Too Many Cooks (27 page)

CHAPTER 35

I shouldn't go. Definitely, definitely not.

I should stay in London and work on the tacos and the kale burger. I should do laundry and call my father and do all sorts of other chores, alone, in my apartment.

But I don't want to do any of those things. I want to take the train up to Nottingham and spend Saturday afternoon with Hugh. I want to eat clotted cream fudge and see where he grew up and lie with him in his bed as he tells me more about his years at Cambridge. I want to hear more about his hopes and dreams, about his vision for Britain and for the world, about all of the things that make him tick. And I want to kiss him, and for him to kiss me back, and to pretend Natasha doesn't exist.

Which is why, even though I know I shouldn't, I show up at St. Pancras station Saturday morning and board a train for Nottingham.

Hugh left the address in a drawer in the downstairs bathroom, along with his mobile number and sixty pounds to cover the journey there and back. If it weren't for the fact that we recently discussed my cash problem and Larry's incompetence, I'd feel icky taking his money—like some sort of kept woman. But I do have a cash problem, and Larry is incompetent, so I accept the free ticket, even though I still have doubts about going at all.

The train arrives in Nottingham just before noon, and I take a taxi from the station to Hugh's house, soaking up the bustle of the city as we make our way out of the center of town. About twenty minutes later, the taxi pulls onto Hugh's crushed gravel driveway, where I find a white Volkswagen parked at the end.

I pay the driver and sidle up to the front door, suddenly nervous I've made a huge mistake. But as soon as Hugh opens the door and I see his face, I'm glad I came, mistake or not.

“You made it,” he says. “How was the journey?”

“Fine.”

“Great.” He waves me inside. “Come in, relax for a bit. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Some water would be great.” I clasp the strap to my bag as I follow him down the hallway.

He leads me into the kitchen and pours me a glass. He starts to pass it to me across the counter, but stops.

“Before I give this to you, have you ever had an elderflower cordial?”

“You mean like a cocktail with St. Germain?”

“No, no—this is a nonalcoholic drink. Like an Italian soda, flavored with elderflower syrup.”

“Then no, definitely not.”

“Would you like to try it? I think you'd like it. It's a very English thing to drink in the summer. That, and Pimm's. But it's a bit early for Pimm's.”

“It's after noon. . . .”

He holds up his hands defensively. “If you'd like a Pimm's Cup, I'm happy to make one.”

“No, elderflower cordial sounds great. I'd love to try it.”

He grabs a bottle of sparkling water from the refrigerator, along with a bottle of elderflower syrup, and mixes them together in two highball glasses, one of which he hands to me.

“Cheers,” he says, clinking his glass against mine.

I take a sip, and the fizzy drink tickles my tongue with its delicate floral flavor. “Yum,” I say, going for another sip. “Very refreshing.”

“I thought you might like it.”

I glance down the hallway. “Is Olga here?”

“No, she stayed in London. I told her I can manage on my own for the weekend.”

“And Sunil?”

“In London as well.”

“Then how did you get here?”

“I drove. Believe it or not, I do know how.”

“So . . . it's just the two of us?”

“Indeed.” He sets his glass on the counter and makes his way over to where I'm standing, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Just the two of us.”

He leans in and kisses me, but instead of relaxing into his arms, I stiffen. He pulls away.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. I'm just . . . nervous, I guess.”

“Why? We're the only ones here.”

“I know. . . .”

“Is it something I've done?”

“No, no—of course not.”

He looks down at his outfit and sniffs his shirt. “Do I smell or something?”

I laugh and stand on my toes and kiss him. “No, you do not smell.”

“Then why are you nervous?”

“Well, first of all, I've thought about having you all to myself for a long time, and now that I do . . .”

“. . . you're worried you'll discover I'm not that interesting after all.”

“The opposite, actually—that you'll discover
I'm
not that interesting.”

He kisses my forehead. “Rest assured, if anyone will fail to meet expectations, it will be me. It's sort of my speciality.”

“Yeah, shadow minister at forty, possibly future prime minister . . . I'd say you're really slacking.”

He squeezes me. “Always ready with a witty retort . . .”

I breathe in the scent of his skin, which smells like the sea. “But that isn't the only reason I'm nervous,” I say before I can stop myself.

He pulls away again. “Oh, dear. I do smell, don't I?”

“No—I mean, you smell, but you smell great. You smell . . .” I take a deep breath. “Perfect.”

“Well, thank you. But then why are you nervous?”

Because we're here alone? Because Natasha doesn't know? Because I'm falling in love with you, and I have no idea if you feel the same way about me?

“Because we're crossing a line,” I say.

