Too Many Cooks (14 page)

“Natasha Spencer? The actress?” He grimaces. “She's always struck me as a bit of a nightmare, no?”

I choose my words carefully. “She . . . is very good at what she does.”

He smiles. “I thought so.”

The waitress arrives with my drink, and the entire group goes silent. The drink glows. The damn thing actually
glows
—not like,
Oh, there's a little sparkly twinkle from the ice and the glass,
but,
Oh, wow, that chick is about to throw back a cup of neon green radioactive slush
. The daiquiri is piled high with crushed ice, and some sort of special cube sits inside, lighting up the entire glass, which is shaped like a chemical barrel. The glass is wrapped in bright yellow “biohazard” tape, with a “biohazard” flag attached to the straw, because apparently, it wasn't obvious enough that this is supposed to look like a container of nuclear waste. There might as well be a spotlight on me and a man bellowing through a microphone, “HEY, EVERYONE! CHECK OUT THE LOSER IN THE TUTU!”

“Wow,” Harry says. “They weren't kidding when they said ‘glowing radiation.'”

“Apparently not . . .”

I pick up the glass, and Harry clinks his mug against it. “Cheers,” he says. “To living dangerously.”

Harry and I talk for the rest of the evening, and I learn about his years at University College London and his job at the Centre for Policy Research. He has pale blue eyes and an easy smile, but as much as I enjoy talking to him, my mind wanders every so often to Hugh: his chiseled jaw, his slim waist, his deep laugh. I hate myself for thinking about him, for wasting my mental energy on an implausible and immoral fantasy. But I can't help myself. Ever since the night I forgot my keys, his image keeps creeping into my brain, and no matter how hard I try to make it go away, it keeps finding its way back in. The “Robin Hood” reference on the drink menu here certainly isn't helping.

At eleven o'clock, the group decides to move to another bar, and I take that as my opportunity to leave.

“Won't you come with us?” Harry asks as we slide out of the banquette.

“I have to get up early tomorrow,” I lie. “And I have to talk to my friend in Michigan in the afternoon.”

“Oh. I see.”

I follow the group down the stairway, and when we empty onto the bustling sidewalk, Harry sidles up next to me.

“I had a lovely time chatting to you tonight,” he says.

“Me too.”

That isn't a lie. I did like talking to him. He is smart and charming, with the sort of penetrating stare that indicates a genuine curiosity about the world. If it weren't for the fact that I'm exhausted, I would probably tag along. But the more tired I get, the more I think about Hugh, which means it's time for me to go to bed.

Harry reaches into his pocket and hands me a business card. “If you fancy meeting up sometime, here's my mobile number. I'd love to hear more about the cookbook.”

I stare at the card, holding it steadily between my fingertips. Why am I hesitating? Because he is attractive and single and age-appropriate? Because he and I had lots to talk about? Because he isn't Hugh?

“Maybe we can meet for a drink next week,” I say.

“That would be brilliant. I'm free any night but Friday. And Saturday, actually—I'm visiting family in Devon over the weekend.”

“Let's say Wednesday. I'll call you early in the week.”

His face brightens. “Perfect. And I promise the evening won't involve ‘glowing radiation and danger'—unless you want it to.”

“I think I'm set on both those things for a while,” I say.

He smiles as if he understands, but what he doesn't realize is that when it comes to avoiding danger, I'm not talking about a drink.

CHAPTER 17

On Sunday afternoon, I open my laptop for a video chat with Meg. I've been meaning to talk to her ever since I received the letter from my dad, but with the time difference, only weekends work for both of us.

Meg's face appears on my screen after a few rings, her curls held back with a thick, black headband.

“Top o' the morning to you, guv'nor,” she says in an appalling fake English accent.

“No one actually talks like that here. In case you were wondering.”

“Cor blimey,” she says, her accent now sounding vaguely Indian.

“Seriously, stop. That accent is borderline offensive.”

“To whom?”

