The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs (40 page)

“Oh. Sorry.” Blake scratches his chin. “That’s really awful. You deserve better.”

I sigh. “Whatever. I can’t decide if I’m more bummed about him being a jerk or the fact that I’ll miss out on a helping of steak frites tonight.”

“Why, where was he going to take you?”

“Bistro du Coin. Alas. I suppose a few quarts of ice cream will have to do.”

Blake grins. “Aw, come on, you can’t sit home alone all night.”

“I’m pretty sure that I can.”

“Nope. Not gonna let you sit around and feel sorry for yourself. How about this: I’m supposed to meet some friends across the street at Russia House around nine o’clock to celebrate my election victory. Why don’t I rally the troops for a dinner at Bistro du Coin at seven or eight? You can order those steak frites you’ve been dreaming about all week.”

“Really?” Blake nods, smiling. My stomach flutters. “That sounds … great, actually. You’re sure your friends won’t mind?”

“Of course they won’t mind,” he says. “They’ll love you. Who wouldn’t love someone who can carry twenty pounds of ice cream on her own?”

I look down at the bags hanging on my arms, the weight of the ice cream bunching up the sleeves of my sweatshirt so that I look like the Michelin Man. A few months ago, if I were forced to choose between polishing off a quart of Cookies ’n Cream on my own or going to dinner with my landlord, I would not have hesitated in choosing the former. But somewhere along the way, Blake stopped being just a landlord. I don’t know what to call him now—a friend? a confidant? a mentor?—but what I do know is I want to have dinner with him tonight. I don’t want to be alone. And I want those damn steak frites.

“Okay, count me in,” I say. “But make no mistake—this ice cream will get eaten at some point. That much I promise you.”

Blake smiles as he pats me gently on the shoulder. “Whatever you say, Stay Puft. Whatever you say.”

I show up outside Blake’s door at seven-fifteen, stuffed by the mercy of Spanx and God into a stretchy black dress and a pair of pointy heels. Dressed in this way, I’d like to fancy myself a poor man’s Christina Hendricks or Isla Fisher, though I admit that would be a very, very poor man indeed. Homeless, most likely. But it’s a quantum leap from my daily attire, and that’s all that matters. I am far from a girly girl, but there is something about putting on a dress and some makeup that makes me feel a thousand times better. Even if I’m still in a funk over the Jacob debacle, at least I’m trying to snap out of it.

Blake rips open his door, and his eyes widen in surprise when he sees me. “Wow. Hannah. You look … amazing.”

I shrug. “When you set the bar at ‘homeless person,’ pretty much anything involving a brush and a little makeup is an improvement.”

“Oh, please, you never look like a homeless person.” He pauses. “The look earlier today was more like ‘bag lady.’ A slight but important distinction.”

Blake grabs a brown leather coat off his coat stand and throws it on, zipping it up over his white button-down shirt and olive green sweater vest. Ah, Blake: even his party clothes are a little geeky. Not that I’m one to talk. This is one of the only dresses I own that doesn’t resemble a muumuu.

We arrive at Bistro du Coin at seven-thirty, and I follow Blake as he pushes through the crowd in search of his friends. He can’t seem to find them, so we push our way to the bar and order some drinks: a glass of red wine for him and a Kir Royale for me. The dining room buzzes with conversation and clanking silverware, staccato notes that bounce off the tile floors and mirrored bar, and as I nurse my drink I notice at least two guys checking me out. One looks like Bilbo Baggins and the other resembles a shar-pei, but nevertheless, their interest indicates Blake’s assessment of my appearance wasn’t entirely off base.

A few sips into my drink, Blake waves at someone walking past the hostess’s table, a man I immediately recognize as Anoop, the guy dressed as Balloon Boy at Blake’s Halloween party.

Anoop strolls up to the bar, dressed tonight in a black buttondown shirt and dark jeans, and gives Blake a high five. His eyes briefly shift in my direction, and he does a double take. “Hannah?”

I smooth the front of my dress. “The one and only.”

“Wow—I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Blake smiles. “She cleans up nice, huh?”

