Skinny Bitch in Love (29 page)

I was sold on it and made an appointment to see it the next morning.

I already knew it was perfect. All I needed was that loan from Ms. Pritchard to come through.

That night I went to Zach’s. All I wanted was a strong drink, some good food that didn’t involve me going near an oven, and hours of amazing, mind-blowing, forget-everything sex. But when I saw Zach, I was reminded of what Jolie had said about the French heartbreaker. What Zach had said about not being able to trust anyone. Maybe he was pining away for her.

“You don’t look like someone who’s the new It Girl,” Zach said.

He handed me a glass of white wine and I took a sip. Then I updated him on everything: about the recipes, about Alexander, about Eva, about finding a new space and the deadline. “And something else has been on my mind. What Jolie said . . . ”

He glanced away. “Not talking about Jolie. Talking about Jolie gets me into trouble.”

“Okay, let’s talk about you then. And Vivienne.”

“So if the loan doesn’t come through,” he said, totally ignoring what had just come out of my mouth, “you’ll just save up and find another space.” He put his arm around me as he sat down next to me on a love seat.

I inched away from him. “Why
wouldn’t
it come through?”

“You said you don’t have a lot in the bank. And you don’t own any property. You’re a tough sell.”

“That doesn’t mean I won’t get the loan. All the publicity from the
Times
article, all my new business, all the business I have lined up. I can’t lose this new space. If I can’t have the
one some steakhouse with a huge dead deer sign went into on my corner, I want this new one.”

“I want to show you something,” he said, taking my hand and leading me out the door, Charlie trailing on his leash behind him. “As a just in case—just in case the loan doesn’t come through—I want you to see there are a lot of other spaces that could work. I looked at everything when I was scouting for a location for The Silver Steer.”

For the next two hours, as Charlie scampered along happily sniffing at everything, Zach took me on a walking tour of my own city, explaining restaurants and location and space to me in ways I’d never thought of before. I’d been inside restaurants for years, obviously, and deep in the kitchen, starting from nothing on prep and vegetables. But I had no idea how many hoops I’d have to jump through to open my own place. There were so many boring legal issues that he talked so much about that he started to sound like my sister. I’d long forgotten about Vivienne and how he dodged the question. Wasn’t my business anyway. Sort of. I’d bring it back up when and if the time was right.

We passed by Prime and I noticed the blackboard that had listed my vegan dishes now noted the specials, all involving dead animals. Either Eva let her husband know he’d better take it down or my sister had gotten her claws in Ackerman.

We ended up in front of The Silver Steer with its gorgeous arched stone entryway and red door. “Bastard,” I said, punching him in the arm. “This place is gorgeous. Nothing can top it.”

“I thought that about a spot I lost out on,” he said. “Then I found this place. You’ll make your new place gorgeous, whether it’s the one you’re vying for or another one.”

We kept walking, taking turns with Charlie’s leash, Zach telling me how each restaurant we passed was doing. The last two we walked by would last another six weeks tops, but three more were doing amazing business. He talked about word-of-mouth and publicity and great food and, of course, location. He showed me a space on Third Street but it would need a lot of work. And a place near his on the beach that I’d never be able to afford.

We stopped in front of my dream space on Montana. “I was trying to show you that this isn’t the only option, but I ended up bumming you out, didn’t I?” he asked.

“I’ve just got this place all set up in my mind, what kind of tables and where they’ll go, how the staff will dress.”

“You’re on your way, Clem,” he said, pulling me close.

“Get a room,” a familiar voice said and laughed.

I turned around to find Jolie and Rufus walking toward us, holding hands.

“Zach, don’t speak,” she said. “I apologize for being an ass the last time I saw you. But every time you open your mouth, you say something that pisses me off. So I’m going to talk to Clementine instead. I read the piece on you in the
Times
. How awesome is that?”

I smiled. “Hey, Rufus,” I said. If the guy
could
speak, he didn’t now. He just nodded at me.

“So, did Zach tell you that Rufus and I are getting married on the beach in September?”

“Can I bring a date?” I asked, linking arms with Zach.

“She’s not getting married,” Zach said. “She’s eighteen. How is Rufus going to say ‘I do’ when he doesn’t even talk? Clearly, he only sings.”

“I talk,” Rufus said, and we all turned to stare at him. The guy was drop-dead model beautiful and seemingly vacant, but Jolie was no idiot. If she loved the guy, there had to be more to him.

“We’re on our way to a dinner party in our honor,” Jolie said. “Some people are actually excited for us.”

I watched them head down Montana. “Maybe there is more to Rufus than it seems. Jolie’s a smart girl.”

“No, there’s less,” Zach said as we headed back toward the beach. “And she’s not smart. Smart people don’t get married at eighteen. Smart people make their singing fiancés sign prenups so that millions in family trusts are protected. Smart people don’t throw their future away on some stupid one-in-a-million dream. You think she’ll make it as an actress? Please. She’s just another pretty girl in a town full of them.”

Way to be supportive. “Zach, it’s her mistake to make.”

“No, it’s all of ours. Everything she does affects me. Cleaning up her mess, handling it with my father—”

“Jesus, Zach, so
don’t
. Let her make her mistakes. I’m trying to imagine if my father told me not to go to culinary school, that chefs were a dime a dozen or whatever that cliché is. That I should study teaching or something.”

“Clem, how much money do you have in the bank? Five thousand bucks? Yeah, you’re the It Girl right now. You’ll rake it in for the next six months. But five more vegan chefs will
come along on your publicity trail and you’ll be just another vegan chef. Someone else will have a better gimmick. And the money will dry up. Then what? This is why you’re a tough sell for the loan. Get it?”

