“I’m thinking I might even move out to LA. Why not? My own place on the beach sounds great, so I’m pretty happy. . . .”
It was so nice to hear how happy he was, I wasn’t really paying attention to my whipping cream as it got thicker and thicker and thicker, and I swirled the whisks around and around and around and around, and they were laughing and laughing and laughing, and getting along so well so well so well together, and shouldn’t she be telling him that she didn’t mean to invite him and what the hell was he doing here and maybe he should just get the hell out of here?
“I was meant to live in LA,” Coco was saying. “I don’t know why I never have. When I was doing the circuit, I loved Florida. Loved Houston. Loved it, loved it. Let’s face it, I’m a sun person. It’s crazy I live here.”
“The sun is cool,” Ian said.
“The sun is warm,” I said. They ignored me.
“My body,” Coco said, “craves the sun.”
“We all need that Vitamin C,” Ian agreed.
“Vitamin D,” I corrected him. Not that anyone cared that I’d wasted the past two years of my life telling myself I meant something to him even if he did want to date other women and he was probably going home to surf porn Web sites while fantasizing about my mother’s big tits and my thoughts were so unrelentingly toxic right then, I almost ended up whipping that cream into a brick.
I unplugged the mixer and put it away. Ian ignored me. Because I was ignoring him? Or because he had no interest in me, and didn’t have to pretend he had an interest in me anymore?
Coco went out into the living room. I heard her say to everyone, “My pie is almost ready! Come to the table! I’ve already had three orgasms smelling that thing!”
I wasn’t sure if I was glad Ian stayed back with me or not. Was I still actually wishing he would appreciate me? Ridiculous.
“So,” he said, “you seem a little tense.”
“Me? Not really.” I piled the (rather firm) whipped cream onto the top of the pie.
“I’ve missed you,” he said.
“Really.” I started to smooth it out.
“But it doesn’t take long to remember why we had our problems.”
I resmoothed out what I’d already smoothed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Come on. Yes, you do. You can’t compete with her. It makes you crazy.”
I stuck the sparklers into the cream. “Did anyone invite you to this party?”
“Your mother.”
“She forgot to weed you off her e-mail list.”
“You are so jealous,” he said. “Are you ever going to get over that?”
Coco poked her head in. “We’re ready!”
I smiled at Coco. “Coming!”
“I know that sounded harsh,” Ian said as soon as she was gone. “But you have to admit there’s truth to what I’m saying.”
I knew it was true, but did I have to hear it from him? I went to the drawer to find my pie server. “Maybe I’d be a little less jealous,” I said as I searched in the drawer, “if you could keep your eyes off her tits.” Whenever I looked for this pie server, it seemed to be hiding behind every other utensil.
“Maybe I wouldn’t have been looking at hers if you’d let me see yours!”
I considered grabbing a potato peeler and gouging his eyes out with the tip. Luckily for him, I found the server. “This is my mother’s birthday,” I said, gripping the handle. “If you can’t be pleasant, then just do me a favor and leave.”
He shrugged. “I’m just saying, if you did compete, you would do just fine.”
“Ian. I don’t want your advice. Okay?”
As he went out to the living room, Linda came in. “Are we ready? Do you need some help?”
“I just have to light the sparklers.”
I was so distracted by Ian’s words, I kept letting the match burn my fingertips. Why did he say that? Because he was still interested in me? Doubtful. He was leaving for LA soon. Residue guilt was more like it. Or was it just a simple piece of truth? “Ouch,” I said, as I failed once again to light a sparkler. Linda helped me finish them off, and then held open the door for me.
“Here we go,” she said.
