Skinnydipping
Page 22
Everyone was frantically scribbling, erasing, arguing. I gave Chaz a knowing look. “I think we’ve got this one in the bag. Ours is clean. Simple. I think everyone else is overcomplicating it.”
“I hope so,” he said.
At nine-fifteen, it was our turn to meet with the ePhone guy, then we planned a fun pink and green layout with the art department. I was moving on high speed, but I could tell Chaz was stressed. Occasionally, the cameramen caught various contestants for OTFs and I heard a few of them mention my name, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I didn’t care. I just knew we were going to win. Finally, one of the production people came into the room and directed everyone to gather their things and head downstairs to the vans. On the way to the market, everyone sat in stony silence, afraid to give anything away, too stressed to talk.
Finally, I tried to break the silence. “So, Monica,” I said to the blonde lifestyle coach who obviously loved champagne. “You’re the … what do you do in your line of work again?” I said.
She looked offended. “I’m a lifestyle coach, if that’s what you mean by ‘line of work,’” she said, flipping her feathered hair and rolling her big eyes. “But it’s not work to me, it’s a calling. I’m really good, especially at past-life regression. I have this talent for manipulating energy.”
“You have a talent for manipulating champagne bottles,” muttered Nadine in her fake English accent.
“Just because you’re married to an ATM machine doesn’t make you better than us, Queen Nadine,” Monica said, defensively. I couldn’t help laughing. I hadn’t heard anybody call her Queen Nadine to her face yet.
“Just because you spew a load of self-help crap doesn’t mean you’re better than us,” said amnesiac-party-girl Katie.
Everyone was silent for a while, but after catching Katie staring at me with a disgusted look on her face, I’d had enough.
“What is your deal?” I said, looking her in the eye.
She just looked away. I felt like I was back in high school.
At the market, Chaz and I bought bags of fresh organic lemons, raw sugar, club soda, a bottle of cranberry juice, and white rum at a liquor store. Then I saw a display of retro frilly aprons. “Chaz! We have to get these! They are so Domestic Goddess.”
“She didn’t say we were supposed to wear costumes,” Chaz said.
“So what? We’re supposed to serve to businesspeople at a cocktail party, like a 1960s housewife, right? So we should wear these. Or … I should. You should wear a suit or something. Or a hat.”
“I’ve got a fedora,” Chaz said.
“You would,” I said. I bought an apron for myself.
When the wrangler blew the whistle (“Did she really just blow a whistle at us?” Chaz asked me), we got in line to buy our purchases with our allotted money.
The test kitchen was fabulous, as expected, and inspired by Sybil’s actual kitchen. It had low, wide stainless-steel counters, a bank of double ovens, and twelve burners along a middle island. I memorized every detail, obsessed with the perfection. Each of us chose a workstation, then ran to grab the supplies we needed. Chaz found some antique martini glasses and filled a silver ice bucket with ice. I collected a classic silver shaker and a big, old manual metal citrus juicer. Others were grabbing mixers and blenders, bowls and wooden spoons, cake pans and loaf pans and soup pots.
I squeezed all the lemons, pressing down the handle of the manual juicer over and over, until my arm ached. We made simple syrup from the raw sugar, then mixed the sugar syrup and cranberry juice into the lemon juice until the proportions were right. I adjusted the recipe draft—a little less sugar, a little more cranberry. “We’d better make the actual drink, to be sure it’s right,” he said.
I smiled. “Now that’s using your head,” I said. I muddled the mint and ice in the shaker, poured in the rum and lemonade, and shook. Chaz rimmed two glasses with raw sugar, then I poured in the drinks. We tasted.
“These are amazing,” Chaz said. “Sybil’s going to love them.”
“Let’s hope so,” I said, downing my drink in one gulp. “But I think we’d better make a couple more, just to be sure.”
