by JoAnn Ross
After all, there was a morality clause written into the twenty-six page contract. At the time she’d signed it, Madeline had assumed it referred to her behavior. But maybe any scandal would void the terms.
But would that really be such a bad thing?
In an attempt to bring in some much-needed additional income during the downturn of the economy, she’d started a part-time catering business. A chance meeting with a producer at a baby shower luncheon she’d prepared had led to a booking on Today.
Which, in turn, had led to a call from a vice president at the Cooking Network, who, after seeing Madeline cooking dolmades and pastitsio for Kathy Lee Gifford and Hoda Kotb, invited her to cook for a panel of network executives. Declaring her a natural, to her amazement, the executives offered her own show, Comfort Cooking.
She’d been inclined to turn down the offer. But, as Maxime, who’d always derided TV chefs in the past for prostituting their talent for the masses, had pointed out, it wasn’t as if they could just pass up the money.
“Do you have any idea what it costs to open a five-star restaurant on the Vegas strip?” he asked. “One that can compete with Bobby Flay, Tom Colicchio, Wolfgang Puck, and Emeril?”
Which was how she had ended up on television.
And within six months had a second show, Dinner at Home, featuring quick and easy meals for busy families.
Forgoing anything resembling a normal life, she’d also published a cookbook, had a second in the publishing pipeline, and, on the advice of her newly acquired agent, had inked a deal with the company that made the cookware she used on her shows, which required yet more traveling, such as her trip to Omaha.
All to feed the ravenous alligator that Maxime’s restaurant empire had become. After what he’d done, why should she care if the entire thing collapsed around him?
As it was, the career she’d looked forward to her entire life was looking more and more out of reach. Her parents had cooked for a living, true. But their goal, along with putting food on their own table, was to share their meals with others.
But now there were times when Madeline was forced to consider that professional cooking was becoming less about food and more about chef branding and ancillary marketing—pots, pans, spice rubs, television shows, books, even designer chef–labeled baby food.
More and more she felt as if she were running on a treadmill, or, to mix metaphors, the tail had begun wagging the dog.
Perhaps, before she confronted Maxime, she could give serious thought to her options. All of them.
6
Anyone just walking down the street might not even have known the Temple Bar existed, which Madeline had always thought was part of its charm and was what kept it from being packed with the Sex and the City crowd, who was more interested in seeing and being seen. The only eye-catching thing about the exterior was the white petroglyph-type lizard on the blue stone wall.
But the moment she entered the gorgeous deco room decorated in a 1950s-style dark mahogany, she felt her nerves, which had been tangled even before the video debacle, begin to loosen.
She passed the sweeping L-shaped bar and marble and mirrored walls to a comfortable lounge in the back, where Pepper was already waiting with an oversized dirty martini and a bowl of popcorn in front of her. Her lips curved in a welcoming smile, but even in the dim light, Madeline could view the concern in her agent’s eyes.
“I love this place,” Madeline said as she sat down at the table. The velvet drapes and backlighting added to the feel that the bar belonged to a different time. “I always expect to see Mad Men’s Don Draper drinking Manhattans.”
Another cheating spouse, she considered as she took a bite of the popcorn, which was laced with sweet swirls of fried yam and beet strips. At least the advertising exec was fictional.
“Or Frank Sinatra,” Pepper said as their server, a tall redhead looking chic in Armani black, appeared to take their order. Both women were the picture of Manhattan elegance, making Madeline feel even more travel rumpled.
“I’ll have the Black Crow.” The vodka and Kahlúa would hopefully prepare her for whatever possible bad news Pepper was about to share, while, with any luck, the Vietnamese coffee in the cocktail would overcome the jet lag mixed with depression that was threatening to crash down on her.
“We’ll also have an order of the salt-and-pepper calamari,” Pepper told the server.
“What’s up?” Madeline asked.
“Quite a bit, actually. But while we’re waiting for your drink and our food, why don’t you tell me about Omaha?”
“It was cold.” Madeline plucked another bite of popcorn from the bottomless bowl the bar specialized in. “Our car ran into a snowbank on the way to the department store, but the son of the woman who picked me up was a cop, so he got us on our way soon. And the store staff had everything set up and prepared.”
“Well, I’m pleased to hear that something went well.”
Although the bar was nearly empty, it took a while for their order to arrive. Despite being eager to hear Pepper’s news, Madeline chatted a bit more about her experience in Nebraska. Leaving out the humiliating part about everyone racing to YouTube during her demonstration.
A little silence came over the table after she’d finished her story. The server showed up, placed their order on the table, and discreetly faded away.
“Well?” Madeline asked after taking a sip of the drink that was sinfully good.
“You have an offer.”
“Good try, but you could have told me that over the phone. I’m not going to be distracted that easily. First things first. If you know something about Maxime, you need to tell me. If for no other reason than a friend wouldn’t send another friend into what might be the most important conversation of her life unarmed.”
“You’re right.” Pepper exhaled a long breath. Took a bite of the calamari. Madeline had never known her agent to be at a loss for words, as she seemed to be now.
