Too Many Cooks (24 page)

“No, no!” I blurt out before I can stop myself. I cover my mouth when I catch Natasha's unfriendly expression, confirming that I have, indeed, spoken out of turn.

Hugh laughs, defusing the tension. “No, no?”

“I'm sorry—I didn't mean . . . All I meant was, I wasn't bored to tears. I don't know anything about British politics, but what you were saying . . . it was inspiring.”

Nigel guffaws. “A British politician inspiring an American? I say, Ballantine, perhaps you really are the young hope for the party.”

There is a collective chuckle around the table, and Hugh smiles. “Dearest Nigel, thank you for calling me young.” He raises his glass. “That, my friend, is something I can drink to.”

Everyone clinks glasses, and then the hum of conversation returns as the guests break off in smaller groups around the table. Hugh catches my stare for the briefest of moments, and as our eyes meet, I pray Natasha can't see the blush in my cheeks or, even worse, the fact that I am, against my better judgment, falling in love with her husband.

CHAPTER 29

In love? How can I be falling in love? With Sam, it took three months of exclusive dating before we exchanged “I love you”s, and even then, it was another month before I really felt as if I meant it. I've known Hugh for less than two months. But in that brief time, I've felt something click between us, like two jigsaw pieces snapping into place. I'd always assumed love was complicated and layered—like my relationship with my parents or Sam—but maybe I was wrong. Maybe love is as simple as an arrow through the heart.

Once Natasha has served the rhubarb crumble and there isn't a speck left in the dish or on anyone's plate, she and I clear the table with the help of a few of the guests.

“Ms. Spencer, that crumble was divine,” says the woman in the Thatcheresque top. “It's lovely to meet someone as beautiful and talented as you who can actually
cook
.”

“Thank you,” Natasha says, accepting a compliment about my cooking without hesitation.

“I can't wait to buy a copy of your cookbook when it comes out.”

“You'll only have to wait about a year, assuming we don't run into any more unnecessary
delays
.” She lets the word linger, as if any of the delays so far have been my fault. She reaches for the dessert plates the woman is carrying. “Here, I'll take those.” She passes them to me. “I think Hugh, Nigel, and Malcolm were going to talk shop over some Scotch. You should join them.”

“Oh, no, I'm afraid I must go. But thank you very much for having me.” She grabs Natasha's hand and squeezes it. “I am truly such a fan of your work.”

“Thank you,” Natasha says.

“And lovely to meet you, Kelly. I hope you enjoy your time in England.”

Natasha escorts her to the front door, and soon the others follow, until the only people left are Hugh, the toupeed Nigel, and the spectacled Malcolm, who chat in the drawing room while they sip their Scotch.

“I'm really sorry about earlier,” I say, when Natasha comes back into the kitchen.

“When?”

“At the table. When Hugh—Mr. Ballantine—was talking politics. I didn't mean to speak out of turn.”

She waves me off. “Oh, that. Don't even worry about it. At least one of us was paying attention. My mind was elsewhere.”

“Well . . . good,” I say. Then I quickly add, “That I didn't speak out of turn. Not that your mind was elsewhere.”

She stares at me for a beat. “You're weird, you know that?”

“Yes, actually, I do.”

She rinses her hands in the sink. “Anyway, my agent called right before we sat down to dinner, and I need to leave for Paris
again
tonight for this lame promotional thing, so I basically spent dinner going through my mental checklist. Poppy usually takes care of packing everything, but since she isn't here . . .”

I glance at the clock. “You're flying to Paris tonight? It's almost ten. And Heathrow is more than two hours away.”

“Oh, I'm flying privately,” she says. “The company behind my perfume needs me there for a Sunday breakfast event, so they're flying me from the Nottingham airport. Sunil will drive me there in a few minutes.”

“But . . . where am I supposed to go? I thought I was driving back with you and Sunil tomorrow?”

“Sunil will take you home tomorrow morning.”

“Oh . . . So . . . I'm staying here tonight? Alone?”

“Not alone. Hugh will be here. And Olga and Sunil are in the guesthouse.”

