Too Many Cooks (8 page)

“Okay . . . but . . . do you want me to give it to Mr. Ballantine? Or should I take it home?”

She takes a swig of juice and twists the cap back on the bottle. “You can sell it on the street for all I care. Just take it
away
.”

She starts to stomp out of the kitchen, but I call after her. “What about the Cornish hens?”

She pauses just shy of the doorway and whirls around. “What about them?”

“Aren't you going to taste them?”

Natasha's eyes flit toward the roasting pan sitting on the kitchen island. She shrugs. “I'm sure they're fine.”

Then she walks out.

“What the eff?” I mutter to myself, staring at the banana bread.

“I heard that,” she calls from the stairway.

“Sorry!” I shout, my face burning up. Oh, God. I'm a dead woman.

“I bet you are,” Natasha says, her voice echoing down the hall.

“Just get back to work. And whatever you do, get that
smell
out of my house.”

CHAPTER 9

Okay. So Natasha is kind of crazy.

Who freaks out over a loaf of banana bread? It's not as if I'd fried ten pounds of oily fish or smeared her kitchen in blue cheese. What happens when I sauté garlic or hard boil eggs? Should I expect a nervous breakdown? Will a potato gratin induce a psychotic episode?

With my first week in London already off to a rocky start, I spend the weekend getting to know my new neighborhood, hoping to find the silver lining to my temporary expatriation. I grab an almond croissant and tea from the café across the street, stroll through Regent's Park, pop into a few shops on Great Portland Street, and explore the restaurants and stores along Marylebone High Street. On Sunday, I discover a bustling farmers' market in a big parking lot tucked behind Marylebone High Street, where vendors sell everything from fresh milk and cheese to crusty loaves of bread and thick cuts of beef and lamb.

That afternoon, after buying a dozen fresh eggs and a loaf of seven-grain levain, I sit in front of my laptop for a video chat with Meg. She'd begged me to call her as soon as I'd met Natasha for the first time, but I was jetlagged and she was busy, so we decided to wait until the weekend. Knowing Meg, she has been sitting in front of her computer for at least thirty minutes, hoping I might log on early.

As expected, as soon as I power on my computer, Meg's name pops up, inviting me for a chat. When I accept her call, her cherubic face appears on my screen, her chin-length auburn hair full of kinks and waves, as if she slept on it funny and didn't bother to fix it.

“Oh my God, tell me
everything,
” she says, leaning dramatically toward the screen, the freckles on her cheeks and nose blurring out of focus.

“You know I can't do that. I signed a nondisclosure agreement.”

“Puh-lease. Who am I going to tell? Other than my cat.”

“You work in news.”

“Public radio. I cover real news, not Hollywood news. And anyway, I am your best friend—you know I'd never say a word.”

“I know. . . .”

I hesitate, not because I don't trust Meg—I do, with every ounce of my being—but because once I start telling her things, I won't be able to stop. I've always trusted her with my deepest secrets, the ones I wouldn't tell anyone else. It's been that way as long as I can remember, ever since she brought me home to meet her family in third grade. They lived in a house like mine: a brick ranch with white aluminum siding and black shutters, with three bedrooms and two baths, all crammed into about 1500 square feet.

But unlike mine, where knotty weeds poked through the cracked and crumbling driveway and shrubs grew wild and tangled over the front windows, Meg's house was neat and tidy. The lawn was mowed, the bushes were pruned, and her driveway looked as if the asphalt had been poured that day.

We played in her room, the walls of which were plastered with posters of Leonardo DiCaprio and Macaulay Culkin, and after a few hours, her mom knocked on her door.

“Kelly, sweetheart, what time did you say your mom was picking you up?”

I felt my cheeks flush as I realized it was already much later than whatever time I'd said.

“Oh . . . um . . .”

“I decided I wanted to walk Kelly home,” Meg said, jumping in. “So we could play longer.”

Her mom looked at us skeptically. “And your mom is okay with that?”

“Yeah, we called her,” Meg said. “She said it was fine.”