When a production person came into the room and told us we had fifteen minutes, Chaz had just come back from retrieving his fedora and putting on a tie. He looked like he was ready to investigate the Kennedy assassination—or at least investigate a martini and a cigarette. Suddenly I had an idea. “I’m going to do my hair,” I said.
“Now? It’s almost time!” Chaz said nervously.
“I have time,” I said.
“Sure, it’s not like the pressure’s on or anything.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
“We don’t have anything left to do,” I said. “We’re good to go.”
I looked around the workroom, but I couldn’t find anything resembling bobby pins. Then I noticed Mikki was wearing a few. I begged her to lend them to me, and being the nice and nondramatic person she was, she slid them out of her cloud of hair and handed them to me. I ran to the bathroom, a cameraman following me, and piled all my hair up onto my head in my best imitation of a beehive hairdo, teasing my hair with my fingers to give it volume. Then I ran back to the workroom. I twirled around for Chaz, my frilly apron billowing out. “How do I look?”
Chaz stared at my hair. “Like you’re from Jersey?” he said. I slapped him on the arm.
“I was going for Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
“Oh sure, that, too,” he said, rolling his eyes.
The reception area was tastefully decorated with flowers and six cocktail tables. As we brought in our food and set it up at our designated table, the other teams were making fun of my costume, but it didn’t even faze me. I wanted to stand out. I realized how far I’d come since my insecure days in L.A., when Donna Shannon’s snub put me in a tailspin. This group was even worse than the cast of Hollywood & Highland, but they weren’t going to intimidate me. Look at you, I thought to myself. Maybe you’ve actually grown up a little.
We set up our station, and then I noticed that our ice was almost completely melted. “Chaz!” I hissed. “Chaz, the ice is melted! We need ice!”
“Oh crap,” he said, looking around. “Does anybody else have some?”
“Nobody’s going to help us!” I said. “We’ve got to get more.”
“You can’t do it, you have to present,” he said. “I’ll go.”
“For God’s sake, hurry up!” He dashed out of the room.
We waited, everyone nervously buzzing with anticipation.
A few minutes later, the door opened and Sybil walked in, followed by Rasputin, looking particularly fluffy, and then Alice and a tall Indian woman. But where was Chaz? We would lose for sure if we were missing half our team! How long could it take to fill a bucket of ice?
“Hello everyone,” Sybil said, stiffly. “Are you all ready to present your dishes to our guests?”
We all nodded, obediently, and I felt a little thrill that I didn’t have a dish, I had a glass. But any of us might be going home tonight. My pulse was racing and I felt a little unsteady on my feet. I looked around. Nadine smiled calmly at me. Shari waved. I couldn’t even focus on what other dishes everyone else had made. Where was Chaz?
“Excellent. But first, let me introduce you to someone very important here at Sybil Hunter Enterprises. You all know my sister Alice, but you may not know Ruby Prasad.” The Indian woman with impossibly long legs nodded. “Ruby is the executive food editor for Domestic Goddess Magazine, and an experienced cook as well as recipe tester and recipe taster. Ian had to be away on business today, so we brought Ruby in to help evaluate your creations.”
“Hello everyone,” the woman said, her voice low and sexy.
“And now,” said Sybil, “let’s welcome our guests.”
She waved her arm at the door, and it opened, as if by magic. Eight men and eight women walked in, all of them wearing suits and looking very serious. At the same time, Chaz sli
d in the door behind them, clutching the ice bucket, and quickly walked along the edge of the room, back around to our table. Sybil watched his every move, but didn’t say anything. Instead, she said, “These are some of my friends, influential local businesspeople who have contributed in one way or another to Sybil Hunter Enterprises.” None of them looked very friendly to me, but maybe that was to be expected. Any friend of Sybil is… probably not a friend of mine, I thought, morosely. “And now, everyone, please enjoy yourselves,” she said to the businesspeople.
“Thank God you’re back!” I said. “I thought we would lose for sure!”
“Here,” he said, putting a fresh bucket of ice on the table. “Let’s hope she comes to our table before this one melts!”