I slowly made my way out of the kitchen with a smile pasted on my face. Everyone began singing the Happy Birthday song. I held my beautiful pie (homemade, not store-bought crust, I might note) out in front of me. It was filled with plump, succulent cherries (a special brand I’d ordered from Williams-Sonoma that didn’t have corn syrup) topped with the luscious white cream and illuminated by the sparkling sparklers. I saw Ian standing in the back and Jack to my left, but nothing mattered right at that moment except for the happy look on Coco’s face as I set the pie down. “It’s gorgeous!” she said before blowing out the sparklers, and everyone laughed as the candles relit themselves, and she blew them out again. I sliced the first piece and lowered it onto a red plastic plate. Ralph put a fork on it, and handed it to Coco.
“Thank you!” she exclaimed.
“Tart for the tart!” Jack said.
“It’s not a tart,” I said, “it’s a pie.”
“Pie,” Jack said, “tart. What’s the difference?”
“There is a difference, actually.” And I was just about to explain it to him when he made his announcement. “I think this is a good time to tell everyone! Don’t you, Coco? Shall we tell everyone?”
“Yes,” Coco said, looking at me for a split second with, what was it, apprehension? “We have an announcement, everyone!”
I continued to transport a slice of pie to a plate that Ralph was holding out for me.
“Coco and I would like everyone to know . . .”
I was in the middle of digging out another wedge.
“. . . that we’re getting married!”
My pie server slipped into the front rim of the tin and brought the entire pie down into my lap.
Ralph screamed, “Oh, my god!”
The tin fell to the floor, but most of the pie remained on my thighs. Ralph seemed to be the only one who noticed. I stood there with the whipped cream and the cherries slopped all over my legs while everyone applauded and yelled out congratulations to the happy couple. Gradually, though, everyone started to realize they might not be getting dessert.
Coco was the first to notice. “My pie!”
“It’s ruined.”
“Nuts!” Coco put down her own slice and came to help scrape the mess off of me and back into the tin.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know how that happened!”
“We’re just going to have to lap it up!” she said, and everyone laughed as she scraped some cherry goop off my lap and licked it off her fingers.
I sat down on the chair, more to escape her finger than anything else, but that only encouraged her next move. She swished her ass on my lap, and then offered some to Jack by wiggling her butt at him.
“Come and get it . . .”
“Mom, would you please . . .”
Everyone was hooting it up, and that just encouraged her to parade around the room with my cherry pie all over her butt asking, “Who wants to lick my ass? Lick my ass for a dollar!”
“It’s not funny,” I said.
“Oh, lighten up.” Coco said. “It’s not that big a deal.”
“Maybe you don’t have any idea what is and what isn’t a big deal to me—”
“Would you calm down?” Coco tried to squeeze my shoulder. I shook her off.
“Calm down?” I screamed. “I worked hard on that pie!” As if it was the pie . . . “And then you go around and stick your ass in everyone’s face—”
“What are you talking like that to your mother for?” Jack yelled. “And on her birthday!”
“Stay out of this, Jack.” Coco turned to me. “You know what? You really need to loosen up. I was just having fun.”
“It wasn’t fun. It was embarrassing. Do you know the difference?”
“How did I ever get such an uptight d
aughter?”
There was a really awful silence. Everyone was staring at me, and Ian was smirking. How could I behave this way on her birthday? I had to be a lousy kid. I was uptight. Even Ralph was stunned into silence. There was nothing to do but get myself out of this room and remove these clothes. “Happy birthday, Mom,” I said. “I’m sorry you gave birth to such a dud.”
“You’re not a dud,” she said, as I walked out. “You’re just uptight!”
“Apologize to your mother,” Jack was still yelling as I shut my bedroom door. “I want you to apologize to your mother!”
Safely in my room, I took off my cherry-soaked clothes and got into bed and under the covers. A few moments later there was a knock on the door.
“Ginger?” It was Ralph. “Can I come in? Are you okay?”
“One second.”
I got back out of bed and put on some sweats and a T-shirt and let him in. “I’m really sorry you had to witness my idiocy.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“I am such an idiot!”
