Too Many Cooks (12 page)

I wipe my hands on the kitchen towel. “That's one of my tricks. You chill it for a bit before baking. That way the cookies don't spread out too much.”

“You are a font of useful information,” he says.

“That depends on how you define useful.”

“Well, I suppose if Her Majesty demands a batch of chocolate chip cookies that don't spread too much, you are the woman to call.”

“I guess I am.” I lay two cookie sheets on the counter. “But if she needs any tips on how to set an alarm clock so that she doesn't oversleep and leave her keys and umbrella at home, she should probably ask someone else.”

He lets out a belly laugh as he swallows the last bite of salmon. “Thankfully Her Majesty has people to worry about such trivial matters for her.”

He rinses his plate in the sink and sticks it in the dishwasher.

“How long does the dough need to chill?”

“About thirty minutes.”

He groans and looks at the clock. He starts. “Shit—I'm supposed to do an interview with Radio 4 in five minutes. I completely lost track of time.”

“Sorry. It's my fault. I shouldn't have kept you.”

He shakes his head and looks at me with kind eyes. “Don't apologize. I lost track of time because I was enjoying myself.”

My heart thumps, and I look away, busying myself with finding a cookie scoop. “You'd better do the interview. Someone needs to tell the masses why this education bill is a joke.”

I search through one of Natasha's drawers and, after several moments have passed without Hugh's saying anything, I look up and find him staring at me.

“What?” I say, my cheeks red. The flirty feeling returns.
Go away!
I tell it.
Go away!

He opens his mouth to say something, but catches himself. He smiles. “Nothing,” he says. “You're right. I'd better go.”

He starts to walk out of the room, but pauses when he gets to the doorway. “Oh, but don't think I've forgotten about those cookies. When I've finished . . .” He points to his stomach. “I expect cookie nirvana.”

He winks and turns to leave. When he's vanished, I realize my hands are shaking.

CHAPTER 14

This is ridiculous. Hugh is an MP. He is
married
. And not to just anyone—to one of the sexiest, most beautiful women in the world. The only reason I should be nervous around him is because he is famous and important and could probably have me expelled from the country. I have no business shaking with excitement when he so much as smiles at me. But all of a sudden I feel like a giddy schoolgirl. It's pathetic.

While Hugh does the Radio 4 interview, I bake off four sheets of cookies, transfer them to a cooling rack, and leave them in the kitchen with a note:

There. Not a whiff of flirtation. Straight and to the point. Appropriate.

I creep upstairs, and as I tiptoe down the hall, I overhear bits of Hugh's radio conversation as I pass his study.

“. . . but that isn't what it would do, now is it? No, it would further penalize those without the means to find a smaller class size elsewhere. . . .”

I slink into the guest room, lock the door behind me, and make my way toward the en suite bathroom, which gleams with white Carrara marble and shiny chrome fixtures. I gargle with a bit of mouthwash and splash some water on my face, but as I head back to the bedroom, I realize I have nothing to sleep in. My clothes are still damp, and as much as Natasha wouldn't like me sleeping in her guest bed, she'd be even less thrilled about my sleeping in it in damp clothes. And she'd really hate it if I slept in her bed naked. As, quite frankly, would I.

I rummage through the dresser drawers, but they're empty, so I sneak back into the hall, hoping I can find something in another room, even if it's just one of Olga's housecoats.

As I creep down the hallway, Hugh emerges from his study and stops me in my tracks. “Can I help you?”

I whirl around, my cheeks balls of fire. “My clothes . . . I just . . .” I grasp for a coherent explanation. “I don't have anything to sleep in.”

Never mind that I told him an hour ago my clothes weren't a problem at all. He must think I'm insane.

“I'm sure I've got a T-shirt you can borrow,” he says. “Wait there.”

He disappears into a room at the end of the hall and reemerges clutching an oversize blue T-shirt with a logo for Cambridge University.

“This should do.” He tosses it in my direction, and, in a rare display of coordination, I catch it. “Won't you join me downstairs for a few cookies?”

My heart races, but though every ounce of me wants to say yes, I can't. “Thanks, but no,” I say. “I'm beat. I think I'll call it a night.”

“Oh. Okay. Well . . . good night, then.”

“Good night.”

I head back to the guest room, and when I grab the door handle, I look over my shoulder. Hugh is still standing at the end of the hall, and he doesn't move until I've shut the door behind me.

