Skinny Bitch in Love

by Kim Barnouin

  “Not sure,” I said. “She seems to feel guilty enough. But get her husband in possible deep shit? I don’t know.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get on it. Wow, Clem. Recipe theft. I guess this means you’ve really arrived.”

  Whoo-hoo.

  I had the weirdest dreams that night. Eva trying to stab me with a fork. Alexander saying “I thought we were friends.” And Zach throwing hundred-dollar bills at me. I woke up Sunday morning feeling like total crap. But I had to get the hell out of bed. I had a zillion orders to fulfill by seven thirty. Because people—including me—liked to hang in coffee shops with the Times and pastries, Sundays were my busiest days.

  Which meant I was too busy to think about any of it—Eva backstabbing me, Alexander hating me, Zach being . . . Zach. I got out of bed and took a long, hot shower, flung my hair into a bun, and hit the kitchen, turning on ABBA as loud as I could for five thirty in the morning, which meant I could barely hear “Fernando” and “Dancing Queen.”

  And then, as always, it happened. The feel of flour, the scent of vanilla, the taste of chocolate on my fingers—it all combined to take me away, make me forget everything. Baking for me was as good as meditating or doing hot yoga. And in a couple of hours I had six dozen cupcakes—cherry almond, chocolate raspberry, and vanilla chai—four dozen tropical fruit scones, and seven dozen cookies. I’d make my deliveries, then come back and test my blackened seitan fajitas; I had a cooking demonstration and tasting for the chef at Surf in the afternoon.

  I left Sara a scone and even made her a pot of coffee, then went to make my deliveries. The manager at Runyon’s flirted with me, as always, and the grumpy owner of Delia’s barely cracked a smile, also as always. I had no idea what she was always so grumpy about, considering she owned an always-packed coffee shop. She hadn’t even smiled as she was telling me my gluten-free cookies were the best she ever had.

  Deliveries made, I headed in the direction of my space for Clementine’s No Crap Café. I was so close to making it mine. The bank should be calling me in a few days to tell me I got the loan, and then I could rip down the FOR LEASE sign. I couldn’t wait to do that. I couldn’t wait to stand in front of that storefront and know the place was mine. Open the door with my key instead of pressing my face against the glass and imagining what I’d do if it were mine.

  It would be mine.

  Maybe I’ll finally call the Realtor listing the space and make an appointment to tour it, I thought as I approached the door, getting out my phone to key in the Realtor’s number.

  Except there was a new sign up on my space.

  LAST CHANCE FOR BIDS FRIDAY, AUGUST 15TH!

  Friday, August 15th, was seven days away. The loan would come through, and I’d make the deadline. I punched in the Realtor’s number and told her I was interested in the space.

  “Well, the owner of the building has two offers and will be making final decisions on the 15th. What’s your intended use of the space?”

  “A vegan restaurant. Ten, maybe twelve tables. A few tables out back.”

  “Well, you’d be up against a bar, a knitting store, and a coffee shop. Once you see the space, if you’re sold on it you’ll need to make an offer by the 15th.”

  I was sold on it and made an appointment to see it the next morning.

  I already knew it was perfect. All I needed was that loan from Ms. Pritchard to come through.

  That night I went to Zach’s. All I wanted was a strong drink, some good food that didn’t involve me going near an oven, and hours of amazing, mind-blowing, forget-everything sex. But when I saw Zach, I was reminded of what Jolie had said about the French heartbreaker. What Zach had said about not being able to trust anyone. Maybe he was pining away for her.

  “You don’t look like someone who’s the new It Girl,” Zach said.

  He handed me a glass of white wine and I took a sip. Then I updated him on everything: about the recipes, about Alexander, about Eva, about finding a new space and the deadline. “And something else has been on my mind. What Jolie said . . . ”

  He glanced away. “Not talking about Jolie. Talking about Jolie gets me into trouble.”

  “Okay, let’s talk about you then. And Vivienne.”

  “So if the loan doesn’t come through,” he said, totally ignoring what had just come out of my mouth, “you’ll just save up and find another space.” He put his arm around me as he sat down next to me on a love seat.

  I inched away from him. “Why wouldn’t it come through?”