None of that was true, but Meg had been to my house a few times, and though both of us were too young to explain my mom's weirdness, we both knew it wasn't normal for a grown woman to be in a bathrobe at four in the afternoon. Meg knew her mom would think so, too, and even though she couldn't pinpoint why my mom's behavior wasn't quite right, she could sense it was something I didn't want everyone to know about. I didn't have to tell her. She just knew.

On the walk home, I thanked her for making up an excuse.

“It's okay,” she said. “Friends don't tell each other's secret stuff.”

And she never has—not then, not ever.

“Come on, tell me!” Meg says, pressing her hands together and leaning even closer to the screen. “What is Natasha like? Preposterously gorgeous?”

I relent. “Yeah, she really is.”

“Of course she is. She's Natasha Spencer.” Meg wiggles in her chair. “What else? Is she short? Tall? Thin? Funny?”

“She's shorter than I expected. And very, very thin.”

Meg shrugs. “Of course.”

“She's also crazy.”

“Really? How crazy? Like, owning a diamond-encrusted spatula crazy? Or calling doughnuts ‘the Devil's vittles' crazy?”

I replay my interactions with Natasha in my mind. “I think she straddles a pretty broad spectrum.”

A mischievous smirk spreads across Meg's face. “Excellent.”

“Not if you've been hired to work for her. She nearly had a panic attack Friday when I took a loaf of banana bread out of her oven.”

“Wait, you were baking in her kitchen?”

“That's where I'm supposed to do all of the testing. Although I'm not really sure how that's going to work if she has a meltdown every time I bake something.”

“Well, banana bread is kind of at the extreme end of the spectrum. It's olfactory kryptonite. The smell is the enemy of diets everywhere.”

“True. Which begs the question, why did I bother making it in the first place?”

“Well, why did you?”

“Because she
asked
me to. Not banana bread specifically, but ‘a loaf of something sweet.' ”

“And then she freaked out about it?”

“Yes.”

Meg snickers. “Wow.”

“Right.”

“So what did you do with it, once it came out of the oven? Please don't tell me you threw it away. Your banana bread is like crack.”

“I didn't throw it away. She'd asked me to bake it for her husband to have with tea, so I left it for him in his office.”

“Amazing. Have you met him yet? The husband.”

“Yeah, I met him Thursday night, when they had me over for dinner.”

“They had you over for
dinner?
” Meg's eyes widen even further when I nod in reply. “Oh my God, stop it.
Stop it
. I can't take anymore.” She tries to calm herself. “So what is the husband like? Sexy as hell?”

I think back to the dinner Thursday night and recall Hugh's slim-cut suit, his chiseled features, and his sweet but puckish smile. “He is definitely easy on the eyes.”

Meg sighs. “Of course he is. And does he have a dreamy English accent?”

“He does.”

She clenches her fist and bangs on her desktop. “You're killing me!”

“There's something off about their relationship, though. Like, when I went to drop the bread in his office upstairs, I passed a few rooms, and . . . I think they might sleep in separate bedrooms.”

She lowers her voice. “Really?”

“I'm not positive—and this is 100 percent confidential and stays between you and me—but . . . well, his office is attached to a bedroom that had a bunch of his suits and stuff lying on an unmade bed. And then when I peered into another room as I walked back toward the stairs, I saw the housekeeper making another bed that had clearly been slept in.”

“Maybe he has a room just for his suits. Rich people have all sorts of crazy shit like that—an entire closet dedicated to their shoes, rooms meant only for ‘sitting,' a glass-enclosed stovetop just for cooking fish.”

“No way—you're making that last one up.”

“Nope. True story. I covered it for our show—a local author here hates the smell of fish cooking, so he created a special ‘fish stove' that traps the smell. Hey, maybe you should get one of those for Natasha.”

“Ha, ha, very funny.”

“I'm serious. . . .”

“Anyway, speaking of your show, how are things going?”

Meg's exuberant smile fades. “Same old same. Too much news, too little funding. I feel like Sisyphus half the time.”

“Ugh. Sorry.”

“They haven't worn me down yet. I'm still fighting the good fight.”

I smile. “Someone has to. If you ever need a piece about an Ypsi girl's adventures in England, let me know.”