“Oh, okay. That's good. At least there will be other people around.”

“Don't worry—this place may be old, but I promise it isn't haunted. There's no reason to be scared.”

“Right,” I say, trying to sound relieved. “Of course not.” But I am scared, and the reason has nothing to do with the house.

 

Within minutes Natasha has dashed upstairs, grabbed her bags, and rushed out the door to meet Sunil, who was already waiting with the car running. Olga joins me in the kitchen to finish scrubbing the pots and pans and load the dishwasher.

“The dinner, it was good?” she asks.

“It was
great,
” Hugh says, appearing in the doorway, a nearly empty glass of Scotch in his hand. “Kelly and Natasha really outdid themselves.” He smiles. “Mostly Kelly, I'm guessing.”

“Natasha helped make the crumble. And she trimmed some of the green beans and peeled a few potatoes. She has excellent knife skills.”

“I'll have to compliment her when I see her. I hear she's off to Paris again?”

I nod. “I didn't realize there was an airport in Nottingham.”

“It's very small—mainly for private planes. Not that I've had the chance to fly on one myself.”

“That makes two of us.”

He smiles again and then shifts his gaze to Olga. “Olga, you've done quite enough this evening. Please, allow me to take over.”

He rests his glass on the counter and takes the dishtowel from her hands.

“Please,” she says, resisting, “is my pleasure to help.”

“Nonsense. You do plenty to help at home. You deserve a break. You, too, Kelly. Go and put your feet up. Relax.”

“I still have to pack up the leftover cheese and oatcakes,” I say.

“I'm quite confident I can do that myself. I'm not as incompetent as I look.”

“Okay . . . If you're sure.”

“Absolutely.”

I wipe my hands on a dishtowel and follow Olga out of the kitchen and down the hallway. She and Sunil are staying in the small guesthouse next door, but since it has only two bedrooms, I am staying in a small room in the main house, down the hall from Hugh and Natasha's separate bedrooms. I close the door behind Olga and then head up to my bedroom, which is tucked in the far corner of the house on the second floor, just above the kitchen. I kick off my shoes and plop down on the bed, a narrow twin covered by a blue-and-white patchwork quilt. I lean my head against the white metal headboard and take a deep breath as I close my eyes, letting the sounds of Hugh rattling around in the kitchen wash over me. I try not to think about him, try not to picture his face or wonder what he's doing down there, but I can't help myself. Hearing him speak tonight ignited something inside me, and the more I try to extinguish it, the hotter it burns.

The kitchen suddenly goes quiet, and a few moments later there is a knock on my door.

“Kelly? Are you awake?”

I bolt upright and swing my legs over the bed. “Yes—come in.”

He opens the door and pokes his head through the crack. “Sorry—I saw the light was on.”

“That's okay. What's up?”

“I just wanted to thank you again for tonight. Despite what you say, I know it was mostly your doing, and I really appreciate it.”

“My pleasure.”

“And I also wanted to thank you for . . . well, being so lovely at dinner. I haven't seen Nigel that engaged in quite a while. And Malcolm was very interested in what you had to say about Detroit and your background. It all went down very well.”

I pretend to tip an imaginary hat. “Happy to be of service.”

He rests his hand on the doorway. “Listen, I was wondering . . . would you care for a glass of Scotch? There's only a bit left, and it seems a shame to leave it. . . .”

I wrinkle my nose. “I'm not a big fan of Scotch. Not really my thing.”

“I could rustle up some port as well. Or perhaps some cream sherry?”

“No, really, I . . .” I clear my throat. “I'm fine.”

“It's no trouble. Honestly.” He raises his eyebrows earnestly. “I'd love the company.”

“I'm sure, but . . .” I trail off as I glance down at my feet.

“But what?”

I look up. “You know what.”

A brief bout of silence passes. “Yes. I suppose I do,” he says. He rubs his hand up and down the doorframe. “I'm sorry. Sleep well.”

He turns to go, but before I can stop myself, I call after him. “Wait!”

He turns back. “Yes?”

