Too Many Cooks (17 page)

“So what have you left for me tonight, then? Something delicious, or something gone very wrong?”

“I'd never leave you a stinker.”

He laughs. “Yes, well, thank God for that. Though admittedly even the recipes you consider disappointments have been lovely.”

“Thanks.” A familiar warm feeling washes over me.

He opens the refrigerator and pulls out the dish of paella and the plate of kale burgers.

“More bloody kale burgers?” he says, his eyes wide.

“Yes. Sorry. Natasha wanted me to tweak the recipe. Again.”

“Good grief. What version is this? The fifth?”

“Of the ones you've tried? The third.”

“And of the ones I haven't?”

“I've lost track. The eighth, maybe?”

“All this for a burger made of
kale?
”

I shrug. “It's what she wants.”

He scratches his temple as he lowers his voice to a mumble. “And we all know what that means. . . .”

“They're not that bad, are they?”

“No—sorry. They're not bad at all. The last version was quite nice, actually.” He grins. “For a kale burger.”

“Well, for both your sake and mine, I hope she likes this version. Because if I have to eat one more kale burger,
I
might start turning green.” I crack my knuckles and eye the door. “Anyway, I should take off. But let me know what you think of the paella. And the kale burger, if you dare.”

I grab my bag off one of the kitchen chairs and head for the utility room.

“Have a nice evening,” I say.

I lay my hand on the door handle, when Hugh interjects, “Where are you going?”

I turn around, my hand still resting on the handle. “Home . . . ?” “No, I mean why are you going into the utility room?”

“Because that's where the servants' entrance is.”

“Why are you using the servants' entrance?”

“Because Natasha asked me to.”

“When?”

“Last week.”

He rolls his eyes. “Such bollocks.”

“It's fine. Really.”

“No, it's not fine. It's ridiculous. We don't live in Downton bloody Abbey. There's no reason you can't come in and out through the front door.”

“Well, technically speaking, I am her employee. . . .”

“Nevertheless. It's silly.”

I shift uncomfortably from side to side, not knowing what to say. He runs his fingers through his hair. “Sorry,” he says. “I shouldn't . . . It's just that Natasha and I come from different places on this sort of thing. She grew up the daughter of a wealthy lawyer, and I grew up the son of a factory worker who put together bikes for a living. The entire notion of having ‘staff' is foreign to me.”

“You have a driver, don't you?”

“Natasha's contribution to the household, not mine. That isn't to say I don't appreciate the convenience of having these people around, but the idea that they have to use separate entrances and kowtow to us makes me uncomfortable.”

Part of me wonders why he doesn't say something to Natasha if it makes him so uncomfortable, but somehow asking seems a bit too forward, even after spending the night in his house, wearing his shirt.

“Sorry—it's none of my business. I shouldn't have said anything.”

“No, no—I'm the one who opened the door in the first place. Here I am, an advocate for the poor, and meanwhile I'm running a household where I make people feel like worthless underlings.”

“You don't make me feel like a worthless underling.”

“No? Well . . . good. Because that certainly isn't how I think of you.”

How do you think of me?
I want to ask. But I can't. Because that's wrong. So instead I simply say, “I'm glad.”

We stand silent for a few awkward moments until Hugh glances down at the bowl of paella. “Are you sure you don't want to join me for supper? Because there is no way I can finish all of this myself.”

I grip my purse strap tightly. “I really should go. I need to call my dad.”

“In Michigan?”

“Yeah, how did you . . . ?”

“At the Tate. You mentioned being a Michigander.”

“Oh, right. I forgot. That night is kind of a blur.”

“Funny. I remember it quite clearly.” He pauses. “I think of it often, actually.”

My fingers start tingling, and I want to tell him,
Me too—I think about it all the time
. But ever the realist, I hug my purse tighter, smile, and say, “Have a nice night. I hope you enjoy the paella.”

CHAPTER 21

I do have to call my dad. That wasn't a lie. But, oh, how a part of me wanted to stay and share a bowl of paella with Hugh. It's all I can think about the entire journey back to my apartment. Why couldn't I have accepted his invitation? No, scratch that. I know why. Anyone with a brain knows why. But part of me still wishes I'd said yes. Every time we talk, all I can think is,
I want to know everything about you
.

But never mind. No point thinking about something that will never happen. It will only make me feel sadder and more alone.

Instead of losing myself in the world of fantasy, I dive face-first into the fiery pit of reality by trying my dad for the third time in eight days. I called him yesterday, but like the Sunday before, he wasn't home, and I ended up speaking to Irene O'Malley for a second time. Apparently this time she was ironing his uniform—“because, dear,
somebody
has to take care of this poor man.”

Since it's Monday afternoon back in Michigan, my dad will still be at work, so I call the post office directly, saving myself another awkward interaction with Irene. Aside from the fact that I have run out of things to discuss with her that do not involve my father, her ongoing presence in his house violates my mom's number-one dying wish. I don't believe in ghosts, but if ever there was a woman who would rise from the grave merely to prevent some other woman from making off with her widower, it's my mother.