“Don't say that if you don't mean it.”

“I highly doubt your managing editor would have any interest in a story like that.”

“You know, this whole ‘Poor Kelly' act is getting old, my friend. You're on the other side of the ocean, skulking around Natasha Spencer's mansion. Tell me you
ever
thought that would happen.”

My shoulders slump. “You're right. Sorry.”

“It's fine—just don't be all, ‘Boo hoo, waah waah.' Okay?”

“Deal.” I glance down at my keyboard. “By the way... you haven't heard from Sam at all, have you?”

“Me? No. Why would I hear from Sam?”

“You wouldn't. Sorry. I just wondered if he'd reached out to any of my friends because I haven't heard from him at all since I left Chicago.”

“You haven't heard from him because you broke up with him.”

“I know. But we were together six years. It's weird to go from sharing an apartment and a life to . . . nothing.”

“Imagine how he feels. . . .”

“I was thinking of e-mailing him tonight, just to check in and see how he's doing.”

Meg sits upright in her seat. “No. Nuh-uh. Don't you dare.”

I shrink back from the screen. “Why not?”

“Because that isn't fair. You broke the guy's heart. If he wants to talk to you, he'll find a way of getting in touch with you. But until then, you have to leave him alone.”

I slump down in my seat. “You're right. I guess part of me feels guilty for how I handled things.”

“Sounds about right. I mean, I get why you did what you did, but it sort of came out of nowhere, especially considering he's kind of perfect. But you did it, and it's over, and e-mailing will only make things worse. Trust me.”

“You're sure?”

“Positive.”

“Okay. Thank you for being the voice of reason.”

“Any time.”

I glance at the clock. “I should go. But hey, could you do me a favor? If you drive through Ypsilanti in the next week or two, could you swing by my dad's place?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks. You don't have to get out of the car. Just drive by to make sure he hasn't burnt the place down. Or, you know, added metal bars to the windows.”

She snickers. “Will do.”

“All right. Time to figure out what the hell I'm doing at Natasha's tomorrow.”

“Living the dream?”

“Something like that . . .”

“Listen, any time you feel like complaining, remember: This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Enjoy it. Savor it. At this moment in time, you are the envy of men and women everywhere.”

But as the words come out of her mouth, I have trouble believing they're true, because never in my twenty-eight years has my life been the envy of anyone.

CHAPTER 10

Monday morning I embark on a second round of Cornish hen testing, this time using a bit more egg in the stuffing and a little more salt on and beneath the skin. Assuming I speak to Natasha today, I will also pick her brain about her grandmother's chocolate mousse and potato gratin—although, since Natasha is apparently allergic to white potatoes, I don't expect her to have much to say on the latter.

When Olga buzzes open the front gate, I spot Poppy digging through one of the trash bins, the sleeves of her mint-colored cardigan rolled up around her elbows.

“Poppy?”

She whirls around. “Oh. Hello.”

She hurries me through the front gate so that no paparazzi can peer inside and then seals it shut behind me.

“Why are you digging through the trash?” I ask, my arms weighed down by grocery bags.

“Olga accidentally threw something away that she shouldn't have.”

“Was it important?”

“Oh, no. It was rubbish. But it should have been discarded separately. Natasha's worried that if the paparazzi got ahold of it . . .”

“The paparazzi dig through her trash?”

“They have done. You'd be amazed at the lengths they'll go to. You can never be too careful.”

She walks with me up the front steps and unlocks the front door.

“Do you need help?” I ask. “I don't have to start cooking right away.”

“I'm fine looking for it on my own, thank you.”

“I'm sure you are. But it might go faster if there were two of us looking for it.”

She considers my offer. “Fine. But put your shopping in the kitchen first. The last thing we need is you poisoning one of us.”

I hurry down to the kitchen, put the cold items in the refrigerator, and then run back outside, where I find Poppy on all fours, searching through a trash bag she has ripped open.

“So what exactly are we looking for?” I bend down and begin sorting through the pile.

“One of her medicine packets. Olga saw the empty box on Natasha's vanity and, like an idiot, threw it away instead of breaking it down and shredding it.”