 

I need a friend. Obviously I need a friend. That's what all of this is about. If I had a friend, I could have called her instead of Hugh, and I wouldn't have put myself in a situation where I was sleeping in his T-shirt in his guest bedroom. But that's exactly where I am, and it's awkward and terrible, and I can't wait to get the hell out of here.

The next morning, I wake up at seven, slip back into my clothes, and tiptoe along the hallway and down the stairs, preparing to sneak out of the house before Hugh awakens. Tom won't be in his office until nine, but the coffee shops by my building will be open, and I can wait there until he arrives. It's better than staying here. At this point, anything is better than that.

When I reach the front door, I rest my hand on the knob and am about to unlock the deadbolt, when I hear footsteps behind me.

“Don't,” Hugh says. I spin around and find him standing at the base of the stairs, dressed in worn khakis and a rumpled blue button-down. He nods toward the knob. “You'll set off the alarm.”

I loosen my grip. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

He glances at his watch. “Sneaking out before breakfast?”

“I need to meet the building manager first thing. He's the only one with an extra key.”

“Let me at least make you a cup of coffee.”

I stare at him, my palms sweating. Well . . . maybe I could stay . . . ? It's just coffee. What's the harm in an innocent—

No. This is absurd. No, no, no.

“Sorry,” I say. “I wish I could, but I can't. Not this morning.”

“Perhaps another time, then.”

He walks over to a keypad by the front door and deactivates the alarm system. I unlock the deadbolt and open the front door.

“Thank you so much for your help last night,” I say. “I really, really appreciate it.”

“My pleasure. Truly.”

“If it weren't for you, I probably would have slept on my lobby floor.”

“Or found a dodgy bloke to pick your lock.”

“See? You saved me on multiple fronts.”

“Consider it my repayment for all the lovely food.”

“I'm not sure that's an even trade, but . . . I'll take it. Anyway, thanks again. Have a nice weekend.”

“You too.”

I start down the front steps and make for the front gate.

“And thank you for the cookies,” he calls after me. “They were amazing.”

I start to reply, but by the time I turn around, he has already gone back inside and shut the door, and I half wonder if he called after me at all, or if my imagination got the better of me.

 

As soon as Tom lets me back into my flat, I power on my laptop and scour every social media platform for someone—anyone—I might know in London. Considering my background, I know the odds aren't in my favor, but even if it were a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend . . . at least it would be
someone
.

After several minutes of sleuthing, I come across a fellow U of M art history major named Jess Walters, who graduated a year after I did and now works as a research associate at the Tate Modern. I vaguely remember Jess, even though we were in different years and were among some twenty-eight thousand undergraduates on campus. Whereas each graduating class produced more than four hundred economics majors and nearly the same number of psychology majors, there were usually only about seventy in art history, so we all sort of knew each other, even across years.

I fire off an e-mail to Jess, trying not to seem as desperate for friendship as I feel. My abiding memory of Jess is her pin-straight, fiery red hair and explosion of freckles, but according to her profile, she has worked at the Tate Modern for three years, so she seems to be doing pretty well for herself.

Once I've replied to an earlier e-mail from Meg, I cobble together a breakfast out of leftovers and odds and ends from my refrigerator: poached egg on garlicky wilted greens, all piled on top of a toasted slice of three-day-old sourdough. As I poke the yolk with my fork, a thick yellow sluice trickles onto the plate, and I use another piece of toast to sop up the pool of gluey yolk as I rerun last night's events in my mind: the smile on Hugh's face, the smoothness of his voice, the softness of his Cambridge T-shirt.

No. Stop.
Stop
. There's no point in rehashing any of that. No point. It's over, and it will obviously never happen again, and the sooner I stop thinking about it, the better off I'll be.

I gobble down the last bit of breakfast and rinse my plate in the sink. When I get back to my computer, I see Jess has already replied.

I write back immediately.

I click Send and lean back in my chair, and when Jess writes again moments later with all of the details, I let out a huge sigh of relief because I've found someone to save me from myself.

CHAPTER 15

I have a friend.
Finally
. An actual friend. Or at least someone around my age with whom I have a few things in common. This is what I need. After losing my mom, and then Sam, I've been . . . well, lonely. Two of the most important people in my life vanished in a matter of weeks, and then I moved to a country where I don't know a soul, and even though I think I made the right decision, the transition has been more difficult than I expected. But now I'll know someone in London besides Hugh, Natasha, Poppy, and Olga, and I won't feel so isolated. Or I'll feel
less
isolated, which is a step in the right direction.

