Too Many Cooks

by Dana Bate

  Finally, after spending the entire week testing various incarnations, I get it right: crushed white beans, a handful of breadcrumbs, some smoked paprika, and just enough egg to bind it all together with the chopped kale and other vegetables. It’s smoky and toothsome without being heavy or gummy. I have no idea if it resembles what Natasha has in mind, but thankfully she returns from Paris today, so I can have her taste it, along with the salmon and the carrot salad, which I’ve remade in anticipation of her return.

  As I finish preparing the sauce for the salmon around three o’clock, I hear the front door open, followed by the click-clack of heels and the staccato of Poppy’s voice as she marches into the kitchen, her phone pressed against her ear.

  “No. Absolutely not. We said one o’clock. One. No, not Monday—tomorrow.” She lets out a heavy sigh. “Fine. Yes. Tomorrow at one. Hot stones. Yes.”

  She grunts as she hangs up.

  “Welcome back,” I say. “How was Paris?”

  “Exhausting.”

  “Eat anything good?”

  “Anything? Try everything.”

  “Where did you eat? What did you have?”

  “Oh, you know, this and that. We ate at Joël Robuchon’s place one night. That was lovely.”

  “You ate at Joël Robuchon?”

  “You’ve heard of it? I thought you’ve never been to Paris.”

  “I haven’t. But I work with chefs for a living. Robuchon is a legend.”

  “In that case, I should have asked for his autograph while he chatted up Natasha.”

  “You met him?”

  “Yes. He’s charming.”

  I’m trying not to geek out over this, but oh my God! Back in Chicago, François would talk all the time about Robuchon as one of his idols. I can’t believe Natasha met him.

  “Anyway,” Poppy says, “now that we’re back I need to do about five million things, and I’m already behind.”

  “Is Natasha around? I have a few recipes I’d like her to taste.”

  “Taste? Oh, no, no, no. We both overdid it while in Paris. Too much wine and chocolate. She’s juicing from now until Monday. We both are.”

  I look down at the bowl of mustard-dill sauce. “But I’ve prepared everything specially. Natasha said she’d do the tasting today, when she returned.”

  Poppy shrugs. “She changed her mind.”

  “But all of the food—what am I supposed to do with it?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  “But can’t she just—”

  Poppy’s phone rings in her hand, cutting me off. “Her facialist. I have to take it.” Her eyes flit toward the mustard-dill sauce. “As for the food . . . just—whatever. Throw it out.”

  She spins around, answers the phone, and, as she schedules an emergency bird poop facial for Natasha, waltzes out of my sight.

  Throw it out? Throw it out? I poached a pound of salmon, meticulously julienned two pounds of carrots, and pulled a recipe for freaking kale burgers out of my butt, and she wants me to throw it all away? No. I refuse. That isn’t merely wasteful. It’s also disrespectful and insulting.

  Instead, I prepare a plate for Hugh, drizzling a bit of mustard sauce over a slice of salmon, which I place next to a mound of carrot salad and a seared kale burger. I wrap up the plate and leave yet another note:

  Mr. Ballantine—

  Sorry this is such a hodgepodge.

  Kelly

  He said to call him Hugh, but somehow that still doesn’t feel appropriate, even though I’ve lived and worked here for a month. He is a member of Parliament. He is my boss’s husband. Never mind that he and Natasha sleep in separate bedrooms, or that he invited me to sleep in his house last Friday night, or that, against my better judgment, I am developing something of a crush on him. None of that changes anything. Or at least it shouldn’t.

  I take the rest of the leftovers home with me because I refuse to throw out perfectly good food that it took me days to develop and prepare. That said, I have eaten salmon and kale burgers every day for the past week, so the idea of eating either for yet another meal makes me gag a little. Why couldn’t we be stuck on the chocolate mousse recipe? Or even the sesame chicken? I’m not sure my gastrointestinal system can take another week of beans and kale.

  When I get back to my flat, Jess Walters calls as I try to make room in my overstuffed refrigerator for more kale and salmon delights.

