Too Many Cooks

by Dana Bate

  My dad, on the other hand, didn’t play for the football team, meaning he and my mom didn’t run in the same circles. My mom spent her days being wooed by the quarterbacks and linebackers, who’d strut down the hall in packs, like teenage gods. Meanwhile, my dad was off to the side reading the latest installment of The Amazing Spider-Man, self-conscious about his lanky gait and acne scars. He loved comic books—The Fantastic Four, The Avengers, Superman—and though he often couldn’t be bothered to read the current history assignment, he was always up-to-date on the newest Spider-Man. He played trombone in the marching band, and at Friday night games, he’d march up and down the field, stealing glances at my mom as she shook her pompoms in the air and rallied the crowd. He’d watch her blond ponytail bob up and down, wishing she’d sit next to him when everyone went out for pizza at Mario’s after the game. But he always got there a minute too late, after some Kevin or Johnny or Tom had already swooped in beside her.

  Then one Friday night during their junior year, while everyone was piling into Mario’s, my dad spotted my mom across the room, with a free seat beside her. She sat in a booth with two of her girlfriends, twirling the tip of her blond ponytail around her finger as they all laughed about something together. My dad knew if he pushed through the crowd fast enough, he could snag the seat, so he elbowed his way through the mob, diving and ducking around people, until he made it to her table.

  “This seat taken?” he asked.

  “Might be,” she said, smiling coyly.

  “How about if I buy each of you ladies a pizza and a pop?”

  They looked at each other and giggled, and after a little more back and forth, they let my dad sit down.

  She was completely out of his league, or so they both said, but my mom found him endearing. They were an unlikely pair—the blond party girl and the taciturn nerd—but my mom loved that he would read her his comic books and write her long letters, and my dad thought she was the cutest woman God ever created. They ended up dating for the rest of high school and for two years after, then they finally got married. Three miscarriages and thirty-three years of marriage wrung some of the romance out of their relationship, but they still seemed in love with each other until she died, or at least as far as I could tell.

  I sometimes got the impression they were less in love with the Cynthia and Dennis of today and more in love with the Cynthia and Dennis of yore—the promise of young love, the mutual adoration, the unsullied simplicity of it all. In the end, neither of their lives turned out as they’d dreamed. My mom peaked in high school, never again achieving the same popularity or freedom she’d found in her teens. She discovered adult life wasn’t so fun, with all of its responsibilities and demands, and she tried to escape all of that by drinking a little too much and watching too much TV and generally not taking responsibility for anything. That was probably why she never followed up with her doctor—she was weary of life and figured she’d let nature take its course.

  And though my dad did fine in school, he never went to college. Not many of his close friends did. They got jobs—with GM and Ford and Kmart. I suspect my dad would have loved college and often wonder what his life would have been like if he’d gone. Instead, he’s worked for the Postal Service his whole life, feeling stuck and superior and, most of the time, bitter.

  Bitter or not, for nearly forty years, it had been Cynthia and Dennis, Cynthia and Dennis, two names that slid off the tongue together, like Sonny and Cher, Bill and Hill, Posh and Becks, Bogart and Bacall. But now it’s just Dennis. Just Dennis, and nobody else.

  Once I’ve put my dad’s letter aside, I shower and change, throw on a fresh coat of makeup, grab my purse, and head out the door. As I pass Tom’s office I see he has left for the day, sparing me another jokey exchange about remembering my keys. I really hope that doesn’t become an ongoing shtick.

  I rush to the Great Portland Street tube, where I hop on a Circle line train bound for Edgware Road, getting off at the Blackfriars stop. I weave my way from the tube station across the Thames to the Tate. The brick exterior doesn’t look very modern—the building once served as a power station in the middle of the last century—but as soon as I walk inside, I’m swept away by the clean, minimalist lines: the plain taupe walls, the concrete floors, the steel beams running up the interior sides and along the ceiling.

  I reach into my purse and pull out the instructions I scribbled down from the e-mail Jess sent me: Tate Modern, Level 3 Concourse, Lichtenstein retrospective.

