as lonely here as I did three days ago—possibly more so, even though I'm in the midst of all these people.

I stop in front of Lichtenstein's
Drowning Girl,
which was always one of my favorites and is a work I've never seen in person until now. I bought a poster of it sophomore year of college and hung it above my bed, and every time I walked into my room I'd smile seeing it there. Everyone else I knew had the standard posters—
Starry Night,
“My Goodness My Guinness,”
Animal House,
the Beatles—but my room was different. I didn't choose that poster because it looked cool or matched my comforter; I bought it because I liked
this
artist,
that
painting. I'd studied it and read about it and wanted a piece of it for myself, even if that piece was a ten-dollar poster. I loved—still love—the melodrama of it all, the woman drowning in a turbulent sea, the tears, the histrionic thought bubble: “
I don't care! I'd rather sink—than call Brad for help!
”

“It's brilliant, isn't it?”

I look to my side and find a plump, middle-aged man with a dark, scruffy beard standing next to me, rubbing his chin.

“It is,” I say, offering a polite smile.

He removes his glasses and squints, inspecting the painting more closely. “But I do think his appropriation of the tragic female is quite misunderstood.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. One might say this woman is taking charge of her own life—choosing death rather than relying on a paternalistic figure to care for her. One might say it is, in fact, a
feminist
work.”

“I'm not sure I'd go that far. . . .”

He puts his glasses back on and turns to face me. “But why not, I ask? Why
not?
”

Oh, dear God. Leave it to me to find the lunatic in the crowd.

“Well, because . . . if you're asking me . . .”

“Kelly?”

I whirl around at the sound of my name. The air thickens.

“Hugh—Mr. Ballantine.” His face is bright red—literally—thanks to the event lighting, and if I had to guess, I'd say mine is the same color au naturel. “It's . . . lovely to see you.”

“Likewise.”

The portly man beside me clears his throat and extends his hand in Hugh's direction. “Fitz-Lloyd St. John Kerr,” he says.

Oh my God. Is that one name?

Hugh reaches out and shakes his hand. “Ah, yes, of course. Good to meet you.”

“Indeed, the pleasure is all mine. I was just chatting to . . . I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?”

“Kelly.”

“Right, right, right. I was just chatting to
Kelly
about how many of Lichtenstein's works could actually be described as feminist totems. Don't you agree?”

Hugh offers a jokey frown. “I'm afraid you're asking the wrong MP. I still haven't figured out why, exactly, this is art.”

Fitz-Lloyd lets out a sharp gasp. “You can't be serious, surely?”

“I'm afraid so. But I suppose that's why I'm in Parliament and not teaching history of art at Oxford.”

“Yes. Quite.” Fitz-Lloyd presses his glasses up the bridge of his nose and glances over Hugh's shoulder. “Ah. I see Bryonie has arrived. If you'll excuse me . . .”

He leaves, and I shift my focus back to the painting, even though I can feel Hugh's eyes on me. He eventually looks at the work as well.

“A bit like you on Friday night, eh?”

“Assuming she's drowning because she forgot her keys and umbrella. And anyway, I did call Brad for help.”

“Ah, so I'm Brad in this scenario?”

“You were more like the last resort.”

“I see.”

I take a sip of wine, trying not to act as awkward as I feel. “So . . . what are you doing here?”

“You mean other than saving you from boring nutters with six names?”

“Yes, other than that.”

“We're big patrons of the Tate—well, Natasha is, anyway—so we always get invited to events and exhibition launches. I don't often go, but since I saw this one was for Lichtenstein, I thought I'd call in.”

“I thought you didn't understand how his stuff qualifies as art.”

“I don't. But since you mentioned the other week that you'd done your thesis on him . . . well, I thought maybe I should learn more about him.”

“Ah, so it's my fault, then,” I say, trying to sound lighthearted even though what I'm really thinking is,
Oh my God, you came because of me?

“Yes, I think it's fair to lay the blame on you.” Hugh smiles. “Anyway, I might ask you the same question. How did you wangle an invite? This is a pretty exclusive crowd.”

“Oh, so cookbook ghostwriters don't qualify as exclusive?”

“No, sorry, I didn't mean—”

“I'm kidding. The only people who might use that word to describe me are a few Michiganders back home.”

“Who?”

“Michiganders. People from Michigan. That's where I'm from, originally.”