  “Sorry again about Tuesday,” she says. “I had no idea the night would be so crazy.”

  “Don’t worry about it—I had fun.”

  “It was pretty cool, right? I’m glad you got to meet a few of my friends.”

  “They seemed great,” I say, trying to sound more enthusiastic than I’d felt at the time.

  “A bunch of us are meeting up at a bar in Soho tomorrow night—you should come.”

  “I’d love to, but . . .”

  But what? I have plans to sit home alone and eat kale burger leftovers? Because let’s be honest: Those are the only plans I have. I didn’t feel an instant connection with any of her friends, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hang out with them. And who knows? Maybe there will be new people I haven’t met before. People who aren’t Poppy or Olga. People who aren’t Hugh.

  “I’d love to,” I say, and I try really hard to mean it.

  The next night I show up at The Blind Pig a little after nine, winding my way down Poland Street in Soho. The bar is one of those fake speakeasies, where the owners make the place feel hidden and a bit hard to find, even though everything about it is legal and publicized. The door is tucked away beneath a red OPTICIANS sign, the only indication I have arrived at the correct location being the door knocker in the shape of a blindfolded boar.

  I knock three times, and a host lets me in and directs me up a narrow stairway, which is lit in various shades of red and purple. When I reach the top, I enter the cozy, dimly lit bar, which features an antique mirrored ceiling, a copper counter, plush leather banquettes, and wood-paneled walls.

  “Kelly!”

  Jess waves to me from one of the banquettes, where she is surrounded by a group of about ten people, who sit on wooden chairs and tufted leather stools around a series of small, round tables. Everyone looks in my direction as she waves, making me the center of attention, something I never enjoy.

  As before, Jess looks hip and stylish, wearing a black-and-white checkered skirt and silky black top, her fiery red hair pulled into a high bun. Given my wardrobe disaster on Tuesday, I bought a cheap, black peplum blouse this afternoon at Topshop, but the material is itchy, and the part around my hips kind of looks like a tutu.

  “Have a seat,” she says, scooting over to make room for me on the banquette. “Everyone, this is Kelly. We went to college together.”

  Ten names fire at me like bullets, and I’ve already forgotten half of them by the time the last person—Harry—says his name. I recognize three of the people from the Lichtenstein exhibit, but the others, including Harry, are all new.

  “So what are people drinking?” I ask. “Any recommendations?”

  “I have a ‘Cuba Pudding Jr.’,” Jess says, handing me a drink list. “But everything is great. You’re a writer—you’ll get a kick out of the menu.”

  I scan the drink options: “Rum DMC,” “Sidecar Named Desire,” “Dill or No Dill.” When I reach one called “Robin Hood, Quince of Thieves,” I stiffen.

  Robin Hood.

  Nottingham.

  Hugh.

  “Fancy a serial killer?”

  I look up to find Harry sitting beside me, having swapped places with Jess, who is now several seats away chatting to a handsome man in a green polo shirt. Harry has reddish blond hair, which recedes a bit around his temples, and a long, lanky figure, with narrow shoulders and graceful hands.

  “I . . . what?”

  “A ‘Cereal Killer.’ ” He points to the menu. “It’s supposed to be good.”

  “Oh, right.” I read the i
ngredients: rum, white chocolate, Galliano, chocolate milk. “Probably a little too sweet for me.”

  “For me, too, if I’m being honest. I just want someone to order one because I love the name.”

  “It’s right up there with the ‘Cuba Pudding Jr.’ and the ‘Kindergarten Cup.’” I glance at his hammered copper mug. “What are you drinking?”

  “The ‘58 Poland.’ Leave it to me to pick the most boring name on the list.”

  “That’s the address, right? Or am I missing some sort of British pun?”

  “No, it’s the address. But I liked the ingredients. I’ll try to order something more adventurous next time.”

  I look back at the menu. “Maybe I’ll have the ‘Thermo-Nuclear Daiquiri.’ How could I turn down a drink whose ingredients include ‘absinthe, glowing radiation, and danger’?”

  “Sounds like a recipe for a perfect Saturday night, if you ask me.”

