Too Many Cooks

by Dana Bate

  “And apparently obsessed with green balloons.”

  “Ha, yes. He does fixate on things. But he’s a laugh. I adore him.”

  “Do you see him much?”

  “Not as often as I’d like. But enough. He calls me Uncle Hughie.”

  “Sorry I kept you from seeing him tonight. You should have gone.”

  He runs his thumb along my arm. “I’ll see them another time. Tonight I wanted to be with you. And hopefully in the not too distant future they’ll all meet you. I know Freddie would love you. Henry, too.”

  “I don’t know. I’m no Natasha.”

  He kisses my shoulder. “Exactly.”

  He pulls me close, and I nuzzle into him, and then I close my eyes and pretend that when I wake up tomorrow, I won’t have to pack my bag and return to London and go back to being a nobody.

  CHAPTER 37

  When I get back to my flat the next morning, I grab my laptop and sink into my couch, scanning through my e-mails, which, uncharacteristically, I haven’t checked since Friday night. There is one from Meg, begging and pleading with me to talk to her later this afternoon, and, buried in the mass e-mails from the New York Times and Serious Eats, another e-mail from my brother from yesterday morning.

  Subject: mouse

  i found some real dead mice so i think i’ll use those

  instead of oreo’s toys, like in the bed or maybe

  under irenes pillow. what do u think?

  I write back immediately.

  Subject: Re: mouse

  Stevie. No. NO, NO, NO. That is MY old bed, in

  case you forgot, and when I get back from England

  I will probably be sleeping in it again. I do not

  want real dead mice in my bed. I repeat: NO

  DEAD MICE IN MY BED.

  I am tempted to call him immediately to underscore my opposition to this plan, but I realize it’s not quite noon here, which means it is barely 7 a.m. in Ypsilanti. There is no way he’s awake. He probably went to bed an hour ago.

  Instead, I bide my time by cleaning my apartment, doing laundry, and running through the recipes I will test next week, along with the lessons I will give Natasha so that she is prepared for the Vogue interview. When I open my laptop three hours later to see if Stevie has replied, I discover he has not. Meg, however, is apparently up and ready to talk because within thirty seconds of my being online, her name pops up on my screen for a video chat.

  “Are you stalking me or something?” I say as I accept her call.

  “What choice do I have? We haven’t talked in two weeks. You haven’t replied to any of my e-mails. I was getting ready to send out a search party.”

  It’s true that I haven’t written or talked to Meg in a while, mostly because I’m not sure what to tell her. The events of the past couple of weeks will, quite possibly, give her a heart attack, and saying everything out loud makes these developments seem even more surreal and ill-advised than they do in my head.

  “I’ve been busy. We’re hurtling toward our deadline, and I have to prepare Natasha for a Vogue interview, and she’s never around.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “LA. And last weekend, she was off on another quick jaunt to Paris.”

  “I assume Foxy Ballantine didn’t join her.”

  “No. She didn’t need him. And anyway, he has work to do.”

  “In your pants?”

  “Meg!”

  “Let’s dispense with the pleasantries, shall we, and get down to business: What’s going on with you and Foxy B?”

  I tread carefully. “We’ve . . . spent more time together.”

  “Time? Where? When?”

  I tell her about the dinner in Nottingham and my second visit this weekend.

  “So, wait, are you guys like an item now?” she asks.

  “An ‘item’? Who says that?”

  “I do.”

  “Apparently . . .”

  She glares at me through the screen. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “I don’t know. I guess we are.”

  “But he’s still married, right?”

  “Technically, but apparently he’s planning to talk to Natasha this week about separating.”

  Meg raises her eyebrows. “He’s leaving her for you?”

  “No. I mean, he isn’t leaving her for me. I’m more like the catalyst, I guess.”

  Meg goes quiet for a few seconds. She doesn’t seem nearly as excited as I expected.

  “What?” I say.

  “This all just seems really . . . fast.”

