The Art of Love (24 page)

“
Huh?” The cowboy is surprised that I would dare stand up for myself.

“You come into town for some fat-men-with-big-
hats convention and you want to brag about eating in a fancy restaurant,” I find myself saying, even though everyone in the restaurant is listening, and I’m sure at least half of them are from out of town. “But you have no idea what good food is. You have no concept of haute cuisine.” The Van Dyke reviewer is listening, too. I know it’s a mistake to be so rude in front of him. But he’s been to millions of restaurants. I’m sure he understands my frustration with ill-mannered people and their complete ignorance of haute cuisine.

“Now, I wouldn’t say that,” the cowboy interjects.

But there’s no stopping me now. The stress, the long hours, the backstabbing, Trent’s imitation of an NBA player on a road trip, all of it is boiling over and pouring out my mouth. “It wouldn't matter if I served you fillet mignon or a piece of old shoe leather,” I tell him. “You couldn't tell the difference.”

The cowboy looks at me absolutely stunned. He’s probably some fat cat who has never had anyone stand up to him in his entire life. I feel elated showing him what it’s like to be the one on the receiving end of a rant. “
So why don't you do everyone a favor,” I tell him. “Eat your steak and keep your ignorant opinions to yourself.”

Much to my surprise, the cowboy doesn’t have an aneurism or anything like that. He maintains his composure and says, “
Excuse me, ma'am, but I don't think you understand.”

His comment just provokes me. “
What?” I sputter. “What could I possibly not understand?”

“
I work for Thomas Van Dyke,” he explains. “I'm here to review your restaurant.”

I can’t even think about it. My brain refuses to acknowledge what I just did. There’s nothing I can say and nothing I can do to make it any better. Even if his steak house steak is the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted, there’s no excuse for the horrible things I’ve just said to him. So, instead, I just turn and run.

“
Oh... God. I can't believe I just did that. Oh, God...” I’m clutching my hands to my face as I burst through the swinging doors to the kitchen.

Instead of working, the entire Bouche kitchen staff is gathered in a cluster for some reason. I’m so caught up in the embarrassment of my own stupidity that it doesn’t even really register what they’re doing. I just want the comfort of a few friends telling me that, even though I’ve made the world’s largest jackass out of myself, it isn’t the end of everything. “
You guys,” I blurt, focusing in on June, Aspic, and Paolo, who I probably know the best. “You'll never believe what I've just done. It's just too horrible.”

June is holding a book. That small detail slowly filters into my brain. And the book looks alarmingly familiar. “
Let me guess,” she says, in a very snippy voice. She opens the book and references one of the pages, “Did you use the busboys to ruin the clothing of the wait staff?” She flips to another page. “Or did you purposely stain everyone's teeth purple to make us all look like idiots?”

“What?” I stare at the book she’s holding, and I’m just not taking it in. My head is throbbing from my life-altering blunder with the reviewer for the Van Dyke awards, and I’ve got no bandwidth to deal with anything else. But I have to deal with this other thing, this ugly thing before me. June is holding my copy of
The Art of War
, which I was keeping, like a fool, in my locker. “No!” comes flying out of my mouth. “I...” trying again to make my mouth work. Finally, I manage to croak out, “You don't understand.”

June is fuming. Steam is practically coming out of her ears like a kettle that’s about to whistle. “
Oh, I think we do.” She waves the book in the air like a TV evangelist brandishing a Bible. “Kiki showed us your little playbook here. I think we all understand.” She glances toward the rest of the Bouche staff, who all look pretty angry. “You used us. All of us. To make yourself look good and screw over Kiki.”

“
Yes. Why you no like Kiki?” Paolo wants to know. “She a nice girl.”

Kiki is a nice girl? I know none of them have any idea of the true depths of her evil character, but how can anyone honestly think Kiki is nice. She’s not even that southern debutant surface nice. “
No, she's not!” I yell at him. If they only knew.

Then Antoine, of all people, feels the need to say in this totally outraged voice, “
You are not zee nice girl, Suzanne. You used zhis book to become zee chef de cuisine even zhough you know I am better for zhis job.” Of course he thinks this whole damn thing is about him.

