Fed Up

by Kathleen Duhamel

  After we ended our conversation, I texted my manager to schedule a meeting, then called Madeline and left a message, offering to take her to dinner at her favorite taqueria the following evening. Afterward, feeling an unpleasant twinge of self-pity, I called room service to order a steak, medium rare, a bucket of ice, and a bottle of the restaurant’s best single malt Irish whiskey. I’d go to the gym tomorrow, I vowed.

  Flopping onto a cream-colored sofa in front of the flat screen TV, I searched dozens of channels before finding a classic movie channel showing Cast Away. The heart-breaking story followed a man obsessed with the clock who found himself in a place where time was meaningless. Sitting through two hours of Tom Hanks’ emotional and physical anguish probably was not the best choice for a depressed individual with access to alcoholic beverages. However, I soldiered on to the enigmatic ending, where Hanks’ character literally stood at a crossroads, not knowing which way to go. I’d like to think he found some happiness with the woman in the pick-up, but who knew? Real life was about as far away from Hollywood’s depiction as one could get.

  ***

  I had dinner with my daughter the following night at a tiny Mexican restaurant housed inside one of Los Angeles’s public markets, a warehouse overflowing with exotic food vendors, colorful eateries, and specialty kiosks. It was a far cry from the small, family-owned farm stands in Virginia that Shelby liked to frequent, but I knew she would have loved it. I snapped a couple of photos with my phone, hoping to capture the market’s bright and bustling atmosphere, and sent them to her along with the caption: Taco night with Maddie.

  Madeline was cheerful and talkative during dinner, revealing more about her school life in one evening than I’d heard during the past several months. I had hoped her senior year would be a positive experience and, so far, it had been. She was spending more time with some new friends, mostly theatre and music students, and she’d distanced herself from the group of mean girls who sometimes bullied her. She seemed excited about her upcoming audition. Better yet, after she caught me glancing at a network of pale scars marring the inside of her left forearm, was her claim that the self-harm had stopped.

  “I haven’t done it in months,” she told me, and I didn’t press the issue. None of the scars appeared fresh, so I decided it best to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  “I believe you’ve turned a corner and I’m happy for you, sweetheart. Do the scars embarrass you?”

  She nodded and ducked her head. “Sometimes.”

  “You could have cosmetic surgery if you want,” I offered.

  I studied my bottle of Dos Equis before taking another sip, realizing that I’d never be able to order that brand of Mexican beer without reminiscing about Shelby serving it to me for the first time. Feed me anything you like, Chef. I’m happy to be your culinary guinea pig.

  “I’d like to get some ink instead,” Maddie said, brushing the crumbs of a tortilla chip from her vintage Joni Mitchell t-shirt. “There are tattoo artists who specialize in covering up old scars.”

  I swallowed hard and studied her face, so like mine in its symmetry. While Madeline was becoming a stunning young woman, she was still too self-conscious to place much emphasis on her looks. Someday, I hoped she would understand that physical beauty was hardly an accomplishment, but rather the luck of a genetic draw. I was more concerned that she grow up self-confident and happy.

  “You’ll have to clear that with your mum first.” The last thing I wanted to do was spark another confrontation with Georgianne over how to raise our almost-grown child.

  She frowned before pushing away her unfinished plate.

  “Why, when she doesn’t care what I do? She’s got an agent and a book contract. It’s all she talks about when she’s not complaining about having to do revisions.”

  “Good for her,” I replied diplomatically. “What’s the book about?”

  “She won’t tell me. She says it’s an erotic novel for adults. But I overheard her talking on the phone to her agent, and I think it has something to do with you.”

  Setting my beer on the table, I folded my hands in my lap in an effort to keep calm. A tell-all book, disguised as fiction? This could not be good news. Georgianne knew things about me that no one else did, including a few sordid facts that I’d rather she not reveal.

  I’d have to ask my manager, who had extensive contacts throughout the entertainment industry, if he could find out more about her book. Surely, there couldn’t be much enthusiasm about yet another romance novel penned by an unknown writer.

