The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs (32 page)

Blake nods. “Got it. What else?”

“I’m going to slow-cook the barbecued ribs and serve them as ‘skeleton ribs,’ and I’ll serve up the calamari tentacles as ‘deep-fried spiders.’ Then I’ll roast the shrimp and arrange them in glasses of ice to look like claws or fingers, which people can dip into a ‘Bloody Mary’ cocktail sauce. And I’ll scatter platters of deviled eggs around the living and dining rooms.”

“Think that’ll be enough food?”

“Definitely. I’ll throw some cheese and crudités into the mix, too. Oh, and dessert—spiced devil’s food cupcakes and blood orange sorbet.”

Blake leans his back against the counter and crosses his feet. “Well aren’t you the most creative cook I know?”

I shrug. “Like I said, food is sort of my thing.”

I rinse my shrimp-covered hands under the kitchen faucet and wipe them on one of Blake’s dish towels, and then I grab a sheet pan from one of Blake’s cupboards, along with a pair of tongs and a spatula from one of his drawers. I dump the shrimp onto the sheet pan, sprinkle them with salt and pepper, and toss them with some of the olive oil from Blake’s pantry. When I look up, Blake is staring at me with raised eyebrows.

“Wow,” he says. “You really know your way around this kitchen, huh?”

I freeze. “Beginner’s luck, I guess.”

Blake smiles, pulling a new roll of paper towels from beneath his kitchen sink. “That or a sixth sense.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Something like that.”

“Well, let me know if you have any questions about where I keep pans or ingredients or whatever. But for now it seems like you have a good handle on things.”

I smile politely and nod and think,
You don’t know the half of it
.

Blake and I finish prepping the food by four o’clock and arrange to meet back in his kitchen in two hours. I will need to take at least three showers to wash off the smell of raw fish, which has embedded itself into the fabric of my clothes and my entire earthly being.

“Oh, but don’t worry about what you wear,” Blake says. “I’ve got you covered. You can get dressed in the guestroom upstairs.”

“Sorry?”

“I already took care of your costume. For the party.”

“You … took care of my costume.” I hope my tone adequately conveys my skepticism.

“It’s part of my costume, so yeah. I’m going to be Sweeney Todd, and you’re going to be Mrs. Lovett.”

“Mrs. Lovett?” As I recall, Mrs. Lovett is Sweeney Todd’s accomplice, who chops up Todd’s victims and bakes them into pies. She was portrayed most recently on film by a psychotic-looking Helena Bonham Carter.

He grins. “Yup.”

“But I’m the caterer. I don’t need to dress up.”

“Of course you do.”

“But … Mrs. Lovett is supposed to be hideous and freaky.”

“It’s Halloween. You’re supposed to be hideous and freaky on Halloween. Unless you’re a college girl, in which case you’re supposed to dress up like a slut.”

I hate to break it to Blake, but that is what women of all ages do on Halloween. The holiday serves as an excuse to wear as little clothing as possible, where all creatures—from rabbits to schoolgirls—exist only in their “sexy” forms. This year Millie will don a “sexy soldier” ensemble, and last year Rachel dressed as a “sexy crayon,” bestowing sexiness on burnt siena for possibly the first time in history.

“Thanks for looking out for me,” I say, terrified as to what this costume will look like. Regardless how good the food is, no one will want to hire a caterer who looks like a serial killer.

“Don’t worry,” Blake says. “It’ll be great.”

I somehow doubt that. But as I watch Blake’s eyes crinkle around the edges with excitement, I realize I don’t need great. I’ll settle for decent. Or even mediocre. Because, as much as I hate to admit it, I like being part of a duo again, and I’ll take it in whatever form it comes.

I stare at my reflection in Blake’s full-length mirror and cannot believe what I see.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, tugging at the black corset strings around my waist. “Where the hell did you get this thing?”

Blake comes to the doorway and immediately hunches over in a fit of laughter. “Oh my god, it’s perfect.”

“Stop laughing. I look ridiculous.”

