Too Many Cooks

by Dana Bate

  “Happily, I hope.”

  “I . . .” I don’t know how to respond to that. Happy to see him? Happy doesn’t begin to describe it.

  “I’m sorry—I’m really busy,” I finally say. “I still have a few courses to go, and if I don’t stay on schedule, everything will fall apart.”

  “Sorry—of course. I just wanted to tell you everything has been brilliant so far. Everyone is making a huge fuss.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear.”

  “You have many fans,” he says. “Though I am probably one of the biggest.”

  I tear my eyes away and turn back to the refrigerator, loading up my arms with the marinating seafood. “Listen, I really need to start cooking this seafood or I’ll be—”

  “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says.

  I freeze. Only when I begin to feel dizzy do I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

  I turn slowly, letting the refrigerator door close behind me as I set the shrimp and squid on the counter. “Don’t say that.” My voice is a trembling whisper.

  “But it’s true. I can’t.”

  “Don’t say that,” I repeat.

  “Why not?”

  “You know why.”

  “Yes, but . . . Can you honestly tell me you don’t feel the same way?”

  “So what if I do? You’re married.”

  “I told you—our marriage, it isn’t real. We aren’t in love.”

  “That doesn’t matter. As far as the outside world is concerned, you’re happily married.”

  He stares at the floor. Then he looks up at me, his eyes intense. “But if that were to change . . .”

  “If what were to change?”

  “Where the hell is Hugh?” Natasha’s voice echoes down the hall, cutting off Hugh before he can answer. She pokes her head through the kitchen door. “There you are. What are you doing down here? Everyone’s asking where you went.”

  “I was just complimenting Kelly on the lovely meal.”

  “Yeah, well, it isn’t over yet, so maybe you shouldn’t get ahead of yourself,” she says. “And anyway, you’re making me look bad.”

  “Not as bad as I would have had I stayed and listened to bloody Imogen prattle on about the lack of suitable holiday homes in Avignon.”

  Natasha rolls her eyes. “Please. Like it’s half as bad as listening to some of your friends talk politics. Or fucking cricket.”

  “Yes, please do remind me of your thoughts on cricket. I’d quite forgotten.”

  She shoots him an icy look and then glances at me. “Could we not do this in front of the help?”

  “She isn’t ‘the help,’ ” Hugh says. “She has a name.”

  “It’s okay. . . .” I say, wanting both of them to leave immediately. Aside from this situation’s being awkward beyond belief, I really have to start cooking the seafood, and it seems kind of inappropriate to do so in the middle of their argument.

  “Whatever,” Natasha says. “Just . . . come back upstairs. Kelly needs to finish cooking the meal.”

  She grabs his arm and pulls him away, and as the two of them walk through the doorway, I pretend I don’t see him look back over his shoulder.

  The party is a massive hit. Except for a slight hiccup in timing between serving the croquetas and the squid, everything runs smoothly, each dish hitting all the right notes. The squid comes out tender and garlicky, with a slight char from the iron griddle, and the grilled steak is the perfect medium rare, its flavor set off by the piquant salsa verde. When Olga finally returns after bringing up the cheese course, she dumps the rest of the dirty plates in the sink and says, “Miss Natasha, she is happy.”

  “Really?” Because she didn’t seem all that happy the last time I saw her . . .

  “Yes. Everyone love the food.” She pats my shoulder as she helps me wipe down the counter. “Is good.”

  Olga and her helper—a surly forty-something brunette whose name I never catch—help me unload the first wave of dishes from the dishwasher, and then we quickly reload with more dirty dishes from the sink before the two of them return upstairs. After a few more trips up and down, they help me finish cleaning the kitchen, and by midnight, nearly everything is back in its right place.

  Around twelve thirty, Natasha wanders down to the kitchen. I heard the door open and shut a few times, so I know some guests have left, but I still hear the muffled echo of chitter-chatter coming from the floor above, so I know at least a few guests are still here.