“
That's not it,” I say, more to the crowd than to Antoine. “I wasn't using you. Any of you. Not for the job. I mean...” And here’s where I flounder because I was actually using them.

“
Then why were you using us?” June glares at me. She waves the book in the air again. “Why are there all these notes?”

I let my shoulders slump. I really don’t want to explain. It’s too embarrassing and really makes me look like the freak that I guess I actually am. Suddenly, I’m just so very tired. I feel like all of the fight has been wrung out of me. But everyone is looking at me and expecting an explanation, so even though my voice is cracking and I can feel my nose and eyes are starting to burn, I say, “
It wasn't about the job. And I'm really sorry if you think I used you, but I wasn't using the book for work. Not exactly.”

“
What were you doing, then?” Aspic asks, his button eyes for once looking like a thunderstorm.

I’m ashamed. I’m just so ashamed, but I might as well confess. “
I was using it as kind of a dating manual,” I mumble.

“
What?” June can’t believe her ears.

This is so humiliating, but I take a deep breath and say in a slightly louder voice, “
I was using
The Art of War
to try to date someone.”

“Who?” June demands.

Oh, this is so just the worst, most humiliating part. “If I’m being honest,” I tell them, “it’s Trent Winchell.”

Chapter 26

I stumble into my apartment defeated. Why did I bring
The Art of War
to work? Why did I shoot my mouth off in front of the man from Van Dyke? Why did I think dating Trent would be a good idea? I am obviously the world’s biggest idiot. The looks of betrayal on the faces of the staff. They trusted me, and I used them to try to land a date with a rich guy. It sounds too pathetic for words. I’m feeling so low, I collapse on the couch and bury my head in my hands.

“Knock, knock,” Dahlia says, peeping through my still slightly open front door.

No, facing her is impossible. She has to go. I really need to be alone with my humiliation. I look at her through the cracks in my fingers and say in a muffled voice, “I can't, Dahlia... I just... Everything is so awful. Please, just leave me alone.”

Of course, Dahlia completely ignores me and lets herself into my condo. I notice she has a folded newspaper tucked under her arm, and part of my brain wonders why she isn’t worried about getting ink on whatever expensive designer nonsense she’s wearing. “
What's wrong?” she asks, and in Dahlia’s defense, she does look genuinely concerned.

It’s the genuine concern that does it. Tears spring into my eyes, and there’s no way to fight them back down. “
Well, let's see,” I say in a light tone, even though my voice is catching. “I totally screamed at some guy from the Thomas Van Dyke awards who was there to review Bouche. Kiki found my copy of
The Art of War
in my locker and showed it to everyone. And it had all my notes in there and everything. So now the entire staff hates me. And I'm pretty sure I just lost my job because I don’t think I can ever go back there.” I swipe away the hot tears rolling down my face. “Is that enough for you?”

Dahlia furrows her brow. “Why would you keep your
copy of
The Art of War
at work?”

“
Because I'm a total moron,” I almost shout. “Okay? Is that what you want to hear? Is that good enough for you?”

Dahlia reaches out and rests a hand on my shoulder in an attempt at a comforting gesture. It’s a very awkward thing for Dahlia to do, but somehow the effort of her making such a gesture stabs at my heart even more. “
I can't believe Kiki went through my locker,” I wail, slumping further on the couch. “And then showed my book to everyone at Bouche. What a bitch!”

Dahlia gives a sideways glance and lifts a corner of her mouth. “She might
not be the only one.”

“Hey.” I pick up on her meaning immediately. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come on.” Dahlia shakes her head at me. “You're not exactly Snow White in this scenario.”

She’s right, of course, but she seems to have forgotten a key ingredient. “You helped.” I sniffle.

“I helped because I thought it was hilarious,” Dahlia tells me. “I didn't know you were going to go all psycho on her or anything.”

This strikes a nerve. “I didn’t go that psycho on her. She did stuff that actually hurt people. I never did anything like that,” I say, even though I know I sound overly defensive.

“Whatever you’ve got to tell yourself,” Dahlia says quietly.

