Too Many Cooks (21 page)

“I'm sure no one will mind if there aren't stuffed dates on the table.”

“You're joking, right? Have you even
eaten
tapas before?”

“I have, actually.”

“Where? In Bumblefuck USA?”

“In Chicago.”
At some of the best tapas restaurants in the country
.

“Well, I don't know how they do it in Chi-CAH-go, but in New York and London and freaking SPAIN, they have stuffed dates.”

I'm tempted to tell her I'm sure they do, but that this is a home-cooked dinner party, not an exhaustive gastronomical tour of a country's cuisine. But given the fierce look in her eyes, I decide there is no point.

“Okay . . . well . . . I'm sure there's something we can do to fix this,” I say, though to be honest, unless the solution involves teleporting or time travel, I'm not sure what that is.

“There'd better be,” she says. “I want this dinner to be perfect.”

I hold my breath and race through my mental recipe catalogue. There are no dates in this house—that much I know—because Natasha used the last of them in her kale smoothie yesterday afternoon. But I do have some dried apricots left over from the green bean salad. I could do something with those.

“What if instead of stuffed dates wrapped in bacon, we served dried apricots topped with herbed goat cheese and a crisped shard of Serrano ham?”

“Would they be warm?”

“No. But at this point, it's the best riff I can come up with.”

She bites her lip, and after a few moments of consideration, she shrugs in exasperation. “Fine. Whatever. Just do it.”

She turns to leave, and as she does she grunts. “God, this party is a disaster before it's even started.”

She tosses her hair over her shoulder and hurries out of the room, and as the hem of her duster jacket billows behind her, I can't decide whether it makes her look like a dragon or a queen.

CHAPTER 25

The apricot canapés are phenomenal—so good, in fact, they should have been part of the menu all along. I lay them on Natasha's cocktail table next to the warm olives and boquerones, and, as her guests arrive and begin grazing on a few light bites before I bring out the rest of the tapas, I can hear the
ooohs
and
aaaahs
echoing from the overhang above.

Under Natasha's strict instructions, I should allow the guests to mingle and graze in the living room for an hour, at which point the dinner party will progress into the dining room, where Olga will bring up the rest of the dishes and, along with another hired hand, fill wineglasses, clear plates, and otherwise attend to Natasha's guests' needs. I need to time everything down to the minute, so that there aren't awkward gaps between dishes or a rush of too many at once. I also need to make sure nothing sits on the kitchen counter for too long before Olga takes it upstairs.

I pull the apple and Manchego salad from the refrigerator and divide it among three serving bowls, which I will give Olga to take upstairs and lay along Natasha's walnut dining table. The table itself is a spectacular work of craftsmanship: a twelve-foot slab of raw-edged claro walnut, as if a lumberjack sliced a massive tree from top to bottom and then placed it upon a polished bronze base. The base has been crafted to look like branches, crawling outward from the center across the floor, and Olga set the table with similarly chic but rustic tableware and linens. I won't spend any time upstairs during the party, but I managed to sneak a quick peek while Olga set up, and the table setting—the entire room, actually, with its Lucite chairs and petrified wood stools and what appeared to be a painting by Robert Motherwell—took my breath away.

I divide the tomato and green bean salads in the same way I did the apple one, so that the first wave of tapas will feature a variety of cool dishes scattered along the table. The tortilla española will follow, and then Olga and her helper will clear the plates, set new ones, and prepare for the wave of hot foods. That's when the timing could get a little hairy. I'll need to fry the
croquetas
and then immediately get going on the seafood and steak.

The chatter dissipates as the guests upstairs move from the living room into the dining room, and soon there is a hush in the kitchen, nothing but the sound of bowls and serving spoons clanking against the marble counter. Olga and her assistant whisk the salads upstairs, and I swirl my tortilla with aioli, before slicing it into thick wedges. I set them out for Olga to take up when the crowd is ready, and while I wait for her to return, I adjust the heat beneath a pot of oil, not wanting it to boil over and start a grease fire before dinner is even halfway through.

The tortillas go up, a few empty salad bowls come down, and when Olga gives me the high sign, I fry the
croquetas,
dropping the breaded balls of smoky ham and creamy béchamel into the hot oil. The oil foams and sizzles as I plop in each ball, and the kitchen fills with the smell of deep-fried bacon. Using a skimmer, I scoop out the crispy croquettes, each one a deep golden brown, and lay them on paper towels to drain while I fire the next batch. Once I've cooked them all, I quickly transfer them to platters, which Olga takes upstairs.

