The Art of Love (18 page)

I don’t want to be rude to Linda. I’m sure she has the best intentions. She probably feels fixing me up with her loser nephew would be a good thing for both of us. I could bring him out of his shell and teach him a few social skills. And in return, he would be a man in my life, which by a lot of women’s standards is all important. But I am not going down that road again. It’s too awkward when you have to tell some well-meaning woman that you are in no way interested in her close relative. And that he should probably take a shower and brush his teeth within twenty-four hours before going on a blind date. “I appreciate it if you are,” I add, “but I’m really not looking for anyone right now.” I can’t help but glance at Trent’s closed door. “Because I kind of have a new relationship that's, you know, suddenly developing.”

The intercom beeps. “Linda, get my dad on the phone!” Trent thunders from the other room.

I see my out, and I take it. “Thanks, anyway,” I call as I head for the door. I haven’t heard the building’s fire alarm going off yet, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time if I don’t hurry. “But I'd really better check that no one's burned the kitchen down,” I tell her.

I hear the intercom beep again as I dash out the door.

I never want to be on television ever again. Between prepping and presenting and pretending to listen to whatever was coming out of Toulaine’s mouth and then making sure the other Bouche patrons were properly fed, I don’t have an ounce of energy left. By the time I pull into my designated parking spot for my condo, I’m dead on my feet. The only thing that kept me awake on the drive home was the thought of Trent’s lips being so close to mine. We were literally just a kiss apart, and then Linda had to barge in with her non-crisis crisis. Yes, the kitchen was in chaos by the time I got down there but just the ordinary dinner-rush chaos, not this-ship-is-going-down chaos. I guess working up in that nice, quiet office all day makes it hard for her to distinguish a crisis from a Crisis.

My eyelids are so heavy as I climb the stairs to the second floor of my building that I can barely keep them open. Down the hall, I see that there is something sitting on the ground outside my door. My eyelids pop open all the way. If I’m not hallucinating, it looks like a bouquet.

I hurry down the hall to confirm that it is a bouquet. A big, beautiful bouquet of deep red roses fringed with baby’s breath in a large glass vase. It’s beautiful, simply beautiful, and my mind races to figure out who could have possibly sent them.

I immediately think of Trent. He’s the person I most want them to be from, and after our little encounter in his office, the idea of him sending me flowers isn’t out of the question. It also briefly occurs to me they might be from Michael Toulaine. Is this the kind of thing famous people do to say thank you? But that doesn’t make sense, seeing that he was doing me the favor by featuring Bouche on his show, not the opposite. Possibly Aziz? But unlikely. He really has no cause to send me flowers even if we are in kind of a fight. There’s always the distinct possibility that the delivery guy accidentally left them outside the wrong door.

My hands fumble through the blossoms seeking that little white rectangle. Tearing open the envelope, I yank out the card and read:

“Please hire me back. I miss you.

All of my love,

Elliot”

My stomach clenches, and I feel a little sick. I’m not sure if it’s disappointment or revulsion. Why is it when you want a man to send you flowers, he never even thinks about it, but when you never want to hear from him again, that’s when the bouquet arrives?

Elliot has been the furthest thing from my mind since my first day as acting chef de cuisine. I’ve literally blotted him out. Of course, there were his charming phone calls to keep dragging him back to the surface of my consciousness, but after hanging up the phone, thoughts of him slipped away again just as quickly.

I stand there, slightly stupefied, staring at the card. A survey of my emotions shows a combination of feelings, the most readily identifiable being guilt. Here Elliot is feeling bad, and I’ve completely forgotten about him. Also, anger. Is a bouquet of stupid roses supposed to erase an entire year of his bad behavior? Like I’m supposed to melt and say, “Oh! Flowers? Of course, I forgive you for cheating on me and being a giant dill hole.” Think what he’d expect if he ever coughed up a real gift like a piece of jewelry? There’s also revulsion. And this emotion easily eclipses the first two. Does he really expect me to be that big of a doormat? Would I ever get back together with Elliot?

No! Absolutely not! Positively never! Not in a million years. Better to be alone than to be with someone who treats me badly. If I’ve learned anything, I’ve at least learned that lesson. I don’t ever want to see Elliot again. Not even as friends. Not even the accidental encounter at the grocery store. I don’t think I’ll even be able to date some guy whose name starts with an E for at least a decade.

But what do I do with the bouquet? The flowers are beautiful, and it’s not their fault dating Elliot was a total waste of an entire year of my life. But I can’t keep getting down on myself for past mistakes. Moving forward with my life is my only choice. And not repeating such a colossal blunder in the future.

