Skinny Bitch in Love

by Kim Barnouin

  My own place. It was so close to happening. The real estate agent swore me to secrecy but said I had a ninety-nine percent chance of winning out over the other three applicants: a bar—too noisy too late; a coffee bar—which would compete with the landlord’s cousin’s place up the street; and a knitting shop, which he was afraid would go out of business and leave him hanging to go through this whole process again. She couldn’t promise anything and said fourteen times I shouldn’t pin my hopes on it because you never knew.

  No kidding.

  Still, it was so close I could taste the Cha-Cha Chili. My Double-Dip Fondue. The Spicy Sushi Rolls.

  I could see Zach’s Mercedes parked in front of The Silver Steer halfway up the block. He was leaning on the other side of it. At just the sight of him, it hit me: I fucking love you, too.

  It was there, loud as Jesse’s tuba concert, clanging away, but it felt stuffed down, like it was smushed inside the tuba and stuck there.

  The Silver Steer. Somehow, the place didn’t stab me in the gut like it did every time I looked out the window or passed it on the street. The space was still drop-dead gorgeous with its perfect corner location and the stone archway and red door. The apartment building next to it, which I looked out at all day long while I cooked and baked, was the same as usual. From here, I could even see the woman who sometimes walked around naked in her bedroom on the second floor, though she was dressed now and watering her plants. The elderly couple who sat at their round kitchen table by the window every morning having coffee were sitting there having dinner. The fattest cat I’d ever seen was at the usual second-floor window, staring out. But now that I almost had my own little place, Zach’s restaurant didn’t make me want to scream. I glanced up at the sign, expecting to barely be bothered.

  But the sign was gone.

  And underneath where it used to be stood Zach, watching me.

  “The deed deer head is gone,” I said. “You took down the sign because it makes me sick?” He really did love me.

  “Actually, that’s not why I took it down. The city wouldn’t let me enlarge the kitchen out the back, so I can’t make this space work for The Silver Steer. It’s just too small. But I own the building as an investment and this space is mine to do with what I want. And I want to lease it to you.”

  I stared at him. “What?”

  “Clementine’s No Crap Café will open right here.” He handed me a sheaf of papers. “Your lease.”

  In some kind of daze, I scanned the document. My name. The space, leased to me for one year. A monthly amount I could now handle—for about four months, tops, anyway. It had to be a big loss to him. And he was clearly planning on financing me once my money ran out.

  “And this, too,” he said, handing me a check.

  It was blank, signed by him. In the memo space, it said: reasonable.

  “For renovations and equipment, whatever you need. The twenty-five thousand you won from Eat Me is nice, but won’t get you very far.”

  I just stood there, kind of stunned. I stared at the lease, at the check, at the curved stone entranceway that I loved so much.

  “Interesting,” he said. “Not exactly the response I expected. Twice now.”

  “Zach, this is incredible of you. But I can’t accept this.” I held out the lease.

  He mock rolled his eyes and wouldn’t take it. “Yes, you can.”

  “It’s seriously generous of you, Zach. Too generous. But this isn’t how I do things. I don’t have things bought for me. I thought I made that clear.”

  “Crystal,” he said. “But I’m trying to show you that I do believe in you.”

  I took his hand and held on to it. “And I appreciate that. But I’ll make it on my own. I don’t need the Jeffries’ millions to fairy godmother me my restaurant. I want this space. Yes. But I can’t afford it. I can afford the space I put an application in for.”

  He stared at me. “Clem, I know you’re stubborn. I know it. But you’re doing it again. Cutting off your nose to spite your face. That other place is a starter joint. This is a restaurant.”

  “I love that ‘starter joint.’ If I get to this place one day, Zach, it’ll be because I earned it myself.”

  “Maybe you’re just scared to get what you really want,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “In fact, I’d say that’s exactly what’s holding you back from a couple of things.”

  “I’m not scared of anything.”

  “You’re scared shitless of me. And you’re scared shitless of your dream coming true. I know this because I’m handing you both and you’re saying no.”

  I was making my dream come true. Why didn’t he get that?

