by Jane Green
Meredith spent hours that afternoon contemplating what to do with her hair. It is much like her mother’s, much to her despair. Ronni Sunshine is famous for her thick mane of blond hair, but the girls know it is really as fine and wispy as a baby’s. As a young woman she used weaves and falls and trickery, until the stress and strain of the weight of the added hair caused huge and permanent bald patches. Now, half of Ronni’s closet is filled with wigs.
Meredith has the same lank hair, darker than her mother’s, more of a mouse brown, and not half as thick as she would like. She usually wears it in a somewhat pathetic ponytail, but on Saturday she went to the hairdresser for a trim and ended up with highlights. The hairdresser explained that bleach would give her hair a texture and body that it needed. The hairdresser was right.
It looked breathtaking when the hairdresser was done. It looked full. And blond. And sexy. And completely unlike Meredith. She actually gasped when she looked in the mirror.
“You know who you look just like?” said the hairdresser. “That actress. Ronni Sunshine. I swear, you could be her daughter.”
“Really?” said Meredith, astounded and thrilled. She had never seen it before. No one had ever seen it before.
For art class today, she wears her hair back in a ponytail, not scraped back, as she so often wears it, but loose, with white blond tendrils that fall around her face. She has come in late—the class has already started—and everyone is staring at the model, a girl named Rosie who is one of the regulars.
Sally, who always takes the easel just in front of Meredith, looks up with a smile of greeting as she passes, freezing as she sees Meredith, her mouth falling open. “You look amazing,” she whispers. “I almost didn’t recognize you!”
Meredith shrugs with a small smile as she takes her seat, opening her art box and taking out her pencils.
She loses herself, as she always has, in the drawing. It is the stillest thing she has ever done. There are no thoughts, no concerns, no worries, just an intense focus on the naked body in front of her. Although the truth is her focus isn’t even on the naked body, but rather on the lines and shapes, the areas of light and dark that appear on her page.
Her body relaxes as she draws, first mapping out the proportions: an oval for the head, a line across to indicate the shoulders, the concave curve of Rosie’s body, her legs extending across the block. She draws, and redraws. The left leg isn’t quite right. Look at the space between, she reminds herself; the negative space will help you get the body right.
She shades and crosshatches, before reaching for her paintbrushes and ink. She has become more and more comfortable with mixed mediums. Pencil, charcoal, watercolor, and ink, together in one piece.
This one will be monochromatic, she decides, diluting the black ink into a pale wash of gray as she sweeps it down the body. The sketching is quick, but this takes time, building the layers of ink just as she would with watercolor. It is good, she thinks, pausing to sit back slightly and really look. She doesn’t always think her work is good, and often she is too close to tell, but this, she knows, is good.
A hand on her shoulder makes her jump. It has been so long since Nicholas has paid attention to her, she has quite forgotten this is what he does. But there he is, smiling down at her.
He leans down so his head is level with hers, both of them looking at her picture. “This is lovely,” he murmurs, turning his head to look at her but not standing up, so his eyes, his lovely, soft, warm brown eyes, are only inches from her own.
Meredith feels herself coloring. She doesn’t know whether to lean back, to clear her throat, or to look away, but she does none of those things. She merely turns scarlet, as she so often does, as she watches his eyes roam her face, her hair, her body.
“You should come to the pub with us after class.” His voice is as quiet as a feather, brushing her cheek as he stands up and pads off, leaving Meredith’s cheeks finally able to go back to their pale, pale pink.
eleven
There is nothing in the world that Lizzy thinks she would not be able to achieve, should she set her mind to it. It is that fierce confidence that helps her to ignore the overgrown weeds and crumpled-up pieces of garbage that have blown to the edges of the yard as she grabs a can of beer from the fridge and takes it out to the back porch.