“There’s never been anything specific,” she said finally. “I mean, not that I’ve heard, anyway, but you know how people talk.…”
“All too well.” Especially today.
“Well, the word is that he was a player all during his other marriages. And you know what they say about leopards changing their spots.”
“He’s French. He flirts.”
Even as she heard the excuse coming out of her mouth, she could hear Maxime’s voice. How many times had he used that very excuse during the early days of their relationship, when she’d been admittedly insecure about his familiarity with the women who flocked to his restaurant?
Unlike so many upscale restaurants in the city, Maxime’s had always been open during the noon hour.
“For all those ladies who lunch,” he’d claimed when he’d first come up with the idea. “They’re a valuable customer base too many chefs who refuse to lower themselves to serve food in the middle of the day are missing. Those rich socialites can’t all eat at Bergdorf Goodman or Barneys.”
At the time it had made sense. Now she wondered if he’d just been creating his own dating pool.
“Perhaps that’s all it was.” Pepper didn’t even try to keep the skepticism from her tone. “But he was certainly doing a great deal more than flirting in the video.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“Darling, everyone from Tulsa to Timbukutu has seen that video. Including, I suspect, Katrin Von Küenberg’s husband.”
Madeline recognized the name immediately. Forbes magazine had ranked her in the top twenty of the world’s wealthiest women. A frivolous, global-party-trotting heiress in her younger years, after her father’s death, she’d returned to Austria and taken the reins of her family’s international fortune.
Among the Von Küenbergs’ many holdings were factories that had provided tents and uniforms (and, rumors suggested, chemicals and munitions) to the German army in World War II and a brewing empire that had earned her nickname of Beer Baroness.
Madeline n
ot only knew of her, but she also knew her personally. Along with having been dinner guests at her Upper East Side penthouse, she and Maxime had also spent a rare vacation week at her sprawling lake house in Bavaria, and another week cruising the Mediterranean in a yacht larger than the Shelter Bay farmhouse where Madeline had spent so many of her formative years.
“What does Katrin have to do with the video?”
“You obviously weren’t looking all that closely.”
“There was a glare from the overhead lights in the store. It was hard to make out details.”
Which was only partly true. The fact was that her head had gone so light, she’d been afraid she might embarrass herself by fainting right there in store aisle. And, admittedly, practicing avoidance, she hadn’t looked at it again. And hoped she’d never have to.
Also, her attention had been so drawn to Maxime, she hadn’t paid any attention to whatever woman he was with. While suffering through that long plane flight, she’d decided it must be some Las Vegas call girl.
“You do know Katrin and her husband are involved in a nasty, take-no-prisoners divorce?”
“Of course. It’s been in all the papers.”
You couldn’t check out of a market without seeing the tabloid headlines screaming the latest, so-called update. They’d been to dinner just two months ago when Katrin had mentioned that her husband—an American novelist of obscure, experimental literature—was causing her problems. Two days later, she leaked photos of him dressed in a bra, panties, black fishnet stockings, and high heels to the National Enquirer.
“I knew that he’s challenging their prenup, but since when is adultery a valid reason to void a prenuptial agreement?”
“It’s not. At least it’s not typical.” Diamonds flashed as Pepper waved away that idea. “After all, everyone cheats.”
“I don’t.”
“Of course you don’t, darling,” the agent soothed expertly. “Apparently, he’s trying to break it by claiming that he wasn’t aware of the full extent of her fortune. Along with impaired judgment.”
“I can identify with that one,” Madeline muttered. Obviously her own judgment had been flawed when it came to her marriage. “How, exactly, was his judgment impaired?”
“He says he was high on cocaine when he signed it.”
“Well, that’s a novel excuse.”
“Isn’t it? I suspect he hired someone to make that horrid video to embarrass her.”
“I don’t know about Katrin, but it sure as hell has embarrassed me,” Madeline admitted.
“You’re the injured party. You should hold your head high. My guess is that if her husband can somehow prove that her and Maxime’s relationship goes back to before the marriage, he might be able to argue that she didn’t enter into the marriage in good faith.”
“I can’t believe this.” Madeline rubbed her temples where the mother of all migraines was threatening to strike. Bad enough that she was publicly humiliated. Now her marriage was going to be dragged into the divorce of the century?
“It’ll blow over,” Pepper assured her quickly. “Things like this always do. Meanwhile, looking at the bright side: Not only is any publicity good publicity, but you’re going to be perceived as the victim.”
“Just what I wanted.”
“Well, of course you don’t. But better the victim than the slut home wrecker, darling. And think how many women out there will identify with you.”
“I’d rather not.” Publicly Cheated-on Wives wasn’t exactly a club Madeline had ever imagined joining.
“Well, let’s get on to the good news,” her agent said.
“Let’s,” Madeline agreed. Anything to get off this topic.
“I received a call from a representative of OneWorld Airlines this morning. They want you to create a signature menu for their European flights.”
“You’re suggesting I cook airline meals?” Could this day get any worse?
“Well, you wouldn’t be the one actually cooking them. But, yes, I think it would be a very positive opportunity. After Lufthansa started offering chef-driven meals for business and first class, the idea’s proven hugely popular with flyers. Tommy Tang even inked a deal with Thai Airways.”