  “Faster than it seemed before?”

  “No, but before it was all crazy and circumstantial. Now that he’s actually planning to leave her . . . I don’t know. Shit’s getting real.”

  “True. But he’s miserable. Their marriage is a sham. And we’re crazy about each other.”

  “Of course you are. You just lost your mom and longtime boyfriend, and he’s getting laid for probably the first time in years. You’re in the sex-crazed honeymoon period.”

  “Yeah, but . . . there’s more to it than that.”

  “Even if there is, you’ve only been banging each other for a matter of weeks. What happens once they separate? What happens when there’s no more sneaking around? Are you going to be part of a media circus? And what are you going to do, professionally speaking? I doubt Natasha will keep you as her ghostwriter if you’re screwing her husband. Or ex-husband. Or ex-husband-to-be.”

  “They’re not in love.”

  “So? Movie stars are obsessed with their public images. Do you really think she’ll want it to get out that her husband slept with her ghostwriter? After what happened with Matthew Rush?”

  “But that was different. She was head over heels for him. Natasha and Hugh—it’s all business. She’s even seeing some guy on the side—Jacques something-or-other.”

  “Your average Joe doesn’t know that. If I had to guess, the last thing Natasha wants is for people to think she got dumped again. She’d probably do whatever she could to prevent that from happening—including ruining your career. She knows a lot of people.”

  “A lot? Try everyone.”

  “Exactly. And my guess is she could destroy you if she wanted to.”

  My breath shortens. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? Natasha could end my career. Easily. All it would take is a few phone calls to the right people, and she could single-handedly flush my reputation down the drain. Even if she is a narcissistic bitch, she is the kind of narcissistic bitch any moderately successful chef would want on his or her side. One offhanded comment in an interview about how “Restaurant X” is her favorite place to grab a bite, and suddenly that chef’s restaurant and profile have skyrocketed overnight. She makes them more famous by association. They need her. They don’t need me.

  “You’re right,” I say, my heart racing. “Oh my God, you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right.”

  I massage my temples, suddenly feeling very, very stressed. “What should I do? Should I tell Hugh not to leave her?”

  “I am totally unqualified to answer that question. I’m just trying to get you to think of this outside of the lovesick bubble you’re in. I’m not saying you have to choose between love and your career, but . . . well, yeah, you might have to choose between love and your career. Or at least consider the impact your decisions might have on both.”

  I weigh the options: giving up the man I can’t stop thinking about, or throwing away a career I love. I don’t like either. Why can’t I have both? Why does it have to be one or the other?

  “Maybe I could talk to Natasha myself.”

  Meg cackles. “Yeah, because she sounds like such an understanding person.”

  “I just . . . I love my job, you know?”

  “I do. And you’re good at it. I wasn’t kidding when I said I’d be interested in a column about your food adventures in England. You write so well, and your recipes always come out per
fectly. I guess you have to decide how important all that is to you.”

  I stare at the screen, wishing a decision would leap forth and illuminate a path forward, but all I see is Meg’s cherubic face and glossy curls. Figuring all of this out will take time, and I don’t have much.

  Meg takes a sip of water as various scenarios play out in my mind. “Anyway,” she says, “on a different note, I ran into your brother yesterday. He . . . asked if I had any dead mice he could borrow . . . ?”

  She raises an eyebrow, and as she does, I realize that if I had to choose a moment when I suddenly didn’t recognize my life anymore, this conversation, in all of its soul-crushing absurdity, would probably be it.

  The more I reflect on my conversation with Meg, the more nauseous I feel. Natasha really does know everyone. Everyone. Artists and chefs, politicians and princes, directors and Fortune 500 CEOs. She has drinks with Oliver Stone and dinner with Joël Robuchon and managed to eat at El Bulli twice before it closed. Throughout this affair with Hugh, I have worried about what our dalliance could mean for him and his career, but apparently I haven’t spent enough time worrying about what it could mean for mine. Natasha could not only trash my reputation with other chefs; she could also make sure no one hires me again.