“Ah, I see. Where I'm from . . . well, I'm not really sure what we're called. Nottinghamians, I suppose? We don't really have a name.”

“You're from Nottingham?”

“Indeed.”

“So what you're saying is . . . you're Robin Hood.”

He laughs. “Not quite.”

“I don't know.... You're trying to help the poor; you're from Nottingham. . . . Sounds pretty convincing to me.”

“Well, if you want to call me Robin Hood, who am I to argue?”

“Exactly.” I look at the floor, then back up at him. “I think what you're doing about the education bill is great, by the way. You're very . . .”

“Stubborn?”

“I was going to say brave.”

He peers over his shoulder, then looks back at me, his eyes soft. “Listen, I was wondering if you might like to—”

“There you are!”

Jess bursts between us and lets out a huge sigh.

“I am
so
sorry I abandoned you. This night has been insane. It's like everyone I've ever met in London is here. It's nuts.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, I'd love to introduce you to some of my friends. They're all on the second-floor concourse.”

I glance up at Hugh, and as I do, Jess follows my gaze.

“Oh—unless you're . . . already busy?”

Hugh holds my stare for a beat. Then his shoulders relax. “I was actually just leaving,” he says. He reaches out and shakes my hand. “Lovely running into you.”

He smiles and pushes his way through the crowd toward the exit.

“Sorry—I hope I wasn't interrupting anything,” Jess says as she leads me to the escalator.

“It was nothing,” I say. “Really.”

But as I look over my shoulder and watch Hugh's head disappear into the crowd, I know that isn't even close to the truth.

CHAPTER 16

Were we flirting again? Because it sure felt that way. Granted, I'm out of practice and am hardly an authority on the subject. Before Sam came along, I was never particularly well-versed in the art of seduction (example: my first interaction with Sam involved a conversation about a sandwich), and once we'd started dating, I didn't need to bother anymore. But that conversation with Hugh . . . it felt different, somehow. Like we were both trying, like we both wanted to make the moment last. I called him
Robin Hood,
for crying out loud. Who does that? People who die alone, if I had to guess. And what would have happened if Jess hadn't interrupted us? Would we have spent all evening talking? Or would I have made another painfully moronic comment, this time about the Sheriff of Nottingham?

Once we arrive on the second floor, Jess introduces me to some of her friends, who are around my age and at similar points in their careers. But as hard as I try to convince myself they will become my new best friends—that they must, that the only reason I'm flirting with an older, married man is because I don't know anyone else here—I find myself struggling to connect with any of them. When did making friends get so hard? In high school and college, I didn't even have to think about it. It just sort of . . . happened. But ever since I left school and entered the real world, making friends has required a lot of effort, with mixed results. It's not that there's anything
wrong
with Jess or her friends. I just don't feel an instant connection. Not the way I do with Hugh—who obviously isn't a viable confidant.

I decide that if I can't fill my loneliness with friends, I'll fill it with work. And if any recipe can suck up a huge chunk of my time, it's Natasha's blasted kale burger. I'm stumped. I try lentils; I try rice; I try beans, in various combinations and proportions, but nothing quite works. Everything tastes so . . .
healthy,
and not in a good way. I've concocted many nutritious dishes over the years, and the key is to pack them with flavor and substance, but all of my burger attempts fall short.

Finally, after spending the entire week testing various incarnations, I get it right: crushed white beans, a handful of breadcrumbs, some smoked paprika, and just enough egg to bind it all together with the chopped kale and other vegetables. It's smoky and toothsome without being heavy or gummy. I have no idea if it resembles what Natasha has in mind, but thankfully she returns from Paris today, so I can have her taste it, along with the salmon and the carrot salad, which I've remade in anticipation of her return.

As I finish preparing the sauce for the salmon around three o'clock, I hear the front door open, followed by the click-clack of heels and the staccato of Poppy's voice as she marches into the kitchen, her phone pressed against her ear.

“No. Absolutely not. We said one o'clock.
One
. No, not Monday—tomorrow.” She lets out a heavy sigh. “Fine. Yes. Tomorrow at one. Hot stones. Yes.”

She grunts as she hangs up.

“Welcome back,” I say. “How was Paris?”

“Exhausting.”

“Eat anything good?”

“Anything? Try everything.”

“Where did you eat? What did you have?”

“Oh, you know, this and that. We ate at Joël Robuchon's place one night. That was lovely.”

“You ate at
Joël Robuchon?
”

“You've heard of it? I thought you've never been to Paris.”