Tom won’t come here, but that’s okay. His loft apartment in Soho is way nicer than here and she’s quite happy to stay there most of the time. She has no desire to be in Queens when she could be in Soho. She only rented this place because it was cheap, and available, and she knew she would barely be here. She’s come today because Tom is busy looking for a new refrigerator on Restaurant Row, giving Lizzy an opportunity to grab some more clothes from her own place.
She and Tom are both waiters at a crappy café downtown. His apartment is nicer only because his parents, who live in a duplex on the Upper East Side, believe their son should continue to live in the style to which he is accustomed. Lizzy is quite sure her father would happily pay for her to live in a loft—he would be horrified if she ever allowed him to see the squalor of the apartment she rents—but Lizzy wanted to have the New York experience, and part of that experience meant leaving the comfort of suburbia for grit and dirt and toughness. Also, her father’s wife, Selena, would probably stop him from giving her any money. She has stopped him from giving her anything else.
She loves being a true New Yorker. It is irrelevant that she is now spending almost every night with Tom; she still gets to say she rents a shithole in Queens, should anyone ask.
Her relationship with Tom is one born of shared circumstance rather than a great, enduring love. They bonded over the awfulness of everything at their job: the chef who didn’t really know how to cook, the frozen foods that were delivered on a regular basis. They grimaced together over the fact that they couldn’t accommodate any special requests—no dairy in the sauce, no bread crumbs on the chicken—because all the food was prepared in a factory far, far away. They commiserated over their shared horror that this was where they had landed, when they were both so passionate about food.
Tom taught himself to cook by experimenting and watching the Food Channel. He isn’t quite as good as he thinks, and Lizzy sometimes winces when she sees his bizarre combinations. But he is very good at giving the appearance of someone who knows what he is doing. He can chiffonade herbs like a pro and knows all the little tricks, like not salting potatoes when you boil them, and crisping up soggy lettuce in iced water with lemon.
Lizzy is a good cook. She is probably even better than she thinks she is, with a natural instinct for what works and what doesn’t—hence her wincing at Tom’s introduction of too many anchovies and sun-dried tomatoes to what should be a simple country meat loaf.
She has the tiniest bit of training. Not enough to qualify her to work as even the lowliest of line cooks in New York City, but enough to know what she is doing. She managed three months at the Culinary Institute of America before getting bored, itching to get into the real world and make her mark.
Now she is at the café with Tom, both of them dreaming of one day starting their own restaurant, working together, being the hot new chefs that everyone would be talking about. They don’t always have the same shifts, but the nights are always long and finish with barhopping: too much drink, too little sleep.
Her phone rings. Tom.
“Hey, you. Did you get your refrigerator?” She puts her feet on the railing and reaches for a Marlboro Red, inhaling deeply.
“I did. And I met this really cool guy. Sean. He left New York a few years ago for San Francisco, and he’s just moved back. He’s got this great idea for some kind of pop-up supper club. I’m gonna meet him for a drink before my shift. Do you wanna come?”
Lizzy pauses. She is supposed to be working, but talking about a pop-up supper club sounds far more exciting. They warned her that if she called in sick again they would
let her go, but . . . fuck it. She inhales again, letting the smoke out in a long, steady stream. She is young and gorgeous. And honestly, she could probably get a waitress job anywhere she chose. If she chose. But helping run a pop-up supper club sounds like a much better option.
• • •
Lizzy’s hair is never down these days. It’s too hot, too sticky, too humid, and it’s easiest just to scrape it back in a bun. She has to wear it in a bun for work, but given the temperature in the city, it’s how she has worn it now for months anyway.
Not tonight, though. Why not make an effort for Tom and Supper Club Sean? She decides to wash it and let it dry with its natural wave, spraying some product on to give it some body. Seeing herself in the mirror, she realizes she had forgotten how sexy it looks like this. She decides to add some peachy blush to her cheekbones, and shimmery gloss on her lips. She puts on the shortest of denim shorts, the skimpiest of white linen tops, and the chunkiest of sneakers—this is New York City after all. She’s certainly not going to wear heels.
