Too Many Cooks (4 page)

CHAPTER 4

I can't move to London. Can I? My entire life is in Chicago. Or I guess Chicago and Michigan. But I've spent my whole life in the Midwest. I belong here. This is where I fit in.

Then I think back to my mom's letter. She wanted me to get out of the Midwest, to see the world, to make something of myself. This would be the perfect opportunity to do all of those things. If I produce the sort of cookbook Natasha wants—a landmark cookbook that will be used by home cooks all over the world—it could make my career. In a few years, I could be the go-to ghostwriter for chefs and celebrities alike. I could finally afford a new set of knives. Hell, maybe I could even write my own cookbook, like I've always wanted to. This could be my springboard.

That is, if it weren't for Sam. There is no way he'll want me to take this job. He still has to finish up his fellowship this year, and then he has another year after that for his subspecialty in heart transplants. He certainly can't fly to London all the time to visit me, and even with a nice salary, I can't afford to visit him often either. Taking this job would mean putting our relationship on ice for at least a year, possibly closer to two.

But maybe that's exactly what I need. A break. A break from Sam, a break from Chicago, a break from the comfortable and the familiar. Maybe it's time for me to do something crazy, like my mom said. Maybe writing that list of dying wishes was the sanest thing she ever did.

Or maybe I'm about to alienate the one person in my entire life I've been able to rely on. The person who has encouraged my career and picked up my dry cleaning, the person who spends three days with my crazy family and still manages to stock the refrigerator with chicken soup and cupcakes. Could I really leave him? Could I really break his heart?

No. No, I can't do any of those things. Which means no matter how wonderful this job might be, no matter how great an opportunity, no matter how much I really, really want to, I can't move to London.

 

“I'm moving to London.”

The words burst out of my mouth as Sam walks through the door later that night, his briefcase in his hand, his tie loosened around his neck.

“What?” His brow furrows as he drops his briefcase by the front door. “What are you talking about?”

“Natasha Spencer. She's working on a cookbook, and she wants me to ghostwrite it.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—back up the bus. Natasha Spencer? As in THE Natasha Spencer?”

I nod. “I spoke to her today.”

“You
spoke
to her? Like, on the phone?”

“She called me. Well, her assistant did. And then I talked to her for twenty minutes.”

He stares at me, wide-eyed. He seems to be holding his breath.

“Sam?”

He lets out a gust of air. “Sorry. It's just . . . wow. Natasha Spencer. I kind of had a thing for her in college after I saw her in
The Devil's Kiss
. She's . . . wow. What was she like on the phone?”

“I don't know. Businesslike.”

“Wow,” he says again. He shakes the stars out of his eyes. “So what does this have to do with moving to London?”

“Natasha lives in London.”

“She does?”

I smirk. “And I thought I was out of touch. Haven't you seen the photos of her with that British MP? Hugh something?”

He shrugs. “Maybe?”

“Well, he's her husband. And they live in London, and she wants me to move there to help her with her cookbook.”

“For how long?”

“Close to a year.”

His expression darkens. “Close to a
year?
”

“Yes.”

“But I still have more than a year of fellowship left.”

“I know.”

“Then how would we see each other?”

“We wouldn't.”

“We wouldn't see each other? How would that work?”

“It probably wouldn't.”

He stares at me for a long while. “I don't understand. I thought we were looking at properties together next weekend. I thought . . .” He shakes his head. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“No. I'm . . . It isn't . . .” I take a deep breath. “I need to take this job. For me. And for my mom.”

“Your mom?”

I consider telling him about her letter, but since that will inevitably involve mentioning her request for me to ditch the “fuddy-duddy,” I decide not to.

“She wanted me to see the world,” I say.

“So? As I recall, she also wanted you to take up the accordion.”

“Yeah, and she wanted me to get a perm, too. That's beside the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

“That
I
want to see the world.”

“Okay. Then let's see the world. Together.”

“I don't think you understand. . . .”

“No, I understand,” he says, his voice rising. “You want to see the world? Let's see the fucking world. Let's go to London and Paris and, I don't know, some place with drug-resistant TB like India or Kazakhstan. And hey, while we're at it, why don't we visit Nigeria or the Congo, where maybe we can pick up malaria?!”

“Sam, you're being ridiculous.”

“I'm being ridiculous?
Me?
” He lets out a frantic laugh. “You're the one who, after six years, is making a unilateral decision to pack up and move to London without me. After all I've done for you, after everything we've been through, don't I deserve a vote in this?”

