Virtually Perfect

by Paige Roberts

  The house was dark and still. Lizzie shivered. She wasn’t used to seeing the Silvesters’ home like this, and even though she knew she was allowed to roam the kitchen whenever she wanted, she felt like a trespasser.

  She tiptoed into the butler’s pantry and flicked on the light. Renata had cleaned up while Lizzie and Nate were at the hospital, and the entire space was immaculate, as if there’d never been a clambake at all (which technically, Lizzie reminded herself, there hadn’t been). The surfaces gleamed, and all of the dishes and glasses had been washed and returned to the appropriate cupboard.

  Given all that Renata had done, Lizzie felt bad making her run out first thing in the morning to buy bagels or doughnuts, so she opened the refrigerator to see if there was enough food to cobble together a decent breakfast. There were two cartons of eggs and a little cheese, and Lizzie knew the Silvesters grew lots of herbs in their garden. Combined with some leftover fruit and maybe some homemade muffins, it would be enough—nothing spectacular, but passable, especially given the circumstances.

  Lizzie searched the pantry for flour for the muffins, but all she found was a gluten-free blend and a bag of almond meal. Could she make muffins with that? Possibly. She slunk into the main kitchen, where the signed copy of Martha Stewart’s Entertaining sat on the shelf. Maybe Martha would have some ideas. Granted, gluten-free wasn’t even a thing in 1982, or at least not something that was written about in mainstream cookbooks. Nevertheless, Lizzie pulled the cookbook from the shelf and brought it back into the butler’s pantry.

  She scanned the pages and found no inspiration as far as muffins were concerned, but she found plenty to keep her interest. The book was so gloriously retro: the formal font, the elaborate food styling, the lace tablecloths and fancy china. And Martha’s hair! It was vintage 1980s, fluffy and voluminous, yet Martha still managed to look gorgeous and perfect in her belted shirtdresses and crew-neck sweaters. Lizzie wasn’t sure she’d ever make anything from the book (one recipe made enough eggs for forty and called for eighty eggs and four sticks of butter), but she was still envious that the Silvesters had a signed copy. It was the kind of artifact that any cook would want to own, and part of her felt it deserved a home with someone who actually appreciated it.

  Lizzie continued flipping through the pages but looked up when she heard footsteps shuffling toward the kitchen. Zoe peered through the doorway.

  “Oh. It’s you.”

  Lizzie wasn’t sure why Zoe sounded disappointed. Who else would be in the kitchen at this hour? And why did Zoe care?

  Zoe’s eyes landed on the cookbook. “What are you doing? It’s like five a.m.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “So you’re hanging out in the kitchen?”

  “I’m just doing prep work. Better than staring at the ceiling.”

  “I guess.”

  Zoe moved farther into the room. She wore the same navy sundress as the night before, but her hair was now loose, the blond waves tumbling over her shoulders. She also had noticeable circles under her eyes, though Lizzie wasn’t sure how much of that was just mascara that had run. Was she drunk? Lizzie wasn’t sure. Whatever the case, she didn’t seem entirely lucid.

  “Why can’t you sleep?” Zoe asked.

  “A lot of reasons,” Lizzie said, though she wasn’t sure why. There was really only one reason, and that reason was Zoe. Why couldn’t she say so?

  “I get insomnia too. That’s why I stay out so late. If I’m not sleeping, I might as well be doing something.”

  “What kind of things do you do . . . ?”

  “This and that.” She came closer and glanced at the cookbook. “Why are you looking through my mom’s Martha Stewart book?”

  “I thought maybe I’d find a muffin recipe I could use.”

  “You aren’t supposed to cook out of that. It’s a signed copy. Mom would freak out if it got dirty.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m putting it back.” Lizzie closed the book and put it back on the shelf in the main kitchen. When she returned to the butler’s pantry, she saw Zoe picking through the ingredients Lizzie had laid out.

  “You know this gluten-free flour is mine, right?”

  “No, I didn’t, actually. Could I borrow it?”

  “I guess. Just replace it.”