  “Well then, you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” I said and felt something squeeze in the center of my chest.

  “Maybe I don’t,” he said and walked away.

  “What’s the point in having a zillionaire boyfriend if you can’t capitalize on the big bucks?” Ty asked the next morning as he walked me part of the way to my personal chef client, a mom who was paying me double for an emergency rush session on how to make kid-friendly meals for her five-year-old, newly diagnosed with a dairy allergy.

  “So I should just let him be my sugar daddy? That’s gross.”

  “I’m kidding. Of course, you shouldn’t. But cut the guy a break. Like I said, he’s a zillionaire. They throw money around. And I talked to him myself for a while after the Johannsen show. He seems totally sincere to me. Not what I expected at all, actually. And damn, he’s good-looking.”

  “I know what you mean. On all counts. But still, Ty. Come on. How are we going to have a relationship?”

  He kissed the top of my head. “You’ll figure it out.”

  We got to the corner of Third, so Ty went left to Chill, and I went right and then down near the beach to a gorgeous condo with a doorman.

  The client, a woman named Tara who looked kind of Real Housewife-ish with a ton of makeup and gobs of long, highlighted hair and a cool shirt I wanted, air-kissed me, then led me upstairs to the main floor of the duplex. A baby grand piano had its own room.

  Tara introduced me to five-year-old Caroline who grabbed my hand and yanked me to see her bedroom, Princess Central. I’d never seen so much pink and taffeta. Or wanted to.

  Once we were in the kitchen, Tara told me all about Caroline’s digestive issues in great detail, which almost made me barf all over Tara’s marble counters.

  “No ring?” she asked me, eyeing my left hand. “Surprised. You’re very attractive. And thin. My husband is a plastic surgeon if you want some advice on your eyes or a boob job.”

  Please. “My eyes? I’m twenty-six.”

  “I’m twenty-seven and got my eyes done for the first time at twenty-five. If you do little things gradually, no one will realize you’ve had work done at all. That’s the secret. I just gave you my husband’s twenty-five-hundred-dollar consultation for free.”

  She was twenty-seven? Whoa. She looked ten years older. “Are you an actress?” I asked, figuring she was in the business if she’d shot her face full of crap already.

  “I could have been, but then Caroline came along and honestly, being married to one of the premier plastic surgeons in L.A. is a job itself.”

  I liked money but did not want to be this woman. Not that I would be this woman even if I did let Zach hand me gifts like major real estate on prime Santa Monica corner locations. But the more she talked, the more I knew I couldn’t, wouldn’t take Zach’s offer. First of all, it wasn’t even an offer; he’d just done it, Zach style—created a lease and filled in the details. Wrote me a check. It wasn’t my style. Never would be.

  For an hour and a half, I showed Tara how to make all Caroline’s cheese-focused favorites, from mac and cheese to grilled cheese to pizza, using my favorite vegan cheeses that she could find in most grocery stores. When I left, I was seven hundred and fifty dollars richer for my time. Not bad.

  I was back on the street, about to call Sara to s
ee if she wanted to meet for a drink or go to a movie, when I heard someone call out, “Clem! Clementine!”

  I stopped and glanced around. Across the street, Jolie Jeffries was waving at me and trying to cross in the middle of the street without getting killed.

  “Hey,” she said. “I have to show you my dress! I just bought it two seconds ago. Right around the corner. Pleeeease! I’m dying to show someone and you’re right here. Pleeease.”

  I smiled at her. “Lead the way.”

  She led the way to a shop I never even noticed before. How, I had no idea, since it was huge. Weddings by Araminta. I’d heard of Araminta—she was always on TV, making some celeb or royal’s gown, and she had a shop in New York City, too.

  Inside was very lush and pale and satiny. Jolie spoke to the receptionist who disappeared and returned with a dress that was in a plastic bag with huge tags on it and all kinds of writing. She hung it on a high hook, and Jolie lifted the plastic.

  “Isn’t it gorgeous?” she asked, staring at it all moony-eyed.