  I make my way toward the Level 3 Concourse, and as I step off the escalator I gasp. The entire space is lit in primary colors and actually looks like a Lichtenstein painting. Spotlights overhead dapple the floor with yellow Benday dots, like the ones in his comic book paintings, and the walls are uplit with fiery red bursts.

  A woman in a black cocktail dress and wired headset stands with a clipboard in her hand near the entrance, and I approach her with awe in my eyes.

  “Hi,” I say, still mesmerized by the décor. “I’m here for the event?”

  “Name?”

  “Kelly Madigan.”

  She flips through her list and furrows her brow. “I’m sorry, your name doesn’t seem to be—”

  “She’s with me.”

  Jess emerges from behind the woman in black, her lustrous red hair drawn into a tight bun atop her head. She wears a bright green sleeveless dress and black-and-white polka-dot stockings, standing tall in her black platform heels. I suddenly feel very self-conscious about my conservative ensemble of black shift dress, black stockings, and black ballet flats. Since I came to London to work, I didn’t pack much in the way of party clothes, but standing among the artsy, hip set at the Tate Modern, I wish I’d bought something special for the occasion.

  “Jess—hi!” I reach in for a quick hug. “This is amazing. The lighting—I can’t believe it.”

  “Wait until you see the hors d’oeuvres. You’ll die.”

  She leads me toward a set of high cocktail tables, waving to guests on either side of the room as she glides through the narrow space.

  “Thank you so much for inviting me,” I say, hurrying to keep up. “I don’t really know anyone in town, so I’m beyond grateful.”

  Jess waggles her fingers at a woman in the corner of the room and mouths a smiling hiiii. “Yeah, why did you say you were here?”

  “I’m working on a cookbook.”

  She slows her step and air kisses a man in an electric blue suit. “Let’s talk later about the upcoming Judd exhibit,” she says, squeezing his hand and continuing on toward the bar. She turns to me. “Sorry—a cookbook? For whom?”

  “Natasha Spencer.”

  Jess comes to an abrupt halt. “Natasha Spencer?”

  I nod. The nondisclosure agreement doesn’t say I can’t tell people I’m working on her cookbook. I’m not supposed to give details about personal stuff—the kinds of things I told Meg when I swore her to secrecy. But I can talk about the book in broad terms and, per my contract, can even include it on my resume. What I can’t do is run to the tabloids and tell them Natasha and Hugh sleep in separate bedrooms.

  “You know she’s a huge supporter of the Tate, right?”

  “I didn’t,” I say. But given the impressive work in her house, I probably could have guessed.

  “Oh, yeah—huge. She gives like hundreds of thousands of dollars a year.”

  “Wow.”

  “Imagine having that kind of cash to burn.”

  “I don’t think I can.” I adjust my purse strap on my shoulder. “So tell me more about—”

  “Ruby!” Jess cuts me off as she waves at someone over my shoulder. “Sorry,” she says, looking back at me. “I have to talk to Ruby for a second. But make yourself comfortable. The food is free, and it’s an open bar, so drink up! I’ll only be a few minutes, and then I can introduce you to some of my friends.”

  “Okay, sure.” I glance around the room. “Where should I—”

  But before I can finish my que
stion, Jess is already on her way to meet Ruby, and I stand in front of the bar, alone, fearing this night isn’t going to be quite as much fun as I’d hoped.

  Okay, so maybe Jess isn’t going to be my new best friend after all.

  It’s not that she isn’t nice or interesting or fun, but I haven’t spoken two words to her since she ran off to speak to Ruby. She has waved to me a few times from across the room and mouthed “Sorry—work” several times while frowning apologetically, but that doesn’t change the fact that, thirty minutes later, I’m still standing in front of the bar, alone. The only difference between now and thirty minutes ago is that I’m on my second glass of wine instead of my first. The crowd has also ballooned to a swarm of some three hundred people.