I stared at him. “Did you say
gimmick
? Being a vegan chef is a
gimmick
?”

“Clem, don’t pick at what I’m saying. I’m not sugarcoating the real world and finance and how things work.”

“So you’re an expert and everyone else is an idiot.”

“Did I say that? I’m just realistic.”

“You sound more like someone who doesn’t think I’m going to make it.”

He sighed. “I’m just saying that—”

“Yeah, I know what you’re saying. And here’s what I’m saying: Bye.”

I turned and walked away fast, my heart beating like crazy. Why did every beautiful night with Zach always seem to end like this?

Chapter 20

I was perfecting my Cha-Cha Chili for an audition at the very popular, very expensive Lola’s Bar & Grill when Sara came home.

“God, what’s smells so amazing?” She came over and poked her face in the pan. “Mmm, what’s that?”

“It’s going to be my kick-ass chili,” I said, adding a pinch of cayenne pepper. “The beans are cooking after soaking overnight, so I’m working on the onions and spices, sautéing in coconut oil. Wanna cut up some bell peppers for me?”

Sara bit her lip and eyed me, which was Sara speak for “I have something to tell you but I’m scared to.”

Shit. Something was up. She’d hooked up with Duncan again? Lost the part of Attractive Friend? No way. Had to be something else.

She grabbed the green and red peppers and a knife—the
right one, I was pleased to see as her teacher—and got to chopping.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Yup. You?”

If I talked, she’d talk. “Everything’s up in the air. Including Zach. And if I don’t get that loan, I’ll lose that great spot on Montana near the tattoo place.”

She added the diced peppers into the pan, and then I got her on the tomatoes. “What’s up with Zach?”

“He morphed into asshole businessman.” I stirred the veggies and told her what he’d said about the publicity starting a trail of wannabes, how I’d lose my supposed It Girl status in a month.

“No one wants a wannabe. Everyone wants the real thing. The original. That’s you.”

“But what Eva said, about restaurants getting the idea to create vegan menus from the
Times
article, that could happen. Is happening. It’s not like they have to hire me for that. They can type ‘vegan recipes’ into Google and—bam—get ten decent ones on the spot.”

“Yeah, but you’re Clementine Cooper, famed vegan chef.” She sniffed the pan. “I want to devour this.”

“You will, promise.” I wanted to keep her talking, to find out what was wrong, but I also had a zillion cookies to bake. And a birthday cake. And a personal chef client at two o’clock. A married couple who wanted to know more about “this vegan thing.”

She bit her lip again. “I have really good news,” she said, a huge grin on her face. “I got called back for an audition—and not a commercial.”

So why did she look so nervous? “Awesome! For what?”

“A real role. A recurring character. A snarky nurse who makes under-the-breath comments at the nurses’ station. It’s for a pilot for an hour-long hospital show. They loved me!”

“No one can play snarky better than you. So great, Sara.”

“And there’s one more thing you might want to know. But I’m scared to tell you what.”

That kind of scared me in itself. Sara wasn’t scared of anything. “Why?”

“Because . . . it’s white, rectangular, and has the return address of your bank on it.” She took the envelope out of her bag. “I know how much you want this, Clem.” She handed it to me.

Not very weighty. Good sign? Bad sign?

“So you don’t think I’m getting the loan either?” I asked.

“Of course, I think you’re getting it. But if you don’t, it’ll suck.”

I stared at the envelope. Tried to read through it. Tapped it against the counter.

“Okay, open it,” Sara said. “You got the loan. I know it.”

I slid open the envelope and pulled out the piece of paper.

“It starts with ‘Congratulations, you have been approved!’ ” Shit, yeah!

“Celebrating all around,” Sara said. “Afternoon mimosas.” She grabbed the bottle of champagne left over from her party and the OJ.

“Oh,” I said, scanning the rest of the letter. Forget about mimosas.

“What?” she asked.

“This says I’ve been approved for a loan of
fifteen hundred
bucks. What am I supposed to do with fifteen hundred dollars?” I grabbed my cell phone and called the loan officer, Ms. Pritchard.

“Fifteen hundred dollars will cover
paint,
” I told Ms. Pritchard. “I need to buy tables and chairs. Equipment. Dishes. Good pans.
Insurance
.” I needed ten times the amount she’d given me.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Cooper, but your current net worth simply isn’t enough to justify a larger loan. Perhaps six months from now, when your net worth is significantly higher per your business plan, we can revisit.”

Shit.

I couldn’t get a decent loan, but at least my phone never stopped ringing. While I was elbows-deep in batter and frosting, I received constant orders for Skinny Bitch Bakes. Three more personal chef clients, including a “celeb”—who’d actually introduced herself that way—wanting to learn more about becoming vegan. One speaking gig. Maybe I could make another ten, twenty grand in a week so I’d have enough in my account to make the landlord of the Montana space pick me over the bar or knitting or coffee places.

Right.

I almost let the last call go to voice mail so that I could get
the cupcakes in the oven before the batter got all cementy, but I grabbed it at the last minute.

And good thing, too.

It was a producer for
Eat Me,
an obnoxious cooking show on cable, hosted by a gross slob of a “chef” named Joe “Steak” Johannsen. I was being invited to appear on
Eat Me
’s live cook-off Thursday night. Apparently, the chef booked for this week had canceled and left them hanging, and the producer had me on her radar from seeing the
Times
article. Johannsen did special live cook-off episodes to prove that no one made better Man Food than he did. He wanted to prove to America that he, Joe “Steak” Johannsen, could make a better Eggplant Parmesan than “that Skinny Bitch, vegan chef Clementine Coooper.”