I work through the weekend and into Tuesday, perfecting the poached salmon and carrot salad and moving on to the mysterious “kale burger” on Natasha's list of recipes from her LA period. She once described it as “toothsome” and “gluten-free,” so my first attempt involves brown rice, kale, and crushed lentils. It is not good.

As Tuesday evening approaches, I slip out of Natasha's house early so that I can shower and change before heading to the Tate Modern to meet Jess. To my relief, I haven't run into Hugh yet this week. He is so consumed with the education bill that he's barely been home. Olga has given me a few strange looks, but I think that has more to do with her general demeanor and less to do with the fact that Hugh and I had a sleepover last weekend.

When I reach my building, I hurry through the lobby toward my apartment, but I slow my step as Tom calls to me from his office.

“Remembered your key this time, eh?”

I stop and smile politely, raising my keys and jingling them lightly. “Yep. I won't make that mistake again.”

“Lucky it wasn't Saturday—then you'd really have been buggered.”

“Thank heaven for small mercies. . . .”

“It's all relative, right, my dear?”

I offer another polite smile and head toward my flat, when Tom stops me.

“There's a letter for you, by the way. Left it on the table in the hall.”

“A letter? For me?”

“You are Kelly Madigan, yes?”

“I just . . . I didn't expect to get any mail. No one really has my address.”

“Well, somebody does. It's on the table.”

I hurry to the table, my heart thumping. It couldn't be from Hugh . . . right? No. He wouldn't dare. Would he?

I sort through a stack of magazines and envelopes, my hands trembling ever so slightly. I shouldn't get myself all worked up. This is stupid. It's probably nothing.

But what if it isn't?

I continue searching through the stack of mail, until I come across a white envelope addressed to me, with American stamps. I glance at the return address in the upper left corner.

Oh. It's from my dad.

I let out a sigh as I grab the note and let myself into my apartment. Why do I feel disappointed? I should be glad my dad is writing me. This letter is a sign he is still alive and working at the post office. That's a good thing. I should be happy. And I am. But I'm a little bummed, too.

I shake off my disappointment and tear open the letter, which is written in my dad's serial-killer handwriting on plain white paper.

I stare at the letter for a few moments and then, as I lay it on the coffee table, my heart breaks a little because I notice the paragraph where he mentions my mom is smudged by tears.

Dennis Madigan and Cynthia Murphy met more than forty years ago at Ypsi High, back when the football team was called the “Braves” before changing their name to the more politically correct

“Grizzlies.” My mom was the captain of the cheerleaders, a marvel considering in her older years she viewed exercise as the devil's work. But she looked mighty cute in a short skirt and tight sweater and loved to dance, so by all accounts, she led the squad with verve and flair.

My dad, on the other hand, didn't play for the football team, meaning he and my mom didn't run in the same circles. My mom spent her days being wooed by the quarterbacks and linebackers, who'd strut down the hall in packs, like teenage gods. Meanwhile, my dad was off to the side reading the latest installment of
The Amazing Spider-Man,
self-conscious about his lanky gait and acne scars. He loved comic books—
The Fantastic Four, The Avengers, Superman
—and though he often couldn't be bothered to read the current history assignment, he was always up-to-date on the newest
Spider-Man
. He played trombone in the marching band, and at Friday night games, he'd march up and down the field, stealing glances at my mom as she shook her pompoms in the air and rallied the crowd. He'd watch her blond ponytail bob up and down, wishing she'd sit next to him when everyone went out for pizza at Mario's after the game. But he always got there a minute too late, after some Kevin or Johnny or Tom had already swooped in beside her.

Then one Friday night during their junior year, while everyone was piling into Mario's, my dad spotted my mom across the room, with a free seat beside her. She sat in a booth with two of her girlfriends, twirling the tip of her blond ponytail around her finger as they all laughed about something together. My dad knew if he pushed through the crowd fast enough, he could snag the seat, so he elbowed his way through the mob, diving and ducking around people, until he made it to her table.

“This seat taken?” he asked.

“Might be,” she said, smiling coyly.

“How about if I buy each of you ladies a pizza and a pop?”

They looked at each other and giggled, and after a little more back and forth, they let my dad sit down.

