Too Many Cooks (29 page)

“Oh, right.” She glances down at the bowl. “What's the green stuff?”

“Arugula.”

“The salad in LA didn't use arugula.”

“I know, but after testing it a few different ways, I really think the arugula adds something. Try it. I think you'll like it.”

She grabs a fork and digs a small portion out of the bowl. She takes a bite, chewing with the strange rhythm I have come to expect, and once she has swallowed she scrunches her lips to the side.

“It's good,” she says. “But it still needs something.”

“Like . . . ?”

“I don't know. Something sweet. Or a spice. Maybe a sweet spice.”

“You mean like cinnamon?”

Her eyes widen, and she bangs her hand on the counter. “Yes. Cinnamon. Exactly.”

“Easily done. I'll work on that tomorrow morning, and we can arrange a tasting for tomorrow afternoon. I'll remake the tacos and kale burgers, too. Or we can do those on Thursday. Your call.”

“Oh, no. We can't do a tasting Thursday. I'm doing the
Vogue
interview that day.”

I start. “What?”

“The
Vogue
interview.” She waves her fork in the air. “The one we've discussed a billion times?”

“You said that wasn't happening until the fifteenth.”

“No, I said it would happen mid-month.”

“Thursday is the tenth.”

She sighs, clearly exasperated. “So it's five days early.
Whatever
. It's not like you're the one doing the interview.”

“I know, but we were supposed to cook together, to get you ready.”

“So? We'll cook together tomorrow.”

“Yeah, but that's only one day.”

She sets her fork on the counter. “You're saying I need more than a day? To make a dish I've been making for years?”

“And sweet potato fries . . .”

“They're sweet potato fries. How hard can they be? It's not like I'm trying to make a fucking croquembouche. One day is plenty of time.”

“Okay, if you're sure . . .”

“I am.” She grabs her juice off the counter. “Oh, and I'd like to have some of those kale burgers ready in the refrigerator for me to throw on the indoor grill.”

Oh, dear God, the freaking kale burgers again.

“I really think you're better off sticking with the Cornish hens and the sweet potato fries,” I say. “Two recipes is plenty.”

She smiles coolly. “Good thing I don't really care what you think, then, isn't it?”

She takes another sip of her drink, screws on the cap, and leaves the kitchen without saying another word.

CHAPTER 38

As usual, the next morning Natasha shows up late, strolling into the kitchen forty minutes after our agreed-upon meeting time of 10:00 a.m. She wears a pair of distressed jeans and a gray V-neck T-shirt, her hair tied into a low ponytail.

She approaches the opposite side of the kitchen island. “Where do we start?”

No apology for keeping me waiting, no explanation for her tardiness. In other words: the usual.

“First, we peel the sweet potatoes,” I say. I push two red-skinned sweet potatoes across the counter.

She reaches tentatively for them. “Okay. But tomorrow, have them peeled before he arrives. It'll make everything go a lot quicker.”

“Sure.”

“And the stuffing for the Cornish hens—have the bread cubed and ready to go, too.”

“No problem.”

“I can take care of the rest,” she says. “Aside from the kale burgers.”

“Right. Those.”

“You'll have a version I can taste after we do the sweet potato fries, right?”

“Yep.” And you'll probably hate it.

“Good,” she says. “Now, where's the vegetable peeler?”

I hand it to her, and she begins skinning the sweet potatoes while I preheat the oven and grab the cornstarch, salt, and pepper. When she finishes, I instruct her to cut the potatoes into batons, which she does with finesse.

While she slices the potatoes, I pour some cornstarch into a large plastic bag along with some salt and pepper.

“Once you finish cutting up the sweet potatoes, we'll soak them in water for a bit, and then we'll toss them with this cornstarch, which will help them develop a nice crust in the oven,” I say.

“Why not flour?”

“I tried them that way, but they turned out kind of gummy. The cornstarch is finer. And it happens to be gluten free, which I know is something you care about.”

I fill a large bowl with water, and she dumps the raw fries into the bowl and then rinses her hands in the sink, wiping them on a fresh tea towel.

“Now what?”

“We wait while the oven preheats. With regular potatoes, you soak longer because it removes some of the starch, but sweet potatoes are less starchy, so it isn't such a big deal. If you want, we can have them soaking when he arrives tomorrow so that you can skip this step.”