I get up from the bed and walk toward the doorway, my heart racing. What am I doing? Have I no sense at all?

“One drink,” I say. “But then I'm going to bed.”

“Okay. Right. Great.”

I meet his eyes. “But you should understand, what happened before, between us, in your kitchen . . . it can't happen again.”

“I know.”

“It just . . . it can't.”

“I know,” he says again. “It won't.”

We stare at each other for a long while in silence, and the next thing I know, we are pressed up against each other, kissing wildly and hungrily, as if we're animals, clawing at each other, trying to tear each other apart. I grab at his shirt and untuck it, and he pulls mine over my head in one swift motion, so quick I don't realize he's done it until I feel his hands on my skin. We head clumsily toward the bed, tripping over my shoes and overnight bag as articles of clothing fly off one by one: my bra, his belt, my pants, his shoes. A voice in my head tells me to
stop,
to
think about the consequences,
but as Hugh runs his hand along my inner thigh, the voice becomes softer and softer, until all I can hear is the creaking of the bed and the sound of his breath in my ear.

CHAPTER 30

It happens again. And again. And again. Four times, in fact. After the first time, the guilt lessens, and the resistance falls away. It's not that I think what we're doing is right. But once we'd slept together twice, once this was no longer a “one-time mistake,” the damage had already been done. Is three times really worse than two? Is four worse than three? Is there something more wrong than wrong?

The next morning I open my eyes just before sunrise, my legs knotted with Hugh's as we lie together in the narrow twin bed. The mechanics of this arrangement are much more romantic in theory than in practice, especially considering I haven't shared a twin bed with anyone since college, and even then, it was never comfortable.

“Good morning,” he says, smiling as he wipes the sleep from his eyes. I am suddenly very aware that this is the first time he has seen Morning Kelly, who is probably five thousand times less attractive than Morning Natasha.

“Good morning,” I say, arching my shoulders as I attempt to crack my back. “What time is it?”

“Not quite five.”

“Jeez, the sun rises early here.”

“That's because it's summer. You should see what it's like around Christmas. The sun doesn't come up until after eight, and it sets around three thirty. The joys of a northern latitude.”

“And I thought Michigan had it bad. . . .”

“So tell me more about growing up in . . . where did you say it was? Gypsy something?”

“Not gypsy—Ypsi. Short for Ypsilanti.”

“Right. What's it like there?”

“It's a small working-class town. A lot of college kids, thanks to Eastern.”

“Eastern?”

“Eastern Michigan University.”

“Ah. Different from University of Michigan?”

“Yeah. U of M is next door, in Ann Arbor. That's where I went to college.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You do?”

His cheeks redden. “After you mentioned your thesis on Lichtenstein, I Googled you to see if I could find a copy.”

“That's kind of creepy.”

“Is it?” He takes a moment to reflect. “Yes, I suppose saying it out loud, I do sound like a bit of a stalker. Honestly, I'm not. You just piqued my interest when you mentioned you'd written about the very question I'd always asked about his work.”

I smile. “It's fine. A little stalking never hurt anyone.”

“I'm fairly certain that isn't true, but I'll take it.” He props himself on his elbow. “So tell me more about growing up in Ypsilanti.”

“My childhood is not that interesting. Trust me.”

“It involves you, so it's interesting to me.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why'?”

“Why would you be interested in my life story?”

“Well, in case you hadn't noticed, I fancy you quite a bit.”

“Do you?”

He sighs. “No, I slept with you because I find you repulsive.”

I kick him lightly beneath the covers. “You don't have to ‘fancy' someone to sleep with her. Men sleep with women they don't ‘fancy' all the time.”

“I don't.”

“A likely story . . .”

“It's the truth. You are the first person I've slept with in an embarrassingly long time.”

“Embarrassingly long as in . . . ?”

“Years. Several.”

“What about Natasha?”

He flushes. “We don't sleep together.”

“Anymore? Or ever?”

He considers his words carefully. “Anymore. We did when we first met, but things were different then.”

“Different how?”