He sat down next to me on the bed. “Would you stop calling yourself an idiot? I mean, my god. Your mother is a trip! And I don’t mean like as in a guided tour kind of trip. She’s out there. She’s like a ‘go to Africa and take your chances with the wildlife on a safari’ kind of trip. And a little problem with boundaries, don’t ya think? So don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“I was just so mad to see Ian.”
“And?”
“I know I probably sound like some stupid teenage brat. And of course she should do whatever makes her happy. And it’s not like I even have to live with them or anything. But I don’t want her to marry Jack!”
“You know what? Neither do I.”
“Really?”
“And I’ve only known both of them less than an hour.”
I gave him a little hug. “You’re so sweet to me.”
“Don’t get too cuddly, or I’m gonna convert.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“You never know.”
I didn’t think he was serious, but you never knew. He must’ve seen the look on my face, because then he said, “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna convert unless hell freezes over, so chill out.”
I looked down at my lap and then at Ralph again. “Do you think . . .”
“What?”
“Do you think Tom could potentially find me attractive?”
“Huh?”
“You know. Unlike me, Tara knows how to do all that stuff men like. That’s why Tom is falling for her, and I’ll end up being just his friend.”
“If that’s true, then we’ll have to convert him.”
“Or convert me.”
“Into a sex object?” He laughed. “Right.”
The odd thing was, when he laughed, I felt insulted. “You don’t think I can be a sex object?”
“Do you want to be a sex object?”
“No. But theoretically. If I wanted to. I could. Don’t you think?”
“Fine,” he said, avoiding, I noticed, my question. “Put on some makeup. See if it wins you Mr. Carpenter.”
I stood up. “No. The idea disgusts me.”
“Of course it does.” He stood up too. “Let’s blow this joint. Let me take you out to dinner. I’ll make you listen to all my trials and tribulations.”
“Such as?”
“How to get Robert Kingsley to notice me.”
I had to laugh. “If you saw the way he looked at my mother, you’d know it was a losing battle.”
“Not to mention the way he looks at you.”
“Me? Right. He probably just sees me as potential cheap labor.”
“That’s true.”
“You didn’t have to agree so quickly!”
“You’re just the sort of person he’d want working in his kitchen.”
“Hey. I’d sell myself cheap to him any day.”
As we sneaked out, part of me wanted to say good-bye to Coco, but I didn’t want to have to speak to her. Luckily Heidi was in the hall and saw me heading towards the door, so I asked her to tell Coco I was leaving.
“Your mom means well, Ginger.”
“I know. Will you just tell her I took a walk?”
“Sure.”
When we were out on the sidewalk, Ralph reminded me of one good thing. “Hey. When your mom marries the Button King, you get the apartment to yourself!”
“That’s something to look forward to.” Tom could come over and I wouldn’t have to worry about Coco parading by in her underwear. That was worth something. That was worth quite a lot. Maybe worth having Jack as a relative.
Of course, I’d still have to worry about walking around in my own underwear. Could Tom find a woman wearing hipsters attractive? There was only one way to find out. And I had to try to make it happen before Tara got the chance to undress in front of him first.
chapter twenty
i t was my lucky day. Jean Paul assigned me to make cheesecake. And my partner was Tom. It was going to be so easy. The graham cracker crusts had already been prepared, so all we had to do was the filling.
We gathered our ingredients. I made sure to do this in a very calm, businesslike way, not wanting to let him perceive that I was delighted just to be working with him. We stood next to each other over the mixer beating a huge clump of cream cheese into smooth softness. Maybe he thought I was “tough and thick-skinned,” but while standing next to him, his tallness sure made me feel small, and delicate, and fragile. His broad shoulders seemed to provide a protective shield that would ward off all the evils of the world.
I didn’t say much, and neither did he. We hadn’t actually spoken much since the restaurant supply store. Had I scared him away by suggesting a movie? Maybe Tara had finally told him about Coco, and he was mortified. Maybe he was in love with Tara and too guilty to look me in the eye. Maybe all of the above. I was afraid to ask. I didn’t want to know. Why was I even alarming myself with all these thoughts?
