by Logan Belle
“Hey, this is audience-participation,” he calls from the kitchen. “Come in here and get ready to do some work.”
Justin’s sleeves are rolled up, and he looks very excited. Happy.
The counter is filled with a bunch of leafy lettuce, a cup of cashews, shallots, and a bottle of coconut oil.
“Since you’re an Italian gal, I’m going to do pasta. But quinoa pasta — gluten free, high in protein. Organic. A whole different ballgame.”
He hands me the lettuce. “Wash this for me. Swiss chard can be sandy so just rinse it really well.”
It’s been about twenty-five years since someone has told me what to do in the kitchen. Probably not since my grandmother put me to work for her full-on traditional Italian Friday night meal with fish, pasta, the whole deal. She taught me everything I know about cooking, but I can bet she never heard of quinoa or Swiss chard.
Justin shows me how to cut the thick stems off of the chard leaves. He slices the leaves into small strips by stacking the leaves on top of each other, rolling them into a tube shape before slicing. I watch the way his hands move confidently and expertly, an artist at work. I notice the small blonde hairs on the back of his wrist, and my attraction to him is so strong that I barely hear what he’s saying — something about making a cashew cream sauce.
He hands me a lemon and an unfamiliar tool with a wide rubber handle and a fork-like razor. “It’s a zester,” he says. “Just scrape it along the surface of the lemon. The very outer layer of the skin will come off in little peels.” He slides a small glass bowl over for me to collect the shavings.
We don’t talk. Justin buzzes around the kitchen, and when I’m done with the orange zest he dumps it into a blender, along with water, sea salt, and the cashews.
“You’re in charge of the pasta,” he says, handing me the box of spaghetti. The water is already boiling in a medium saucepan. I check out the label. The pasta is high in protein. Zero sugar. It’s a short cook time — just six minutes. I stir it occasionally, and notice a flaky yellow crust forming along the waterline in the pot.
“Is this normal?” I ask him.
“Yeah, it’s from the corn in the pasta.”
He’s busy heating coconut oil in a pan. After a minute he dumps the shallots in and sautés them until they turn golden.
“Pass me the chard,” he says. Then he tosses it in the pan, too.
When the pasta is finished I drain it. He hands me a large, hand-painted pasta bowl for the spaghetti.
By now Justin has a clear cover over the pan. The chard has turned vivid green, and is soft. He stirs everything, then pours it on top of the spaghetti and mixes.
Finally, he adds some cracked black pepper. It smells delicious.
“See? Easy.”
He grabs two black plates, shiny as onyx, from his cabinet. We sit at the wooden island in the middle of his kitchen, surrounded by the debris of the whirlwind meal preparation.
Justin opens a bottle of red wine.
“To healthy living,” he says.
I touch my glass to his. I feel slightly off-balance. For the first time in many, many years, I want something — not something for my son, not something for a practical reason. Just pure, primal want. And what I want is this man sitting next to me.
I can’t have him. I know that. But at the very least, I can be the sort of woman has allows herself to have these desires. And in time, I just might figure out how to satisfy them.
The first bite of pasta is intensely delicious.
“Justin, this is amazing. Where did you learn to cook?”
“A few years ago, when I was getting really stressed at work, I took a cooking class twice a week to get my mind off of everything. I’d been working out at the gym for so many years it just lost the power to take me out of myself, you know what I mean?”
I nod, even though the gym never had the power to do that for me. The only thing that clears my head is a good book or a long nap.
“So the cooking class was about all this healthy stuff?”
He shakes his head, sipping the wine. “No. It was pretty basic. But I enjoyed it so much I started reading tons of books, watching people on TV. I experimented a lot. Spent long Saturdays in the kitchen. It’s sort of taken on a life of its own.”
“I can’t believe how incredible this is.”
“You saw how simple it was to make. I can give you some recipes that are just as easy.”
“I think you make it look easy.”
“I love it. It’s easy to do something you love.”
He’s right about that. When I first started out in cosmetics, I loved it. I had been obsessed with color, fascinated by the palette of each new face that stepped in front of me. Now, I just worry about sales numbers and counter traffic.
“Have you ever thought about doing this professionally? Owning a restaurant or something?”
He quickly shakes his head. “The restaurant business is extremely risky.”
“I don’t see you as someone adverse to risk.”
He laughs. “Let’s just say that in my family, failure is not an option.”
“What does that mean? Everyone has failures.”
“Yeah, well my dad was a big Vince Lombardi fan.”
“Oh, he was the ‘winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing’ guy, right?”
Justin forms a trigger with his fingers and shoots. “You got it. But my dad’s personal favorite was ‘show me a good loser, and I’ll show you a loser.’”
“Harsh.”
“Yeah. So you could say I grew up pretty averse to trying things that were unlikely to turn out well. Don’t get me wrong. I take calculated risks. But the restaurant business is financial suicide for most people.”
“You’re not most people.” Did I just say that? I immediately turn red. To his credit, Justin looks surprised at the compliment. “So what did your dad do? Professionally, I mean.”
