Too Many Cooks

by Dana Bate

  “Are you saying Larry hasn’t paid you yet?”

  “There have been some issues with setting up the direct deposit.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he says. “You’ve been here two months.”

  “I know. But I’m the only one who seems at all concerned. Larry’s assistant treats me like a massive headache—as if I’m the cause of these problems and not the recipient.”

  “Typical.”

  “Maybe you could say something to Natasha . . . ?”

  “That won’t help. Larry deals with all of her financials, and when it comes to money she’s totally clueless. She’ll pay two thousand pounds for a doorstop and then wonder why people have trouble relating to her.”

  “She paid two thousand pounds for a doorstop?”

  He gives me a sideways glance. “Yes. Apparently it was handmade.”

  “Out of gold?”

  “Concrete. She also paid to have it engraved with her initials.”

  “No. Stop.”

  “I know. It’s absurd. Apparently she couldn’t use a rubber door wedge like the rest of us. Or, heaven forbid, a large stone.”

  “Wow.” I glance up at him as we walk toward the market exit. “Does she use cashmere toilet paper?”

  “Ha! Not yet. Though whenever she goes to LA, she comes back with a new fetish. Last time it was some ‘biological terrain analysis’ nonsense.”

  “Biological what?”

  “You don’t want to know. Trust me.”

  As we wind our way past a stand selling sheep’s milk cheese, I spot a man with a camera around his neck at the end of the aisle. I can’t say for sure, but he reminds me of one of the men I’ve seen outside Natasha’s house. He lifts the camera and adjusts the focus, pointing the lens at Hugh and me.

  I tug delicately on Hugh’s sleeve. “I think that man just took a photo of us.”

  He looks over his shoulder. “Who?”

  “Him.”

  I point down the aisle, but a throng of tourists blocks our view, and by the time they’re out of the way, the man has gone.

  “He was right there,” I say. “Right in front of the olive oil stand.”

  “Probably just a tourist taking photos of the market.”

  “But he looked like one of the paparazzi I’ve seen in front of your house.”

  “Really?” He cranes his neck to see if he can catch a glimpse. Then he shrugs. “I didn’t see anyone. You must have imagined it.”

  I search the crowd one last time. “I guess so,” I say, even though I’m positive I didn’t.

  A little more than thirty minutes later, we emerge from the Belsize Park tube station and head back to the house.

  “What time are you leaving for Nottingham?”

  “Around three or four.” He looks at his watch. “You’re welcome to come with me, if you like.”

  My heart leaps, but I quickly decline the invitation. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “Maybe not.” I feel his eyes on me. “But it would be fun.”

  “Fun or not, how would you explain my presence to your Nottingham friends? Not to mention Sunil and Olga.”

  “There’s a summer festival going on this weekend. I could be showing you a slice of English culture.”

  “Will they be burning effigies?”

  “No . . . why?”

  “I’m kidding. Today is our Independence Day. I figured you don’t exactly have the same perspective on the holiday over here.”

  “Ah, right—the Fourth of July. Then you really must come with me. You can gloat as you tuck into your clotted cream fudge.”

  I come to an abrupt halt. “Clotted cream fudge?”

  “And clotted cream ice cream, if memory serves.”

  “A weekend with you I could turn down. But a weekend with clotted cream . . . now that’s intriguing.”

  “So I’ve been outranked by fudge now?”

  “Oh, you’ve always been outranked by fudge. Everyone is outranked by fudge. And clotted cream fudge . . . well, I can only imagine.”

  He chuckles as he opens the front gate. “So what do you say? Will you join me?”

  I play out the scenario in my head. “I want to. Like, a lot. But I just don’t think it’s a smart move.”

  “You don’t have to come for the whole weekend. You could take the train up tomorrow and leave whenever you like.” His hand grazes mine. “It’s up to you, but I’d love it if you came.”