“I . . . think we already have.”

“But this weekend . . . I came out here. By myself. I took the train. You
paid
for it. Before, everything we did was circumstantial—one thing led to another; there was drinking involved. But now . . . Now we're actively breaking the rules. We're trying.”

“I understand.” He hesitates, and then he adds, “And I agree.”

Part of me hoped he'd counter my argument, that he'd somehow convince both of us this weekend was no different from any of the other times. But it is different, and we both know it.

“Maybe I should go back to London,” I say.

“No—please.” He grabs my hands. “Stay.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why'? Because you're beautiful and brilliant, and I can't stop thinking about you. Because I love being with you. Because you're a total breath of fresh air.”

“But what about Natasha? She's your wife. And my boss.”

“She won't be your boss forever, or my wife.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighs. “I've been planning to talk to Natasha when she returns next week. I can't keep doing this. She may be able to keep up a sham marriage while sleeping with someone else on the side, but I can't. I'm sick of this. I'm sick of pretending.”

“Listen, I don't want to be responsible for a messy divorce. . . .”

“You aren't responsible. I mean, yes, meeting you has certainly been a catalyst, but only in the sense that you've motivated me to do what I should have done a long time ago.”

“But shouldn't we press pause until you've actually separated? Or at least until you've spoken to Natasha?”

“I don't want to wait. I'm crazy about you, Kelly. Being with you, I suddenly feel like me again—the way I felt when I played cricket, the way I felt the first time I heard live music. I don't want that to stop, not even for a few days.” He clasps my hands tightly in his. “Please stay. I want you to stay.”

I drink up his words and fall into him, my body melting against his chest.

“Okay,” I say, “I'll stay,” as if I've made a choice, even though I'd already made up my mind before I even stepped on the train.

CHAPTER 36

The inevitable occurs: on the kitchen floor, a location steamier in theory than in practice, given the cold and uneven nature of the terra-cotta tiles. With Sam, I always fantasized about having sex in some unconventional place—in the woods or a public bathroom or on a beach somewhere—but he was always too uptight and traditional for that kind of thing, so we never did. “There's a reason beds were invented,” he'd always say, or, “You do realize sand is an abrasive, right?” But with Hugh, for better or worse, there is no discussion or deliberation. It's all hot, steamy passion, which—given the circumstances—has its downsides.

As I lie on Hugh's chest, breathless as he rubs his thumb up and down my arm, his phone rings on the counter. He sits up and reaches for it, then groans. “My father,” he says. He presses Ignore. “I'll call him back later.”

“Is he still having trouble pooping?”

“No, he's moved on to an ingrown toenail. Which, again, I have no qualifications to treat.”

“He still lives around here?”

“He does. I had dinner with him and my mum last night. I'll pop round again tomorrow, although if he tries to show me his toe, I might leave.”

“How is your mom doing?”

He tosses the phone onto the counter and sits next to me, leaning against the cupboards. “Good. The best I've seen her in a while, actually. She's got serious about her gardening. I think that's helped. It's a good distraction. What about your dad?”

“I haven't talked to him in a while. If I had to guess, he's probably been taken prisoner by my mom's nemesis.”

Hugh laughs. “What?”

“Long story. Growing up, there was this woman who kind of turned into my mom's rival, and now she's sleeping in my old bedroom while she ‘helps' my dad with odds and ends around the house.”

“And your mother wouldn't like this, I gather.”

“She'd
hate
it. She left me this list of dying wishes, and right at the top was ‘Keep Irene O'Malley away from your father.' ”

He rubs his chin. “I know a few people from school who are in MI6 now. I'm sure I could arrange something.”

“Thanks. I'll let you know. For now, my brother is coming up with a plan. Assuming he can get his lazy ass off the couch for long enough . . .”

“Is your brother older or younger?”

“Younger. In every way.”

He rolls his eyes. “Sounds like my brother.”

“Has yours finished college?”

“He's thirty-seven, so yes, thank Christ. It certainly took him long enough, though. He sort of faffed about for a decade, trying his hand at a bunch of businesses that never amounted to anything. But a few years ago he met Cleona, and she finally seems to have set him straight.”

“I wish my brother would meet a Cleona.”

“She's great. You might even meet her today—she'll probably be at the fair. Speaking of which . . .” He looks at the clock. “We have forty-five minutes before it starts, but I wanted to show you something first, if you don't mind.”

“Does it involve clotted cream?”

He smiles. “No. But it's still good—I promise.”