  “It really is,” I said. And it was. I wasn’t into wedding dresses, but this one was more like vintage meets 1940s movie star. “It’ll look amazing on you.”

  I couldn’t help but notice the price tag. A small fortune.

  “Zach has really gotten your father to accept your plans, I see,” I said.

  “My father told me I’m an idiot to get married so young and will regret it and that he’s not paying one penny to see me ruin my life.”

  “So you’re spending a few months’ rent on a wedding dress?”

  “Zach’s taking care of it,” she said. “The whole wedding, even though he also thinks it’s a huge mistake. It’ll be just family and good friends, on the beach, dinner out somewhere amazing afterward. Nothing big. But Zach’s paying for everything—the dress, photographer, dinner, even Rufus’s tux.”

  Huh. It had to kill him to pay for the wedding he didn’t want to happen. “Well, he may have his opinion, but I guess he really wants you to be happy.”

  “He might think it’s dumb for me to get married at eighteen, but he knows me. I’ve had two boyfriends in my life. The first I dated from age twelve to fourteen. The other from fifteen to now. Rufus is it for me and I think Zach knows that. He believes it, even if he says it’s a mistake.”

  “I get that. He’s a realist and an idealist at the same time.” Maybe the best kind of balance there was.

  And maybe I knew Zach better than I thought I did.

  Jolie nodded. “Luckily for me, financing happiness is his thing. He loves money but he gives away a ton of it. He has all kinds of scholarships set up for inner-city high school students and families living in shelters, stuff like that. My dad hates how generous Zach is.”

  I laughed. “He is pretty generous.”

  “Yeah, so much so that I finally told him that, of course, Rufus will sign a prenup. I love the guy, but I’m not an idiot—no matter what my family thinks of my getting married at eighteen. I just wanted to make Zach sweat a little.”

  I know exactly what you mean.

  She glanced at her watch. “I’d better go. Rufus’s parents are flying in to try to talk us out of the wedding. If my father couldn’t hack it, no one can.”

  “Ha. Have fun.”

  She stuck out her tongue and rolled her eyes, then stared at her beautiful dress before the clerk covered it back up and took it away.

  “Tell Zach I said thank you again,” she said as we headed outside. “He really is a great guy,” she added before rushing off.

  What he mostly was: complicated.

  Now what?

  Chapter 23

  On Saturday morning I made my crack-of-dawn deliveries for Skinny Bitch Bakes, then did sunrise yoga and went for a long walk on the beach. I recognized the yellow Lab coming toward me before I realized Ben Frasier was two feet away from me.

  “Hey, Clem,” he said, throwing a ball for the dog to chase. “Never thought I’d see you out and about before noon.”

  He was the same gorgeous Ben, tall and tanned with all that sun-streaked dirty blond hair. But something was different: me. There wasn’t a clench. Or a pang. Not a single memory flitted through my mind. I was standing inches away from the guy I’d thought was un-toppable, and I didn’t feel a thing.

  “A lot has changed,” I said, amazed at how true it was. The Lab came bounding up, ball in mouth, and I couldn’t even remember his name. I gave the dog a rub on the chin and noticed his tags. Gus—that’s right. I smiled and told Ben Frasier I had to go, to have a great day, as though he were any old someone I used to know.

  Damn, that felt good.

  On the way back, I thought I saw Alexander walking his dogs up ahead, but when I got closer I saw it was a much older guy with one little and one big dog, just like Brit and Lizzie. I’d given up on trying to make Alexander stop hating me. But when I got home and checked my email, the usual twenty-plus for all things Skinny Bitch, one request jumped out at me as a way to do a final something, a “gesture,” as Alexander would call it, and then let it go once and for all.

  I had an email from the principal of Taft Middle School. He’d read the article about me in the Times and was inviting me to hold a special assembly for the students and teachers on whole foods and making good choices about healthful eating. The PTA would pay me an honorarium, not that I’d take it. I’d pull a Zach Jeffries and tell the school to keep it, replace a dinged-up trumpet or something.