  That being the case, my goals for this week are as follows:

  • Get on Natasha’s good side: have at least four recipes for her to taste on Tuesday, compliment her skin, ask if she’s lost weight.

  • Talk to Hugh: arrange time for one-on-one conversation; figure out if I want him to talk to Natasha about divorce or not; figure out what, exactly, we are doing.

  • Implement plan discussed with Hugh.

  • Prevent Stevie from infesting house with live or dead rodents.

  My ability to achieve those goals becomes increasingly tricky the farther down the list I go, particularly when it comes to controlling my brother and his potentially calamitous schemes. By Tuesday morning, I still haven’t heard from him, and I think there’s about an 80 percent chance my childhood bed is currently filled with dead vermin.

  Churning out four new recipes, however, is something I can do. While I wait for Natasha to return from LA, I perfect the recipe for shrimp tacos with the ingredients I procured from Borough Market. After that, I develop a recipe for a brown rice salad with roasted cauliflower and sweet potatoes. I also muster the fortitude to give the kale burger another try, even though a very large part of me thinks we should throw in the towel and forego including the recipe at all.

  When Natasha finally returns Tuesday afternoon, she blows into the kitchen looking tanned and firm, like a mannequin brought to life by an evil sorceress.

  “God, I miss LA already,” she says as she sweeps past me on her way to the refrigerator. She doesn’t speak to me so much as she speaks to the room, as if she were addressing an audience.

  “Good trip?”

  She pokes her head out from behind the refrigerator door and stares at me, as if she is noticing me for the first time. “Perfect, actually. The weather was amazing. Unlike this place.”

  “The weather was actually really nice while you were gone. Warm and sunny most of the time.”

  She closes the fridge door. “Whoop-de-doo. Five days of nice weather. In LA it’s nice every day.”

  Then maybe you should move back there.

  “Your skin looks great,” I say, remembering my earlier plan. “You look like you got some sun.”

  She glances down at her arms. “This? Oh, this is fake. A friend recommended a new bronzing guru, so I gave him a try. I never tan. After everything that happened with my mom, the last thing I need is skin cancer.”

  “Trust me, I understand. I burn if you wave a flashlight at me. I’m not a tanner.”

  “I can see why. You’re really pasty.” She studies my face. “Although your cheeks look a little pink. Must have been all that London ‘sun’ while I was away.”

  I think back to the carnival in Nottingham and the sting in my cheeks as the sun beat down all afternoon.

  “Like I said, I burn really easily,” I say.

  “You should be careful. You’re a perfect candidate for skin cancer.”

  I take a deep breath, noting that the first time Natasha has called me “perfect” in any context is one in which I contract a life-threatening disease.

  “I wear sunscreen,” I say. “At least most of the time.”

  “Most isn’t enough. Seriously, you should wear it every day. What is your morning skin regimen?”

  “I don’t really have a ‘regimen,’ per se. I just . . . blot my face dry after my shower and put on some moisturizer with SPF.”

  She stares at me blankly. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “No antioxidant serum? No face oil? No eye cream?”

  “Nope.”

  “And what SPF?”

  “I don’t know. Fifteen, I think? Maybe eight?”

  She shakes her head. “I can’t believe this. Okay, first of all, you should be using at least SPF 30. But you should also definitely be using a serum and an eye cream. You’re what? Thirty-three?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “See? Your regimen is aging you already. I’ll have my facialist recommend some products for you. Talk to Poppy. She’ll liaise.”

  “Okay, thanks . . .” I appreciate her sudden interest in helping me with . . . well, anything, but now I’m wondering if I really do look five years older and, if so, why no one told me until now.

  She takes a sip of purple juice. “Anyway, where do we stand with the recipes?”

  “We’re in great shape. I’ve done the shrimp tacos, Paleo bread, rice salad, and another kale burger. There is some leftover Paleo bread in the fridge, along with some of the rice salad, which I made this morning.”