“He started the company that my brother and I now run.”
“Oh, a family business.”
Justin nods. Not very enthusiastically, I notice.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
“Sure.” I’m assuming it’s going to be another questions about working at the Chanel counter.
“Where’s your kid’s father?”
Oh. “He lives in Boston. That’s where he’s from. He applied to law school there, and moved back as soon as he graduated undergrad. He was a year ahead of me. I was pregnant, so I dropped out of school and followed him there.”
“So you never finished school?”
I shake my head. Talk about failure. “No. I moved back home after my divorce, and then got a job at the store. I’ve been there ever since.”
Silence. I can tell he thinks this is sad. I think it’s sad, too. But I’m ready to turn things around. Starting with my personal life.
I raise my glass. “To The List,” I say.
He smiles, lifting his glass, his intense eyes locked onto mine, filling me with a feeling of warmth and desire that is more delicious than any food.
“To The List,” he says.
*** ***
The conversation with Justin last night dredged up all of my dissatisfaction at work. And part of it is my own fault. I have an idea for the department, but I’ve avoided talking to Aimee. I don’t know why I’ve been procrastinating — what, exactly, am I afraid of?
Fifteen minutes before the store opens, I stop by Aimee’s office. I tell myself that the worst she can do is say no.
The door to the small office on the first floor is slightly ajar. I knock on the doorframe. Aimee peers out. She’s wearing glasses I’ve never seen on her before.
“Something wrong, Claire?” she says. I see spreadsheets covering her desk, and an Excel document on her computer.
“Sorry to bother you, but I want to bring up an idea I have. For the department.”
I wait for her to invite me in, but when I realize that isn’t happening, I launch
into my pitch.
“I’ve noticed a trend of women asking me if the Chanel nail polish is formaldehyde free. And asking about the ingredients in the lipstick. I’ve had customers — customers who spend a lot of money at the counter — tell me they are looking for brands that are organic.”
“Are you saying this is affecting your numbers?” Aimee says, taking off her glasses.
“No. No, that’s not what I’m saying. But I do think we should consider bringing in an organic line. I think it’s something more and more women are interested in.”
Aimee sighs. “Claire, I know you’re going through a bit of a…health issue. And I understand how that makes you interested in all sorts of alternative products.”
“That’s not it,” I say, hating the idea my breast cancer is somehow trivializing this topic to her. “This has been on my mind for months. And it’s coming from other customers — not me.”
“I’m not debating that a few customers here or there might have mentioned this. But the majority of women just want great color and lipstick that doesn’t fade or feather, nail polish that doesn’t chip. They just want to look good, Claire. And we don’t have the floor space at this store to cater to the very small minority who aren’t satisfied with that.”
*** ***
“She completely shot it down,” I tell Patti over lunch at Bella Italia. Today, I ordered a salad.
Patti shrugs. “Don’t take it personally. A line like that might not be the right fit for the store. That’s her job — to worry about things like that. Not ours.”
“It would be nice to have some input into the department. Or you know what, it would have been nice just to hear, that’s a great idea, but corporate will never go for it. Would that be so hard for her?”
Patti puts down her steak sandwich. “Is this really about the organic cosmetics issue?”
Oh no. Here it comes. Patti the armchair psychologist.
“Yeah. What else would it be about?”
“How’s the support group going?” she says. Oh, no. I knew this would come up again sooner or later. I’d been hoping for later.
“Don’t be mad at me, but I haven’t been going.”
She looks at me, incredulous “You’ve been telling me every Thursday night you’re heading to the Y. You’ve been lying this whole time?”
“No. I have been going to the Y. Just not to the support group.”
She wipes her hands on a paper napkin and leans forward, elbows on the table. “I’m not following.”
“I found a…reading group.”
“Like our book club? By the way, can you do seven-thirty on Friday instead of seven?”
“Yeah, sure. That’s fine.” I have a glimmer of hope that I’m off the hook. She’s already moved on to the topic of our monthly book group, which she’s hosting.
“So is it?” she says. I pretend not to know what she’s talking about. But she’s not giving up. “Is the Y thing like our book club?”
“Um, no. It’s more people reading their own writing. Short stories. That sort of thing.” I smile. I can’t help it — just thinking about Dylan’s latest story makes it difficult to keep a straight face.
“What’s so funny?”
“It’s not funny. It’s just, the stories are all sexual. Very explicit. It’s really the craziest thing. I walked in one night by accident and I was completely riveted. I’ve been going back ever since.”
She looks at me blankly. Clearly not amused.
“Instead of the support group?”
“Yeah,” I say.
My phone vibrates.
I’ll pick you up tonight at ten. And I won’t take no for an answer. We have a deal.
I tap back. You’re making it really hard to get my beauty rest.
“I wish you would deal with this,” Patti says. “I know you’re handling it technically, but emotionally, I’m not so sure.”
He texts, You could have fooled me.
“Claire, are you listening to me?”
Chapter 12
Justin didn’t give me a hint where we are going tonight. I tell myself that is the reason why I can’t figure out what to wear. The truth is, I already wore my one good outfit the other night to Red Ruby’s.