The obvious answer is yes. Of course he does. There are two people in this relationship, and we both deserve to have our voices heard. But over the past six years, I've felt my voice slipping away, yielding to what Sam wanted, what Sam needed, what Sam thought was best for us both. Sam made it easy to lose sight of “me” in the context of “us” because he has only the best intentions. He wants to take care of me, to worry about even the most trivial matters so that I don't have to. And as much as I love that about him, I worry that five or ten or fifteen years from now, I won't even know what I want or need anymore because Sam will have taken care of everything for me.

“I didn't come to this decision lightly,” I say. “I've given it a lot of thought.”

Sam sneers as he glances at his watch. “What, two whole hours?”

“Sam . . .”

“Don't ‘Sam' me. Have the past six years meant nothing to you? How can you do this to me?”

“I'm not doing it to hurt you. I'm doing it for me.”

“A little selfish, don't you think? After everything I've done for you?”

My cheeks flush. He's right; this is the most selfish thing I've ever done. With every decision I've made throughout my life, I've taken others into account. I took my first job at fourteen, washing dishes at Abe's Coney Island, because I knew my family could use the extra cash. I lived at home freshman year of college so that I could help my parents around the house. I followed Sam to Chicago and limited my ghostwriting jobs to those that wouldn't take me away from him for long. I've always been the friend people call in an emergency because they know I'll drop everything and rush to their aid. Other than majoring in art history, I've never done something for the simple reason that I just wanted to. But I want to take this job in London and, as much as I hate myself for acting so selfishly, I feel I've earned the right to put my needs first, just this once.

“I think I'll always regret it if I turn down this opportunity.”

Sam huffs. “What about ruining our relationship? Don't you think you might regret that?”

“Yes,” I say. “I do.”

“Then why are you taking this job? Do you not love me anymore?”

“Of course I love you.”

“Then what is it?”

I fidget with the sleeve of my sweatshirt and consider how to respond, how to tell Sam that as much as I love him—as much as I will always love him—I'm not sure I'm “in love” with him anymore. How do you tell someone something like that? Something so harsh and undeniably hurtful? How do you tell the truth without cementing yourself in the top tier of Biggest Jerks of All Time?

“I need a change,” I say, which is also true.

“A change from what? Aren't you happy here?”

Again, I grasp for a response. The truth is, when I search my soul and really think about it, no, I'm not happy. Or at least not as happy as I think I could be. But I've never admitted that to myself until now, mostly because I didn't think I had the right to feel that way. I grew up in a house with two whackadoodle parents who could barely pay their mortgage and often forgot to pick me up from school. Now I live in a great apartment in one of the best cities in the world with one of the most handsome and thoughtful boyfriends on the planet. How could I not be happy? And if I'm not, what kind of fucked-up creature am I?

“I guess I'm not as happy as I'd like to be,” I say.

Sam's expression sours. “What does that even mean?”

“It means . . . I have to take this job.”

Sam's eyes grow moist. “And what am I supposed to do, huh? Sit here with my thumb up my butt for a year while you ‘find yourself' in London?”

“First of all, whatever you do, please don't sit with your thumb up your butt.” I attempt a smile, but Sam remains stone-faced, unmoved by my admittedly lame joke. “But second of all, I don't expect you to wait for me. That isn't fair. I can't ask you to put your life on hold while I figure out mine.”

“How considerate of you.”

I reach out to touch Sam's shoulder, but he jerks it away. “I'm sorry,” I say. “Really, I am. I'm not doing this to hurt you. But I'll never be able to make you happy if I'm not happy with myself. I hope you understand.”

He rips off his tie. “So this is it, then? It's over?”

The word rattles in my ears:
over
. Is that what I really want? And if it isn't . . . what
do
I want?

“For now, I guess . . .”

“If it's for now, then it's forever.” He grabs his briefcase off the floor and heads toward the bedroom. “You'd better find somewhere else to sleep tonight. And I want you out of this apartment by the end of the week.”

He marches into the bedroom and slams the door behind him.

With a lump in my throat, I creep over to my laptop, where Poppy's e-mail stares back at me. Am I ready to do this? Is this really what I want? If I officially tell Poppy yes, that's it; Sam will be gone from my life forever. We've been together six years—
six years
. I can barely remember what my life was like before I met him. Leaving him will be like losing one of my limbs.