We pull ourselves together, and then I follow Hugh out the front door and toward the white Volkswagen in his driveway. He opens the passenger door for me, and within seconds we are zooming out of his driveway and back toward the center of town. He drives quickly down the main roads and then crosses a bridge over the River Trent, zipping past a strip of shops until we approach a tall Victorian building made of red brick. A sign hangs just above the ground floor windows: TRENT BRIDGE INN.

I eye him warily. “Are you taking me to a cricket match?”

“Not a match, no. But I wanted to show you the grounds.”

He pulls around a curve in the road, taking us past the inn, and drives beside a white metal fence until he reaches a short driveway. He turns in and stops when he reaches a locked gate. A security guard approaches the car, and Hugh rolls down his window.

“Hello, Charlie,” Hugh says.

“Ah, Mr. Ballantine. One of our favorite members. Here to see Mr. Hutchley about the upcoming fund-raiser?”

“Not today, I'm afraid. Just wanted to have a look around.”

The guard hunches over and peers through Hugh's window, laying his eyes on me. “I see.”

“This is Kelly,” Hugh says. “She's helping my wife with her cookbook.” He says this as if it were the most natural thing in the world to have me in the car with him, as if any normal man would hang out with his wife's ghostwriter.

“Ah, lovely,” the guard says. “It's a bit quiet today. You'll have to come back when there's a match on. The England–India Test starts next week. Perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine can bring you back then.”

“Perhaps,” I say, trying to seem as natural as Hugh.

“Anyway, enjoy,” he says as he opens the gate. “It's a lovely day.”

Hugh puts the car into gear and waves as he pulls into a small parking lot behind a sign for the William Clarke Stand. We make our way around the outside of the grounds toward the pavilion, and once we're inside, Hugh leads me down a hallway that empties outside, where a cluster of seats looks onto an enormous field. The manicured lawn is striped with alternating bands of dark and light green grass, with a few rectangular sandy patches in the middle, and is surrounded by bright white bleachers and a large scoreboard.

“Wow—the playing field is huge,” I say. “It looks bigger than a baseball field.”

“I think it is. More like an oval than a diamond, though.”

“How many people can come here at once?”

“About seventeen thousand.”

“Really? Wrigley Field can seat like forty thousand.”

“The seats don't go very high here. Not nearly as high as in a baseball stadium.”

I scan the seats around us and then look back at Hugh. “Where would you sit with your dad when you were a kid? Here?”

“God, no. We sit here now because I'm a club member, but when I was young, we sat far away from the pavilion—usually over there.” He points to the stands across the field. Then he waves at another set of stands with a modernistic overhang that looks a little like an airplane wing. “Occasionally for a treat we'd sit over there, but of course it looked much different then. Not nearly as nice.”

I walk closer to the green and breathe in the summer air. “Did you come for the England–India Test matches?”

He snickers. “As a child? I wish. No, we mostly went to crap matches that were really cheap—the Nottingham reserve team versus the Sussex reserves or something like that. But I didn't care. I still loved it.”

“So what does one eat at a cricket match?”

“The English equivalent to what you'd eat at a baseball game—fish and chips, burgers, pasties, ice cream.” His lips curl to the side. “You really do have food on the brain constantly, don't you?”

“Pretty much.”

“Whose influence is that? Your mum's?”

I snort. “Hardly.”

“Was her cooking dreadful?”

“Not dreadful. Just . . . limited. It mostly involved processed food. Her most famous dish was a spaghetti salad.”

“What's wrong with spaghetti salad? Sounds okay to me.”

“It was. But it wasn't exactly gourmet.”

“What's in it?”

“Let's see . . . Spaghetti. Ham. Cheese. Miracle Whip.”

“Miracle what?”

“Whip. It's sort of like mayonnaise . . . but not.”

“Sounds a bit like salad cream.”

“The recipe also has something in it called ‘Accent,' which is basically straight-up MSG.” I give Hugh a sideways glance to see if he looks appalled. To my surprise, he doesn't. “Like I said, it isn't gourmet, but it's one of my top comfort foods, probably because it reminds me of my mom.”

“I have a few things like that,” Hugh says. “My grandmother used to make the most brilliant bubble and squeak. There's no science to it—it's just leftover mash and veg—but hers always tasted better than everyone else's. Never mind that it was one of the only edible things she could cook. Any time I eat it I think of her.”

“It's funny how food can do that, isn't it? Remind you so strongly of a person? Ironically, I think it must happen more often with people who don't cook much. I cook so many different things all the time that I can't imagine any one dish reminding my kids of me someday.”

“Then all food will remind them of you. Which will be even better.” He scratches his jaw. “So you want children, then?”

“I do. At least one.”

“One? Oh, no. I want at least three.”