She looks good. Great. She knows this from the admiring glances of the men who pass her on the crowded street. Good. It’s nice to have made an effort, to have appreciative looks, to feel like a woman again. The grind and grit of restaurant life does not beautiful make. Tom will be surprised, pleasantly so, she thinks, lighting up another cigarette as she strides down the street.
She sees Tom first, head down with the man who must be Sean, talking intently, the pair of them smoking as they sit at an outdoor table at the café where they’re meeting. His eyes light up when he sees her, and he waves, pulling a chair over and kissing her hello.
“This is Lizzy,” he says to Sean, who stands up to take her hand.
Whoa, she thinks, speechless for just a second. Those might be the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. It isn’t just that they are blue, but that they are sparkling and alive and fun. And completely compelling.
“Nice to meet you.” She regains her composure, sitting down and twining an arm through Tom’s for reassurance, to steady herself.
“Lovely to meet you,” says Sean. “Tom has been telling me so many great things about you.”
“Did he tell you I was gorgeous and talented?” Lizzy doesn’t mean to sound arrogant, just trying to make a joke, but Sean doesn’t smile.
“He did. But he didn’t do you justice, clearly.”
Tom frowns before letting out a laugh. “Hello? This is my girlfriend?”
Sean breaks into an easy smile. “No need to worry. I’m married! I’m just messing with you. It’s great to meet you. What will you have to drink?”
They skip over the small talk and are soon animatedly discussing the concept of the pop-up supper club. Tom is in paroxysms of delight, the prospect of cooking for people, of bypassing the ranks that would lead him to chef (if he were talented enough to become chef, which he doesn’t yet realize he is not), filling him with waves of enthusiasm.
“I like it outside,” says Sean. “I think there is magic in a summer night, in strings of twinkling lights and lanterns hanging from trees.”
“Outside like where? Central Park?”
“No. Like rooftops. It’s a private supper club and we do it gonzo-style. We find a rooftop and show up with everything we need. Someone needs to be in the building so we have access to a kitchen, but we can bring tables, chairs, lights, and candles and set it up, almost like theater—create the night.”
“I love it.” Lizzy is excited. “It is theater. One-night theater. We’re not just cooking for people, we’re giving them an experience.”
“Yes!” Sean’s eyes are shining. “She gets it.” He turns to Tom. “She gets it.”
“I get it too,” says Tom, even though his eyes aren’t shining. “So where do we start?”
“We find the rooftop, then we price it out, then we find the people. We tell our friends, and they tell their friends. We start word of mouth. If the food is great, they’ll tell more people and it will grow.”
“We could use my parents’ rooftop!” says Tom suddenly, excited by his own idea. “It’s perfect. It has trees, and it already has tables and chairs. We wouldn’t have to do anything.”
“It already has everything?” Sean looks skeptical. “Where is it?”
“Sixty-eighth and Park.”
Sean suppresses a smile. “That’s not quite the vibe we’re looking for. It should be downtown, or the Village . . . not Upper East Side. Remember, gonzo-style. We’re creating crazy magic out of nothing rather than accessorizing what’s already there.”
Tom is quiet. Embarrassed.
“Does it have to be in the city?” asks Lizzy, slowly.
Sean turns to her, interested. “Why? What are you thinking?”
“My sister works on a farm in Easton, Connecticut. It’s about an hour and a half away, but it’s beautiful. We could do something in the apple orchard, and string your famous lights,” she says, pausing as Sean grins, “between the apple trees. We could cook with food from the farm. Not all of it, maybe, but fresh eggs, tomatoes—a simple summer menu that reflects what’s grown on the farm.”
Sean sits back, gazing at Lizzy. “Oh, my fucking God,” he says. “I love it. It’s not what I was thinking at all—I was thinking of an urban experience—but if your sister has a farm, and we three could put a menu together and test it, see how we cook together, that would be the perfect test lab. And it sounds beautiful.”
“It is beautiful.” Lizzy is almost wriggling with excitement. “Shall I call her now?”