  “I will.” Lizzie came closer to the counter. “Listen, there’s something I need to talk to you about. . . .”

  Lizzie steeled herself. This was an ideal moment to confront Zoe. They wouldn’t be interrupted, and with everyone else in the house asleep, neither of them would want to raise her voice. It was the perfect opportunity.

  “I’m not much for talking at the moment,” Zoe said. “It’s been a long night.”

  “I’ll keep it brief.”

  Zoe’s eyes flitted to the almond meal. “I think that’s mine too.”

  “I’ll replace both. So what I wanted to say was—”

  “Make sure it’s blanched almond meal. I don’t like the other kind.”

  “Noted. But about—”

  “Make sure you don’t use any nutmeg, by the way. If you make muffins. It gives Barb a mild reaction. Granted, I think a lot of that is in her head, but whatever. I mean, I’m sure she won’t touch muffins anyway. She’s always dieting. But just in case she decides to cheat—”

  “Zoe.”

  Zoe’s eyes flashed. “Jesus. You don’t have to yell. What?”

  “I know about your site.”

  Zoe frowned. “Uh, yeah. Duh. We’ve talked about it before. You gave me a recipe.”

  “No, I mean I know about Marie. That she died.”

  Zoe stared at Lizzie. Her expression was unreadable. “What are you talking about?”

  “Marie. I know she died before you left for college.”

  “So?”

  “So . . . on your site, you say she’s still alive. That you cured her with your diet.”

  “I did.”

  Lizzie’s brow furrowed. “How could you have cured her if she’s dead?”

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “You run a Web site where you put all this stuff out there publicly, so . . .”

  “Doesn’t make it your business.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you work for my fucking parents and you should keep your head down and do what they’re paying you to do.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  “No, you’re asking me personal questions that have nothing to do with you.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you stalking me or something?”

  “Stalking you? What are you talking about?”

  “You seem to know an awful lot about me, considering we’ve only spoken a handful of times.”

  “I hardly know anything about you. That’s the point.”

  “Why should you? You’re our private chef. Honestly? I don’t think my parents will be thrilled to know you’re trying to dig up dirt on me.”

  “I’m not. I just asked a question.”

  “Right. And I’m sure you have no agenda whatsoever.”

  Lizzie shook her head in disbelief. “How am I in the wrong here? Your Web site is a totally public thing—which, you may recall, I only discovered because you’d posted photos of my recipes as if they were your own. I gave you a beet salad recipe that you said you’d post, so I followed up to see if you had. That’s when I saw that Marie was sick again—or, I guess, that you claim she’s sick again.”

  “See, that’s what I’m talking about. You’re trying to make me sound so shady.”

  “Well? Is Marie sick again?”

  “What business is it of yours?”

  Lizzie clenched her fists and pressed them against her eyes. “Jesus! This is ridiculous. We’re talking in circles.” She pulled her hands away and looked directly at Zoe. “It’s my business because I am the public and the public thinks you cured some girl of cancer, but you didn’t because she’s dead.”

  “It isn’t my fault she died.”
>
  “I never said it was.”

  “You implied it.”

  “Are you insane?” Lizzie immediately regretted asking the question because Zoe’s eyes went wild with rage. Whether that was because she was insulted or, indeed, completely insane Lizzie wasn’t sure.

  “Sorry,” Lizzie blurted out before Zoe could explode. “What I meant was . . . I do not think, nor did I mean to imply, you were responsible for Marie’s death in any way. I don’t even know the full story.”

  “Exactly. So stay out of it.”

  “I wish I could, Zoe, but you are endangering people’s lives. I can’t just look the other way.”

  “Endangering people’s lives? That’s a stretch.”

  “Not really. If Marie is dead, then there are people out there who actually have cancer who are drinking carrot juice and blasting coffee up their asses thinking it will cure them when it won’t.”

  “Oh, so you’re a cancer expert now?”

  “I never said I was an expert.”

  “Well, that’s good, because you’re not. You’re a cook.”

  “And you’re what, then? A twenty-three-year-old with a Web site and too much time on her hands?”