  “Nice job,” she says, gliding up to the counter. She stops when she reaches the edge and presses her hands against the surface.

  “Thanks. I’m glad everything turned out the way you wanted.”

  “Well, let’s not kid ourselves; it wasn’t really the way I wanted. I wanted stuffed dates. But everyone seemed to like those apricots, so I guess it isn’t the end of the world.”

  “Maybe we could add the apricots to your book,” I say. “Assuming you liked them.”

  “Maybe. I’ll think about it.” She raps her fingernails against the counter. “Oh, and I’m sorry about earlier,” she says. “With Hugh.”

  I try not to look as nervous as I feel. “You don’t need to apologize.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. He’s the one who acted like an ass. But I feel like I need to apologize on his behalf.”

  “Really, there’s nothing to be sorry about.”

  “Whatever. It’s over.” She sighs. “Anyway, given his behavior tonight, I cannot believe I’m even asking you this, but I was wondering. . . Next weekend we’re hosting a dinner party in Nottingham for a bunch of people in his constituency—the local treasurer, some other random officers—and I could use your help.”

  “Okay. Sure. Sort of like tonight?”

  “No. Not at all, actually. These people, they’re much more . . . well, Hugh would say ‘down to earth,’ but I’d say unsophisticated. You should see some of the haircuts—unreal. But there’s a general election next year, so he needs to rub elbows with all of the local people and make a good impression.” She rolls her eyes. “Politics.”

  “I could draw up a simple menu—a roast, something very traditional and English.”

  “That would be perfect,” she says. “Oh, but here’s the hitch: it needs to seem as if I cooked it.”

  “Oh.” I hesitate. “Okay . . .”

  “I know. It’s ridiculous. But Hugh doesn’t want to seem like the guy who married a movie star and lost touch with the common folk. Never mind that he did marry a movie star, but whatever. It’s what I signed up for when we got married.”

  I try not to dwell too much on her reference to their marriage, even though I have a vast array of questions.

  “I could make a bunch of dishes that you could bring up with you and just reheat in the oven,” I say.

  “How would we transport them?”

  “I could put the food in some hotel pans. And for last-minute things, like Yorkshire puddings or whatever, I could send a list of instructions.”

  “No. That won’t work.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t eat the way those people eat. I’ve never made Yorkshire puddings or bread sauce or whatever the hell they cook for their Sunday lunches. The last thing Hugh needs is for me to ruin dinner for the major players in his constituency. No, I think it would be better if you came with me—sort of played the woman behind the curtain.”

  “But would Hugh—sorry, Mr. Ballantine—be okay with that?”

  “It was his idea, actually. Given how successful tonight’s dinner was, he was all, ‘Oooh, we should bring Kelly along next weekend. ’”

  My head feels light. “He said that?”

  “Believe me, I’m as surprised as you are. We can talk through the details next week, but count on coming up with Sunil next Saturday. Hugh and I will go separately on Friday.”

  Shit. Saturday. I’m supposed to see Harry on Saturday. I can’t cancel on him a third time. He’ll never speak to me again. May
be we could meet for a nightcap after the dinner in Nottingham. It isn’t ideal, but it’s better than bailing.

  “What time will I be able to leave after the dinner?”

  “Sunil will take you back with me on Sunday.”

  I hesitate. “On Sunday?”

  “It’ll be too late to drive back to London by the time everything wraps up. And just because I’m playing housewife doesn’t mean I plan to clean all of those dishes myself.”

  Or, if I had to guess, at all.

  I’m about to ask if I can slip out early, but she cuts me off by slapping the counter.

  “Good. It’s settled then.” She makes like she is about to leave the room, then stops herself. “You know what? Let’s not include those apricots in the cookbook. They weren’t that good.”

  Her hips shake from side to side as she glides out of the room, and I have to muster every ounce of self-control not to call after her, I bet your husband disagrees.