He sits up and leans against the headboard. “We were dating. There was romance. I did, indeed, fancy her—or at least the idea of her.”

“And then?”

“And then . . . at some point the spark died.”

“So . . . you decided, ‘Hey, you know what? Let's get married.' ”

“A bit glib when you put it that way. But yes.”

“You realize that makes no sense at all, right?”

“It's easier to understand when you know the full story.”

“Which is?”

He breathes in slowly. “We dated seriously for about six months, but between her shooting schedule and my spending eighty hours a week at work, we didn't actually see much of each other. We considered calling it off, or I did, but Natasha convinced me we were useful to each other. I make her look sophisticated and worldly, and she raises my profile by being who she is. And, realistically, with our busy schedules, we didn't have time to date anyone else seriously either. So we agreed to stay together to help each other. Marriage was just a more serious extension of that plan.”

“But that's so . . .”

“Calculating? Abhorrent?”

“Well . . . yeah.”

“It is. Thinking about it now, I can't believe I agreed to the whole arrangement. But at the time, Natasha convinced me it was a good idea. She's very persuasive. It's easy to get caught up in the Natasha whirlwind when she's enthusiastic about something. And in terms of my career, she hasn't been wrong. She's definitely been an asset.”

“Yeah, but is that enough to sustain a marriage?”

“No. At least for me it isn't. When we negotiated the agreement, I wasn't in a place where I was even thinking about children or family or any of that. I was completely focused on my career. But now . . .” He rubs a palm across his forehead. “Now I want a true partner—not a business partner. I want to be with someone I love. I want to start a family.”

“So what are you going to do?” I think back to my conversation with Meg. “Have you ever . . . would you ever consider getting divorced?”

He looks at me, and for a moment I think I've gone a step too far. I'm about to clarify that I wasn't asking whether he'd leave her for
me,
only if he'd ever leave her in general, when he nods.

“Yes. I've been thinking about it. Quite a lot over the past year, actually. I used to worry being a divorcée would hurt my chances at becoming prime minister, but now I'm not even sure I care. And in today's environment, I'm not sure the public would either.”

“You want to become prime minister?”

“Someday. Maybe.”

“In that case, maybe Natasha really could be an asset. She'll be your Carla Bruni.”

“Oh, so now I'm Nicolas Sarkozy?”

“If the shoe fits . . .”

“Sarkozy is about five foot five. His shoe definitely would not fit.”

“All I'm saying is, maybe being with someone like Natasha could help you get what you want.”

“Being prime minister isn't all I want.” He motions to the space between us. “I want this. I want someone I can talk to, someone who understands where I came from and what makes me tick. I want to be with a person I can't stop thinking about, who sets me on fire every time she walks into the room.”

“Uh, Natasha is one of the most beautiful people on the planet. If she can't set you on fire, I think you might have a problem.”

“Natasha is beautiful. No question. But I want more than that. I need more than that. I could never talk to her the way I talk to you. She doesn't even know about my mum. Can you believe that? Six years, and I've never told her how worried I am about my own mother.”

“Why not?”

“Because with Natasha, I never feel like I'm talking to a real person. It's all artifice. The hair extensions, the Botox. Even her name is made up. She was born Natasha Horowitz, but she thought that was too ‘ethnic,' so she changed it. It's not that I think she's incapable of understanding about my mum; it's that I don't think she cares enough to bother.” He reaches out and touches my hand. “The way I feel with you, the way we can talk . . . it was never like that with her. It's never been like this with anyone.”

My heart races as he leans in and kisses my forehead. “But enough talk about my dysfunctional marriage,” he says. “We have a few hours until Olga starts banging around downstairs, and I would like to cook you a proper English breakfast.”

“You, cooking for me?”

“Indeed.” He hops out of bed and throws on his shirt from last night. “Meet me downstairs in half an hour. You're in for a treat.”

He leans in for one more kiss, and as he turns his back and disappears through the door, I wonder if he finally told me everything I wanted to hear, or if I just imagined it.

 

“Breakfast is served.”