She was completely out of his league, or so they both said, but my mom found him endearing. They were an unlikely pair—the blond party girl and the taciturn nerd—but my mom loved that he would read her his comic books and write her long letters, and my dad thought she was the cutest woman God ever created. They ended up dating for the rest of high school and for two years after, then they finally got married. Three miscarriages and thirty-three years of marriage wrung some of the romance out of their relationship, but they still seemed in love with each other until she died, or at least as far as I could tell.

I sometimes got the impression they were less in love with the Cynthia and Dennis of today and more in love with the Cynthia and Dennis of yore—the promise of young love, the mutual adoration, the unsullied simplicity of it all. In the end, neither of their lives turned out as they'd dreamed. My mom peaked in high school, never again achieving the same popularity or freedom she'd found in her teens. She discovered adult life wasn't so fun, with all of its responsibilities and demands, and she tried to escape all of that by drinking a little too much and watching too much TV and generally not taking responsibility for anything. That was probably why she never followed up with her doctor—she was weary of life and figured she'd let nature take its course.

And though my dad did fine in school, he never went to college. Not many of his close friends did. They got jobs—with GM and Ford and Kmart. I suspect my dad would have loved college and often wonder what his life would have been like if he'd gone. Instead, he's worked for the Postal Service his whole life, feeling stuck and superior and, most of the time, bitter.

Bitter or not, for nearly forty years, it had been Cynthia and Dennis, Cynthia and Dennis, two names that slid off the tongue together, like Sonny and Cher, Bill and Hill, Posh and Becks, Bogart and Bacall. But now it's just Dennis. Just Dennis, and nobody else.

Once I've put my dad's letter aside, I shower and change, throw on a fresh coat of makeup, grab my purse, and head out the door. As I pass Tom's office I see he has left for the day, sparing me another jokey exchange about remembering my keys. I really hope that doesn't become an ongoing shtick.

I rush to the Great Portland Street tube, where I hop on a Circle line train bound for Edgware Road, getting off at the Blackfriars stop. I weave my way from the tube station across the Thames to the Tate. The brick exterior doesn't
look
very modern—the building once served as a power station in the middle of the last century—but as soon as I walk inside, I'm swept away by the clean, minimalist lines: the plain taupe walls, the concrete floors, the steel beams running up the interior sides and along the ceiling.

I reach into my purse and pull out the instructions I scribbled down from the e-mail Jess sent me: Tate Modern, Level 3 Concourse, Lichtenstein retrospective.

I make my way toward the Level 3 Concourse, and as I step off the escalator I gasp. The entire space is lit in primary colors and actually
looks
like a Lichtenstein painting. Spotlights overhead dapple the floor with yellow Benday dots, like the ones in his comic book paintings, and the walls are uplit with fiery red bursts.

A woman in a black cocktail dress and wired headset stands with a clipboard in her hand near the entrance, and I approach her with awe in my eyes.

“Hi,” I say, still mesmerized by the décor. “I'm here for the event?”

“Name?”

“Kelly Madigan.”

She flips through her list and furrows her brow. “I'm sorry, your name doesn't seem to be—”

“She's with me.”

Jess emerges from behind the woman in black, her lustrous red hair drawn into a tight bun atop her head. She wears a bright green sleeveless dress and black-and-white polka-dot stockings, standing tall in her black platform heels. I suddenly feel very self-conscious about my conservative ensemble of black shift dress, black stockings, and black ballet flats. Since I came to London to work, I didn't pack much in the way of party clothes, but standing among the artsy, hip set at the Tate Modern, I wish I'd bought something special for the occasion.

“Jess—hi!” I reach in for a quick hug. “This is amazing. The lighting—I can't believe it.”

“Wait until you see the hors d'oeuvres. You'll die.”

She leads me toward a set of high cocktail tables, waving to guests on either side of the room as she glides through the narrow space.

“Thank you so much for inviting me,” I say, hurrying to keep up. “I don't really know anyone in town, so I'm beyond grateful.”

Jess waggles her fingers at a woman in the corner of the room and mouths a smiling
hiiii
. “Yeah, why did you say you were here?”

“I'm working on a cookbook.”

She slows her step and air kisses a man in an electric blue suit. “Let's talk later about the upcoming Judd exhibit,” she says, squeezing his hand and continuing on toward the bar. She turns to me. “Sorry—a cookbook? For whom?”