  He waves down the waitress, and I order my drink, and as she leaves he rests his mug on the table.

  “So you’re American, then?”

  “No, I put on this accent for fun.”

  He blushes. “Right, sorry, obviously.”

  “I’m just giving you a hard time,” I say, though considering I have no friends here, I don’t know why I think alienating a perfectly nice, attractive guy is a good idea.

  “I should be used to it by now. I’m something of a specialist at pointing out the obvious.”

  “Well, I’m something of a specialist at making situations as awkward as possible, so I guess we’re even.”

  He laughs. “Where are you from in America?”

  “Michigan. That’s where Jess and I met—at University of Michigan.”

  “Ah, brilliant. That’s in Ann Arbor, right?”

  “Yeah, you know it?”

  “Not from personal experience. But one of my mates from uni is doing a law degree there. He’s in his first year.”

  “Oh. So . . . you just graduated from college?”

  “God, no—we graduated seven years ago. But he worked in the City for a while, met an American girl, and they moved back to the States together. He decided to study law as part of his plan to stay there.”

  “Ah, got it.”

  “I’ve actually never been to America, if you can believe it.”

  “Until now, I’d never left. So yeah, I can believe it.”

  “I recently applied for a fellowship there, at Harvard. Not sure if I’ll get it—or if I’d take it if I did. It’s quite a long way.”

  “What kind of fellowship?”

  “At the Kennedy School. I work in public policy. International trade, mostly.” He grins. “Don’t worry, I won’t bore you all night with talk of farm subsidies.”

  I pretend to wipe my brow. “Kidding—I’m sure your work is much more interesting than mine.”

  “I somehow doubt that. What do you do?”

  “I write cookbooks.”

  “Like Nigella?”

  “No. I mean, yes, but you won’t see my name on the cover.”

  “Oh. Then . . . where would I see it?”

  “Buried somewhere in the acknowledgments, usually. I’m sort of the ‘cook behind the cook.’ I test and write up the recipes for food personalities—chefs, TV hosts, actresses.”

  “Ah, a bit like a ghostwriter.”

  “Exactly like a ghostwriter. That’s what I do.”

  He picks up his drink and takes a sip. “What brings you to London, then? Anyone I’ve heard of?”

  “I’m helping Natasha Spencer with her cookbook.”

  “Natasha Spencer? The actress?” He grimaces. “She’s always struck me as a bit of a nightmare, no?”

  I choose my words carefully. “She . . . is very good at what she does.”

  He smiles. “I thought so.”

  The waitress arrives with my drink, and the entire group goes silent. The drink glows. The damn thing actually glows—not like, Oh, there’s a little sparkly twinkle from the ice and the glass, but, Oh, wow, that chick is about to throw back a cup of neon green radioactive slush. The daiquiri is piled high with crushed ice, and some sort of special cube sits inside, lighting up the entire glass, which is shaped like a chemical barrel. The glass is wrapped in bright yellow “biohazard” tape, with a “biohazard” flag attached to the straw, because apparently, it wasn’t obvious enough that this is supposed to look like a container of nuclear waste. There might as well be a spotlight on me and a man bellowing through a microphone, “HEY, EVERYONE! CHECK OUT THE LOSER IN THE TUTU!”

  “Wow,” Harry says. “They weren’t kidding when they said ‘glowing radiation.’”

  “Apparently not . . .”

  I pick up the glass, and Harry clinks his mug against it. “Cheers,” he says. “To living dangerously.”

  Harry and I talk for the rest of the evening, and I learn about his years at University College London and his job at the Centre for Policy Research. He has pale blue eyes and an easy smile, but as much as I enjoy talking to him, my mind wanders every so often to Hugh: his chiseled jaw, his slim waist, his deep laugh. I hate myself for thinking about him, for wasting my mental energy on an implausible and immoral fantasy. But I can’t help myself. Ever since the night I forgot my keys, his image keeps creeping into my brain, and no matter how hard I try to make it go away, it keeps finding its way back in. The “Robin Hood” reference on the drink menu here certainly isn’t helping.