  CHAPTER 26

  Fact: Those apricot canapés were delicious.

  Part of me wonders if the reason Natasha doesn’t think they were “that good” is because everyone else did, including Hugh. It often seems the more Hugh likes something I’ve made, the less she does. Some days I wonder how they manage to fake a marriage at all. She seems to regard him with such disdain. Why bother?

  The next day, before I draw up a menu for Nottingham, I call Harry. My stomach churns as the phone rings, my mind running through various iterations of the same apology: “I’m sorry. I’m the worst.” Aside from the fact that canceling yet again makes me feel like a horrible person, the incident with Hugh has definitely dampened my interest in Harry. I wish I wanted him as much as I do Hugh, but lately Hugh is occupying precious real estate in my heart and mind, and I’m having trouble making room for anyone else.

  The phone rings and rings, and finally it goes to voice mail.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Harry Swift. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you soon. Cheers.”

  “Harry—hi, it’s Kelly. You’re going to kill me.”

  I leave a message explaining Natasha’s unexpected catering request, apologizing profusely for breaking my promise. At this point, he probably thinks I’m making up all of these excuses, when really, if I didn’t want to see him, I’d just come out and say so. But he doesn’t know that, so I try to sound as sincere as possible without over-egging my apology.

  “Anyway,” I say, “I’d still like to meet up some time, so give me a call when you get this, and we can set a date.”

  I know there’s a very high probability I’ll never hear from him again, but I hope I do, at least to know I haven’t hurt his feelings.

  Once I’ve left a message, I move on to next weekend’s menu. I’m not very familiar with traditional English cuisine, so I scan the Internet for ideas I can present to Natasha tomorrow. I really should present them to Hugh, since he is English and Natasha is not, but that would involve a one-on-one encounter, and I don’t want to think about where that could lead. Or rather, I think about it often, and it fills me alternately with lust and fear. And anyway, if Natasha is going to cook these dishes with me and pretend they’re her handiwork, she should have some say in what we make.

  As I compare a few different recipes for rhubarb crumble, Meg’s name appears on my computer screen as she calls for a video chat. We haven’t spoken in two weeks—not since Natasha offered and revoked the trip to Paris, and not since The Incident with Hugh. If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve been avoiding Meg because I don’t want to tell her about The Incident, and I know I won’t be able to lie if we speak. But I miss her—I miss having a friend—so I answer her call.

  “Oh my God, finally,” she says, throwing her head back dramatically. “It’s been two weeks. I’m dying.”

  “There isn’t much to report.”

  “Lies. I’ve been stalking Natasha online. I saw somewhere that she was spotted in Paris—looking fabulous, of course.”

  “Yeah, she went again. She was supposed to take me, actually, but she left me behind.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she keeps changing her mind about what recipes she wants in the book, and I need to keep us on track to meet our deadline.”

  “That sucks.”

  “A lot. Especially since I’ve always wanted to go to Paris.”

  “You’ll get there someday. In the meantime, how is Mr. Hotty-pants?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone who goes by that name.”

  “Last we talked, you knew two people who might go by that name. Let’s start with the famous older one. How is he? Still setting your lady parts ablaze?”

  “Meg, stop.”

  “No, I will not stop. I spent last week reporting on white-nose syndrome in Michigan bats, and then I went on a date with an accountant who smelled like onions. I need some juicy gossip. Come on—help a sister out.”

  “Why did he smell like onions?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know. He still lives with his mother. It was a mistake.”

  “Are we talking raw onions, or caramelized onions?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Kind of. If the answer is caramelized onions, maybe his mom was cooking something, and the smell kind of . . . stuck.”

  “That doesn’t change the fact that he is thirty-one and still living with his mother. The man is an accountant. He has means.”

  “Maybe he isn’t very successful. . . .”

  “Oh, good, that’s what I need: an unsuccessful accountant who still lives with his mother and smells like onions. Someone call Father Francis and set a date at the church.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pour salt on the wound.”