I can’t bring the flowers inside, though. The thought of seeing them every time I enter a room, or their cloying smell permeating every square inch of my condo... No, that would bring up too many angry, resentful memories. I’d be better off pitching them in the dumpster.

It takes a while for Dahlia to answer the door after my knock. She is clad in an expensive-looking cotton jacket and loose-fitting, Marlene Dietrich–style black pants. I have to wonder, are these the clothes she wore to work, or did she come home and change into this gorgeous ensemble? Are these her casual, lounging around the house clothes? My lounging clothes are made out of a lot more sweatshirt-type materials and fleece.

Dahlia leans in the doorway, one hip cocked. “Flowers. For me?” she asks, batting her eyes at me. “How sweet. But seriously, Sue, I only think of you as a friend.”

I knew she’d have some kind of saucy remark after seeing me outside her door with a bouquet, so I just skip to the explanation. “Elliot sent me these, and I really don’t want them. They’re so pretty, I thought maybe you’d like them instead.”

“Sure.” She opens the door wider and nods me in. “Who knew your ex had two nickels to rub together. I never would have guessed him to be the dozen roses type.”

“He wasn’t when we were dating,” I explain.

“Just a desperate plea to win you back?” She closes the door behind me.

“A classic case of too little too late.” I place the vase in the center of her dining room table.

“Well, they have no bad memories for me, so thanks.” Dahlia adjusts the blooms more to her liking. “How goes the campaign? Any updates from the front lines? Did your four-star general ever show up to save the day?”

Chapter 19

I think it’s pretty clear that I am obsessed with my job because it’s my day off, and all I can do is think about work. I’ve spent the morning working on new menu ideas. I even caught myself tuning in for a couple of episodes of
The Specialist
before I remembered that I didn’t have to study it anymore because we’d already filmed the show. Then, after I’d washed my chef togs, I suddenly realized I have absolutely nothing to do. I mean, there is stuff I can do. I did used to have friends outside of the restaurant industry, but a lot of them only have weekends off, and a free Saturday or Sunday is a rarity in my field of employment. I start to feel pathetic sitting around my condo on such a beautiful day, so I throw an apple, some cheese, a bottle of water, and a sun hat into a bag and head for the park.

Being outside with the grass and the fountains and kids playing in the sunshine is almost disorienting. I didn’t realize how much time I’ve been spending at Bouche. I know I did it to start dating Trent, but now it’s almost like I’m dating the restaurant. I feel so pathetic.

I eat my apple and wander around like a Victorian deaf-mute who has no way to communicate with the world around me. I need to join some kind of club or team or something. Make some friends that don’t know to parboil broccoli rabe for sixty seconds. I actually envy the people working in a taco truck. Yeah, they’re busy, but they also seem to be having some fun in their little aluminum can. Plus, they’ve got that big window open, so they’re practically outside. I’ve been so deeply engrossed in beating Kiki to get a life that I no longer have a life.

It’s the next day, and I’m back at work, of course. Kiki’s in the dining room talking to a ridiculously well-dressed woman in her twenties. There doesn’t appear to be a region of the woman’s body that hasn’t been groomed into submission. But she’s also weirdly featureless, like all those scrubbings and peelings and waxings and tiny adjustments of plastic surgery have erased anything interesting about her. Kiki is clutching a clipboard securing a pile of paper on which she is making copious notes as she is fawning all over the flavorless slave to fashion.

“
Everything is going to be perfect,” Kiki’s babbling. “Perfect for your perfect day.”

“It better,” is the reply. The woman speaks in a strangely hushed falsetto like she thinks she’s Daisy Buchanan. “
My daddy's paying you a lot of money, and he doesn't like it when I'm disappointed.” Okay, now I’m thinking she’s more like Veruca Salt. As an adult, who still refers to their “daddy”?

“You won't be. I promise,” Kiki assures her.

“What’s going on?” I ask Donna, who is lurking near the kitchen entrance giving both the other women the evil eye. I nod toward Kiki’s friend. “Who’s that?”

“Chandra Lake,” I’m told.

Donna’s answer doesn’t exactly clear anything up for me. “Who?” I ask.

“She’s the original daddy’s girl. Her father started HonkYourHooters.com, and now Chandra runs around spending his money and trying to pretend like the family business isn’t actually porn.” I can see Donna’s anger visibly bubbling beneath her skin, but I really have no idea why. Yes, a family fortune amassed off of getting naïve young women to fondle their boobs for the camera isn’t exactly a noble endeavor, but unless Donna was lured into such stupidity at a tender age, I can’t see how it affects her.

“What’s she doing at Bouche?” I ask. “And why is Kiki drooling all over her?”