It was do or die. Our glasses weren’t chilled anymore and my hair was falling down, but they’d love our cocktail, or they’d hate it. We’d done everything we could do. Chaz wouldn’t stop shifting back and forth and rocking forward and back on his heels and toes.
“Stand still!” I whispered.
“I think I’m going to have a panic attack!” he whispered back.
“You’ll be fine,” I hissed, but I wasn’t sure I wasn’t about to have one, too.
The first person to come to our table was a tired-looking woman in a gray suit with hair pulled back into a tight and unflattering bun on top of her head. “What do you have?” she said, looking hopefully at the cocktail shaker and the bottle of rum.
“Pink lemonade mojitos,” I said. “Would you like one?”
“God, yes,” she said. I muddled, shook, and poured as Chaz began rimming glasses. I poured her drink, finished it with club soda, and Chaz garnished it with a thin slice of lemon and a thin slice of lime.
“This is excellent,” she said, after taking a long drink. She was actually starting to look human. “I like your hair.”
As soon as the guests realized we had liquor, we had a line. We made drinks one at a time—muddle, shake, rim, pour, garnish. Meanwhile, I watched Sybil making her way around to the other tables. She didn’t seem to be saying much, just tasting and moving on.
Finally, Sybil approached our table, with Alice, Ruby Prasad, and, of course, the dog. She looked very tall, and she looked down upon us like a god on judgment day. A Domestic Goddess on judgment day. A disgruntled one.
“So, what do you have for me today?” she said. “This doesn’t look like muffins.”
I had butterflies, and I was suddenly more aware of the cameras than I had been for the last few days. I just had to impress her. I had to make amends. I had to repair whatever damage had already occurred, so the contest would be fair and I could be judged on my performance, not on my past, or on whatever else it was about me that obviously irritated Sybil Hunter.
“Well, it’s true I’m a baker, but I also went to bartending school, and this is a little drink I created a while back that’s always a big hit at parties. I call it the Have Faith Pink Lemonade Mojito.”
“What did you do to your hair?”
I could feel my cheeks burning, but I played it cavalier. “We were going for a theme—the 1960s Domestic Goddess serving drinks for her husband’s colleagues after work.” I twirled around in my apron again. Chaz tipped his hat.
“I see,” Sybil said. “That was … probably not necessary.”
“Let’s just make you a drink then,” I said.
“Interesting,” Sybil said after taking a sip. “Did you use simple syrup?”
“We made our own with raw sugar,” I said. She paused. I could tell she liked the drink.
“It’s nice,” Ruby said, nodding.
“This is great,” Alice said. “Can I have another one?”
“Why not? I’ve already had three,” I said.
“You’ve been drinking these?” Sybil asked. “Are you drunk?”
“Um…” Suddenly I regretted saying anything. “Well, we had to taste… and be sure they were right.”
“I see,” Sybil said. “And that required drinking three of them. Well, that explains your judgment about the costumes.”
“It’s been a very stressful day,” I said, apologetically.
“A Domestic Goddess always has herself under control,” Sybil said. She turned to Chaz. “The drink is named after your teammate. What did you do to help in this team effort?” she asked. “Did you have three drinks as well?”
“I … I did the …”
I jumped in to save him. “Presentation is key in a cocktail, and Chaz was in charge of rimming the glasses with raw sugar and garnishing with the lemon-lime wheels.”
“Really?” she said, raising her eyebrows.
I realized I’d pretty much taken over our team. I hadn’t listened to any of his suggestions, so I felt like I had to give him credit for something. I hoped I hadn’t unintentionally sabotaged him.
“It looks to me,” Sybil said thoughtfully, “like Faith took the lead on this one. Is that correct?”
“The drink was definitely her invention, and I would say she was in the role of team leader, but we worked on it together,” Chaz said.
“OK,” Sybil said. “I do like the drink, even if I think your outfits are tacky. Your recipe, please.”