  “You said you don’t have a lot in the bank. And you don’t own any property. You’re a tough sell.”

  “That doesn’t mean I won’t get the loan. All the publicity from the Times article, all my new business, all the business I have lined up. I can’t lose this new space. If I can’t have the one some steakhouse with a huge dead deer sign went into on my corner, I want this new one.”

  “I want to show you something,” he said, taking my hand and leading me out the door, Charlie trailing on his leash behind him. “As a just in case—just in case the loan doesn’t come through—I want you to see there are a lot of other spaces that could work. I looked at everything when I was scouting for a location for The Silver Steer.”

  For the next two hours, as Charlie scampered along happily sniffing at everything, Zach took me on a walking tour of my own city, explaining restaurants and location and space to me in ways I’d never thought of before. I’d been inside restaurants for years, obviously, and deep in the kitchen, starting from nothing on prep and vegetables. But I had no idea how many hoops I’d have to jump through to open my own place. There were so many boring legal issues that he talked so much about that he started to sound like my sister. I’d long forgotten about Vivienne and how he dodged the question. Wasn’t my business anyway. Sort of. I’d bring it back up when and if the time was right.

  We passed by Prime and I noticed the blackboard that had listed my vegan dishes now noted the specials, all involving dead animals. Either Eva let her husband know he’d better take it down or my sister had gotten her claws in Ackerman.

  We ended up in front of The Silver Steer with its gorgeous arched stone entryway and red door. “Bastard,” I said, punching him in the arm. “This place is gorgeous. Nothing can top it.”

  “I thought that about a spot I lost out on,” he said. “Then I found this place. You’ll make your new place gorgeous, whether it’s the one you’re vying for or another one.”

  We kept walking, taking turns with Charlie’s leash, Zach telling me how each restaurant we passed was doing. The last two we walked by would last another six weeks tops, but three more were doing amazing business. He talked about word-of-mouth and publicity and great food and, of course, location. He showed me a space on Third Street but it would need a lot of work. And a place near his on the beach that I’d never be able to afford.

  We stopped in front of my dream space on Montana. “I was trying to show you that this isn’t the only option, but I ended up bumming you out, didn’t I?” he asked.

  “I’ve just got this place all set up in my mind, what kind of tables and where they’ll go, how the staff will dress.”

  “You’re on your way, Clem,” he said, pulling me close.

  “Get a room,” a familiar voice said and laughed.

  I turned around to find Jolie and Rufus walking toward us, holding hands.

  “Zach, don’t speak,” she said. “I apologize for being an ass the last time I saw you. But every time you open your mouth, you say something that pisses me off. So I’m going to talk to Clementine instead. I read the piece on you in the Times. How awesome is that?”

  I smiled. “Hey, Rufus,” I said. If the guy could speak, he didn’t now. He just nodded at me.

  “So, did Zach tell you that Rufus and I are getting married on the beach in September?”

  “Can I bring a date?” I asked, linking arms with Zach.

  “She’s not getting married,” Zach said. “She’s ei
ghteen. How is Rufus going to say ‘I do’ when he doesn’t even talk? Clearly, he only sings.”

  “I talk,” Rufus said, and we all turned to stare at him. The guy was drop-dead model beautiful and seemingly vacant, but Jolie was no idiot. If she loved the guy, there had to be more to him.

  “We’re on our way to a dinner party in our honor,” Jolie said. “Some people are actually excited for us.”

  I watched them head down Montana. “Maybe there is more to Rufus than it seems. Jolie’s a smart girl.”

  “No, there’s less,” Zach said as we headed back toward the beach. “And she’s not smart. Smart people don’t get married at eighteen. Smart people make their singing fiancés sign prenups so that millions in family trusts are protected. Smart people don’t throw their future away on some stupid one-in-a-million dream. You think she’ll make it as an actress? Please. She’s just another pretty girl in a town full of them.”

  Way to be supportive. “Zach, it’s her mistake to make.”

  “No, it’s all of ours. Everything she does affects me. Cleaning up her mess, handling it with my father—”

  “Jesus, Zach, so don’t. Let her make her mistakes. I’m trying to imagine if my father told me not to go to culinary school, that chefs were a dime a dozen or whatever that cliché is. That I should study teaching or something.”