“Chandra
fired her wedding caterer yesterday, so now she's planning a last minute reception at Bouche,” Donna explains.

“Seriously?” I don’t think I could ever throw cash around like that, even if it was for my wedding. But I guess when your parents have made a ton of money in a pretty seedy way, you don’t have many concerns on how you spend it.

“Sue!” Kiki barks, beckoning me over. She snaps her fingers in the air a few times like I am under her command.

“What?” I shout back from across the dining room. Just because Kiki’s in the mood to grovel to some porn-backed debutante doesn’t mean I am.

“Miss Lake wants to meet the chef, and you’re supposed to be the chef, aren’t you?” Kiki snarls. I can tell she’s furious that I didn’t dash right over. But still, it is my job, so I begrudgingly head in that direction. Donna trails behind me, and I wonder why she’s so interested in this whole thing.

Kiki turns back to Chandra Lake. “This is our acting chef de cuisine, Susan Sun. She just did a feature for
The Specialist
on the Eat Food Network.” I know it has got to be killing Kiki to say anything nice about me, so she must be working really hard to impress this Chandra person.

Chandra begins to extend her hand for me to shake and then thinks better of it, withdrawing it quickly like I’m too vile for any type of contact. I’ll never understand someone like this. She doesn’t want to touch my bare hand, but she’s okay with me preparing the food for her wedding?

“It’s nice to meet you.” My good manners kick in even though she doesn’t appear to have any of her own.

“Hi, Chandra,” Donna says in a tight voice from over my left shoulder.

Looking vaguely in that direction, Chandra says, “Do I know you?”

This causes Donna to expel a bitter laugh. “Don’t be such a bitch. You know damn well who I am. Or have you snorted so much coke you can’t remember high school?”

Chandra makes a face. “You’re staff, Donna. I don’t speak to staff.” Then she turns her back to both of us and continues to speak to Kiki.

“I’m late for my spa treatment,” Chandra says after checking the time on her cell phone. “We’ll go over the rest of this later.”

“Thank you, Miss Lake!” Kiki calls after her.

“
Wow, Kiki.” This is a new side of her personality that comes as a complete surprise. “I've never seen you kiss so much butt before.”

Kiki waves the paper
-ladened clipboard in the air. “It's not kissing butt. It's called landing a major client for Bouche.” She sneers at me.

I’m surprised Donna is still standing there after what that Chandra chick said, but she’s somehow swallowed her pride. She extends a hand toward Kiki’s clipboard. “
Do you want me to enter her order into the system for you?”

Kiki snatches the clipboard away as if Donna were actually lunging for it. “
Are you kidding? Like I'd trust you with the password. This is a huge deal. If this wedding goes well, then I can write my own ticket.”

“Ticket to what?” I ask, but Kiki is already walking away with her nose in the air.

Donna releases another small, bitter laugh. “I don't know why she's acting like that. Everyone and their sister knows the password to all catering orders is ‘sugarbaby.’ I mean, you knew it, didn’t you?” After shooting me a significant look, she too walks away.

What in the hell is up with our crazy wait staff?

The word
sugarbaby
is stuck in my head all day. I mean, what should I do with that kind of information? And how does Donna know it? And why did she share it with me? I have to physically force myself to walk away from the Bouche computer; the temptation to test the password for the catering files is just too strong.

I find myself confiding in Dahlia again when I get home. We’re getting to be regular pals with the late-night gossip sessions. I tell her all about Kiki’s groveling and Chandra’s rudeness.

“I know Chandra,” Dahlia tells me as she settles on the couch, a glass of white wine in her hand. “Not closely, of course, but whenever I’m in the same room with her, she always comes off as strikingly self-absorbed.”

“Yeah, and weirdly snooty,” I agree. “I couldn’t believe how incredibly bitchy she was to this one server, Donna. I mean, doesn’t she know not to be rude to the people who bring you your food? Think how much spit she’s probably eaten over the years.”

“I’d rather not.” Dahlia shudders. “And so why was this Donna person made a target?”

I tell her about what happened and how afterwards Donna said what she said involving the password. “So…” I hedge. “What do you think of that?”

“What do you mean?” she wants to know.

“I mean, if you were me, what would you do with the password information? Would you… exploit it to your own advantage?”

“I don’t know.” Dahlia leans back on the couch and takes a sip of her wine. “I know she’s a bitch, but Chandra’s not who you’re fighting. She would be collateral damage in your war on Kiki.”

“True.” I have thought about that.

“And you straight girls can get pretty psycho about wedding stuff. Do you really want to be the person that messes with some other woman’s perfect day?”