  Rather than drink myself into a stupor, I decide to take a lap around the room and survey the art on display. I push through the smartly dressed masses, trying not to spill my Malbec on the various designer boots and heels. I know this is a work event for Jess, but part of me wishes I’d known in advance how much networking and schmoozing she’d have to do because I feel just as lonely here as I did three days ago—possibly more so, even though I’m in the midst of all these people.

  I stop in front of Lichtenstein’s Drowning Girl, which was always one of my favorites and is a work I’ve never seen in person until now. I bought a poster of it sophomore year of college and hung it above my bed, and every time I walked into my room I’d smile seeing it there. Everyone else I knew had the standard posters—Starry Night, “My Goodness My Guinness,” Animal House, the Beatles—but my room was different. I didn’t choose that poster because it looked cool or matched my comforter; I bought it because I liked this artist, that painting. I’d studied it and read about it and wanted a piece of it for myself, even if that piece was a ten-dollar poster. I loved—still love—the melodrama of it all, the woman drowning in a turbulent sea, the tears, the histrionic thought bubble: “I don’t care! I’d rather sink—than call Brad for help!”

  “It’s brilliant, isn’t it?”

  I look to my side and find a plump, middle-aged man with a dark, scruffy beard standing next to me, rubbing his chin.

  “It is,” I say, offering a polite smile.

  He removes his glasses and squints, inspecting the painting more closely. “But I do think his appropriation of the tragic female is quite misunderstood.”

  “Oh?”

  “Indeed. One might say this woman is taking charge of her own life—choosing death rather than relying on a paternalistic figure to care for her. One might say it is, in fact, a feminist work.”

  “I’m not sure I’d go that far. . . .”

  He puts his glasses back on and turns to face me. “But why not, I ask? Why not?”

  Oh, dear God. Leave it to me to find the lunatic in the crowd.

  “Well, because . . . if you’re asking me . . .”

  “Kelly?”

  I whirl around at the sound of my name. The air thickens.

  “Hugh—Mr. Ballantine.” His face is bright red—literally—thanks to the event lighting, and if I had to guess, I’d say mine is the same color au naturel. “It’s . . . lovely to see you.”

  “Likewise.”

  The portly man beside me clears his throat and extends his hand in Hugh’s direction. “Fitz-Lloyd St. John Kerr,” he says.

  Oh my God. Is that one name?

  Hugh reaches out and shakes his hand. “Ah, yes, of course. Good to meet you.”

  “Indeed, the pleasure is all mine. I was just chatting to . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

  “Kelly.”

  “Right, right, right. I was just chatting to Kelly about how many of Lichtenstein’s works could actually be described as feminist totems. Don’t you agree?”

  Hugh offers a jokey frown. “I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong MP. I still haven’t figured out why, exactly, this is art.”

  Fitz-Lloyd lets out a sharp gasp. “You can’t be serious, surely?”

  “I’m afraid so. But I suppose that’s why I’m in Parliament and not teaching history of art at Oxford.”

  “Yes. Quite.” Fitz-Lloyd presses his glasses up the bridge of his nose and glances over Hugh’s shoulder. “Ah. I see Bryonie has arrived. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

  He leaves, and I shift my focus back to the painting, even though I can feel Hugh’s eyes on me. He eventually looks at the work as well.

  “A bit like you on Friday night, eh?”

  “Assuming she’s drowning because she forgot her keys and umbrella. And anyway, I did call Brad for help.”

  “Ah, so I’m Brad in this scenario?”

  “You were more like the last resort.”

  “I see.”

  I take a sip of wine, trying not to act as awkward as I feel. “So . . . what are you doing here?”

  “You mean other than saving you from boring nutters with six names?”

  “Yes, other than that.”

  “We’re big patrons of the Tate—well, Natasha is, anyway—so we always get invited to events and exhibition launches. I don’t often go, but since I saw this one was for Lichtenstein, I thought I’d call in.”

  “I thought you didn’t understand how his stuff qualifies as art.”

  “I don’t. But since you mentioned the other week that you’d done your thesis on him . . . well, I thought maybe I should learn more about him.”