We set the pans into a water bath, which would surround the cake with a gentle, moist heat. Then we put them in the oven to bake.
“We make a good team,” he said.
“Yeah,” I agreed, though I would’ve preferred the word “partner” or “pair” or, let’s see, how about “couple?”
And then it hit me.
I had fallen in love with Tom Carpenter.
In the locker room, Tara was crowing to Priscilla. “It’s so great being with Tom almost every night at the restaurant.”
I concentrated very hard on tying the lace of my sneaker.
“How are his knife skills?” Priscilla asked with a grin.
“Quite advanced, thanks for asking.”
“Is he being trained to do sauces?”
“I’ll try his sauce any day.”
“But will you swallow his sauce?”
They both cracked up. “You guys,” I said, “are worse than a couple horny jocks.”
Tara pulled off her chef’s jacket, revealing a purple lacy little bra. “Oh! Are you the new spokeswoman for male sexual harassment?”
“If I knew some guy was talking that way about me, I’d be offended.”
“But there isn’t any guy talking that way about you,” Tara said. “Why would he?”
At home, Coco and I avoided each other. We crossed paths in the hall, got food from the fridge, took turns with the TV. We made sure not to eat in the same room at the same time. Maintained a stony silence. I was aware that I owed her an apology. She’d decided to marry Jack, for whatever reason, and I was just thinking about myself. She was the one getting married; she was the one (shudder) who was going to live with him.
But why had she changed her mind? For the money? And why didn’t she tell me before announcing it to everyone else? She could’ve at least run it by me first and pretended like my opinion mattered, even if it didn’t. I wanted an apology too.
My father asked where I’d like to go to dinner. I told him L’Etoile. After all,
the place had such a great reputation and the menu was brilliant, and . . .
Okay, I wanted to spy.
Okay, not just spy. I wanted to be in the same room as Tom. Just knowing that he was in the vicinity was becoming a goal in itself. I had it bad.
The restaurant was really lively. And large. Located in Times Square just five blocks from my apartment, it was a destination for Broadway “stars” to come before or after a show, and then the audiences followed, sort of like a modern-day Sardi’s. But whereas Sardi’s menu was typically ancient, with the old standbys like steak tartare, filet mignon, and baked Alaska, L’Etoile was all about trendy, with entrees like farfalle with mascarpone, asparagus with hazelnut puree, and flourless chocolate-orange ricotta cake. The place was packed. Considering the dining room seated around three hundred people, that was impressive.
Despite the white tablecloths and chandeliers, the place was relatively informal. I liked it that I didn’t have to feel intimidated to come in. It was noisy and lively and people were wearing everything from black tie to blue jeans. On one side, there was a very long and populated bar with people eating as well as drinking. The walls were decorated with framed, autographed photos of stars, and the wallpaper was a running list of celebrities who’d performed on Broadway. Bernadette Peters Hugh Jackman Liza Minnelli Madonna Rosie O’Donnell so on and so forth.
I counted no less than ten cooks working their stations in the narrow strip of kitchen that was open to the dining room. Tom was one of them. My heart fluttered when I saw him standing back there like an angel in his whites. His look of semibored competence made him all the more alluring.
Tara was nowhere to be seen.
While we were eating our appetizers, I managed to talk with my father about Emma.
“I’ve been getting to know her more,” I said, chewing on my braised baby artichokes, “which is nice.”
“She told me. I’m glad.”
“At first she was resistant. But gradually, she’s started to get more relaxed around me.”
“She really seems to like you.”
“I like her.”
“I’m glad,” he said, in his usual stiff way. Like he knew he was supposed to be glad, so he said he was glad, but was he really able to feel gladness? “I had one of those cupcakes you made. It was good.”
The Art of Undressing Page 13