  In the meantime, I mentioned my upcoming trip to Paris and asked Maddie if she’d like me to bring her something.

  “A beret,” was her response. “And maybe some French perfume?”

  “I’m taking someone with me,” I went on. “Her name is Shelby and I met her while I was working in Virginia.”

  She rolled her eyes, reminding me of Danielle’s dismissive attitude.

  “You just got divorced, Ian. Why do you need a new girlfriend so soon?”

  I fidgeted in my garishly painted dining chair, unnerved by her habit of calling me by my given name.

  Why indeed, when I’d sworn off any future romantic entanglements? Had I become so needy that I couldn’t cope on my own?

  “I…I didn’t intend for it to happen, but nevertheless…” My voice failed. “You’ll like her, though. She’s not at all like Monica.”

  I found myself wilting under my daughter’s impenetrable gaze, and I wondered if Shelby felt the same scrutiny whenever Danielle questioned the wisdom of my relationship with her mother.

  Madeline sighed, gave me another eye roll, and said, “I guess that’s one thing in her favor. When are you getting a haircut?”

  ***

  Two days later, newly shorn and clean-shaven, I arrived at Azure, an overpriced restaurant on West Hollywood Boulevard, for lunch with my manager. I’d dressed casually but carefully, anticipating the presence of paparazzi, not to mention fans who frequented the restaurant, hoping for a celebrity sighting. Outfitted in artfully distressed jeans, an open-collared shirt worn untucked over my expanding middle, and soft leather slip-on shoes, I finished the outfit with aviator sunglasses and a couldn’t care less attitude.

  While waiting to be seated, I raked the fingers of one hand through my hair, keeping the top a bit messy as my hairstylist instructed. She’d cut the sides short to accentuate the shape of my face, and I had to admit the result was flattering, even the gray at my temples. Shedding the last vestige of my character, John Sutherland, was somewhat cathartic, another completed step on the long path to re-making myself.

  Ensconced in his regular booth with a dirty martini and an I-Pad, Samuel Leventhal acknowledged me with an almost imperceptible nod while speaking into his cell phone. Multi-tasking, as usual, a habit partially responsible for his amazing accomplishments during the past half-century.

  Now well into his seventies, Sam was legendary for his smart and innovative business practices on behalf of his clients, a roster of mostly A-listers in film, television, and the music business. He’d been my manager since I relocated to the United States a quarter-century ago, negotiating the lucrative Time Traveler contract that insured a healthy annual income from residuals and merchandise sales. And, to his credit, he’d stuck with me, although I wasn’t one of his biggest money-makers.

  As I approached the coveted corner booth, Sam ended his call and stood to greet me. Barely reaching five-foot-six-inches, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit and tie, he carried himself with the self-confidence and swagger of a much larger man. We exchanged a brief, masculine embrace before I sat down across from him on an upholstered banquette covered in toss pillows that resembled the ones in my hotel room. Artisanal and hand-dyed?

  Our server, a twenty-something dude sporting a man bun, ambled over to take our lunch orders. Owing to my recent vow to work out regularly and eat lighter, I chose a Deconstructed Lettuce Wrap with sparkling water, served with a wedge of locally-
sourced organic lemon. Sam ordered his usual, poached Mediterranean flounder (flown in daily) served with haricots verts and pommes puree, which were nothing more than green beans and whipped potatoes.

  “Put a French name on food and you can sell it for at least twenty percent more,” Shelby once told me.

  I took the phone from my pocket and snapped a few pictures of my lunch: a miniscule amount of grilled chicken atop a small mountain of lettuce, garnished with shaved carrots.

  Sam offered a skeptical look. “You’re photographing your food now?”

  I shrugged.

  “It’s a habit I recently acquired.”

  After a few minutes of requisite small talk, Sam paused to nod at an acquaintance across the dining room, adjusted the cuff of his crisp white dress shirt and said, “I wanted to break the news to you before it’s announced in a couple of days. Sutherland’s Ghosts has been cancelled.”