  “Clem, how much money do you have in the bank? Five thousand bucks? Yeah, you’re the It Girl right now. You’ll rake it in for the next six months. But five more vegan chefs will come along on your publicity trail and you’ll be just another vegan chef. Someone else will have a better gimmick. And the money will dry up. Then what? This is why you’re a tough sell for the loan. Get it?”

  I stared at him. “Did you say gimmick? Being a vegan chef is a gimmick?”

  “Clem, don’t pick at what I’m saying. I’m not sugarcoating the real world and finance and how things work.”

  “So you’re an expert and everyone else is an idiot.”

  “Did I say that? I’m just realistic.”

  “You sound more like someone who doesn’t think I’m going to make it.”

  He sighed. “I’m just saying that—”

  “Yeah, I know what you’re saying. And here’s what I’m saying: Bye.”

  I turned and walked away fast, my heart beating like crazy. Why did every beautiful night with Zach always seem to end like this?

  Chapter 20

  I was perfecting my Cha-Cha Chili for an audition at the very popular, very expensive Lola’s Bar & Grill when Sara came home.

  “God, what’s smells so amazing?” She came over and poked her face in the pan. “Mmm, what’s that?”

  “It’s going to be my kick-ass chili,” I said, adding a pinch of cayenne pepper. “The beans are cooking after soaking overnight, so I’m working on the onions and spices, sautéing in coconut oil. Wanna cut up some bell peppers for me?”

  Sara bit her lip and eyed me, which was Sara speak for “I have something to tell you but I’m scared to.”

  Shit. Something was up. She’d hooked up with Duncan again? Lost the part of Attractive Friend? No way. Had to be something else.

  She grabbed the green and red peppers and a knife—the right one, I was pleased to see as her teacher—and got to chopping.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  “Yup. You?”

  If I talked, she’d talk. “Everything’s up in the air. Including Zach. And if I don’t get that loan, I’ll lose that great spot on Montana near the tattoo place.”

  She added the diced peppers into the pan, and then I got her on the tomatoes. “What’s up with Zach?”

  “He morphed into asshole businessman.” I stirred the veggies and told her what he’d said about the publicity starting a trail of wannabes, how I’d lose my supposed It Girl status in a month.

  “No one wants a wannabe. Everyone wants the real thing. The original. That’s you.”

  “But what Eva said, about restaurants getting the idea to create vegan menus from the Times article, that could happen. Is happening. It’s not like they have to hire me for that. They can type ‘vegan recipes’ into Google and—bam—get ten decent ones on the spot.”

  “Yeah, but you’re Clementine Cooper, famed vegan chef.” She sniffed the pan. “I want to devour this.”

  “You will, promise.” I wanted to keep her talking, to find out what was wrong, but I also had a zillion cookies to bake. And a birthday cake. And a personal chef client at two o’clock. A married couple who wanted to know more about “this vegan thing.”

  She bit her lip again. “I have really good news,” she said, a huge grin on her face. “I got called back for an audition—and not a commercial.”

  So why did she look so nervous? “Awesome! For what?”

  “A real role. A recurring character. A snarky nurse who makes under-the-breath comments at the nurses’ station. It’s for a pilot for an hour-long hospital show. They loved me!”

  “No one can play snarky better than you. So great, Sara.”

  “And there’s one more thing you might want to know. But I’m scared to tell you what.”

  That kind of scared me in itself. Sara wasn’t scared of anything. “Why?”

  “Because . . . it’s white, rectangular, and has the return address of your bank on it.” She took the envelope out of her bag. “I know how much you want this, Clem.” She handed it to me.

  Not very weighty. Good sign? Bad sign?

  “So you don’t think I’m getting the loan either?” I asked.

  “Of course, I think you’re getting it. But if you don’t, it’ll suck.”

  I stared at the envelope. Tried to read through it. Tapped it against the counter.

  “Okay, open it,” Sara said. “You got the loan. I know it.”

  I slid open the envelope and pulled out the piece of paper.

  “It starts with ‘Congratulations, you have been approved!’ ” Shit, yeah!