  She reopens the refrigerator and pulls out one of the half loaves of Paleo bread wrapped in foil.

  “That’s the one with sour cherries,” I say.

  “Sour cherries? That wasn’t on my list of ingredients.”

  “I know, but I decided to make a variation. We don’t have to include it in the book if you don’t want. I just thought it might be a fun addition.”

  She unwraps the foil, slices off a thin sliver, and takes a bite. “Fine. It’s good. Let’s include it.” She wraps up the loaf, returns it to the refrigerator, and pulls out the bowl of rice salad. “What is this?”

  “The brown rice salad. With roasted cauliflower and sweet potatoes.” She looks at me dumbly. “Based on one of your last meals in LA before you moved?”

  “Oh, right.” She glances down at the bowl. “What’s the green stuff?”

  “Arugula.”

  “The salad in LA didn’t use arugula.”

  “I know, but after testing it a few different ways, I really think the arugula adds something. Try it. I think you’ll like it.”

  She grabs a fork and digs a small portion out of the bowl. She takes a bite, chewing with the strange rhythm I have come to expect, and once she has swallowed she scrunches her lips to the side.

  “It’s good,” she says. “But it still needs something.”

  “Like . . . ?”

  “I don’t know. Something sweet. Or a spice. Maybe a sweet spice.”

  “You mean like cinnamon?”

  Her eyes widen, and she bangs her hand on the counter. “Yes. Cinnamon. Exactly.”

  “Easily done. I’ll work on that tomorrow morning, and we can arrange a tasting for tomorrow afternoon. I’ll remake the tacos and kale burgers, too. Or we can do those on Thursday. Your call.”

  “Oh, no. We can’t do a tasting Thursday. I’m doing the Vogue interview that day.”

  I start. “What?”

  “The Vogue interview.” She waves her fork in the air. “The one we’ve discussed a billion times?”

  “You said that wasn’t happening until the fifteenth.”

  “No, I said it would happen mid-month.”

  “Thursday is t
he tenth.”

  She sighs, clearly exasperated. “So it’s five days early. Whatever. It’s not like you’re the one doing the interview.”

  “I know, but we were supposed to cook together, to get you ready.”

  “So? We’ll cook together tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, but that’s only one day.”

  She sets her fork on the counter. “You’re saying I need more than a day? To make a dish I’ve been making for years?”

  “And sweet potato fries . . .”

  “They’re sweet potato fries. How hard can they be? It’s not like I’m trying to make a fucking croquembouche. One day is plenty of time.”

  “Okay, if you’re sure . . .”

  “I am.” She grabs her juice off the counter. “Oh, and I’d like to have some of those kale burgers ready in the refrigerator for me to throw on the indoor grill.”

  Oh, dear God, the freaking kale burgers again.

  “I really think you’re better off sticking with the Cornish hens and the sweet potato fries,” I say. “Two recipes is plenty.”

  She smiles coolly. “Good thing I don’t really care what you think, then, isn’t it?”

  She takes another sip of her drink, screws on the cap, and leaves the kitchen without saying another word.

  CHAPTER 38

  As usual, the next morning Natasha shows up late, strolling into the kitchen forty minutes after our agreed-upon meeting time of 10:00 a.m. She wears a pair of distressed jeans and a gray V-neck T-shirt, her hair tied into a low ponytail.

  She approaches the opposite side of the kitchen island. “Where do we start?”

  No apology for keeping me waiting, no explanation for her tardiness. In other words: the usual.

  “First, we peel the sweet potatoes,” I say. I push two red-skinned sweet potatoes across the counter.

  She reaches tentatively for them. “Okay. But tomorrow, have them peeled before he arrives. It’ll make everything go a lot quicker.”

  “Sure.”

  “And the stuffing for the Cornish hens—have the bread cubed and ready to go, too.”

  “No problem.”

  “I can take care of the rest,” she says. “Aside from the kale burgers.”