“Of course it does; I’m only human. But I don’t act on it. I don’t do anything outside the bounds of our agreement.”
“Our agreement is an entirely different subject, something we need to modify, but right now I’m focused on the fact that our new chef has you lusting for her. I want that bitch out of here, tonight. This will be the last meal she cooks for us.”
“You’re overreacting, Cori.”
“No, I’m not. How would you feel if I told you my pussy got wet from looking at another man?”
“Does it?”
“No!”
“Men are different than women. And the dick is a strange creature. It can brick up over the oddest things and during the most inappropriate circumstances.”
“For example?”
“At the dentist’s office last week—”
“Your dick got hard at the dentist’s office?” I stared at him in astonishment.
“The dental hygienist ran a gloved finger across my gums and my dick got hard.”
“Was she deliberately trying to—”
“No,” he said, cutting me off. “It was a completely innocent act. She was merely doing her job, yet my dick responded as if it had been caressed. That’s the thing about being a man, you never know what will arouse you.”
“Did the hygienist notice your erection?” I asked with irritation.
“I don’t think so. I was covered with a dental drape, so I doubt it.”
“Jesus, you’re so perverted,” I said, looking at Maverick with repugnance.
“I disagree. I’m a normal, red-blooded man who experiences dozens of erections in the course of a day.”
“Dozens? Jesus, over what—big titties and asses?”
“Can we have an open and honest conversation without you getting upset? If I can’t be honest with you, I’ll keep my thoughts to myself.”
“All right, go ahead—I’m listening.”
“A man can get aroused by what he sees, what he hears, as well as what he feels.”
“You get a hard-on over what you hear?” I asked, incredulous.
“Sometimes. A woman might have a sexy sound to her laughter, and my dick will respond.”
“That’s utterly ridiculous.”
“That’s only one example. Exposed cleavage is a big one for me. Also, the sway of a woman’s hips when she walks. There are so many triggers, I can’t name all of them. But the thing I want to impress upon you is that I don’t cheat. I abide by our agreement.”
“Speaking of our agreement. I’ve been doing some thinking, Mav, and I feel—”
“Babe,” he said, softly cutting me off. “You have to stop firing the help and have faith that I don’t waver from what we agreed upon.” He stabbed a forkful of grilled cauliflower. “I enjoy Tamara’s cooking and I’d like to keep her around for a while.”
“Were you aroused when Tamara poured your wine? Did the sound of its tinkle give you an erection?” I asked sarcastically.
“Remind me to never divulge any more of my private thoughts since you take pleasure in using them against me.”
I mimicked playing a violin. “Don’t be so dramatic. Answer the question, Mav.”
“No, I’m not aroused by Tamara in any way. Her short haircut is a little Butch for my tastes and I don’t find her chef uniform particularly alluring.”
“Good, keep it that way, and don’t let me catch you leering at her.”
“I don’t leer; I steal glances.” Maverick laughed heartily, but I didn’t see anything funny.
“Stop playing. You know how jealous I get.”
“Have I ever given you reason to doubt my faithfulness?”
“No, but…” I was about to bring up the subject of our agreement, but my heart melted when I looked up and noticed the look of adoration in his eyes.
“In you I found my perfect mate,” Maverick said, smiling at me.
“Okay, Tamara can stay on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“Her chef pants are too tight around the butt area. I’d like her entire uniform to be a lot looser. Would you please pass that information on to her?”
“There’s nothing wrong with her uniform. I’m not repeating anything as petty as that. Get Ellie to speak to Tamara.”
“That’s not in Ellie’s job description.”
“Most of what Ellie does for you is not in her job description, but she does it anyway. She’s an assistant-slash-publicist-slash lapdog, so get her to do your dirty work.”
“Okay, I’ll have Ellie speak to Tamara about her attire.”
“Speaking of attire, I’d like for you to strip out of yours.” Maverick lifted his eyebrows suggestively.
“You want me to strip, right here in the dining room?”
“No, not in front of the help; I’m not that big of a freak. Meet me in the bedroom in fifteen minutes.”
“Let’s go to the bedroom together and undress each other,” I suggested with a sultry smile.
“I’ll be there in a few. I have to make a quick call to my agent. He’s been having some trouble negotiating my new contract.”
“Oh, no,” I uttered, concerned for Maverick. Hosting his own show was a cherished dream of his.
“Nothing to worry about. Some minor details have to be worked out, that’s all.” He gave me a lingering look. “Don’t even bother to put on anything sexy. I want your ass waiting in bed for me, naked.”
A shiver went over me. After ten years of marriage, I was still hot for my husband. Luckily, I hadn’t had to kiss a lot of frogs to find my Prince Charming. I had met Maverick during our freshman year of college. He wasn’t even a star player yet, but realizing he had potential, I held on to him and never let go.
Feeling loved and desired, I pushed away from the table and advanced toward the hallway of our huge apartment. I suddenly whirled around, intending to remind Maverick to bring the organic wine to the bedroom.