  The words rattle around my head. I’d love it if you came. That isn’t the same as wanting me to come, though, is it? He didn’t say, I want you to come to Nottingham or I need you to come to Nottingham. On the other hand, he didn’t say, It would be nice if you came or, as a guy once said to me in college before I met Sam, I’ll be in my room around eleven, so if you want to come by maybe text me and I might be there. Compared to that last one, Hugh’s invitation is basically a marriage proposal.

  As I parse every word of Hugh’s offer, he moves closer, as if he is about to kiss me, when the front door rattles. He pulls away, and seconds later it opens with a snap.

  “Ah, Olga—hello,” Hugh says. He clears his throat. “Kelly and I are just getting back from a little tour of Borough Market.”

  Olga’s eyes flit between the two of us. “Yes. I see her note.”

  “It’s unreal—I can’t believe I hadn’t been.” I grip my shopping bags tight to keep my hands from shaking. “I even managed to find some hot peppers.”

  She glances at my bags. “I have little luck, too. On Edgware Road. Come. I show you.”

  We follow her into the house, but as Olga heads downstairs, Hugh grabs my arm and pulls me back.

  “So will you come?” he whispers.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

  He looks over my shoulder to make sure Olga is no longer in view, and then he leans down and kisses me, rubbing his thumb along my cheek. “I’ll leave it up to you, but for what it’s worth, I really, really want you to join me.”

  He gives me another quick kiss and then disappears into the living room, and I tread carefully down the stairs, dizzy as a drunk.

  CHAPTER 35

  I shouldn’t go. Definitely, definitely not.

  I should stay in London and work on the tacos and the kale burger. I should do laundry and call my father and do all sorts of other chores, alone, in my apartment.

  But I don’t want to do any of those things. I want to take the train up to Nottingham and spend Saturday afternoon with Hugh. I want to eat clotted cream fudge and see where he grew up and lie with him in his bed as he tells me more about his years at Cambridge. I want to hear more about his hopes and dreams, about his vision for Britain and for the world, about all of the things that make him tick. And I want to kiss him, and for him to kiss me back, and to pretend Natasha doesn’t exist.

  Which is why, even though I know I shouldn’t, I show up at St. Pancras station Saturday morning and board a train for Nottingham.

  Hugh left the address in a drawer in the downstairs bathroom, along with his mobile number and sixty pounds to cover the journey there and back. If it weren’t for the fact that we recently discussed my cash problem and Larry’s incompetence, I’d feel icky taking his money—like some sort of kept woman. But I do have a cash problem, and Larry is incompetent, so I accept the free ticket, even though I still have doubts about going at all.

  The train arrives in Nottingham just before noon, and I take a taxi from the station to Hugh’s house, soaking up the bustle of the city as we make our way out of the center of town. About twenty minutes later, the taxi pulls onto Hugh’s crushed gravel driveway, where I find a white Volkswagen parked at the end.

  I pay the driver and sidle up to the front door, suddenly nervous I’ve made a huge mistake. But as soon as Hugh opens the door and I see his face, I’m glad I came, mistake or not.

  “You made it,” he says. “How was the journey?”

  “Fine.”

  “Gre
at.” He waves me inside. “Come in, relax for a bit. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Some water would be great.” I clasp the strap to my bag as I follow him down the hallway.

  He leads me into the kitchen and pours me a glass. He starts to pass it to me across the counter, but stops.

  “Before I give this to you, have you ever had an elderflower cordial?”

  “You mean like a cocktail with St. Germain?”

  “No, no—this is a nonalcoholic drink. Like an Italian soda, flavored with elderflower syrup.”

  “Then no, definitely not.”

  “Would you like to try it? I think you’d like it. It’s a very English thing to drink in the summer. That, and Pimm’s. But it’s a bit early for Pimm’s.”

  “It’s after noon. . . .”

  He holds up his hands defensively. “If you’d like a Pimm’s Cup, I’m happy to make one.”

  “No, elderflower cordial sounds great. I’d love to try it.”