  She waves me off. “It’s fine—as long as you give me a full and unabridged update.”

  “Unabridged? Okay, well, after we talked two weeks ago, I did a load of laundry, which I hung on my drying rack because I don’t have a dryer. Then I tidied up the apartment and—”

  “Okay, okay—abridged. Abridged. For the sake of all things holy, abridged. Just give me the high points. Did you see Foxy Ballantine?”

  I swat a fly off my table. “I did.”

  Meg rubs her hands together. “That’s what I’m talking about. Details, please—where, when, yada yada.”

  “Well, I saw him a few times while Natasha was in Paris. . . .”

  “You saw him? How? Where?”

  “In the house, mostly.”

  “Mostly? What does that mean? Were you alone? Tell me you were alone.”

  “Yes, we were alone.”

  “Where?” She lowers her voice. “Was it in the bedroom?”

  “No—jeez. What kind of person do you think I am?” My cheeks flush. “It wasn’t like that at all. I just . . . ran into him.”

  “With your vagina?”

  “MEG!”

  “Sorry. But I know you, Kelly Madigan. You’re equivocating.”

  “I’m not!”

  Meg raises an eyebrow and says nothing.

  “Okay, fine. I saw him as I was leaving on Monday night. Then on Tuesday, I ran into him on the way to the tube, and he invited me back to the house for some wine and cheese.”

  “Oh my God. You had a date. You had a date with Natasha Spencer’s husband.”

  “It wasn’t a date! It was wine and bread and cheese.”

  “And sex?” Meg asks, smirking. When I don’t answer, her smile fades. “No. Shut up. No. Oh my God. No. Shut up. Holy Jesus. I can’t breathe.”

  “No—it wasn’t . . . I mean . . . Meg, calm down.”

  She gasps for air. “Oh my God. Oh my God. This is . . . oh my God.” She fans herself with her hand. “I can’t. I just . . . oh my God.”

  “Stop—you’re going to pass out if you carry on like that.”

  She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, letting the air out in a slow, steady stream. “Okay. I’m calm. Now. Walk me through this. What happened?”

  “
Well, things sort of... progressed. . . .”

  Meg starts to get riled up again, but presses her hand against her chest. “Okay . . . And how, exactly, did they progress? Be specific.”

  I contemplate glazing over the details, but before I can even attempt to do so, the entire story comes pouring out, every aspect of it, from the moment I ran into him on Glenloch Road to the encounter in the kitchen last night. On some level it feels good to lay everything out in the open, like a confession. That was one of my favorite parts of church growing up, when I still actually went to church. I remember going to confession in second grade and pouring out everything, even things I hadn’t done (“. . . and I ate too much chocolate . . . and then I coveted my neighbor’s wife . . . and also his goods . . .”). It just felt so good to unload, to share my sins and then expunge them with a few Hail Marys. If only adult life were that simple.

  When I’ve finished telling Meg everything, including the planned dinner next weekend in Nottingham, she sits in silence, staring back at me through the screen. She nods slowly, her lips pressed together. Given her earlier behavior, I expected her to respond with fits of squealing, but now that the fantasy she hinted at has become real, her excitement has cooled.

  “Right,” she finally says. “Well.”

  I rest my head in my hands. “It’s awful. I know; it’s awful. And the worst part is . . . I still have to be around him. If I could avoid him, I could pretend like none of this ever happened.”

  “And what good would that do? It did happen.”

  “But I wish it hadn’t.”

  “Really? Deep in your heart, do you really wish none of it had happened?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “No, you wish it had happened under different circumstances,” she says. “I know you. I can see the look in your eyes, even through a computer screen. You like this guy. You really like this guy. You just wish he weren’t married.”

  “But he is married, so it doesn’t matter what I wish, does it?”

  “It isn’t a real marriage, though. You’ve said so yourself.”

  “So? The rest of the world doesn’t know that.”