“Would you?”
Lizzy picks up her Palm and scrolls the wheel to find Nell’s contact. Early evening means she is almost undoubtedly home, having dinner with River, or so Lizzy assumes. She doesn’t know because she barely sees her. The seven years between them has always felt like more. They weren’t close as children, and since then, she has come to think of Nell as more of an aunt than a sister, at least not a sister who has any understanding of, or interest in, Lizzy’s life.
They do speak from time to time, and do get together for occasional family celebrations like their mother’s birthday (celebrated at the Four Seasons in New York, and a very lovely, if completely stiff and somewhat uncomfortable affair), Thanksgiving (although Lizzy got out of it last time by going to Tom’s family), and Christmas.
Still. Nell is her big sister, and she does live on the farm, and she will see, immediately, what a wonderful idea this would be for everyone.
“Nell? It’s Lizzy!” Lizzy pushes her chair back and walks away from the table. She has never been good at conducting phone conversations with other people around. She leans down and kisses Tom lightly on the lips, then waves at Sean as she mouths that she’ll be back in a few minutes.
“Lizzy! This is a surprise. Is everything okay?” This is so like Nell, to skip all the niceties to get straight to the point.
“It’s great. How’s River?”
“Lounging around in a slightly hairy, smelly, grunting teenager kind of way.” They both laugh. “How’s life in New York?”
“Smelly, grunting, not very hairy.” Lizzy leans against the building and gets out a cigarette. “And home. How’s Mom? I haven’t spoken to her for a while.”
“She’s okay. The usual. Being dramatic about these dizzy spells she’s been having. I saw her last week and she was in bed.”
“God, she’s still such a drama queen.”
“I know. She says she’s getting these spells regularly.”
“I suppose she’s diagnosed herself with something awful rather than go to a doctor?”
Nell chuckles. “Not awful enough. She’s decided she has vertigo. Dr. Internet advised. Are you smoking?” There is disapproval in Nell’s voice as Lizzy inhales sharply then turns her head away from the phone to exhale.
“Nah. Only heroin,” says Lizzy, which elicits only silence. “I’m k
idding,” she says in a voice that comes out as surprisingly childish. She corrects herself mentally, determined not to regress like that just because she is talking to her oldest sister. “Listen, I wanted to ask you something. I’ve just met this amazing guy, Sean, who was a chef in San Francisco, and they’ve been doing pop-up private supper clubs over there, which he’s looking to do here.”
Nell says nothing as Lizzy talks, explaining what it means, what their vision is, how she suddenly realized the farm would be the perfect place to try the idea out. She finishes, waiting for Nell to exclaim her shared delight, but there is only silence.
“Well?” Lizzy has to prompt her. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” says Nell. “I think in theory it’s an interesting idea, but it’s not something we can do on the farm right at the moment. I’m sorry, Lizzy. I can hear you’re excited, but everything’s upside down here. There are a lot of changes, and it’s just not the right time.”
“But you wouldn’t have to do anything,” Lizzy bursts out. “We would take care of everything. We don’t even need to use food from the farm. If it’s easier, we can just borrow an orchard. Nell, we could even rent it from you if you wanted. We can set up a catering kitchen somewhere as long as we have power. I realize it might sound complicated, but I promise, you wouldn’t even know we were there.”
There is a sigh on the other end of the phone. “Lizzy, I’m sorry, but no. I already told you. It’s not the right time. I’m not changing my mind.”
Lizzy pauses, knowing she should hold herself in check, shouldn’t say the words that are filling her head, her mouth, her tongue, but she can’t. “You really are a bitch, aren’t you? What fucking difference would it make to you to let us use an orchard for a night? You’ve always fucking resented me, haven’t you . . . ?” And she stops. “Hello? Hello? Are you there? Are you fucking kidding me?” This last one is a shriek as Lizzy stomps around the corner and back to the table. “She hung up on me. Can you believe it? My own fucking sister.”