“No you don’t. Okay, maybe a little bit, but it’s Halloween. Seriously, it’s perfect.”

Perfect is not how I would describe this costume. Hideous, maybe, or highly flammable, but definitely not perfect. The black gauzy sleeves fall about an inch below my knuckles, and the tiered skirt cascades to the floor in a way that guarantees I will trip at least once during the party. And while I appreciate the slimming effects of the corset, I do not enjoy the supreme boost it gives to my breasts, which are now so perky they distract even me. Perhaps that was Blake’s intention.

Blake grabs my shoulders and spins me around to face him. He pulls a strand of hair away from my face. “I have a can of hair-spray in the bathroom, and a big bag of costume makeup.” He digs into his pocket. “Oh, and here’s a photo of Mrs. Lovett from the latest
Sweeney Todd
movie. You can use it as a guide.”

I take the picture from Blake and inspect Helena Bonham Carter’s white face and black, sunken eyes. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Of course I’m not joking. What’s wrong with that picture? Her makeup looks cool.”

“She looks insane. Can’t I mess up my hair and be done with it?”

“No,” he says. “That’s lame. There’s no point in dressing up if you only go halfway.”

“So then why don’t I not dress up at all?”

He sighs. “Because it’s Halloween. Everyone will be dressed up. Everyone will look ridiculous. Trust me.”

“Fine,” I say. “But don’t blame me when no one wants any food or drinks because I scare everyone away.”

Blake ruffles my hair with his fingers and steals a quick glance at my chest. “I assure you, my friend. That won’t happen.”

Thirty minutes before Blake’s friends show up, I march back into the kitchen, my hair teased into a frizzy mass atop my head and my makeup a near facsimile of Helena Bonham Carter’s. When Blake sees me, he gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up. I interpret this to mean I look absolutely hideous.

However ridiculous I look, Blake’s outfit gives me a run for my money. Let’s just say he’s no Johnny Depp. Aside from the puffy shirt and ornate cravat, his ratty wig puts the whole ensemble over the top. He looks like Don King.

“Blake, is that a pirate shirt?” I ask, pointing at his torso.

He looks down at his sleeves, which balloon from the arm-holes of his gray, button-down vest. “What, you don’t like it?”

“It looks a little, I don’t know …” I swoop my arm like a pirate. “
Argh, matey
!”

“Listen, Sugarman, I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is a Sweeney Todd costume.” He rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands in the sink.

“You probably
should
have dressed as a pirate. It would have been much more appropriate.”

“Because I like boats?”

“That, and the fact that you talk like a pirate half the time.”

“No I don’t. Do I?”

I dip my head and stare at him with widened eyes. “Are you kidding?”

“No. What are you talking about?”

I smack my forehead and shake my head. “Blake, I’ve been meaning to address this for weeks. You use sailor and fishing expressions
all the time
. ‘Welcome aboard.’ ‘Fish or cut bait.’ ‘Anchors aweigh.’ I could go on and on.”

He blushes and scratches his temple. “Really? Sorry. Sort of a throwback to childhood, I guess. When I was a kid, my dad used to call me First Mate, and I’d call him Skipper. It was a running joke between us—the Fischer Men, remember? I guess I still talk that way sometimes when I get nervous.”

“Not just when you’re nervous,” I say. “You do it all the time.”

“Around you,” he says, turning his back to me as he opens the refrigerator.

“Right. All the time … around me.”

Before I can ask Blake to explain what he means, he hands me a container of marinated artichokes hearts and a box of toothpicks. “I had an idea.”

I poke a toothpick into an artichoke and hold it up for Blake to see. “A ‘stake in the heart’?”

He smiles. “Exactly.”

“Nice. I hadn’t thought of that one.”

I arrange the artichokes in concentric circles on a big, porcelain platter, occasionally stealing glances at Blake out of the corner of my eye. He does look ridiculous in that wig, but it’s sort of endearing, like people who wear knee-high tube socks or super white sneakers without a hint of irony. I want to hug those people and hold them and tell them everything will be okay.