“The spoken word.”

She purses her lips. “Don't tell me you've become one of those Americans who spends a little time in England and suddenly thinks she's British. You're not one of them. You're one of us.”

I glance at the ceiling. “Yes, thanks, I know.”

“I'm serious. The minute you start referring to lorries and loos, I'm sending someone to kidnap you and bring you home.”

“You should probably do that anyway.”

“Why?” She grins and rubs her hands together mischievously. “Is Natasha still being crazy?”

“No crazier than before, really. I actually haven't seen her in about a week. She's been in Paris.”

Meg heaves an envious sigh and rests her chin on her hand. “Of course she has.”

“I secretly hoped she'd take me, but alas . . .”

“Did you have the week off?”

“No, I still worked from her kitchen. Concocting a bunch of recipes she now won't try because she's ‘juicing' until Monday.”

“Well, I mean, obviously. She was just in Paris.” Meg says this as if she has intimate familiarity with juice cleanses and world travel, even though, like me before taking this job, she has never left the United States. “So wait,” she says, “you had her place all to yourself?”

“Sort of. Her housekeeper was there. And so was her husband.”

Meg wiggles her eyebrows up and down. “Oooh, so you had Mr. Hunky all to yourself?”

“No!” I take a deep breath and compose myself. “He wasn't really around. He's been working on an education bill. It's been keeping him really busy.”

Meg holds up her hands defensively. “Okay—sorry. Wow. Touched a nerve, apparently.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to jump down your throat. Things have just been . . . weird, is all.”

“Weird how?”

“I shouldn't talk about it. I take that back—there isn't even anything to talk about.”

Meg narrows her eyes further. “Kelly Josephine Madigan. You are keeping something from me.”

I try to stop my cheeks from flushing, but it's of no use. My entire face is burning up.

“No, I'm not!”

She points at the screen. “Yes, you are. How long have I known you?”

“Twenty years.”

“And how many secrets have you successfully kept from me over that period?”

I bow my head sheepishly. “None.”

“Exactly. So out with it. What's going on?”

I look back at the computer screen. “That's just it—nothing is going on. Nothing physical, anyway.”

“Nothing physical? That means it's something emotional. Are you . . . ? I mean, are you and her husband . . . ?”

“No!” I say. “I mean, there has been some mild flirting. And I guess technically I slept in his T-shirt last Friday night. . . .”

“
WHAT?
” Meg stares at the screen, her eyes wild. “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?”

She bangs on her desk so hard that, for a moment, I lose her picture, and the screen goes black.

“Hello? Meg?”

Her picture returns. I can't tell whether she's breathing or not.

“Ah, there you are,” I say. “The screen went black for a second.”

“Did it? Well, good. Because that's exactly what just happened to my brain.” She presses her hand gently to her chest and takes a deep breath. “So, take me through what you just said. Because I'm having trouble processing this. Why were you sleeping in Natasha Spencer's husband's T-shirt? And where were you while this was happening?”

I take her through the entire saga: oversleeping, forgetting my keys, calling Hugh, sleeping in the guest room. By the time I've finished the story, Meg's mouth is open so wide I can see her tonsils.

“Wait. Hold on. You're telling me you slept in Natasha's house, while her husband was there and she was away?”

“That is the story I just recounted to you, yes.”

“What happened the next morning? Did you talk? Did you have breakfast together?” She leans closer to the screen. “What did you do with the T-shirt?”

“I left it folded up on the bed. And no, we didn't have breakfast. I tried to sneak out, but he caught me, so we talked for like three minutes before I left.”

“Have you seen him since?”

I blush again. The constant blushing is becoming a problem. It is one of the many disadvantages of having fair skin.

“You
have
seen him again!” Meg crows. “Where? When?”

“At a Lichtenstein exhibit at the Tate.”

“You went
together?
”

“No, we ran into each other. I realized I have no friends here, so I connected with another U of M alum who works at the Tate, and she invited me. Hugh just happened to be there. I had no idea I'd run into him.”