Anoop drags his eyes up and down my tightly bound figure. “I’ll say.”

Anoop orders a gin and tonic, and we sip our cocktails and rehash last weekend’s Halloween party. Blake and Anoop mention that one of their friends needs help with a holiday party in December, and after last weekend, they both recommended me highly.

“With any luck, he’ll give you a call in the next week or two,” Blake says.

Before I can ask more questions about this potential client, a willowy blonde walks into the restaurant, surrounded by two men and two women. The woman looks familiar, and I realize that’s because she is Nicole, the belly dancer from last weekend, the one whose apartment building caught on fire and whose aunt works at L’Academie de Cuisine.

“Sorry I’m late,” Nicole says, double kissing Blake and Anoop on the cheeks. Her four friends, two of whom I recognize from the Halloween party, offer hugs and waves. “Connecticut Avenue was a nightmare.”

Blake pushes me forward by the small of my back. “Nicole, you remember Hannah?”

“Of course. My aunt says she’s looking over your application as we speak.”

“Really?” Finally, some good news.

“Yep. The admissions department is a little backlogged at the moment, but with any luck, you’ll hear something soon. Apparently they have a record number of applications for the January start date.” She raises her eyebrows. “The competition is steep.”

Great. Just what I wanted to hear.

The hostess leads us to a round table in the middle of the room, and I pull up a seat between Blake and Anoop. A surly waitress tosses a basket of bread on our table, and before she stalks off, Blake orders a bottle of Côtes du Rhône. By the time the waitress returns, everyone at the table is swapping stories and telling jokes, and it becomes clear we won’t be ready to order for quite some time.

“So check this out,” Anoop says. He launches into a story about one of his coworkers, a woman who dries her wet underwear on the radiator in her office. “So I walk in, and, sure enough, there they are: three pairs of stretched-out underwear and a bra, all lined up behind her desk. And she’s acting as if everything is normal—like, oh, doesn’t everyone wash their underwear at the office and dry it on the radiator? So I’m like, ‘Uh, whoa, isn’t that a fire hazard?’ And she’s like, ‘What, that? Oh, no. I’ve only burnt a pair once.’
Burnt
a pair? Of underwear? What is wrong with these people?”

“Sounds like my office,” I say. “Where do you work?”

“The Center for Policy Solutions.”

“I work at the Institute for Research and Discourse.” I pause. “Or at least I used to. I quit yesterday.”

Blake leans forward and rests his hand on my shoulder. “You’re kidding. You quit?”

My cheeks flush. “Don’t worry. I’ll still be able to make my rent.”
I hope
.

“Where are you off to next?” Anoop asks before Blake can jump in with more questions.

I grab my wineglass and take a long sip. “Not sure. Maybe culinary school. I’m still trying to figure it out.”

Anoop attempts a supportive smile. “I … hope that works out for you.”

I reach across the table for another slice of baguette, and as I do, I spot Jacob walking into the restaurant. He wears a navy moleskin blazer and jeans, and his hair is carefully styled into its signature haphazard coif. He approaches the hostess’s stand, gently resting his hand on the waist of the Asian woman walking beside him, whose glossy, pin-straight black hair reaches all the way to her waist. This woman, his apparent date, is not Hannah Sugarman. She also most certainly is not Alexis.

I try not to let on that I’ve seen him, but as I rip violently into my piece of bread, shredding the soft interior into smaller and smaller pieces, my blood boils. How is it possible that I consistently fall for the biggest assholes in the universe? Who is this Asian chick? And what the hell is she doing with my reservation—a reservation that, quite frankly, shouldn’t have been anyone’s because Jacob is
engaged
?

Jacob notices me from across the room but immediately pretends as if he hasn’t seen me, turning away and guiding his date through the restaurant as the hostess leads them to their table.

I throw back a swig of Côtes du Rhône, blot the corners of my mouth with my napkin, and lift myself from my seat. “Excuse me,” I say, stepping away from the table. “I’ll be right back.”

I march through the crowded room, the anger and wine pumping through me as I work my way to Jacob’s table. Jacob pretends he doesn’t see me coming, and his date has no reason to think anything of my presence until I stop directly in front of their table and stand there, staring at the two of them.