As I stab a toothpick into the last artichoke, I sense Blake standing behind me. “Can I squeeze in there a sec?” he asks. “I need to grab a spatula.”

I move to the right, but he grabs me by the waist and moves me to the left. I jump.

“You ticklish?” he asks, smirking.

“No,” I say. This is a lie. I am extremely ticklish.

“Oh?” He grabs my sides again. This time I squeal. “You’re not? So if I went like this”—he wiggles his fingers under my arms—“you’d be fine?”

I let out a sharp yelp, and he starts poking me in the side and behind my knees, and before I know it I am on the ground and he is kneeling over me, prodding me all over as I giggle and shriek and tell him to stop.

“Bwahahaha, you cannot escape from Sweeney Todd!”

I screech and slap his hands away, and finally he stops when he is laughing so hard he can’t manage to tickle me anymore. He wipes the tears away from his eyes, still kneeling over me with his legs straddled across my knees. His expression turns serious, and his gray eyes fix on mine.

“You know, there’s something we need to talk about,” he says. But before he can finish his thought, the doorbell rings.

“What?” I ask, trying not to let the panic rise in my voice. The supper club. He knows. “What do we need to talk about?”

He presses his lips together and looks away as he tugs at his wig. “Never mind,” he says, shaking his head. “Let’s get the door.”

He grabs my hand and pulls me up from the ground, and he doesn’t loosen his grip until we reach the front door.

As the crowd in Blake’s living room multiplies, I discover I am not alone in looking like a lunatic. One guy is completely naked, save a pizza box, which he wears around his waist like a tutu. I imagine the box’s contents are a special delivery for some lucky gal at the party tonight. Another man is dressed as Borat, clad in a neon yellow V-shaped unitard, which seems dated and unoriginal but, nevertheless, manages to attract the attention of everyone at the party due to its emphasis on this particular gentleman’s, shall we say, impressive anatomy. These costumes, combined with a man dressed as a snake charmer (charming his own “snake”), lead me to revise my thesis on Halloween costumes. Girls aren’t the only ones who dress like sluts on Halloween; apparently men are enthralled by any costume that showcases their schlong.

The man wearing the pizza box sidles up to the bar, where I am temporarily serving as the bartender while I wait for the crowd to deplete some of the platters. “Whatcha got?” he asks.

“Red and white wine and the usual hard stuff. The beer keg is out back.”

He scans the bookshelves behind me, which Blake and I lined with bottles of rum, vodka, and other liquor. “You know what—I’ll stick with beer,” he says. He eyes me up and down. “Nice costume.”

“You, too.”

He smirks. “Sausage, baby. Extra large.”

I roll my eyes. “The beer is out back.”

“Oooh, the surly type. Me likey. Don’t worry. I’ll be back later.”

“Don’t hurry,” I call after him.

A short Indian man cloaked in silver Mylar slips in front of the pizza guy and approaches me at the bar, smiling as he watches me stare in puzzlement at his shiny costume.

“You like?” he asks, holding out his arms and spinning around, so that I can take in the whole ensemble. The silver material hangs over him and puffs out in the middle like a balloon.

“Um … yeah.... What are you supposed to be?”

“Balloon Boy! You know, the kid who supposedly got trapped in that air balloon?”

“A few years back?” I chuckle. “Wow. Hadn’t thought about that one in a while.”

“Yeah, well, the truth is, I went on Amazon to buy a Mylar blanket to line my sleeping bag for a camping trip, but I accidentally bought a pack of twelve, so I was looking for a way to use a few of them up.”

“Nice job. I’d say you used at least three.”

“Five, actually. I stuffed a few inside.” He grins and extends his arm across the bar. “I’m Anoop, by the way.”

I grab his hand and shake it. “Hannah.”

“I see you met Wes,” he says, pointing to the guy wearing the pizza box, who is now chatting up a woman dressed as Catwoman. “Don’t worry, he’s harmless. Just crazy.”