  He grabs a bottle of sparkling water from the refrigerator, along with a bottle of elderflower syrup, and mixes them together in two highball glasses, one of which he hands to me.

  “Cheers,” he says, clinking his glass against mine.

  I take a sip, and the fizzy drink tickles my tongue with its delicate floral flavor. “Yum,” I say, going for another sip. “Very refreshing.”

  “I thought you might like it.”

  I glance down the hallway. “Is Olga here?”

  “No, she stayed in London. I told her I can manage on my own for the weekend.”

  “And Sunil?”

  “In London as well.”

  “Then how did you get here?”

  “I drove. Believe it or not, I do know how.”

  “So . . . it’s just the two of us?”

  “Indeed.” He sets his glass on the counter and makes his way over to where I’m standing, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Just the two of us.”

  He leans in and kisses me, but instead of relaxing into his arms, I stiffen. He pulls away.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing. I’m just . . . nervous, I guess.”

  “Why? We’re the only ones here.”

  “I know. . . .”

  “Is it something I’ve done?”

  “No, no—of course not.”

  He looks down at his outfit and sniffs his shirt. “Do I smell or something?”

  I laugh and stand on my toes and kiss him. “No, you do not smell.”

  “Then why are you nervous?”

  “Well, first of all, I’ve thought about having you all to myself for a long time, and now that I do . . .”

  “. . . you’re worried you’ll discover I’m not that interesting after all.”

  “The opposite, actually—that you’ll discover I’m not that interesting.”

  He kisses my forehead. “Rest assured, if anyone will fail to meet expectations, it will be me. It’s sort of my speciality.”

  “Yeah, shadow minister at forty, possibly future prime minister . . . I’d say you’re really slacking.”

  He squeezes me. “Always ready with a witty retort . . .”

  I breathe in the scent of his skin, which smells like the sea. “But that isn’t the only reason I’m nervous,” I say before I can stop myself.

  He pulls away again. “Oh, dear. I do smell, don’t I?”

  “No—I mean, you smell, but you smell great. You smell . . .” I take a deep breath. “Perfect.”

  “Well, thank you. But then why are you nervous?”

  Because we’re here alone? Because Natasha doesn’t know? Because I’m falling in love with you, and I have no idea if you feel the same way about me?

  “Because we’re crossing a line,” I say.

  “I . . . think we already have.”

  “But this weekend . . . I came out here. By myself. I took the train. You paid for it. Before, everything we did was circumstantial—one thing led to another; there was drinking involved. But now . . . Now we’re actively breaking the rules. We’re trying.”

  “I understand.” He hesitates, and then he adds, “And I agree.”

  Part of me hoped he’d counter my argument, that he’d somehow convince both of us this weekend was no different from any of the other times. But it is different, and we both know it.

  “Maybe I should go back to London,” I say.

  “No—please.” He grabs my hands. “Stay.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, ‘why’? Because you’re beautiful and brilliant, and I can’t stop thinking about you. Because I love being with you. Because you’re a total breath of fresh air.”

  “But what about Natasha? She’s your wife. And my boss.”

  “She won’t be your boss forever, or my wife.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He sighs. “I’ve been planning to talk to Natasha when she returns next week. I can’t keep doing this. She may be able to keep up a sham marriage while sleeping with someone else on the side, but I can’t. I’m sick of this. I’m sick of pretending.”

  “Listen, I don’t want to be responsible for a messy divorce. . . .”

  “You aren’t responsible. I mean, yes, meeting you has certainly been a catalyst, but only in the sense that you’ve motivated me to do what I should have done a long time ago.”

  “But shouldn’t we press pause until you’ve actually separated? Or at least until you’ve spoken to Natasha?”

  “I don’t want to wait. I’m crazy about you, Kelly. Being with you, I suddenly feel like me again—the way I felt when I played cricket, the way I felt the first time I heard live music. I don’t want that to stop, not even for a few days.” He clasps my hands tightly in his. “Please stay. I want you to stay.”

  I drink up his words and fall into him, my body melting against his chest.