“I haven't. But I work with chefs for a living. Robuchon is a legend.”

“In that case, I should have asked for his autograph while he chatted up Natasha.”

“You
met
him?”

“Yes. He's charming.”

I'm trying not to geek out over this, but oh my God! Back in Chicago, François would talk all the time about Robuchon as one of his idols. I can't believe Natasha met him.

“Anyway,” Poppy says, “now that we're back I need to do about five million things, and I'm already behind.”

“Is Natasha around? I have a few recipes I'd like her to taste.”

“Taste? Oh, no, no, no. We both overdid it while in Paris. Too much wine and chocolate. She's juicing from now until Monday. We both are.”

I look down at the bowl of mustard-dill sauce. “But I've prepared everything specially. Natasha said she'd do the tasting today, when she returned.”

Poppy shrugs. “She changed her mind.”

“But all of the food—what am I supposed to do with it?”

“I don't know. I'm sure you'll think of something.”

“But can't she just—”

Poppy's phone rings in her hand, cutting me off. “Her facialist. I have to take it.” Her eyes flit toward the mustard-dill sauce. “As for the food . . . just—whatever. Throw it out.”

She spins around, answers the phone, and, as she schedules an emergency bird poop facial for Natasha, waltzes out of my sight.

 

Throw it out? Throw it
out?
I poached a pound of salmon, meticulously julienned two pounds of carrots, and pulled a recipe for freaking kale burgers out of my butt, and she wants me to throw it all away? No. I refuse. That isn't merely wasteful. It's also disrespectful and insulting.

Instead, I prepare a plate for Hugh, drizzling a bit of mustard sauce over a slice of salmon, which I place next to a mound of carrot salad and a seared kale burger. I wrap up the plate and leave yet another note:

He said to call him Hugh, but somehow that still doesn't feel appropriate, even though I've lived and worked here for a month. He is a member of Parliament. He is
my boss's husband
. Never mind that he and Natasha sleep in separate bedrooms, or that he invited me to sleep in his house last Friday night, or that, against my better judgment, I am developing something of a crush on him. None of that changes anything. Or at least it shouldn't.

I take the rest of the leftovers home with me because I refuse to throw out perfectly good food that it took me days to develop and prepare. That said, I have eaten salmon and kale burgers every day for the past week, so the idea of eating either for yet another meal makes me gag a little. Why couldn't we be stuck on the chocolate mousse recipe? Or even the sesame chicken? I'm not sure my gastrointestinal system can take another week of beans and kale.

When I get back to my flat, Jess Walters calls as I try to make room in my overstuffed refrigerator for more kale and salmon delights.

“Sorry again about Tuesday,” she says. “I had no idea the night would be so crazy.”

“Don't worry about it—I had fun.”

“It was pretty cool, right? I'm glad you got to meet a few of my friends.”

“They seemed great,” I say, trying to sound more enthusiastic than I'd felt at the time.

“A bunch of us are meeting up at a bar in Soho tomorrow night—you should come.”

“I'd love to, but . . .”

But what? I have plans to sit home alone and eat kale burger leftovers? Because let's be honest: Those are the only plans I have. I didn't feel an instant connection with any of her friends, but that doesn't mean I can't hang out with them. And who knows? Maybe there will be new people I haven't met before. People who aren't Poppy or Olga. People who aren't Hugh.

“I'd love to,” I say, and I try really hard to mean it.

 

The next night I show up at The Blind Pig a little after nine, winding my way down Poland Street in Soho. The bar is one of those fake speakeasies, where the owners make the place feel hidden and a bit hard to find, even though everything about it is legal and publicized. The door is tucked away beneath a red OPTICIANS sign, the only indication I have arrived at the correct location being the door knocker in the shape of a blindfolded boar.

I knock three times, and a host lets me in and directs me up a narrow stairway, which is lit in various shades of red and purple. When I reach the top, I enter the cozy, dimly lit bar, which features an antique mirrored ceiling, a copper counter, plush leather banquettes, and wood-paneled walls.

“Kelly!”

Jess waves to me from one of the banquettes, where she is surrounded by a group of about ten people, who sit on wooden chairs and tufted leather stools around a series of small, round tables. Everyone looks in my direction as she waves, making me the center of attention, something I never enjoy.