  “Celebrating all around,” Sara said. “Afternoon mimosas.” She grabbed the bottle of champagne left over from her party and the OJ.

  “Oh,” I said, scanning the rest of the letter. Forget about mimosas.

  “What?” she asked.

  “This says I’ve been approved for a loan of fifteen hundred bucks. What am I supposed to do with fifteen hundred dollars?” I grabbed my cell phone and called the loan officer, Ms. Pritchard.

  “Fifteen hundred dollars will cover paint,” I told Ms. Pritchard. “I need to buy tables and chairs. Equipment. Dishes. Good pans. Insurance.” I needed ten times the amount she’d given me.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Cooper, but your current net worth simply isn’t enough to justify a larger loan. Perhaps six months from now, when your net worth is significantly higher per your business plan, we can revisit.”

  Shit.

  I couldn’t get a decent loan, but at least my phone never stopped ringing. While I was elbows-deep in batter and frosting, I received constant orders for Skinny Bitch Bakes. Three more personal chef clients, including a “celeb”—who’d actually introduced herself that way—wanting to learn more about becoming vegan. One speaking gig. Maybe I could make another ten, twenty grand in a week so I’d have enough in my account to make the landlord of the Montana space pick me over the bar or knitting or coffee places.

  Right.

  I almost let the last call go to voice mail so that I could get the cupcakes in the oven before the batter got all cementy, but I grabbed it at the last minute.

  And good thing, too.

  It was a producer for Eat Me, an obnoxious cooking show on cable, hosted by a gross slob of a “chef” named Joe “Steak” Johannsen. I was being invited to appear on Eat Me’s live cook-off Thursday night. Apparently, the chef booked for this week had canceled and left them hanging, and the producer had me on her radar from seeing the Times article. Johannsen did special live cook-off episodes to prove that no one made better Man Food than he did. He wanted to prove to America that
he, Joe “Steak” Johannsen, could make a better Eggplant Parmesan than “that Skinny Bitch, vegan chef Clementine Coooper.”

  “He wanted me to be sure to mention that he’s not even sure you could lift an eggplant,” the producer said. “ ‘No meat makes Clementine a wimpy girl,’ he said.”

  “Wait, what?” I asked. What the hell?

  “You know Joe ‘Steak’ Johannsen!” she said, as if I did. “He’s raring to go on this challenge. No matter who wins the cook-off, the charity of his choice gets $25,000. You win, you get the $25,000.”

  Was I interested, she wanted to know.

  Fuck, yeah.

  For the next ten minutes she gave me the lowdown and said she’d email all kinds of forms I had to print out and sign and send back. The deal was this: I would randomly select ten names from the audience and the producer would select nine names. Those nineteen would vote on which Eggplant Parmesan they thought was better.

  If I could make twenty slobs who ate nothing but red meat think my Eggplant Parmesan was better than Johannsen’s, the money was mine. All the money I’d need to get Clementine’s No Crap Café on its way next week.

  Ha. I’d been making Eggplant Parmesan since I was eight. I’d perfected my vegan cheese. No one made better tomato sauce than I did. And I knew how to select the best eggplant for the job. How to infuse it with flavor that would blow Joe’s cheese-slathered, overcooked slab away.

  “You can bring an assistant to help you,” the producer went on. “Only one person, eighteen or older. Oh, and make sure your assistant is kind of mouthy.”

  “Mouthy?” I repeated.

  “Have you ever seen the show?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Watch one today,” she said. “You can see full episodes online. Make sure you can handle it. Then call me back no later than 1 p.m.”

  Handle it? What was to handle? I could take on some gross slob any day.

  Mouthy. Sara was mouthy. And she’d been my assistant during the entire cooking class and knew her way around chopping and slicing and watching timers. But she wasn’t trained, not like, say, Alexander was. Then again, Alexander wasn’t talking to me. And no one would call him mouthy. But I needed a trained chef to assist me. Someone who wouldn’t miss a step, a beat, mistake oregano for dried thyme. I needed Alexander. I could teach him how to be “mouthy.” I could load him up with all kinds of American expressions that he wouldn’t know were snarky.