  Zoe turned puce. “You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about. The stuff I write about—it works. Just because you’ve been brainwashed by the pharmaceutical industry like almost everyone else doesn’t make you right.”

  “Just because you read something somewhere on the Internet doesn’t make you right either. You have no evidence to back up any of the supposed cures on your site.”

  “I am the evidence—I live this lifestyle every day.”

  “But you aren’t sick.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Your friend is dead!” Lizzie realized she was shouting now.

  Zoe looked as if she’d been slapped. “Fuck you,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” Lizzie said, lowering her voice.

  “No, you’re not.”

  Lizzie took a deep breath. “All I’m asking is that you take the site down. Or at least stop writing misleading posts that give people false hope.”

  “Take the site down?” She stared at Lizzie, wide-eyed. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you? You can’t stand looking at my success when your own career is a joke.”

  “This has nothing to do with my career.”

  “Doesn’t it, though? I know all about your fall from grace—not to mention the people you stabbed in the back along the way.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. I had a nice, long conversation with April Sherman. It was very enlightening.”

  Lizzie almost took the bait but then stopped herself. “The fact that your site is based on a lie has nothing to do with me. Shut it down, or I’ll do it for you.”

  “Like you’d even know how.”

  “Maybe I should talk to your parents about this.”

  Zoe let out a sharp laugh. “You’re going to tell on me? Are we four?”

  “No, Zoe, we’re not. We’re adults. Maybe it’s time you started acting like one.”

  Zoe started to speak, but was interrupted by a sound coming from the living room. “Good luck with your muffins,” she said, and walked out of the room.

  “Zoe, wait!” Lizzie called after her. She hurried into the kitchen and followed the noise into the living room, expecting to find Zoe there. Instead, she gasped as she came across Barb, whose head was bobbing up and down as she performed fellatio on Sam, who was lying flat on the couch, his neck still immobilized in the foam cervical collar. He was also still wearing the hospital onesie, though Barb had unzipped it so that his erect penis poked through.

  “Oh! Oh, God!” Lizzie cried. Barb flushed with embarrassment. Lizzie turned away and headed for the stairs. “I’m sorry! I’m so, so, so, so sorry!”

  “Hey, where you going?” Sam called after her. “There’s always room for one more.”

  Lizzie rushed down the stairs, chasing after Zoe, but by the time she got to the bottom it was too late. Zoe had disappeared.

  * * *

  This time when Zoe disappeared, she didn’t do so for days or weeks. Technically, she may not have disappeared at all, because only a few hours later she was at the breakfast table, sitting between Kathryn and Barb. Lizzie was shocked to find all of the guests up and ready for breakfast, given the antics of the previous night, but apparently a night of drinking and drama had made everyone hungry.

  “Good morning!” Kathryn called out as Lizzie brought a basket of muffins to the table. “Can I even say that? After the night we all had? My God. Lizzie, we can’t thank you enough for your help. Without you . . . well, none of us was really in a state to drive, put it that way.”

  “Nate was a big help, too,” Lizzie said, nodding toward the other end of the table. She met his eyes, which were ringed with red. He looked exhausted.

  Kathryn’s smile tightened as her eyes flitted in Nate’s direction. “Yes. Well. Thanks to you, too, Nate.”

  “Anything for you, Kathryn.”

  “It wasn’t for me. It was for Sam! And Barb. Poor Barb. Look at you. You must be bone tired.”

  “That’s for sure,” Zoe muttered under her breath. Lizzie’s and Barb’s eyes met, and they both turned bright red.

  Kathryn caught Barb’s expression. “Did I miss something? What happened?”

  “Nothing you want to know about,” Zoe said, unfolding her napkin onto her lap.

  “Barbie, what did you do?” Kathryn elbowed her playfully in the side.

  Barb’s cheeks reddened again, and she shrugged coyly. Sam was engrossed in a conversation on his other side and so, to Lizzie’s great relief, didn’t fill in the blanks. He was dressed in normal clothes now, the lavender polo and chinos he’d been wearing the night before, but he still wore the cervical collar, and Lizzie was pretty sure the image of Barb giving him a blow job would be tattooed on her brain forever. She was already contemplating how much therapy she would need to get over it.