“Three? I don't know. . . .That sounds like a lot of work. . . .”

“Nonsense. It'll be wonderful.”

“If you say so. I'd rather see what one is like and make up my mind then.” I jokingly glance down at my watch. “You'd better get a move on, sir. You aren't getting any younger.”

He hip checks me. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“I'm just saying.”

He gently brushes his fingers against mine. “You'll make a lovely mother one day.”

“I guess if our moms could do it, anyone can.”

“I mean it. You're thoughtful and kind and self-assured. You have patience and empathy. You're the whole package, really.”

“You're not so bad yourself.”

He smiles and rubs his hands together. “Right. Shall we head to the fair, then?”

“Sure. Lead the way.”

He turns around and goes back into the pavilion, and as I follow after him, I glance over my shoulder and take one more look at the cricket pitch before walking through the exit.

 

The fair is almost exactly like the ones I've been to in America—rides, games, face painting, music, food—with a few exceptions. For one, there are fewer fried things. The festivals I went to as a kid relied heavily on fried Oreos and corn dogs, both of which my mom ate with relish. I remember going to the Ypsilanti Heritage Festival one summer with her and Stevie when I was seven, and she introduced me to my first elephant ear.

“They fry elephants' EARS?” Stevie said in horror.

“No, no—it's just fried dough,” my mom said. “But it's big and flat and kind of looks like an elephant ear, so that's what they call it.”

She ordered three—overkill, given that each was the size of a dinner plate—but we demolished them, scarfing down the pillowy, cinnamon-sugar-topped dough with relish.

“Pretty good, huh?” she said, winking. Then she bought us each a corndog and a Pepsi (a “pop,” as she called it), followed by funnel cake for Stevie. I knew Stevie had already eaten too much—he was only four—but he kept whining for a funnel cake, and she wanted to play bingo, so she bought it for him anyway. He wolfed it down and then proceeded to barf all over himself, but Mom was one number away from having BINGO and didn't want to leave. So I took Stevie to the bathroom and cleaned him up, and when I got back, she was waiting for us, her hands on her hips.

“All I needed was seventeen. That's all! But that damn Irene O'Malley got twenty-six and BINGO!” She groaned. “Anyway. Everyone ready to go?”

We piled into the back of the Buick station wagon and headed home, Stevie's soiled shirt stinking up the car for the whole ride.

The memory of that afternoon floats away as a gentle breeze blows across the Nottingham fairground, the sun beating down on my bare shoulders. I breathe in the fresh summer air as I pass a table covered with all sorts of cakes—Victoria sponge, Madeira, Battenberg, lemon drizzle. Again my mind drifts to my childhood, this time to the Michigan State Fair, which my family would visit at the end of every summer. It had all sorts of contests—pie eating, hog calling, watermelon seed spitting (Stevie's favorite)—but the cake competition was my favorite challenge of all. Every year I'd eye the confections longingly: the fluffy coconut cakes, the fudgy chocolate towers filled with gooey caramel or silky buttercream, the cinnamon-laced Bundts topped with buttery streusel. The competition was divided into adult and youth categories, and when I turned twelve, I decided to enter a recipe for chocolate cupcakes with peanut butter buttercream and peanut brittle.

My mom was a little befuddled by my participation (her idea of baking involved Duncan Hines and canned, shelf-stable frosting, preferably in a blinding shade of neon), but she rode along with my dad, Stevie, and me as we carted two-dozen cupcakes to the fairgrounds in Novi. The competition was steep—pumpkin cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, German chocolate cupcakes, zucchini cupcakes with lemon buttercream—but my entry outshone them all, and I ended up taking home the blue ribbon, along with a gift certificate to King Arthur Flour.

“Cash would be a little handier, wouldn't it?” my mom said as I stroked the silky tails of the blue ribbon. Then she bent down and kissed the top of my head. “Proud of you,” she said, her breath bearing its signature ketonic sweetness. “You're my superstar. You know that, right?”

Hugh's gentle laugh shakes me out of my daydream, my mom's face evaporating into the air. I spot him across the fairground, chatting with a bunch of locals. He looks so relaxed, so self-assured, his smile taking up his whole face as he shakes their hands. I'm learning that Hugh is comfortable around everyone, or even if he isn't, he certainly makes everyone feel comfortable around him. There is an easiness to his smile, something that takes the edge off, like a glass of good wine. Part of me wonders if I'm just another sucker for his charm, another sycophant who wants a piece of the Hugh Ballantine pie. But when he catches my stare and gives me a subtle wink, I tell myself,
No, I'm different,
because even if I'm not, I have to believe that I am.