“A likely story . . .”

“Meg, stop.”

“Listen, I get it. The guy is a fox. I've seen pictures.”

“It isn't like that. There's nothing going on.”

“Yet.”

“Ever.”

“I wouldn't be so sure. . . .”

“Okay, let me ask you the same question you asked me earlier: How long have you known me? Twenty years? And have I ever struck you as the kind of person who would sleep with a married man?”

She sighs. “No, of course not. But that's a scenario in a vacuum. Life isn't a vacuum.”

“I know. Which is, no doubt, the reason I'm thinking about a married man at all. I just broke up with the guy I'd been dating for six years. I'm probably just lonely.”

“Probably? Definitely. But that doesn't mean the two of you don't have a legitimate connection.”

I think back to the night I spent at Natasha's house and the way Hugh made me feel—nervous, giddy, exposed. It was never that way with Sam. If anything, Sam made me feel the opposite: calm, steady, protected. Back then, that's what I wanted from a partner—what I needed. I knew I'd always be safe with Sam. What I didn't realize until a few months ago was that the more he protected me, the more the world around me shrank. But with Hugh . . . it's different. Even though I've only known him a month, he has somehow made my world feel bigger and more complex, full of culture and excitement.

“Besides,” Meg continues, “from what you've said, it doesn't sound as if there's any romance between Hugh and Natasha. They're in separate bedrooms, right?”

“That's beside the point,” I say, shaking Hugh from my mind. “Married is married. And anyway, I met another guy last night who seems nice. He's around our age, single, and interesting.”

“Well, well, well! Isn't it rough being Kelly Madigan? On the left, a famous, hunky politician. On the right, a dapper, English gent. How
do
you find the time?”

I narrow my eyes, trying very hard not to rise to Meg's bait. “
Anyway,
” I say, changing the topic, “tell me about my dad. He says you visited him. How's he doing?”

Meg grimaces and leans back in her chair. “Not so great. I've been meaning to write you. He's . . . I think he's having a really tough time with your mom's death.”

“More than before?”

“Yes. Things have intensified.”

“How? What did he say?”

“It isn't anything he said. It's more like . . .” She trails off.

“It's more like what?”

She frowns. “Well, he isn't showering, for starters.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because he stinks, Kelly. He stinks. Anyone within ten feet knows he isn't showering. You don't have to be Sherlock fucking Holmes.”

“Ew.”

“Correct.”

I run my fingers along my keyboard. “I thought maybe he was doing better. He mentioned my mom in a letter he sent me. It's the first time he's mentioned her in a long time.”

She shrugs. “I don't know. Maybe he started doing better after I visited. But when I was there . . . Not good.”

“He's going to work, though, right?”

“I think so. I kind of feel bad for his colleagues. He really needs to get the shower situation under control.”

“I'll give him a call tonight to check up on him.”

“That's probably a good idea.” She pauses. “Don't mention that I brought up the shower thing, though.”

“You just told me he needs to ‘get the shower situation under control.'”

“He does.”

“And yet you don't want me to bring it up.”

“I don't want you to tell him I'm the one who told you. Just . . . weave it into the conversation naturally. Like, ‘I love my old-fashioned shower here. It's so great. Speaking of showers... ' You know. Like that.”

“I'll see what I can do.” I glance at the clock on my computer. “Shoot—sorry to cut this short, but I have to finish prepping three recipes for Natasha to taste tomorrow, since she wouldn't eat anything on Friday.”

“Cry me a river . . .”

“Hey—you have no idea. You'd last five minutes in this job. Trust me.”

“Not if I had Mr. Foxy Ballantine nearby . . .”

“Meg—enough. Stop.”

“Fine, fine. I won't mention him again. But if anything else happens, I want to be the first to know.”

“Nothing else is going to happen,” I say, but as I sign off, I'm not sure if I'm telling her that because I truly believe it or because I know I should.