  “You little sexpot,” Kathryn whispered. “We’ll talk later. I need details. Not too many—as they say, some things are better left to the imagination.”

  You can say that again, Lizzie thought, though what she witnessed a few hours earlier wasn’t something she ever would have tried to imagine either.

  Lizzie returned to the butler’s pantry to finish making the frittata, and with Renata’s help she brought it to the table along with a big fruit platter.

  “Ta-da!” Kathryn crowed. “What did I tell you? She’s a genius. There’s a reason we want to hold on to her. The Food Network’s loss is our gain.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” said one of the guests, whose name Lizzie couldn’t remember. “You had that show. Barb and Kathryn started telling us about it last night, but with all of the activity . . . It’s the one that airs on Saturday mornings, right?”

  “Aired,” Zoe cut in. “It got canceled like six years ago.”

  “Five,” Lizzie corrected her. “But yes, it aired on Saturday mornings.”

  “Goes to show how behind the times I am,” the guest said. Lizzie was pretty sure her name was Christine. “Anyway, I think I do remember you! The Ivy League graduate with a cooking show, right?”

  Lizzie nodded, but before she could speak, Zoe cleared her throat. “That isn’t exactly right, is it, Lizzie?”

  Lizzie’s face grew hot. Kathryn laughed nervously. “What? Of course it is. Right?”

  “Yep,” Lizzie said, a little too quickly. She didn’t think this was the appropriate time to explain she hadn’t actually graduated from college. She scanned the table. “Whoops—forgot the orange juice. I’ll be right back.”

  She hurried back to the pantry. She could feel Zoe’s eyes on her the whole time. Lizzie wasn’t sure what Zoe knew or thought she knew, but whatever it was, Lizzie sensed Zoe was sending her a message: Don’t fuck with me.

  The thing was, Lizzie didn’t want to fuck with
Zoe. She didn’t want to fuck with anyone. That wasn’t how Lizzie was built. She sometimes wondered if she might still have her job if she were more inclined to fuck with people, but it was one of those questions she didn’t linger on because she didn’t want to be that kind of person. When she’d threatened to talk to Kathryn and Jim about Zoe’s site, Lizzie wasn’t trying to cause trouble. She just wanted to impress upon Zoe how serious her lies were.

  Lizzie brought the pitcher of orange juice to the table, and as she set it down she overheard one of the Silvesters’ friends ask Zoe about her post-graduation plans.

  “I have a few irons in the fire,” she said.

  “Like? Are you going to work for your dad?”

  “God no. That would be a disaster.”

  Kathryn clucked. “It wouldn’t be a disaster. Zoe just has other interests. Have you told them about your Web site?”

  Zoe’s and Lizzie’s eyes met. “No . . .” Zoe said.

  “Well? Tell them about it!” Kathryn leaned toward the table. “To be honest, I don’t know much about it myself—Zoe is very private about the whole thing—but if she’s running the show, I’m sure it’s fabulous. Isn’t that right, sweetie?”

  Zoe chewed on a small slice of plum. “I guess.”

  Lizzie cleared her throat. “It’s about healthy eating, right?”

  Zoe shot her a cautionary look. Lizzie stared back. She wanted to throw up or run away, but she wasn’t about to let Zoe change the subject.

  “Yeah,” Zoe finally said.

  “That’s fab, Zo,” Barb said. Her eyes suddenly widened, as if a lightbulb had illuminated. She pointed to Lizzie and Zoe. “Hey, the two of you should talk! I bet you could collaborate on something.”

  “I don’t think so . . .” Lizzie said.

  “I’m serious! Your show was about healthy cooking; her site is about healthy eating. There’s a lot of potential for . . . what do you call it? Hey, Jim? Jim!”

  Jim was engrossed in another conversation and didn’t hear her.

  “Jim, honey?” Kathryn snapped her fingers to get Jim’s attention. “Barb is talking to you.”

  Jim broke off his conversation and turned to Barb with raised eyebrows. “Yes?”