I can’t believe now Dahlia’s turning on me. She’s the one that was encouraging me to use
The Art of War
to begin with. So I played a few dirty tricks. Big deal. It’s not like anybody really got hurt. I mean, not physically. And besides, I was fighting Kiki. The only person she cares about in the entire universe is herself. I was actually doing Bouche a favor by messing with her. She’s the one that took it too far. “Yeah, well Kiki messed with the wrong bitch,” I say, not even caring if Dahlia thinks I’m evil. Who is she to judge me?

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks.

“I found out something about Kiki,” I say, remembering Donna’s juicy bit of gossip. “Something that will totally ruin her life at Bouche. Hell, once I let this cat out of the bag, Kiki will probably have to move out of Chicago.”

“Um
...” Dahlia is staring at me with concern that I’m trying to ignore. “You might want to re-think that, Sue. I mean, I was all for this little experiment initially, but is it really worth ruining someone's life?”

“Why should I care?” I demand. “She ruined mine.”

“Are you sure about that?” Dahlia asks. “I mean, is what she did to you really worth turning around and trashing her?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then where does it stop?” Dahlia asks, folding her arms.

“Where does what stop?”

“When do you guys stop clawing at each other? I mean, is it after one of you hides the other’s body in a dumpster or what?”

I can’t believe I’m hearing this out of Dahlia. She, of all people, knows the shitty things Kiki has done to me. And I thought we were friends. “
What?” I demand. “Are you turning on me now, too?”

“
No.” Dahlia keeps her voice calm even though she’s obviously angry. “I'm just telling you there's a line that you shouldn't cross.”

This really pisses me off. “
Why should I care when Kiki doesn't even know a line exists?” I ask. “I'm telling everyone what I know about her, and you're either with me or you're against me.”

“
Fine.” Dahlia shrugs as she starts heading back toward the door. “I'm against you.” Before she leaves, she pitches the newspaper she’s had clamped under her arm at me. “One last thing,” she says. “There's an article in there you might want to read.”

The paper is heading right at my face. I knock it out of the air so it doesn’t hit me. “Bitch,” I mutter, in spite of myself. I guess I say it a little too audibly because on her way out, Dahlia closes the door so loud it causes my bookshelves to tremble.

I lean forward and snatch the newspaper off the floor where it landed. Might as well see what Dahlia thought was so important. She has it folded open to a certain page. I scan it quickly and then realize, “Oh no...”

"Groom Has M
arriage to Crazed Heiress Annulled,” is the headline that screams out at me. And there’s the classic photo of Chandra Lake in her wedding dress having a complete bridal meltdown at her Bouche reception.

I collapse back onto the couch, striking my head on the bookshelf with a good clip. It hurts, but I barely even notice. This is just awful. Poor Chandra. Yes, she is a spoiled brat with an extreme sense of entitlement, but she doesn’t deserve to have her marriage break up before it’s even begun.

Suddenly, there are tears in my eyes. I’d like to blame the whack I gave my head on the shelf, but I know it’s more than that. My cell rings, and I see it’s Trent’s office. Normally, reading this kind of name on my caller ID would start my heart to sing, but I can’t imagine Trent is calling to ask me on another date. It’s been my experience that once you knee a guy in the balls, he’s usually not that keen to take you out again. With some trepidation, I answer it. “Hello?”

“This is Linda from Mr. Winchell’s office calling for Sue,” I hear from the earpiece.

I am somewhat relieved because I’m sure by now Kiki has taken
The Art of War
information to Trent, and I’m really not eager to talk to him at this exact second. “Oh, hi, Linda. Yeah, it’s me. What’s going on?”

“
Trent wants to see you first thing tomorrow, as soon as you get in,” she informs me.

“Great…” I say, although it’s anything but great. “Any idea what he wants?”

“No,” she says in a professional voice that leads me to believe that Trent is in the room with her. “He just said to tell you he wants to see you.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be there.” I end the call and then just let the phone slip out of my hand onto the rug. I flop back onto the couch, which apparently jiggles the bookshelf again. I don’t know if I hear a noise or see a shadow out of the corner of my eye or what, but I glance up and notice that another damn book has freed itself from the top shelf and is plummeting toward me. I catch a glimpse of the title as it falls, but it doesn’t make any sense because all I can glean is,
The Tea
.

“Not again.” I cringe just before I’m seeing stars.