  Taft Middle School was where Jesse, the kid Alexander mentored, went. Where Alexander spent most of his time at events and classroom celebrations and bad concerts. I’d gotten a lot of these types of invitations when the Times article came out, and I’d declined each one, since there was no way I could give up so much time during the day anymore. But this felt like somehow doing Alexander a favor, even if he wouldn’t know about it.

  I’d do it and move on.

  Text from Zach: Whatever’s going on or not going on between us, the lease and check stand. You don’t even know if you’re going to get that other space. If you want to wait and then decide, fine. Z

  I texted back: My answer is still no, whether I get it or not. Not sure what that means for us. C

  It was Your World Day with my sister for our monthly lunch, which meant I was sitting in the small, beige cafeteria at her law firm on Tuesday afternoon, eating lukewarm grapes and bruised melon. She showed me the sworn statements from Eva’s husband, stating that Prime would not use or capitalize on the stolen recipes in any manner and that I was to be financially compensated for all orders of my dishes on the two nights my stuff had been on the menu. That was thanks to Eva’s help and documented proof—apparently she often recorded her phone conversations with her husband so she could throw his words back in his face any time she needed to.

  “That woman cries a lot,” Elizabeth said, taking off her suit jacket, which was beige like the walls. “She had mascara streaks down her face every time she came here.”

  “I don’t know if she feels guilty about stabbing me in the back or if she’s just upset about her marriage. I couldn’t really get a handle on her. I hate that.”

  “I know. She reminds me of Carrie Winn from high school—remember her? Best friend one day, user the next. I had to completely cut her off. Some people are just toxic, even if a quarter of the time they mean well.”

  “Who knows what freaks I’ll have in my next class. I’ve already gotten ten emails from people who want in if I run another class.” At first Sara told me there was no way she’d take the class again, even though she was continuing on with the Skinny Bitch diet. But then she said she might sign on as my assistant if there was a cute guy or two, even if the last cute guy she’d met in my cooking class turned out to be an ass.

  Elizabeth grabbed one of my grapes. “I know you hate when I get all proud of you, but suck it up, Clem. I’m proud of you. You got fired and look what you did—started your own business. First as a personal chef, then adding cooking c
lasses, then Skinny Bitch Bakes, then creating vegan menus for my favorite restaurants. You’re so in demand you’ve got top restaurants stealing from you. And you beat that creep Johannsen.”

  Once again, I had to face facts that my uptight lawyer sister, in her beige suit and boring shoes, absolutely rocked. “And Friday I find out if I’m opening my restaurant on Montana.”

  “I’ll be your first customer,” she said.

  I was trying to remember not to let out any fucks or shits or even damns during my presentation at Taft Middle School on Wednesday when I saw Alexander walk into the cafeteria and lean against the back wall.

  Shit, yeah!

  I almost said that aloud.

  He nodded at me, then sat down. A good sign.

  At first I thought I’d run out of stuff to say to the tough crowd of bored-looking tweens, but they were all staring at me as though they were actually interested, not shooting spitballs or pulling bra straps. I talked about growing up on a farm, how we made dinner with what we’d harvested, and how most of the foods kids loved to stuff their faces with came right out of the ground or off trees, how they were all about whole foods, and didn’t have to come from boxes or a freezer.

  “Not pizza,” a boy called out.

  “Actually, yes, pizza,” I said, explaining where wheat for the dough came from. Where tomatoes for the sauce came from. Where cheese—whether dairy or soy—came from. Where all the good toppings came from.

  During the rest of the Q&A, the tweens stood up and asked lots of good questions, like whether it was true if you could drop dead if you didn’t wash an apple before eating it. I kept my rant on pesticides and other shitty chemicals to under thirty seconds. But I could have gone on forever.

  Then it was time to make the huge vats of chili that would be served for lunch that day.

  “I’m Chef Cooper’s assistant for the morning,” Alexander said, standing up and walking over to the table. He smiled at me and put on an apron. “Jesse showed me the flyer that went home to parents about your presentation and special lunch,” he whispered. “Pretty cool, Clem. Even if it’s more for me than them,” he added, nodding at the crowd.