My dad picks up on the fourth ring, his cantankerous voice blasting through the receiver with his typically impassioned yet confrontational greeting, everything shouted like an accusation: “Ypsilanti Post Office! Can I help you!”

“Dad . . . hi. It's Kelly.”

“Kelly? Hang on a sec.” He puts me on hold, and two minutes later he picks up again. “Hi. Sorry. Had to wait on a customer.”

“Not a problem.” Not that I'm calling from England or anything. . .

“So how's it going? I got your letter. Sounds pretty fancy over there.”

“It's definitely a different lifestyle, that's for sure. Not so much for me as for my employer. But still.”

“Have you met the queen yet?”

“No, I haven't met the queen. Nor will I, if I had to guess.”

He snorts. “I'm just joshing. How old is she now, anyway? She must be getting up there.”

“Old enough to be your mother,” I say.

“So not that old, then.”

As usual, I can't tell if he is joking. “I guess it depends on your reference point. So how are things with you? I . . . understand Irene has been spending a fair amount of time at the house.”

“Yeah, but don't worry, she's in your old room.”

I start. “I'm sorry—what?”

“She's staying in your old room. Not mine.”

“Wait. Hold on. What do you mean she's ‘staying' in my old room?”

“It means what it means: She's sleeping in your old room.”

“She's
living
with you?”

“No.” He pauses. “It's just temporary.”

“It's just
temporary?
Why is it anything? Why is she there?”

“To help around the house. Y'know—doing the stuff your mom used to do.”

I sit on my couch with my mouth open, unable to process what my dad just said. Aside from the fact that my mom probably never did half the things Irene is currently doing, my mom always saw Irene as her archrival, the woman who'd hijacked my mom's Queen Bee status in adulthood. When she was a student, my mom always showed up to school with her hair perfectly feathered and her bright pink lipstick artfully applied. As she got older, her style remained the same—the same haircut, the same colors of lipstick and eye shadow, as if her teenage look had been fossilized—but its application suffered. Most of the time, she'd pick me up from school in a sweat suit, but sometimes she'd be dressed in a bathrobe with rollers still in her hair.

Irene, meanwhile, always showed up in full makeup and freshly pressed pants, her hair teased and sprayed into poufy stasis. My mom was thinner and probably naturally more beautiful, but Irene's doughy face glowed with a bright, unblemished complexion, helped along by a thick coat of foundation (“She must apply that gunk with a trowel,” my mom always said). My mom's skin, meanwhile, always looked reddish, even more so when she'd had a few drinks, and her makeup application was always a little slapdash, with a glob of mascara here and a smudge of eyeliner there, assuming she'd had the energy to use either.

The competition between the two of them wasn't overt. They'd be perfectly cordial when they ran into each other at the supermarket or neighborhood gatherings. But they also couldn't get through a conversation without making some sort of veiled criticism, and Irene was always worse than my mom (“Cynthia—my goodness, I almost didn't recognize you without your curlers!” “Now tell me—is making the macaroni real gummy part of the recipe?” “My gosh, I haven't seen pants like those since 1975!”). The fact that Irene is sleeping in my old bedroom would make my mother's head explode.

“Does helping around the house really necessitate her sleeping under the same roof as you?” I ask. “Can't she sleep at her own place and swing by during the day?”

“That's kind of an imposition, don't you think?”

“Dad, she's the one who is supposed to be helping you. Out of the kindness of her heart, allegedly.”

“I don't care for your tone.”

“Sorry—you'll excuse me if I'm not overjoyed that Mom's former arch nemesis is now residing in her abode.”

“Well, look at you and your ten-dollar words.”

I pause. “Which words are we referring to . . . ?”

“Nemesis. Residing. Abode. I think those English folks are wearing off on you.”

“Dad, I assure you—I used those words long before I moved to England. Along with millions of other Americans, none of them particularly fancy.”

“I'll take your word for it.” Then he quickly adds, “I know what they mean, by the way. Those words.”

“I never doubted you did.”

“Well . . . good,” he says.

“Why do you always play down your intelligence? Mom always said you were a bookworm in school.”

“That was high school. A long time ago.”

“So? You don't need to play the dummy. You're way smarter than most people I encounter on a daily basis.”

“Bah,” he growls.

“I'm serious. I've always thought you'd have made a great lawyer.”

He snorts. “Not a chance.”

“Why not? You certainly like to argue. . . .”

“Because lawyers are assholes,” he says.

“QED . . .”

“What?”

“Nothing. Never mind. So how long is Irene planning to camp out in my old bedroom?”

“How the heck should I know?”

“Because it's your house, and there is a random person sleeping under your roof. I figured perhaps you might know when she planned to leave.”

“She hasn't said.”

“Well, maybe you could gently suggest she return to her own house.”

“Why? She's helping me.” There is a brief silence. “I've been lonely, Kelly. I miss your mom.”

“I know. Me too.”

A lump forms in my throat. I've managed to distract myself with work since I arrived in London, like putting a bandage over a cut, hoping if I can't see it and don't think about it, it'll go away. But it's still there, and talking to my dad is like reopening the wound.