  A wave of relief crashed over me. My prayers had been answered, although, with the exception of my Paris commercial shoot, the cancellation did leave me temporarily unemployed.

  “Excellent news! I’m quite relieved, Sam, and I’m adamant about not doing another TV series. For one thing, I’m getting too bloody old for it, particularly in a place where the daily humidity is as high as the temperature.”

  He looked me over as a smile appeared briefly on his white-bearded face. “I take it the Commonwealth of Virginia didn’t have much to offer except southern fried food. Your face is a little puffy.”

  Is it that obvious that I’ve put on weight?

  “My personal chef was trained at Le Cordon Bleu,” I responded, with a defensive edge to my voice. “She might’ve fed me a bit too well.”

  “Hmm,” he muttered, before spearing a bite of flounder. “I hope you plan to get back in shape quickly, because I’m setting up a meeting for you and Bill Lyons. He’s interested in directing the Time Traveler script.”

  The William Lyons? Oscar-winning screenwriter, producer, and director of the acclaimed Highlander films? Actors clamored to be in his movies, and he wanted to talk to me?

  “Obviously, he hasn’t seen Sutherland’s Ghosts.”

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Ian. You never have. Bill has watched the show, and he told me you were the only thing that made it tolerable.”

  “Did he?”

  Despite my intention to stay detached and not take his comments too seriously, my mood shifted. In only a few seconds, I’d gone from dejected to almost delirious. For the role of Dr. Nick, a major studio would insist on signing some hot, young actor with enough star power to “open” the movie, but perhaps I could snag a small part for myself.

  “Here’s the thing, Ian.” Sam clasped his hands together on the table. “You already know that Bill was a big fan of the Time Traveler series. He told me in confidence that he wants the script re-written to make the character older. More than fifteen years have passed since the series ended, and he wants to reflect that on screen. If he produces the movie himself, he’ll get exactly what he wants.”

  My head spun with random thoughts of what it might mean to introduce the Time Traveler to a new generation. Not to mention how being cast in a major motion picture might resuscitate my sagging career. Even though I’d tried to convince myself that I’d be perfectly happy without being on screen, I wasn’t convincing anyone, particularly Sam. If there was the slimmest possibility that I could reprise my most popular role as Dr. Nicholas Adderly, I’d go all out for it.

  “Text me the details and I’ll be there,” I told him. “I’m planning to stay put until I leave for Paris, which reminds me—I’ll need to book a second airline ticket. I’m taking someone with me.”

  He said nothing. Sam knew better than to ask too many probing questions about my personal life.

  “My chef, Shelby,” I prattled on, unable to stop talking. “We hit it off right away and, well…I thought she would enjoy a few days in La Ville-Lumières.”

  His expression remained unchanged.

  “Do me a favor, Ian, and keep a low profile. You’ve already racked up enough bad publicity this year.”

  To be specific, a humiliating cheating scandal, a messy divorce, and a cancelled TV show—all within the first nine months. While I was reluctant to bring up the subject of Georgianne’s forthcoming novel, I thought it might be wise to mention it sooner rather than later.

  “Madeline told me my ex has a publishing contract for her erotic novel. I’m not certain what it’s about, but I suspect it might be based on our marriage.”

  He tried to cover his reaction by reaching for the I-Pad, but I saw him flinch, ever so slightly, before taking a sip of his martini.

  “Would you look into it? Maybe you could get your hands on an advance copy, so we’ll know what we’re dealing with. I’m not sure if she’s writing under her own name, or a nom de plume.”

  He nodded while making some notes on the tablet.

  “Is there some reason she would still have it in for you, after all these years?” he asked.

  Oh, there were reasons to hate me, and one of Georgianne’s best skills was holding a grudge. I was certain that whatever she wrote with me in mind would not be flattering.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Shelby

  Work proved to be my only salvation during the first few days after Ian’s return to California. Otherwise, without something to occupy my time, I might’ve driven myself over the edge with speculation and worry. Despite what he said about not wanting to let me go, we were not in an exclusive relationship, so for all I knew he could be back in the arms of an old lover. Certainly not Monica, not after the way she publicly humiliated him, but there had to be countless other Hollywood hotties who wouldn’t mind a casual fuck with a gorgeous man.