  At eleven o’clock, the group decides to move to another bar, and I take that as my opportunity to leave.

  “Won’t you come with us?” Harry asks as we slide out of the banquette.

  “I have to get up early tomorrow,” I lie. “And I have to talk to my friend in Michigan in the afternoon.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  I follow the group down the stairway, and when we empty onto the bustling sidewalk, Harry sidles up next to me.

  “I had a lovely time chatting to you tonight,” he says.

  “Me too.”

  That isn’t a lie. I did like talking to him. He is smart and charming, with the sort of penetrating stare that indicates a genuine curiosity about the world. If it weren’t for the fact that I’m exhausted, I would probably tag along. But the more tired I get, the more I think about Hugh, which means it’s time for me to go to bed.

  Harry reaches into his pocket and hands me a business card. “If you fancy meeting up sometime, here’s my mobile number. I’d love to hear more about the cookbook.”

  I stare at the card, holding it steadily between my fingertips. Why am I hesitating? Because he is attractive and single and age-appropriate? Because he and I had lots to talk about? Because he isn’t Hugh?

  “Maybe we can meet for a drink next week,” I say.

  “That would be brilliant. I’m free any night but Friday. And Saturday, actually—I’m visiting family in Devon over the weekend.”

  “Let’s say Wednesday. I’ll call you early in the week.”

  His face brightens. “Perfect. And I promise the evening won’t involve ‘glowing radiation and danger’—unless you want it to.”

  “I think I’m set on both those things for a while,” I say.

  He smiles as if he understands, but what he doesn’t realize is that when it comes to avoiding danger, I’m not talking about a drink.

  CHAPTER 17

  On Sunday afternoon, I open my laptop for a video chat with Meg. I’ve been meaning to talk to her ever since I received the letter from my dad, but with the time difference, only weekends work for both of us.

  Meg’s face appears on my screen after a few rings, her curls held back with a thick, black headband.

  “Top o’ the morning to you, guv’nor,” she says in an appalling fake English accent.

  “No one actually talks like that here. In case you were wondering.”

  “Cor blimey,” she says, her accent now sounding vaguely Indian.

  “Seriously, stop. That accent is borderline offensive.”
<
br />   “To whom?”

  “The spoken word.”

  She purses her lips. “Don’t tell me you’ve become one of those Americans who spends a little time in England and suddenly thinks she’s British. You’re not one of them. You’re one of us.”

  I glance at the ceiling. “Yes, thanks, I know.”

  “I’m serious. The minute you start referring to lorries and loos, I’m sending someone to kidnap you and bring you home.”

  “You should probably do that anyway.”

  “Why?” She grins and rubs her hands together mischievously. “Is Natasha still being crazy?”

  “No crazier than before, really. I actually haven’t seen her in about a week. She’s been in Paris.”

  Meg heaves an envious sigh and rests her chin on her hand. “Of course she has.”

  “I secretly hoped she’d take me, but alas . . .”

  “Did you have the week off?”

  “No, I still worked from her kitchen. Concocting a bunch of recipes she now won’t try because she’s ‘juicing’ until Monday.”

  “Well, I mean, obviously. She was just in Paris.” Meg says this as if she has intimate familiarity with juice cleanses and world travel, even though, like me before taking this job, she has never left the United States. “So wait,” she says, “you had her place all to yourself?”

  “Sort of. Her housekeeper was there. And so was her husband.”

  Meg wiggles her eyebrows up and down. “Oooh, so you had Mr. Hunky all to yourself?”

  “No!” I take a deep breath and compose myself. “He wasn’t really around. He’s been working on an education bill. It’s been keeping him really busy.”

  Meg holds up her hands defensively. “Okay—sorry. Wow. Touched a nerve, apparently.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat. Things have just been . . . weird, is all.”

  “Weird how?”

  “I shouldn’t talk about it. I take that back—there isn’t even anything to talk about.”

  Meg narrows her eyes further. “Kelly Josephine Madigan. You are keeping something from me.”