One of the many drawbacks of having a uniform for work every day and not going out at night is I have no reason to shop for clothes, and therefore I haven’t — in years. I settle for a simple, dark blue Anne Taylor dress that belts around my waist and falls just above my knee, and pair it with black Cole Haan heels.
I wait in the living room until I and see headlights in my driveway, and meet him outside before he has a chance to come to the front door.
“Hey,” I say, sliding into the car. The radio is playing a Black Keys song, “Gold on the Ceiling.” I love this album. Max downloaded it for me and insisted I listen to it. I learned years ago to stop bemoaning the fact I was at an age where I discovered new music only through my kid. And I consoled myself by remembering I’d introduced him to Nirvana and Pearl Jam.
“Hey,” he says.
“So where are we going?”
He glances at me. “Don’t you have The List memorized by now?”
I have, actually. Number three: Go to a strip club.
*** ***
The building on South Street is impossible to miss, shining with an obnoxious pink neon sign that says Private Eyes, along with a silhouette of a naked woman with tiny hips and enormous breasts.
“How…welcoming,” I say sarcastically.
“Don’t be a hater.”
I’m uncomfortable walking inside, as if I’m doing something illegal. A burly man checks my ID. I can’t help but smile; it’s been a long time since that’s happened.
Inside, the music is heavy metal — old stuff. Scorpions, “No One Like You.”
The room isn’t that large. It smells slightly musty, and has a worn, shabby feel to it. I don’t want to touch anything.
Justin leads me to a seat at the side of the stage. It’s long, like a runway in a fashion show, with a square broad part at the end.
“What are you drinking, sweetheart?” The cocktail waitress directs the question to me. Clearly there’s no question if we’re drinking — just what.
“Two Ketels on the rocks,” Justin says.
At the tail end of the stage is a metal pole going up to the ceiling. On this pole is a young, beautiful woman with waist-length brown hair streaked with blond, wearing only a thong and six-inch clear heels.
A couple sits a few seats away from us, closer to the end of the runway. The man has his hand at the base of the woman’s back, and moves it down, disappearing into her jeans. As if sensing my stare, he turns to look right at me. He winks.
I turn quickly away, refocusing on the stripper.
Her back is to the pole, and she slides to the floor, then slowly back up. Her body is long and lean, thin without being skinny. Her breasts are large in proportion to her slender hips but somehow not cartoonish. In other words, her body is perfect.
Our drinks appear. Justin tips the waitress. I hold the tall, narrow glass, happy to have something to do with my hands. This whole scene is really embarrassing. I’m uncomfortable, but I don’t want to be a poor sport and tell him I want to leave already.
The dancer turns to face the pole, holds it with one hand, then leans back, swinging around it like a kid in a playground. She has a tattoo of a gun on one shoulder, and a bunch of writing I can’t read on the other.
Then, in a feat of acrobatics beyond my grasp of basic physics, she pulls herself up the pole and hangs upside down, holding on with only her thighs. Her long hair sweeps the floor, and the men throw more cash at her. Literally at her. I notice a few of them ball the bills so they make contact with her body instead of just wafting to the stage floor.
She grasps the pole with both hands and scissors her legs into a split, then pulls herself around so her legs are in position so she can glide back to the ground, her feet on the floor.
>
The song ends. My heart is pounding. I can’t take my eyes off of her, especially as she sweeps up the money, stuffing it into her g-string and carrying the rest off the stage with her.
“What do you think?” Justin asks.
“She’s dexterous.”
“Do you like her?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think she’s hot?”
Is this a rhetorical question? “Well, yeah. Obviously.”
“Not necessarily obviously. I mean, maybe she’s not your type.”
“I’m a woman. I don’t have a type when it comes to other women.”
“Sure you do. You know who you find attractive and who you don’t.”
“You’re the one who put strip club on the list. I’m not into this. Believe me, I know from my son how these days every other girl is suddenly “bi” or bi-curious or even just hooking up with other girls to titillate their boyfriends. But that’s not my thing.”
“I’m not saying it’s your thing, Claire. Jeez, you get so defensive. I’m just asking a simple question. Hot, or not?”
“Fine. Hot.”
“I thought so. You should have seen your face watching her.”
I feel myself blush.
The music changes to “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osbourne. An Asian woman walks out in thigh high boots, a leather skirt, and matching corset.
“Hey, grab your drink. Follow me,” Justin says, already standing.
“Where are we going?”
In the back of the strip club, chairs are clustered in pairs or threes around small round tables. They’re mostly empty.
Justin waves to someone, or rather, he waves someone over. And it’s Ms. Clear Heels.
She’s not as tall as she appeared on stage. But as she gets closer, I see her face is almost as flawless as her body, a chiseled nose, full, lush lips that might or might not be pumped with silicon, and thick-lashed brown eyes flecked with gold.
“Hey, you guys,” she says, as if old friends. I detect the hint of an accent – maybe Spanish. “I’m Kat.”