As I root through the refrigerator for the marinating shrimp and squid, I hear Olga reenter the kitchen behind me. “Hey, before you add any more dishes to the dishwasher, could you do me a favor and grab another roll of paper towels from the pantry?”

A deep voice replies. “I'm . . . afraid I don't know where Olga keeps them.”

I whirl around and find Hugh standing on the other side of the island. My pulse quickens. He looks, as always, absurdly handsome, dressed tonight in a crisp white button-down, which he has tucked into dark gray trousers. He carries a glass of white wine in one hand, the other hand tucked into his pocket. This is the first time I've seen him since The Incident Tuesday night.

“Oh,” I say, trying to catch my breath. “I thought you were Olga.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“I'm not disappointed. Just . . .”
Flustered, nervous, guilt-ridden
. “Surprised,” I say.

“Happily, I hope.”

“I . . .” I don't know how to respond to that. Happy to see him? Happy doesn't begin to describe it.

“I'm sorry—I'm really busy,” I finally say. “I still have a few courses to go, and if I don't stay on schedule, everything will fall apart.”

“Sorry—of course. I just wanted to tell you everything has been brilliant so far. Everyone is making a huge fuss.”

“Well, that's good to hear.”

“You have many fans,” he says. “Though I am probably one of the biggest.”

I tear my eyes away and turn back to the refrigerator, loading up my arms with the marinating seafood. “Listen, I really need to start cooking this seafood or I'll be—”

“I can't stop thinking about you,” he says.

I freeze. Only when I begin to feel dizzy do I realize I've been holding my breath.

I turn slowly, letting the refrigerator door close behind me as I set the shrimp and squid on the counter. “Don't say that.” My voice is a trembling whisper.

“But it's true. I can't.”

“Don't say that,” I repeat.

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“Yes, but . . . Can you honestly tell me you don't feel the same way?”

“So what if I do? You're married.”

“I told you—our marriage, it isn't real. We aren't in love.”

“That doesn't matter. As far as the outside world is concerned, you're happily married.”

He stares at the floor. Then he looks up at me, his eyes intense. “But if that were to change . . .”

“If what were to change?”

“Where the hell is Hugh?” Natasha's voice echoes down the hall, cutting off Hugh before he can answer. She pokes her head through the kitchen door. “There you are. What are you doing down here? Everyone's asking where you went.”

“I was just complimenting Kelly on the lovely meal.”

“Yeah, well, it isn't over yet, so maybe you shouldn't get ahead of yourself,” she says. “And anyway, you're making me look bad.”

“Not as bad as I would have had I stayed and listened to bloody Imogen prattle on about the lack of suitable holiday homes in Avignon.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Please. Like it's half as bad as listening to some of your friends talk politics. Or fucking cricket.”

“Yes, please do remind me of your thoughts on cricket. I'd quite forgotten.”

She shoots him an icy look and then glances at me. “Could we not do this in front of the help?”

“She isn't ‘the help,' ” Hugh says. “She has a name.”

“It's okay. . . .” I say, wanting both of them to leave immediately. Aside from this situation's being awkward beyond belief, I really have to start cooking the seafood, and it seems kind of inappropriate to do so in the middle of their argument.

“Whatever,” Natasha says. “Just . . . come back upstairs.
Kelly
needs to finish cooking the meal.”

She grabs his arm and pulls him away, and as the two of them walk through the doorway, I pretend I don't see him look back over his shoulder.

 

The party is a massive hit. Except for a slight hiccup in timing between serving the
croquetas
and the squid, everything runs smoothly, each dish hitting all the right notes. The squid comes out tender and garlicky, with a slight char from the iron griddle, and the grilled steak is the perfect medium rare, its flavor set off by the piquant salsa verde. When Olga finally returns after bringing up the cheese course, she dumps the rest of the dirty plates in the sink and says, “Miss Natasha, she is happy.”

“Really?” Because she didn't seem all that happy the last time I saw her . . .

“Yes. Everyone love the food.” She pats my shoulder as she helps me wipe down the counter. “Is good.”