In a gilded mirror hung near the entryway, I caught sight of the reflection of my husband and Tamara. He was pointing to the wine bottle on the table, probably telling her to put it on ice. I chuckled because I didn’t even have to verbalize my wishes; Maverick and I were always on the same page. But in the brief moments of his verbal exchange with Tamara, I saw a flicker of something wild and unrestrained in both their eyes.
As I proceeded down the hall, I told myself I was imagining things and being overly jealous as usual. There was no way that my devoted husband would look at another woman with such undisguised lust burning in his eyes. And he especially wouldn’t do it in the sanctity of our home.
But…imagination or not…that bitch had to go. I closed the bedroom door and called Ellie. “I need you to give our chef her walking papers first thing tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 3
Through the magic of television, a rundown old warehouse in Brooklyn, New York would be transformed into a studio where a group of judges would interact with the potential contestants for my show. But until the work crew had completed the job of altering the space, the seventy-five contenders that had been selected from hundreds had to stand in line outside the building, clutching their signature soul food dishes that they hoped would be tasty enough to earn them a spot on Cookin’ with Cori.
Forty people would make it inside the warehouse to actually plate their dish, and from that number, only twenty would be selected to compete. A group of chefs, a few producers, and people from the casting agency were at the warehouse weeding through the hopefuls and tasting the food that had no doubt, curdled, congealed, wilted, and fermented during the many hours that had elapsed since the signature dish had been prepared.
Far from the madness of first-day filming, I was in my posh dressing room at Chelsea Piers where we filmed all the episodes except the Signature Dish premiere and the season finale. My beaut
y team flitted about, getting me ready to tape the segment where the twenty remaining contestants would have to compete against each other and duplicate one of my signature dishes. Along with two other esteemed chefs, I would judge the fat-laden cuisine and four people would be sent home, kissing goodbye their dream of winning a hundred thousand dollars and a spread in a major food magazine.
Only God knew what those casting idiots were looking for in a contestant because the ability to cook certainly wasn’t a requirement. I was still baffled as to how last season had turned into such a huge success with so many colossally bad cooks competing. Casting must have known what they were doing by selecting wacky and weird personalities over those with true culinary skills.
Last season there was the raunchy, biker grandmother who dressed in biker gear, and who used so much profanity, every other sentence had to be bleeped. I was appalled by her, but she was a big hit with the viewers.
We also had a stutterer last season. Whenever it was time for him to describe the dish he’d prepared, he’d hold up a finger, signaling us to wait for him to gather his words. That fucker had truly tried my patience. Being forced to smile for the cameras while listening to all the stuttering and stammering had been pure torture, but for some reason, his struggle with self-expression made for good TV. Go figure.
En route to the Brooklyn warehouse, Ellie joined me in the Town Car. My beauty team that included Gina, my hairstylist, Clayton, my makeup artist, and Robin, who dressed me, rode in a van behind us. Although I would only be on camera for approximately twenty minutes of the season premiere, it sometimes took up to four hours or more to get my segment right.
If a contestant didn’t gush or grovel enough upon meeting me for the first time, we’d have to shoot the introduction over and over until the jackass got it right and either curtsied, bowed, or yelled at the top of their lungs, “Oh, my God, I can’t believe I’m face-to-face with Cori Brown.”
“How’s the surrogate search going?” Ellie asked as the car glided along the streets.
“Not so good.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I asked to be matched with a vegetarian, but the so-called vegetarians I met all had crappy diets. One woman was thirty pounds overweight due to a diet that included Oreo cookies, Red Bull, and a bunch of junk food that she felt was okay because it didn’t contain animal fat. People are so stupid. Another dumb cunt held the idea that it was okay to pop Xanax for her anxiety issues. I never realized how difficult it would be to find a health-conscious surrogate.”
“Maybe you should have your own baby. There’s no one who’d take better care of your fetus than you.”
I felt every muscle in my body tense. Ellie was paid to keep me feeling cheerful and optimistic, not to upset me by disagreeing with my decisions. “I thought you understood my position, Ellie.”
“I do.”
“Doesn’t sound like it. Did I mention that Maverick’s mother has been trying to poison him against the idea, and I can tell he’s beginning to waver…and now you?” I pursed my lips and shook my head, demonstrating my displeasure.
Ellie looked away guiltily. Biting her fingernail, she gazed intently out the window. When she returned her focus to me, she was grinning excitedly. “Pregnant women have a beautiful glow and…and…” Ellie stammered, trying to think of the benefits of being a human blimp. “Think of all the magazine covers you and Maverick could get if you carried your own baby. I could probably get you both a Diane Sawyer interview after the baby is born.”
“Really?” Pregnancy was starting to feel a little more desirable.
“I’m sure of it. Your baby will be like American royalty, and after all the difficulties you bravely endured while trying to conceive a child, the world will want to see your baby and also get a glimpse of you and Maverick in your role as new parents.” Ellie was nodding her head and grinning almost maniacally, as she attempted to convince me to ditch the idea of hiring a surrogate.