I stare at the bedroom door and listen as Sam crashes around, slamming drawers, throwing open closets, banging lids. It's too late. I've already told Sam I'm going. If I back out now—if I tell him I've changed my mind—things will be even worse. He'll know I was willing to leave him, and I'll always curse myself for chickening out. For his sake and mine, I have to follow through.

I look back at my computer screen, and my hand wanders toward the keyboard. I press Reply:

Then I click Send and sink down in my chair, hoping I haven't just made the biggest mistake of my entire life.

CHAPTER 5

“Here we are, miss. Miss?”

I startle awake in the backseat of the car, the jetlag already taking its toll less than two hours after landing in London.

“Sorry—I must have fallen asleep.”

“Quite all right, miss.”

The driver, an Indian man in a smart black suit and aviator sunglasses, steps out of the sleek, black Mercedes and opens my door, gesturing toward the six-story Victorian building behind him.

“Please,” he says. “After you.”

My eyes crawl up the building's façade, which is made of pale gray limestone adorned with ornate balusters, corbels, and carved stone wreaths. A large wrought-iron gate covers the front entryway, its black spindles ornamented with shimmering gold leaves. A window box filled with petunias sits above a gold plaque for Hampden House, the name of the building Poppy sent me when she confirmed all of my arrangements.

I grab my carry-on and step out of the car, making my way to the front gate as the driver removes my two suitcases from the trunk. I press the bell for the building manager and take a deep breath as I look around, sizing up my new neighborhood. Hampden House takes up the entire block on this stretch of Weymouth Street, in a section of London called Marylebone, a neighborhood whose name I'm still not entirely sure how to pronounce (Maree-le-bone? Mar-le-bone? Marill-bone? I have no idea). Across the street, a cherry-red wine shop called Nicolas advertises a special on cabernet sauvignon, the deal scrawled in swooping cursive on a big black chalkboard. On the street perpendicular to Weymouth, smartly dressed people bustle in and out of a chic grocery-cum-restaurant named Villandry, whose sage-colored awnings stretch across the sidewalk. On this crisp May morning, a few men and women sit at small tables outside, sipping coffee and nibbling on croissants and toast.

“Hello?” says a man's voice through the intercom.

“Hi, this is Kelly Madigan. Poppy Tricklebank sent me?”

“Ah, yes. Just a moment.”

He hangs up as the driver wheels my suitcases up behind me, and, a second later, a stocky man with wild brown hair and stubbly jowls opens the front gate.

“Hello,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand. “I'm Tom, the building manager.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Your flat was serviced this morning. The keys are in my office, so if you'll follow me . . .”

I reach for my suitcases and notice the driver standing behind them. Crap—a tip. I forgot to get money from the ATM and have nothing to give him.

“I'm so sorry,” I say, fumbling for my wallet. “I only have dollars.”

The driver raises his hand. “Miss Tricklebank has taken care of everything. Have a lovely stay.”

He heads back to his car, and I follow Tom into Hampden House, whose foyer is lined with thick ruby carpeting, the walls stark white. Tom grabs one of my suitcases and leads me into his office on the ground floor. The small room is stuffed with books, magazines, and, as far as I can tell, junk—empty boxes, candy wrappers, torn sheets of bubble wrap, a bicycle wheel. A scuffed desk sits in the back corner, crammed between the wall and a bookcase, the surface covered with papers, a desktop computer, and a clunky black telephone.

He grabs a small key ring off his desk. “Right. This is the key to the front gate, which locks automatically behind you. If you forget your key, you can call my office between the hours of eight and five during the week, and I will let you in. On Saturdays, you can reach me between nine and noon. Outside those hours . . . well, you're buggered, I'm afraid. But sometimes if you ring one of the other flats, someone will let you in.”

His words come at me fast and furious, with a husky English accent, many of the terms—“serviced,” “buggered”—foreign to my American ears.

He holds up the second key on the key ring. “This is the key to your flat, which is just down the hall. If you lose either of these keys, the replacement fee is forty-five pounds and a bottle of wine.” He smirks. “Kidding about the wine.” Then he winks and cups his hand to his mouth conspiratorially. “But not really.”

He hands me the set of keys. “I have an extra key, if you plan to have visitors. A boyfriend, perhaps? Or a family member?”

“Nope. Just me.”

“In that case, one will do. Please don't make copies. For security reasons, anything to do with keys must go through me.”

“Got it.”