“Oh.” I sift through a few tissues. “Is it for something . . . serious?”

“Don't think so. She's not ill, if that's what you mean. It's probably just her Adderall. She didn't say specifically.”

“Adderall? Isn't that for ADD?”

“Technically. But it's also an appetite suppressant.” Poppy casts a sideways glance. “It's not like she takes it all the time. Just if she needs to lose a bit of weight quickly, like before an awards ceremony or something.”

Poppy rummages through a few more crumpled bits of paper and then pulls a small, flattened box from the pile. “Ah. Here we are.”

I catch a glimpse of the label:
desogestrel/ethinyl estradiol
. So birth control, not Adderall. It's actually the same birth control I currently take—probably the only thing Natasha and I have or will ever have in common.

Seeing it triggers a thought. “So . . . I have a question. . . .” I say, figuring I may have found a way for Poppy and me to bond. “Do Natasha and Mr. Ballantine . . . well, do they sleep in separate bedrooms?”

Poppy stands and rolls her shoulders back. “And what business is that of yours?”

“It isn't. But Friday I went upstairs to drop a loaf of banana bread in Mr. Ballantine's office, and—”

“Who said you could go upstairs?”

“Natasha.”

“When?”

“After she told me to get rid of the banana bread.”

This is only partially true. She never explicitly said I could go upstairs, but considering she said I could “sell it on the street,” I didn't think dropping it in Mr. Ballantine's office would be a problem.

“No one is allowed upstairs but me and Olga,” Poppy says.

“Listen, I'm not trying to usurp your position.”

She looks as if she's been slapped. “Good, because that would be impossible. I know everything that goes on under this roof.”

“Apparently not . . .” I say before I can stop myself.

“What?”

“Sorry—I didn't mean—”

“For your information,” she says, her voice low and tense, “I know all about Natasha and Hugh's arrangement. It's been like that for years.”

Arrangement
. Ah.

Poppy dumps the trash bag back into the can and dusts her hands on her skirt. “Now, I believe we both have work to do.”

She marches up the front steps, escorts me into the house and, with the crushed box held tightly in her hand, locks the door behind me.

 

To my dismay, Natasha has already left the house for the day when I finally settle into the kitchen, meaning we can't discuss any of the recipes I'd hoped to test today, including my second attempt at the Cornish hens. Olga informs me Natasha will be spending the entire morning with a perfumer about her new line of fragrances and does not want to be disturbed.

“She leave note,” Olga says, handing over a folded piece of paper.

I open the note, which is written on thick, cream paper embossed with the initials NJS.

“That's it?” I say, more to myself than to Olga.

Olga shrugs. “Natasha, she is very busy.”

“Did she say what time she'd be back?”

“Five o'clock. She say please for you to be here when she return.”

I think back to Friday, when Natasha returned and nearly self-destructed at the scent of banana bread. My one saving grace is that chocolate mousse requires no cooking and therefore doesn't give off a smell. The challenge, of course, will be re-creating a recipe I've never tasted, one that, like any chocolate mousse ever made, is both “chocolaty” and “smooth.” At least she gave me a hint about the alcohol—though whether the alcohol involved is rum or Grand Marnier or crème de cacao, I haven't a clue.

I tuck the note into my pocket and rub my hands together, ready to take on Natasha's latest challenge.

“So tell me,” I say, meeting Olga's stare, “where does Natasha keep her booze?”

 

By any measure, the day is a raging success. I tweak one of my favorite recipes for chocolate mousse to match Natasha's vague description, using both rum and crème de cacao, along with a dash of coffee, to heighten the chocolate flavor. I'd originally developed the recipe with François Bardon back in Chicago as the filling to his famous chocolate charlotte, a towering confection of velvety chocolate mousse surrounded by fluffy ladyfingers, the whole thing capped off with a billowy layer of whipped cream. But for this version, I streamline the process and adjust the ratios of chocolate, cream, and eggs so that it's more in line with what Natasha's grandmother might have made.

While the mousse chills in the refrigerator, I have another go at the Cornish hen recipe, with the salt and egg adjustments I noted in my journal. I time it so that the hens will be done just minutes before Natasha returns at five o'clock. I highly doubt she will want to taste them, but I need them ready, just in case.