I envisioned a whimsical nursery with our little mocha-colored prince or princess grinning at the camera from its canopy crib.
“Can’t we get the same kind of media attention if a surrogate carries our child?”
Ellie wrinkled her nose. “The public doesn’t warm up to children born from surrogates. It doesn’t seem like the kid is actually yours if it lived in the womb of another person.”
Sulking, I didn’t bother to respond. It was my turn to stare absently out the window while Ellie scrambled to rearrange her thoughts in a manner that was more in alignment with my plans. I wanted that Diane Sawyer interview badly, but I didn’t intend to have to struggle to lose baby weight in order to look good during the filming.
The sudden trill of my cell phone startled me. I was pretty certain it was Josh, the executive culinary producer of my show, calling with an update on the chaos ensuing at the warehouse. He was probably frantic for me to hurry and get there. Josh was such a control freak. He organized every single detail of a given episode, including what went into the cabinets and fridge; what was cooking on the stovetop and even what utensils and pots needed to be on hand for each segment.
Viewers would be shocked to discover I had little influence over what happened on the show. Josh had the final word on everything, including the food I prepared on the show. I was still brooding over the fact that he had rejected my smothered chicken, broccoli, and bacon casserole, stating that the dish had too many components to fit into the show’s format.
I didn’t bother to grope inside my purse for the phone; I let it ring, preferring to enjoy a few moments of peace and quiet before I entered the chaotic world of reality TV.
The aggravating sound of the phone stopped and then started again. This time an obnoxious jingle emanated from Ellie’s pocket. She answered quickly and before I could protest, she passed her phone to me, whispering, “It’s Maverick.”
“Hi, sweetie,” I sang into the phone, relieved that it was my darling husband calling and not Josh.
“After we discussed keeping Tamara, you went behind my back and fired her. Why would you do that?” Maverick sounded livid and I couldn’t figure out how to tell him that I got rid of our chef over what appeared to be a look of lust.
“I’m working, Mav. Can we discuss this when I get home tonight?”
“No. I want you to answer a couple of questions right now. First, what did Tamara do that warranted getting fired? And second, why did you think it was okay to dismiss her and bring another chef into our home without discussing it with me?”
“I didn’t hire a new chef, yet. I was going to talk to you about it, tonight.”
Maverick seethed silently for a few moments, and then said, “Your irrational jealousy is getting out of hand.”
“I know, I know,” I whined, hoping to win some sympathy points. “It’s just that…well, I could tell that Tamara wanted to do more than cook for you.”
“Dammit, Cori. You have to get a grip. Last night, Tamara told me confidentially that she tries out all her recipes on her fiancé before cooking for us, and that she never prepares anything for us unless it passes the test with him. I could tell by the way she spoke about him that she’s very much in love.”
Apparently, I’d misinterpreted the look that had passed between Maverick and Tamara, and I felt embarrassed. Moments later my embarrassment turned to irritation. “Why doesn’t the bitch wear an engagement ring?”
“She told me she doesn’t like to wear it while she’s working with food.”
“She shares a hell of a lot of her personal life with you,” I said with an edge to my voice.
“Maybe she’d share more with you if you didn’t treat her with such disdain. I find myself having to be extra friendly to make up for your coldness.”
“In what rule book does it say that I have to be chummy with the hired help?”
“She was recommended by one of the ne
twork execs, and you’re making me look bad.”
“I’ll be nicer to the next chef. I’ve decided to hire a man this time.”
“Oh, you decided,” he said in a vexed tone. “Well, I don’t want another chef. Tamara didn’t do anything wrong, and you need to apologize to her and ask her to come back.”
“You can’t be serious. Look, there’s something about her that rubs me wrong, and I don’t want her around.”
“You’re being ridiculous, and you should be ashamed of yourself.” He hung up, leaving those derogatory words echoing in my ears.
Despite his manly, super-jock image, my husband could be such a bitch sometimes. After ten years, he should have been more understanding of my insecurities. Perhaps it was irrational, but I didn’t like the way Tamara interacted with him. The way-soft voice she used when she spoke to him and the way she made extra comments about the food, irked me to my soul. If getting rid of Tamara gave me peace of mind, then so be it.
Maverick would forget all about Tamara when he tasted the scrumptious food that her replacement prepared.
“How’s the search hunt going for my new personal chef?” I asked Ellie as I returned her phone.
“I have three candidates to interview while you’re filming today.”
“Great.” I stepped out of the car and braced myself for the insanity that awaited me inside the warehouse. In the course of the next few months, I would neglect every other aspect of my life—including my marriage—as I put in twelve-hour days on the set, and sometimes longer.
CHAPTER 4
With Ellie at my side and the rest of my team behind me, I sauntered onward with my usual self-assurance. But the closer I got to the door, the more panicked I felt. Suppose last season’s good ratings were merely a fluke and this time we ended up getting canceled? How would that affect my cookbooks and DVD sales? And what about the Cori Brown cookware collection deal that my agent was working on—would that fall through? What would I do if my career took a huge hit while Maverick’s continued to soar?
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