  “Ah, so it’s my fault, then,” I say, trying to sound lighthearted even though what I’m really thinking is, Oh my God, you came because of me?

  “Yes, I think it’s fair to lay the blame on you.” Hugh smiles. “Anyway, I might ask you the same question. How did you wangle an invite? This is a pretty exclusive crowd.”

  “Oh, so cookbook ghostwriters don’t qualify as exclusive?”

  “No, sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “I’m kidding. The only people who might use that word to describe me are a few Michiganders back home.”

  “Who?”

  “Michiganders. People from Michigan. That’s where I’m from, originally.”

  “Ah, I see. Where I’m from . . . well, I’m not really sure what we’re called. Nottinghamians, I suppose? We don’t really have a name.”

  “You’re from Nottingham?”

  “Indeed.”

  “So what you’re saying is . . . you’re Robin Hood.”

  He laughs. “Not quite.”

  “I don’t know.... You’re trying to help the poor; you’re from Nottingham. . . . Sounds pretty convincing to me.”

  “Well, if you want to call me Robin Hood, who am I to argue?”

  “Exactly.” I look at the floor, then back up at him. “I think what you’re doing about the education bill is great, by the way. You’re very . . .”

  “Stubborn?”

  “I was going to say brave.”

  He peers over his shoulder, then looks back at me, his eyes soft. “Listen, I was wondering if you might like to—”

  “There you are!”

  Jess bursts between us and lets out a huge sigh.

  “I am so sorry I abandoned you. This night has been insane. It’s like everyone I’ve ever met in London is here. It’s nuts.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, I’d love to introduce you to some of my friends. They’re all on the second-floor concourse.”

  I glance up at Hugh, and as I do, Jess follows my gaze.

  “Oh—unless you’re . . . already busy?”

  Hugh holds my stare for a beat. Then his shoulders relax. “I was actually just leaving,” he says. He reaches out and shakes my hand. “Lovely running into you.”

  He smiles and pushes his way through the crowd toward the exit.

  “Sorry—I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything,” Jess says as she leads me to the escalator.

  “It was nothing,” I say. “Really.”

  But as I look over my shoulder and watch Hugh’s head disappear into the crowd, I know that isn’t even close to the truth.

  C
HAPTER 16

  Were we flirting again? Because it sure felt that way. Granted, I’m out of practice and am hardly an authority on the subject. Before Sam came along, I was never particularly well-versed in the art of seduction (example: my first interaction with Sam involved a conversation about a sandwich), and once we’d started dating, I didn’t need to bother anymore. But that conversation with Hugh . . . it felt different, somehow. Like we were both trying, like we both wanted to make the moment last. I called him Robin Hood, for crying out loud. Who does that? People who die alone, if I had to guess. And what would have happened if Jess hadn’t interrupted us? Would we have spent all evening talking? Or would I have made another painfully moronic comment, this time about the Sheriff of Nottingham?

  Once we arrive on the second floor, Jess introduces me to some of her friends, who are around my age and at similar points in their careers. But as hard as I try to convince myself they will become my new best friends—that they must, that the only reason I’m flirting with an older, married man is because I don’t know anyone else here—I find myself struggling to connect with any of them. When did making friends get so hard? In high school and college, I didn’t even have to think about it. It just sort of . . . happened. But ever since I left school and entered the real world, making friends has required a lot of effort, with mixed results. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with Jess or her friends. I just don’t feel an instant connection. Not the way I do with Hugh—who obviously isn’t a viable confidant.

  I decide that if I can’t fill my loneliness with friends, I’ll fill it with work. And if any recipe can suck up a huge chunk of my time, it’s Natasha’s blasted kale burger. I’m stumped. I try lentils; I try rice; I try beans, in various combinations and proportions, but nothing quite works. Everything tastes so . . . healthy, and not in a good way. I’ve concocted many nutritious dishes over the years, and the key is to pack them with flavor and substance, but all of my burger attempts fall short.