When the hens come out of the oven, their skin crackles and hisses, each one a rich golden brown. I leave the roasting pan on the counter to cool and watch as the clock ticks upward:

4:55

5:00

5:15

5:30

By 5:45, the hens are barely warm anymore, and Natasha is nowhere to be found. I slip one of the birds onto a plate, grab a fork and knife, and dig in. As expected, the meat is nearly cold, but the flavor is perfect: rich and garlicky, with just a bit of kick from the paprika and enough salt to bring all of the seasonings alive. Now all I need to do is send the recipe to a few of my testers, then cross it off the list.

I dump my plate and silverware in the sink and wander into the hallway, where I find Poppy filling her bag with a few papers and heading upstairs.

“Have you heard from Natasha?” I ask.

“She's having drinks with Oliver Stone,” Poppy says, like it's nothing, like having drinks with Oliver Stone is as unremarkable as brushing one's teeth.

“Oh.” I bite my lip. “Did she say how long she'd be?”

“No idea. I think they have quite a lot to discuss.”

“Then . . . do you think I can go? Olga said I should be here when Natasha returned at five, but since it's almost six . . .”

“If Natasha wants you to stay, then you must stay. She told me I could go, so I'm going.”

“So I'm just supposed to hang out until . . . whenever?”

Poppy raises her eyebrows as she clutches her purse and heads up the stairway. “It would appear so.”

I watch as Poppy disappears up the stairs, and when I hear the door open and shut above me, I drag myself back toward the kitchen. On the way, I catch a glimpse of the art on the walls. Four framed prints hang with about two feet between them, each one depicting a cartoonish explosion, like a frame of a comic strip. They remind me of Roy Lichtenstein's work, which I studied in college while writing my thesis. But when I take a closer look, I realize they aren't like Lichtenstein's work; they
are
Lichtenstein's work. I stare at the prints, my mouth hanging open, when I hear a door open and shut behind me.

“See something you like?”

I spin around and see Mr. Ballantine standing in front of the door leading to the garage, his brown leather briefcase clutched in his hand. He wears a tailored navy suit and a stark white shirt, along with a silver pocket square and tie.

“Sorry,” I say. “I wasn't . . . I hadn't noticed these before.”

“Are you a Lichtenstein fan?”

“I wrote my college thesis on his comic-book art.”

“Ah. Brilliant.”

“I've never seen his work up close, though. Other than at a museum.”

“We're big fans. Well, Natasha is, anyway. I'm a bit of a philistine when it comes to art, I'm afraid. I don't really understand how this is art if he just copied some cartoon artist's work and made it bigger.”

“That's actually what my thesis was about.”

“And what did you conclude?”

I smile. “You'll have to read it to find out.”

He laughs. “I see.” He nods at his briefcase. “I'm sure it's loads more interesting than the stuff I'm supposed to be reading about.”

“I'd hold off on making that call until you've read it. . . .”

He laughs again and places the briefcase on the ground next to the stairway. He sniffs the air. “What's that I smell?”

My chest tightens. Here we go again. “Just the Cornish hens—er,
poussin
—I made earlier. But they've been out of the oven for a while. The smell won't last, I promise.”

He holds up his hands defensively. “It's fine. I quite like the smell, actually.”

“Oh. Okay. It's just that on Friday Natasha got very upset about the way the house smelled.”

“Yes, well, that's Natasha,” he says, a slight edge to his voice. “I wouldn't worry too much.”

“Okay. If you're sure . . .”

He shakes himself out of his jacket and throws it over the banister. “Let's have a look at what you've made then, shall we?” He starts down the hallway toward the kitchen, but stops in his tracks and whirls around. “By the way, I've been meaning to leave you a note—that banana bread? The one you left in my office? Without question, the best I've ever had.”

My cheeks flush. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” he says. He pats his belly and nods toward the kitchen. “Let's see what else you've made to fatten me up.”

I follow him into the kitchen, and as I glance back at the prints hanging in the hallway, I try to ignore the flutters in my stomach.