He wheels one of my suitcases toward the door. “Right. Off we go.”

I follow Tom down the hallway, passing a wooden console lined with unopened mail, above which hangs a large gilded mirror. Tom slows his step as we reach the door to Flat #2.

“Here we are,” he says. He sticks the key in the lock and jiggles it back and forth. “The lock can be a bit sticky. Ah. There we go.” He gestures inside. “After you.”

I walk through the doorway into a small, carpeted entry area. To the left lies a small living room, with parquet flooring, a black vinyl couch, a red armchair, a wooden coffee table, and a small wooden dining table surrounded by four chairs. The entryway to the kitchen sits just beyond the dining table, the door propped open with a wooden wedge.

Tom wheels my case into the living room and deposits it next to the couch.

“Right. Living room here. Kitchen there. Washing machine in the kitchen. And if you'll follow me this way . . .” He heads back toward the front door and continues along the carpeting down a small hallway. “Bedroom here. Bathroom there. Water heater can be a bit dodgy, so it's best to keep showers brief. I don't recommend using the bath.”

I inch along the carpet and peek into the bathroom, which features black-and-white tile floors, a pedestal sink, and a claw-foot tub-and-shower combination.

“What's that cord hanging from the ceiling?” I ask, pointing above the toilet.

“The loo flush.” He yanks on the cord, and there's a loud
whoosh
.

“Ah. Got it.”

Tom turns back toward the front door, and I follow him into the entryway. “The flat is serviced on Thursdays between nine and eleven, unless you say otherwise. If you require any more cleaning, please let me know, and I can arrange it for an additional fee. Oh, and Miss Tricklebank sent over a hamper, which I've left in the kitchen.”

“A hamper? Like for laundry?”

Tom looks at me quizzically. “No. For eating.”

I quickly realize this is yet another linguistic Britishism with which I am unfamiliar, and so instead of pressing the issue further, I simply nod and say, “Right. Of course.”

Tom takes one last look around the apartment and claps his hands together. “Sorted. If you need anything, I'll be in my office until five.”

“Thanks so much,” I say.

“Cheers.”

He leaves and closes the door behind him, and I head for the kitchen, where I find a large wicker basket wrapped in cellophane sitting on the counter. “Oh, a
gift basket,
” I say out loud.

I quickly untie the silky ribbon at the top and peel back the cellophane. Beneath it, I find a pile of teas and snacks, along with a note:

I rummage through the basket and find a shiny black smartphone, which I power on, as per Natasha's (or, if I had to guess, Poppy's) instructions. Five minutes later, the phone rings, its jingle filling the kitchen as I study the various boxes of organic herbal teas.

“Hello?”

“Ah, brilliant, you've found the phone.” Poppy's voice trills in my ear. “How was your flight?”

“Long,” I say. “But otherwise fine. Thank you so much for the gi . . .” I clear my throat. “The hamper. It's lovely.”

“Yes, well, we figured you wouldn't have anything in the house, so these are things at the very
minimum
we thought you would need.”

I scan the basket, which, among other things, contains a pot of wild boar paté, a jar of organic Manuka honey, a package each of wild Scottish smoked salmon and venison salami, a tube of geranium and neroli hand lotion, and a lamb's wool hot water bottle cover.

“Yeah, it looks like you covered the basics. . . .”

“I assume you have seen the ATM card Natasha has taken out in your name.” I spot a Barclay's card sitting beside the salami. “The pin is attached. The cash from that account is meant for cookbook-related purchases only. Groceries, equipment, things like that. It is not for personal use.”

“Understood.”

“Good. Now, on to some business. Natasha wanted to have you round for supper tonight. Does seven o'clock suit?”

“I—oh. I didn't realize I'd be meeting her so soon.”

“She wants to get to work straightaway. This book is very important to her.”

“I understand.” I rub my eyes. “I'm just a little worn out. I didn't sleep much on the plane.”

“Supper won't take long. Natasha is very busy, as I'm sure you understand.”

“I do.”

“Good. We'll see you at seven, then. Oh, and if you decide to bring flowers—which of course you will—they must be white, and the stems must be trimmed to exactly six inches.”

“Okay . . .”

“And whatever you do, do
not
mention Matthew Rush. Do you understand? Under absolutely no circumstances.”

“I . . . Sure.”

“Good. We're in agreement. See you at seven.”

She hangs up abruptly, and as I stare dumbly at the phone, I wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into.