As before, Jess looks hip and stylish, wearing a black-and-white checkered skirt and silky black top, her fiery red hair pulled into a high bun. Given my wardrobe disaster on Tuesday, I bought a cheap, black peplum blouse this afternoon at Topshop, but the material is itchy, and the part around my hips kind of looks like a tutu.

“Have a seat,” she says, scooting over to make room for me on the banquette. “Everyone, this is Kelly. We went to college together.”

Ten names fire at me like bullets, and I've already forgotten half of them by the time the last person—Harry—says his name. I recognize three of the people from the Lichtenstein exhibit, but the others, including Harry, are all new.

“So what are people drinking?” I ask. “Any recommendations?”

“I have a ‘Cuba Pudding Jr.',” Jess says, handing me a drink list. “But everything is great. You're a writer—you'll get a kick out of the menu.”

I scan the drink options: “Rum DMC,” “Sidecar Named Desire,” “Dill or No Dill.” When I reach one called “Robin Hood, Quince of Thieves,” I stiffen.

Robin Hood.

Nottingham.

Hugh.

“Fancy a serial killer?”

I look up to find Harry sitting beside me, having swapped places with Jess, who is now several seats away chatting to a handsome man in a green polo shirt. Harry has reddish blond hair, which recedes a bit around his temples, and a long, lanky figure, with narrow shoulders and graceful hands.

“I . . . what?”

“A ‘Cereal Killer.' ” He points to the menu. “It's supposed to be good.”

“Oh, right.” I read the ingredients: rum, white chocolate, Galliano, chocolate milk. “Probably a little too sweet for me.”

“For me, too, if I'm being honest. I just want someone to order one because I love the name.”

“It's right up there with the ‘Cuba Pudding Jr.' and the ‘Kindergarten Cup.'” I glance at his hammered copper mug. “What are you drinking?”

“The ‘58 Poland.' Leave it to me to pick the most boring name on the list.”

“That's the address, right? Or am I missing some sort of British pun?”

“No, it's the address. But I liked the ingredients. I'll try to order something more adventurous next time.”

I look back at the menu. “Maybe I'll have the ‘Thermo-Nuclear Daiquiri.' How could I turn down a drink whose ingredients include ‘absinthe, glowing radiation, and danger'?”

“Sounds like a recipe for a perfect Saturday night, if you ask me.”

He waves down the waitress, and I order my drink, and as she leaves he rests his mug on the table.

“So you're American, then?”

“No, I put on this accent for fun.”

He blushes. “Right, sorry, obviously.”

“I'm just giving you a hard time,” I say, though considering I have no friends here, I don't know why I think alienating a perfectly nice, attractive guy is a good idea.

“I should be used to it by now. I'm something of a specialist at pointing out the obvious.”

“Well, I'm something of a specialist at making situations as awkward as possible, so I guess we're even.”

He laughs. “Where are you from in America?”

“Michigan. That's where Jess and I met—at University of Michigan.”

“Ah, brilliant. That's in Ann Arbor, right?”

“Yeah, you know it?”

“Not from personal experience. But one of my mates from uni is doing a law degree there. He's in his first year.”

“Oh. So . . . you just graduated from college?”

“God, no—we graduated seven years ago. But he worked in the City for a while, met an American girl, and they moved back to the States together. He decided to study law as part of his plan to stay there.”

“Ah, got it.”

“I've actually never been to America, if you can believe it.”

“Until now, I'd never left. So yeah, I can believe it.”

“I recently applied for a fellowship there, at Harvard. Not sure if I'll get it—or if I'd take it if I did. It's quite a long way.”

“What kind of fellowship?”

“At the Kennedy School. I work in public policy. International trade, mostly.” He grins. “Don't worry, I won't bore you all night with talk of farm subsidies.”

I pretend to wipe my brow. “Kidding—I'm sure your work is much more interesting than mine.”

“I somehow doubt that. What do you do?”

“I write cookbooks.”

“Like Nigella?”

“No. I mean, yes, but you won't see my name on the cover.”

“Oh. Then . . . where would I see it?”

“Buried somewhere in the acknowledgments, usually. I'm sort of the ‘cook behind the cook.' I test and write up the recipes for food personalities—chefs, TV hosts, actresses.”

“Ah, a bit like a ghostwriter.”

“Exactly like a ghostwriter. That's what I do.”

He picks up his drink and takes a sip. “What brings you to London, then? Anyone I've heard of?”

“I'm helping Natasha Spencer with her cookbook.”