  I cringed inwardly at my use of the hated f-bomb. Why should I imagine that what we’d been doing was any different? Because of what he said to me in bed at Ravenswood Inn? People say all sorts of things they don’t really mean when they’re caught up in a passionate moment.

  There’s more going on here than you will admit to either me or yourself.

  Maybe so, but how much could it matter? He was all the way across the country. Out of sight, out of mind. Besides, I was convinced that the one woman he truly wanted was no longer alive.

  ***

  Testing new recipes at Ravenswood required focus and discipline, so I reassumed my composed chef persona and took on the job at hand. Holding forth in the restaurant’s tiny kitchen, I could stay in control. Cooking was almost as natural to me as breathing, and my assignment was straight forward—once the overnight guests had been served breakfast, I had access to the kitchen for a few hours until dinner prep began.

  The inn’s young chef, who called herself Ruby Violette, had good instincts but tended to rush, which resulted in erratic technique and sloppy presentation.

  “It’s okay to slow down and breathe occasionally,” I reminded her.

  I kept hammering home the point of consistency, which is essential for any restaurant’s long-term survival. Customers of Faith knew that if they ordered our popular shrimp and grits, for example, it would look and taste the same, no matter who prepared it. As chefs, our ongoing task was to meet, if not exceed, our customers’ expectations.

  During the past few days Ruby and I had managed to cook, taste, and critique every dish on the menu. With Chef Nancy’s input, we decided to drop a few of the less-popular entrees in favor of new recipes that favored local ingredients. I called several food suppliers I had worked with at Faith, coming up with grass-fed beef, organic chicken and eggs, and oysters harvested off Virginia’s eastern shore. We were aiming for a true “farm to table” dining experience.

  We planned to introduce the inn’s revamped menu during a private dinner for VIP guests, food writers/bloggers, and our new suppliers. I was thrilled with the progress we’d made and surprised by how much I enjoyed exercising my creative muscle.

  During the drive home
on Friday, I stopped at a grocery store to pick up half-and-half and cat food. Standing in line at the checkout, I tried not to glance at the cheap tabloids, conveniently placed at eye level, but one headline drew my attention as revulsion surged in my throat. This Week! magazine featured the douchebag—Danielle’s word—face of SEAL-turned-sex-symbol Tyler Chance, accompanied by the headline: Sutherland’s Ghosts: Worst Show on TV?

  I yanked a copy from the rack and threw it into my cart, trying to appear disinterested while hoping I didn’t run into anyone I knew. Once-respected chef Shelby Durand is now a crazy old cat lady who reads trashy tabloids.

  I made another quick detour to Felise and Gabriel’s place for one of their mouth-watering “to go” bowls, made with the secret recipe rotisserie chicken, and accompanied by rice, black beans, and a variety of toppings. Felise greeted me with her usual enthusiastic hug, although I thought I detected a hint of disappointment in her voice when she asked, “¿Dónde está tu novio?”

  “He went home. To California.”

  Her face fell as she gave my arm a sympathetic pat.

  “That’s too bad,” she said, switching to English with ease. “He was so handsome. Do you think you’ll see him again?”

  I shrugged while forcing myself to smile. Too handsome, too charming, too much of everything.

  “I hope so.”

  Back at home, I retreated to my usual spot in J-P’s chair, shared my chicken with two demanding cats, and opened the magazine to the cover story.

  On-set Turmoil Roils Cast and Crew of Sutherland’s Ghosts

  “Everyone knows the show is likely to be cancelled. For the time being, we’re just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.”

  It’s been maligned by critics, parodied on late night television, and nominated for “TV’s Worst Shows Ever.” What began last year as a quirky 19th century family drama stumbled through its second season, plagued by clichéd writing, incomprehensible plots, and an uncooperative cast.