My relationship with my mom was unconventional and strained at times, but even when we hadn't talked in a while, I liked knowing she was there, that if I wanted to, I could call her or send her a card. When I moved to Chicago and started working on the cake book, I called her one evening after a particularly grueling day at the bake house. My boss, Katie, had given me instructions to start working on an Andy Warhol–inspired napoleon. The idea was completely insane—layers of colored puff pastry, in shades ranging from brown (chocolate) to pink (strawberry), interspersed with bands of multicolored pastry cream, to represent Warhol's pop palette. I tried to tell her pink puff pastry was beyond my skill set, and certainly beyond that of the average home cook, and anyway, puff pastry wasn't cake, the subject of the book. But she wouldn't listen and gave me her standard puff pastry recipe, and off I went to test the worst idea I'd ever heard.

I'd made puff pastry a few times before, but I wasn't an expert, so even when I thought the amount of butter seemed obscene, I told myself Katie knew better than I. Besides, this was chocolate puff pastry, an entirely different beast. As it turned out, I should have trusted my gut. Katie had forgotten to scale down the butter with the flour and salt, so the dough was a mess, and when I tried to bake it, the butter melted out of the dough onto the bottom of the oven and caught fire, like the world's biggest oil lamp. Katie screamed at me, made me clean up the mess, and then scrapped the recipe for a multicolored pound cake, even though the whole thing had been her fault.

I called my mom that night in tears. I didn't expect her to do anything—she was in Michigan, and she'd never been a problem solver anyway—but I just needed her to listen. Sam was always trying to fix my problems, but I didn't need a fixer. I needed a mom. She listened to my story and, outraged, hooted, “But it wasn't even your fault!” Then she sighed. “Pour yourself a scotch, sweetie. You deserve it.”

It was exactly what I needed to hear. But now she's gone, and I can't ever call her like that again, even if I wanted to.

“I guess I'm having trouble ignoring how Mom would feel about all of this,” I say, wondering if my dad has considered this too. “You know she wasn't Irene's biggest fan.”

“Yeah. But don't worry. I'm not planning to marry the woman or anything. She's just helping out with housework and stuff. Some ironing, some cleaning, a few nursing duties.”

“Nursing duties . . . ?”

“You know, like picking up my cholesterol meds and making sure I take my vitamins. Oh, and last week she drew me a bubble bath.”

“A
bubble bath?
”

“Apparently it had been too long since I'd given the old 'pits a good scruberoo.” He chuckles. “Irene got in there good and cleaned me out.”

“Oh,” I say. “Okay.”

I need to get that woman out of his house.

 

The only good news to come out of that conversation with my dad is that he has started bathing again. Which, given that his stench had grown foul enough for Meg to express concern, is a very positive development. Other than that, I fear I am mere days away from an unpleasant encounter with my mother's ghost.

If I have any hope of finishing this project ahead of schedule, the only ghost I should be thinking about is my ghostwriting for Natasha, so the next day I show up at her house, armed for a second go at the Brussels sprout hash and paella. The Brussels sprouts I made yesterday were a bit
too
spicy and still need an extra something to make the flavor pop—maybe a little honey or bit of garlic, if not both. I also want to improve the seafood paella and add a little more smokiness to the finished product.

I work at a dizzying pace, slicing, searing, and sautéing as fast as I can so that I can leave early, call Stevie, and come up with a plan to evict Irene O'Malley. I e-mailed my brother last night, asking how he was doing and telling him I wanted to talk, but in classic Stevie fashion, he did not reply. If he knew about Irene, he'd probably be even less thrilled with the current state of affairs than I am, but saying so would require typing out an e-mail, something he can't be bothered to do, unless the reply is something simple like “OK” or “No.” The only way I can brainstorm eviction strategies with him is to ambush him with an unexpected call.

The Brussels sprouts come out perfectly—a little sweet, a little spicy, with a slight tang from some apple cider vinegar—and the paella is nearly there, though I'll need to try one more tweak tomorrow. I box up the leftovers, stick them in the refrigerator, and wipe down the counter. Once I've grabbed my bag and taken my share of the leftovers, I head out with Olga and make my way toward the Belsize Park tube station. Olga stops halfway up the road, beneath a bus stop.

“I take bus today,” she says. “See you tomorrow.”

I say good-bye to Olga and continue toward the tube station, cutting through the neighborhood onto Glenloch Road, passing all of the ruddy brick row houses with bright white trim. Small hedges line the sidewalks, some painstakingly trimmed with sharp edges and others wild and bushy and overgrown. I love the way all of the front doors are a little different—some fiery red, some cobalt blue, others stained wood with Tiffany glass. As I reach the point where the road merges with another, I hear someone call my name.

“Kelly?”

I look around, trying to locate the source of the voice, when I see Hugh walking toward me, crossing from the other side of the street.

“I thought it was you,” he says, smiling as he approaches, his briefcase clasped in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other, a baguette poking out of the top. “On your way home?”

“Yep. Olga is at the bus stop on Belsize Park, so if you need anything, you might be able to catch her.”

“I'll be fine. But thanks.”

I peer over his shoulder. “Where are you coming from, anyway? I thought Sunil drove you to work.”

“He does, most of the time, but today he has a family matter to deal with, so I got on the tube.”