  “Okay,” I say, “I’ll stay,” as if I’ve made a choice, even though I’d already made up my mind before I even stepped on the train.

  CHAPTER 36

  The inevitable occurs: on the kitchen floor, a location steamier in theory than in practice, given the cold and uneven nature of the terra-cotta tiles. With Sam, I always fantasized about having sex in some unconventional place—in the woods or a public bathroom or on a beach somewhere—but he was always too uptight and traditional for that kind of thing, so we never did. “There’s a reason beds were invented,” he’d always say, or, “You do realize sand is an abrasive, right?” But with Hugh, for better or worse, there is no discussion or deliberation. It’s all hot, steamy passion, which—given the circumstances—has its downsides.

  As I lie on Hugh’s chest, breathless as he rubs his thumb up and down my arm, his phone rings on the counter. He sits up and reaches for it, then groans. “My father,” he says. He presses Ignore. “I’ll call him back later.”

  “Is he still having trouble pooping?”

  “No, he’s moved on to an ingrown toenail. Which, again, I have no qualifications to treat.”

  “He still lives around here?”

  “He does. I had dinner with him and my mum last night. I’ll pop round again tomorrow, although if he tries to show me his toe, I might leave.”

  “How is your mom doing?”

  He tosses the phone onto the counter and sits next to me, leaning against the cupboards. “Good. The best I’ve seen her in a while, actually. She’s got serious about her gardening. I think that’s helped. It’s a good distraction. What about your dad?”

  “I haven’t talked to him in a while. If I had to guess, he’s probably been taken prisoner by my mom’s nemesis.”

  Hugh laughs. “What?”

  “Long story. Growing up, there was this woman who kind of turned into my mom’s rival, and now she’s sleeping in my old bedroom while she ‘helps’ my dad with odds and ends around the house.”

  “And your mother wouldn’t like this, I gather.”

  “She’d hate it. She left me this list of dying wishes,
and right at the top was ‘Keep Irene O’Malley away from your father.’ ”

  He rubs his chin. “I know a few people from school who are in MI6 now. I’m sure I could arrange something.”

  “Thanks. I’ll let you know. For now, my brother is coming up with a plan. Assuming he can get his lazy ass off the couch for long enough . . .”

  “Is your brother older or younger?”

  “Younger. In every way.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Sounds like my brother.”

  “Has yours finished college?”

  “He’s thirty-seven, so yes, thank Christ. It certainly took him long enough, though. He sort of faffed about for a decade, trying his hand at a bunch of businesses that never amounted to anything. But a few years ago he met Cleona, and she finally seems to have set him straight.”

  “I wish my brother would meet a Cleona.”

  “She’s great. You might even meet her today—she’ll probably be at the fair. Speaking of which . . .” He looks at the clock. “We have forty-five minutes before it starts, but I wanted to show you something first, if you don’t mind.”

  “Does it involve clotted cream?”

  He smiles. “No. But it’s still good—I promise.”

  We pull ourselves together, and then I follow Hugh out the front door and toward the white Volkswagen in his driveway. He opens the passenger door for me, and within seconds we are zooming out of his driveway and back toward the center of town. He drives quickly down the main roads and then crosses a bridge over the River Trent, zipping past a strip of shops until we approach a tall Victorian building made of red brick. A sign hangs just above the ground floor windows: TRENT BRIDGE INN.

  I eye him warily. “Are you taking me to a cricket match?”

  “Not a match, no. But I wanted to show you the grounds.”

  He pulls around a curve in the road, taking us past the inn, and drives beside a white metal fence until he reaches a short driveway. He turns in and stops when he reaches a locked gate. A security guard approaches the car, and Hugh rolls down his window.

  “Hello, Charlie,” Hugh says.

  “Ah, Mr. Ballantine. One of our favorite members. Here to see Mr. Hutchley about the upcoming fund-raiser?”

  “Not today, I’m afraid. Just wanted to have a look around.”