Hugh lays a plate filled with beans, sausages, eggs, mushrooms, and tomatoes in front of me, as the pop of the toaster signals the toast is ready.

“White or granary?” he asks.

“Granary. Thanks.”

He grabs the hot toast with two fingers and tosses it onto my plate, then assembles his own, standing at the kitchen counter with his back to me. He has clearly showered and changed since I last saw him, now dressed in khakis and a white polo T-shirt that has C
AMBRIDGE
U
NIVERSITY
C
RICKET
printed on the back.

“Did you play cricket throughout college?” I ask as I scoop up a forkful of beans.

He looks over his shoulder and smiles. “I did. And then for the Nottingham side for a few years.”

“It's like baseball, right? Except the games last for, like, a week or something.”

He laughs as he licks a blob of beans from his thumb. “It's quite different from baseball, actually. To my mind, the rules are actually much simpler.”

He brings his plate to the table and starts explaining the rules of cricket to me. None of what he says makes any sense at all. He might as well be speaking Farsi. After he has been talking about
wickets
and
creases
and
overs
for what feels like ten minutes, I hold up my hand.

“I'm going to stop you right there,” I say, “because I didn't catch any of that.”

“Shall I start again?”

“Please don't. Unless you want my ears to start bleeding.”

He winces. “You do realize you're talking about one of my favorite sports. . . .”

“Don't say things like that. It makes me question your taste.”

He kicks me under the table. “You sound like Natasha.”

My eyes widen, and I kick him back. “You did
not
just say that.”

“I think I did.”

“Fine. Please—tell me more.”

He laughs as he bites into a piece of toast. “No, I understand. If you didn't grow up with it, it isn't the easiest sport to take up. But cricket has been a part of my life since . . . God, as long as I can remember. My dad took me to Trent Bridge when I was maybe six to watch a Test match, and it became a bond between the two of us. We'd go every year. Still do.”

“Did he play cricket, too?”

“With his mates at school, but not seriously. Not like I did.”

“Ah, so you were a
seriously
boring cricketer.”

He grins as he cuts into one of his sausages. “It paid for most of my education, so I can't complain. I was on the verge of playing for England, actually, but I hurt my knee and had to give up.”

“How did you get into politics, then?”

“My dad's influence again. He took me to a political rally when I was about twelve, and it sparked an interest in politics that stuck with me. It seemed like the most direct way of making a difference.”

“You certainly have a knack for it. Last night at dinner . . . you were amazing. I can see you leading the country someday.” I poke at a mushroom with my fork.

He smiles softly as he rubs his foot up and down the inside of my leg, but he stops abruptly when we hear the snap and click of the front door opening. Hugh leaps up from his seat as Olga makes her way down the hallway and into the kitchen.

“Olga! You're up bright and early this morning.”

Her eyes wander over his shoulder and land on me. I haven't showered, but thankfully I threw on a pair of jeans and the T-shirt I planned to wear for the drive home.

Hugh catches the direction of her stare and gestures at the stove. “Fancy a bit of breakfast? Kelly and I are both, apparently, early risers, though it doesn't help that those bloody curtains don't block out any light. But I have plenty of ingredients left. Please, join us.”

She keeps her eyes trained on me. “No, thank you. I not hungry.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, nudging her playfully in the side. “Don't make Kelly suffer through one of my boring stories on her own. I'm sure she'd love the company.”

I nod encouragingly, but she shakes her head. “I clean sheets.”

It suddenly occurs to me that although my sheets have clearly been slept in, Hugh's bed probably hasn't even been unmade, but before I can start panicking, Hugh jumps in.

“If you insist. But at least allow me to get them for you. You shouldn't have to trundle up those creaky stairs.” He turns to me. “Kelly, would you mind if I gathered the sheets from your room? I promise not to snoop.”

“Sure,” I say. “That's fine. I already packed most of my things anyway.”

“Lovely. Back in a tick.”

He dashes down the hall, and as I follow him with my eyes, I feel Olga's stare bearing down on me, wringing the delusion out of me drop by drop, until all that's left is guilt.