The Asian woman’s eyes dart nervously between me and Jacob. “Um … hi,” she says. “Can I help you?”

“I don’t think so,” I say, shifting my gaze in Jacob’s direction.

He offers a casual shrug. “What do you want from me, Hannah?”

The Asian woman furrows her brow. “You two know each other?”

“Oh, I’m sorry—did he not mention me?” I reach out my hand. “I’m Hannah. The one who was supposed to be sitting in your seat tonight.”

The woman stares at my outstretched hand. She doesn’t shake it. “I thought you said your sister canceled on you,” the woman says, glancing up at Jacob.

“His sister?” I let out a bitter laugh. “No, not his sister. Me. But I’m guessing Jacob never mentioned my name. Or Alexis’s for that matter.”

“Alexis?”

“His fiancée? The woman he’s been dating for five years? Her name never came up?”

Jacob opens his mouth to respond, but before he can speak, Blake sidles up behind me and rests his hand on my shoulder. “Everything okay over here?”

“Fine,” I say. “I’m just saying hello to Jacob—the guy I was supposed to have dinner with tonight?—and his new friend … I’m sorry, I never caught your name.”

“Vanessa.”

“Vanessa. Well, Vanessa, this is my landlord, Blake.” I turn to Blake. “Apparently Vanessa didn’t know about Jacob’s fiancée either. Isn’t that funny?” I let out a protracted brittle laugh.

Jacob lazily places his menu back down on the table. “Hannah, come on …”

“Come on, what? You’re just lucky Alexis hasn’t found out yet. My friend Becca Gorman knows all about us.”

Jacob’s fair complexion morphs into a color resembling wet clay. He smiles nervously. “Becca Gorman. Got it. Didn’t realize you knew her.”

“Yeah, well, if it’s not me telling Alexis, it’ll be Vanessa, and if it’s not Vanessa it’ll be someone else. How many times can you dodge a bullet?”

Jacob sneers. “Like you’re in any position to talk about dodging bullets.”

Blake and Vanessa rumple their brows in unison, and my stomach drops.

Jacob narrows his eyes. “Yeah, that’s right. What about your little side gig, huh?”

My eyes flit between Vanessa and Blake, and then I glance over both shoulders, as if I am confused as to whom Jacob could possibly be speaking and, with every gesticulation, am broadcasting,
Who, me
?

Blake contorts his face. “What is he talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Jacob says, staring at Blake. “You’re the one letting her cook in your kitchen.”

My stomach gurgles loudly, and my heart races in my chest, and oh my god I think I might vomit.

Blake grimaces. “Listen, buddy. I checked it out, and what she did was totally legal. The rest is between me and Hannah.”

Totally legal? What is he talking about? And how, with every passing second, does this day manage to get increasingly worse?

Jacob cackles. “Legal, huh? I’m not so sure about that.”

“Well, you should be,” Blake says. “I can pay whomever I want to cater my Halloween party, and it’s really none of your business.”

Jacob furrows his brow. “Your Halloween party?”

“Yeah, why? What are you talking about?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” I say, jumping in loudly as a river of sweat trickles down my cleavage.
Oh god, oh god, oh god
. Confronting Jacob was a terrible idea. My plan is totally backfiring. This is the worst. The worst!

I straighten my posture and slide back my shoulders, narrowing my eyes at Jacob. “All I know is that the rest of our table is waiting for us to order their dinners, and I never want to talk to you again—ever.”

Jacob snorts. “Oh, so now you’re going to play dumb? Come on, you know you—”

“Hey, guy? Shut up,” Blake says. “Hannah has made it abundantly clear she wants nothing to do with you. So why don’t you leave her alone and let us get back to our table.”

Jacob shoots both Blake and me a cold stare and lets out a huff. “Whatever.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Good luck with your totally effed-up career, Hannah. And by the way, your cinnamon buns aren’t that great.”

He plucks his menu off the table, and with Vanessa’s brow in knots, Blake pushes me back to my seat and orders another bottle of wine.