Finally Sybil and her entourage continued to the next table and I could breathe again. Before Alice moved on, she leaned in and whispered to us, “I think your outfits are cute.”
“Oh, my God,” I whispered to Chaz, when they were out of earshot. “That was so stressful, I wanted to die.”
“You and me both, honey,” he said. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take. Just between us, I wouldn’t mind if she cut me. I’m happy to take the blame for anything and everything, if it means I don’t have to go through this again.”
“Don’t say that!” I said. “She’s not going to cut you.” I glared at him. “You did more than help, Chaz. We were a team.”
Suddenly, a cameraman jumped in front of me and Mike appeared. “Faith, how do you feel after that challenge? Talk us through it.”
“I think she liked our drink,” I said. “I think she really would have liked to have three or four of them. In fact, I strongly suspect Sybil’s a secret party animal. I think we’ll probably win this challenge, after she swings back for another one.” Mike gave me the thumbs-up, then the camera swung away toward Team Six.
“Do you really believe we’re going to win?” Chaz said.
“Sure!” I said cheerfully, not feeling sure at all.
chapter twenty-three
Back in the Loft, we all ate dinner and waited, although for most of the contestants, dinner meant an energy bar and a diet soda. Nobody had an appetite. We were too tired and wired and ready to blow. We all knew that Sybil’s testers were having their way with our recipes. I gazed, glassy eyed and exhausted, out the windows at the panoramic view of the sun setting over the Hudson River, but I hardly saw it.
“Is there any of that champagne left?” Monica said, pacing back and forth in front of the couch.
Katie looked disgusted. She put her long legs up on one of the white ottomans and crossed her arms, slumping back into the cushions. “You people are so bizarre,” she said.
“Honey, we’re all in this together, so why don’t you just cut the diva act?” Shari said.
“Excuse the hell out of me!” Katie said. “At least I’m not trying to sell my flowers to everybody I meet like I’m some dirty street vendor.”
Chaz raised his eyebrows at me, and mouthed the words “dirty street vendor?” I giggled.
“Have you guys thought about how much money they are making off of us?” said Andy, the chef, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet like he was on springs. “The question is, how do we cash in on this whole reality show concept?”
“Reality!” yelled one of the cameramen. I thought how ironic it was that we couldn’t talk about this one major aspect of reality on a reality TV show. They called it “breaking the fourth wall,” between the action and the audience.
“Too bad you can’t give Sybil a blow job,” Katie said. “Then you’d be just fine.”
“If I had, I’d own her company by now,” I shot back. I rubbed my eyes. They wanted so badly to close.
“Sybil loved your cocktail,” Shari said.
“Probably not as much as she loved your beautiful cupcakes,” I said. Shari and Jodi Sue had made pink cupcakes with real flowers on top.
“They were beautiful,” Shari agreed. “I’m so glad I thought of them.”
“It was my recipe,” said Jodi Sue, crossing her arms over her overexposed cleavage and pouting.
“Whatever,” said Shari. “The flowers made the recipe. How can you not love cupcakes with fresh flowers on them?”
“I think our meat loaf rocked it,” Andy said, bouncing back up again and pacing in front of the window.
“I think our meat loaf is going to win,” said Linda. “But will you sit the fuck down, Andy? You’re driving everybody crazy.”
“Hey, I’m a mover and a shaker,” he said. “I’m a wild man.” He made a pelvic-thrusting motion.
“You’re manic,” I said. “Get off your high horse.”
He started moving like he was riding a bucking bronco. “Yee ha!” he said. “You can ride me anytime.”
“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” I said.
“That’s what she said,” Andy said.
“I know one recipe that isn’t going to win. A stupid salad,” said Katie, sulking.
“Hey, I resent that,” said Sadie, tossing her long braid behind her back. “The only thing she didn’t like about our salad was your horrible dressing.”
“Bitch,” Katie muttered.