“He told me. Quite honestly, I was a little surprised.”
Madeline had run into the Godfather of Thai Cooking during a layover at LAX a few months ago, which was when he’d told her about the deal. Although their culinary styles couldn’t be any more different, his tiger prawns topped with mango salsa were high on the list of top ten dishes she’d want for her last meal.
“People who can afford to spring for first class pay attention to chef’s name on a menu when they get great food,” Pepper pointed out. “Especially when the airline’s spending big bucks to promote those meals. Which, in turn, builds name recognition and makes them more likely to frequent those chef’s restaurants.”
“Now you’re talking about synergy,” Madeline murmured. Which she’d been hearing as often as ancillary marketing these days.
“Exactly!” Either her agent didn’t notice Madeline’s decided lack of enthusiasm, or, more likely, merely chose to overlook it.
“Let me give it some thought. The timing isn’t exactly the best right now.”
“I totally understand.” Pepper nodded sympathetically. Then polished off the rest of the martini. “Go home; talk things out with Maxime. Why don’t I give you a call tomorrow afternoon?”
“So soon?” A betrayal as hurtful and public as what her husband had committed wasn’t as easily dispensed with as a scorched béchamel sauce or a broken shrimp platter.
“I know.” She reached across the small table and patted Madeline’s hand. “But the offer is time sensitive. Although you’re absolutely their first choice, they’re also considering Rachael Ray. Or Sandra Lee.” Her brow furrowed. Just a bit. “And, let’s face it, darling. Although your food is superb, their public profile is a bit higher than yours.”
How about a lot higher? And, since today’s department-store challenge, along with her encounter in the taxi line, the idea of adding yet more “synergy” to her already-filled plate had Madeline back to picturing tails and dogs again.
“I’ll call you,” she countered. Pepper wasn’t the only one at this table who could negotiate.
Although it obviously wasn’t the answer she was hoping for, Pepper’s red lips curved in a smile. “Wonderful.” She glanced down at Madeline’s glass. Which was, at this moment, closer to half-empty than half-full. Which, Madeline considered, could be taken as a metaphor for her life. “Would you like another?”
“I’d better not.”
Although the idea of getting wasted was even more appealing than it had been on the plane, she needed to be firm and clearheaded when she confronted her husband. Although she may be swinging between wanting to go straight to bed and sob copious tears into her pillow, or screeching and throwing a well-aimed cleaver between his legs, neither would help this situation she’d landed in.
7
It was raining. A cold, hard rain that pounded against the windows like a shower of stones and blurred the lights from the traffic below the apartment and the bridge crossing the river.
Maxime, who’d arrived back home before Madeline, had already lit a fire and opened a bottle of cabernet.
She’d practiced all the things she was going to say. Questions she was going to ask, demands she was going to make, all the time staying coolly, calmly in control. Being the injured party, she was determined to hold the high ground and not allow him to weaken her resolve by setting a romantic atmosphere.
Amazingly, proving how deeply their relationship had sunk into the morass of avoidance, she and her husband first exchanged a bit of chitchat about their flights. They compared her in-flight spaghetti salad to his Philly steak, and decided she’d gotten the better meal.
Then they went on to discuss the weather. The weather!
And, yes, even how many damn pots she’d sold in Omaha.
Finally, unable to avoid the huge, rotting elephant carcass in the room another moment, Madeline stopped her pacing, stared unseeingly out the window at the cars making their way across the bridge, and said, “I don’t understand.”
“I never meant to hurt you, Madeline,” he said with what sounded like sincerity. But then again, she’d believed him when he’d taken those marriage vows, which had included fidelity. “Although it’s no excuse for what happened, I had no idea we were being videotaped. It was Katrin’s bastard of a husband’s doing.”
“So the woman is Katrin Von Küenberg?” Despite the heat the crackling fire was sending out, Madeline was colder than she’d been in Nebraska.
“Oui.” She’d noticed over the years that whenever he wanted to convince her of something she really didn’t want to do, his French accent would thicken. “He’s a greedy bastard who’s after her money. He wants to break the prenuptial agreement and humiliate her while doing so.”
His voice was hard. And coldly furious.
How strange that he’d be more concerned about his lover’s feelings than those of his wife.
Strange and sad.
She turned around to face him. The anger in his voice was echoed in his deeply hooded eyes. She countered, “That may be. But unless he forced you both at gunpoint into that bed, I don’t see how he’s to blame for the situation.”
“Touché.” He tilted his glass toward her.
She didn’t know this man. Didn’t recognize him. Maxime Durand was known for never holding back his emotions. Arguments in his kitchens had ended up with him punching so many holes in the walls, he’d quit bothering to repair what his employees had taken to calling design features.
Her fingers tightened on the slender stem of her own glass. “Well.” She felt tears sting her eyes and resolutely blinked them away. “Aren’t we being ever so civilized?” Madeline was finding it difficult to work up the proper fury while feeling as if she’d been hollowed out with a dull melon baller. “Is this how your other marriages ended?”