Olga and her helper—a surly forty-something brunette whose name I never catch—help me unload the first wave of dishes from the dishwasher, and then we quickly reload with more dirty dishes from the sink before the two of them return upstairs. After a few more trips up and down, they help me finish cleaning the kitchen, and by midnight, nearly everything is back in its right place.

Around twelve thirty, Natasha wanders down to the kitchen. I heard the door open and shut a few times, so I know some guests have left, but I still hear the muffled echo of chitter-chatter coming from the floor above, so I know at least a few guests are still here.

“Nice job,” she says, gliding up to the counter. She stops when she reaches the edge and presses her hands against the surface.

“Thanks. I'm glad everything turned out the way you wanted.”

“Well, let's not kid ourselves; it wasn't really the way I
wanted
. I
wanted
stuffed dates. But everyone seemed to like those apricots, so I guess it isn't the end of the world.”

“Maybe we could add the apricots to your book,” I say. “Assuming you liked them.”

“Maybe. I'll think about it.” She raps her fingernails against the counter. “Oh, and I'm sorry about earlier,” she says. “With Hugh.”

I try not to look as nervous as I feel. “You don't need to apologize.”

“You're right. I don't. He's the one who acted like an ass. But I feel like I need to apologize on his behalf.”

“Really, there's nothing to be sorry about.”

“Whatever. It's over.” She sighs. “Anyway, given his behavior tonight, I cannot
believe
I'm even asking you this, but I was wondering. . . Next weekend we're hosting a dinner party in Nottingham for a bunch of people in his constituency—the local treasurer, some other random officers—and I could use your help.”

“Okay. Sure. Sort of like tonight?”

“No. Not at all, actually. These people, they're much more . . . well, Hugh would say ‘down to earth,' but I'd say unsophisticated. You should see some of the haircuts—unreal. But there's a general election next year, so he needs to rub elbows with all of the local people and make a good impression.” She rolls her eyes. “Politics.”

“I could draw up a simple menu—a roast, something very traditional and English.”

“That would be perfect,” she says. “Oh, but here's the hitch: it needs to seem as if I cooked it.”

“Oh.” I hesitate. “Okay . . .”

“I know. It's ridiculous. But Hugh doesn't want to seem like the guy who married a movie star and lost touch with the common folk. Never mind that he
did
marry a movie star, but whatever. It's what I signed up for when we got married.”

I try not to dwell too much on her reference to their marriage, even though I have a vast array of questions.

“I could make a bunch of dishes that you could bring up with you and just reheat in the oven,” I say.

“How would we transport them?”

“I could put the food in some hotel pans. And for last-minute things, like Yorkshire puddings or whatever, I could send a list of instructions.”

“No. That won't work.”

“Why not?”

“I don't eat the way those people eat. I've never made Yorkshire puddings or bread sauce or whatever the hell they cook for their Sunday lunches. The last thing Hugh needs is for me to ruin dinner for the major players in his constituency. No, I think it would be better if you came with me—sort of played the woman behind the curtain.”

“But would Hugh—sorry, Mr. Ballantine—be okay with that?”

“It was his idea, actually. Given how successful tonight's dinner was, he was all, ‘Oooh, we should bring Kelly along next weekend. '”

My head feels light. “He said that?”

“Believe me, I'm as surprised as you are. We can talk through the details next week, but count on coming up with Sunil next Saturday. Hugh and I will go separately on Friday.”

Shit. Saturday. I'm supposed to see Harry on Saturday. I can't cancel on him a third time. He'll never speak to me again. Maybe we could meet for a nightcap after the dinner in Nottingham. It isn't ideal, but it's better than bailing.

“What time will I be able to leave after the dinner?”

“Sunil will take you back with me on Sunday.”

I hesitate. “On Sunday?”

“It'll be too late to drive back to London by the time everything wraps up. And just because I'm playing housewife doesn't mean I plan to clean all of those dishes myself.”

Or, if I had to guess, at all.

I'm about to ask if I can slip out early, but she cuts me off by slapping the counter.

“Good. It's settled then.” She makes like she is about to leave the room, then stops herself. “You know what? Let's not include those apricots in the cookbook. They weren't
that
good.”

Her hips shake from side to side as she glides out of the room, and I have to muster every ounce of self-control not to call after her,
I bet your husband disagrees
.