“Yeah. Do that.” She tosses the tea towel onto the counter and watches as I assemble the ingredients for the spicy aioli. “So . . . I hear you kept Hugh company while I was away.”

Her comment lands in the silence between us with a thud.

I freeze. “I . . . what do you mean . . . ?”

“Exactly what I said: that you kept him company while I was in LA.”

A wave of nausea crashes over me, and I stare at her stupidly as I try to figure out what she knows and how I should respond. Does she know about Borough Market? Or that I spent the night in Nottingham? Or both? And if the answer is both . . . what else does she know?

“I ran into him a few times, I guess . . .”

“And Cleona,” she says.

Cleona. That means she knows I was in Nottingham. But who told her? If it was Hugh, that means he might have already talked to her about separating. If it was Cleona . . . well, that's different. But even if it was Cleona, that doesn't mean Natasha knows I spent the night.

“Oh, right, I ran into them at the fair in Nottingham,” I say. The lie rolls off my tongue, but my mouth feels as if it's stuffed with cotton balls. I've never been a liar, and now that I'm becoming one, I hate it. I wish I could tell her the truth. I wish this charade were over.

“What were you doing there?”

“I ran into Mr. Ballantine on Friday, and he mentioned there was a carnival in Nottingham on Saturday I might enjoy.”

She runs her fingers along the edge of the counter. “That seems like a long way to go for some lame little fair.”

I try to keep my cool. “I guess, but it was Fourth of July weekend, and I felt a little homesick. I thought a carnival might lift my spirits.”

She keeps her eyes fixed on mine. “I still think it's a little random. I'm sure there would have been plenty in London to keep you busy.”

“You're probably right,” I say, still unsure what she knows or where she is going with this, still hating that I'm lying to her face. “It wasn't that fun. The clotted cream fudge was good, but otherwise. . . nothing special.”

“Blech,” she says, sticking out her tongue. “Clotted cream fudge—that stuff makes my teeth ache.”

“Yeah, it's pretty sweet.”

“Pretty sweet?
Sickeningly
sweet. It literally makes me nauseous.” She shivers. “Anyway, Cleona said you seemed very . . . friendly.”

I stiffen. So she spoke to Cleona. That isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it isn't good either. I wonder what else Cleona said. I wonder if Hugh knows.

“She was sweet,” I say.

“Sweet?” Natasha cackles. “I wouldn't say that. She's great, but she definitely has an edge. That's what I like about her.”

“I only met her for a few minutes. It's hard to tell in such a short time.”

“I guess.” She raps her fingers against the counter. “She seemed to think I'd mentioned her to you before. I don't remember bringing her up.”

“Really? I could have sworn you said something about Hugh's sister-in-law. . . .”

She shakes her head. “No, I don't think so. Definitely not, actually.”

“Huh. Maybe I got her confused with someone else.”

“Considering that we don't talk about much other than this cookbook, I find that a little hard to believe.”

My heart thumps in my chest. What the hell is this? If she suspects something more sinister is going on, why doesn't she just say so? Does she want me to come out and say,
I'm sleeping with your husband?
Because I'm one more pointed question away from doing just that. But I try to keep it together because I haven't talked to Hugh. It isn't fair for me to pull the thread that unravels his life without speaking to him first.

“Well, anyway,” I say, trying to change the topic, “if nothing else, it was a nice day out.”

“And evening?”

My cheeks flush. God, I hate this. “No, just day.”

“Because Cleona says Hugh never made it to their barbecue, which is really unlike him.”

I shrug. “I don't know. I only ran into him at the fair. I'm not sure what he was up to the rest of the day.”

She stares at me coolly. “It just all seems very odd.”

I shrug again and offer an innocent smile, and then I look at the clock on the wall. “The sweet potatoes should be ready. Shall we?”

I reach for the bowl of soaking potatoes and pull them from the water, feeling Natasha's stare bore into me as I pretend none of what she said bothers me at all, that everything is fine, fine, fine.

 

Everything is definitely not fine. No matter what Natasha actually knows or thinks she knows or doesn't know yet, she obviously suspects something strange is going on, and she is correct. No matter how insufferable she is, no matter how platonic and businesslike her relationship with Hugh is, she doesn't deserve to find out about our affair through Hugh's sister-in-law. She should hear it from Hugh.

I try to find a time to talk to him that evening, lingering as late as possible as I finish testing a few more recipes, but at nearly six thirty, Poppy swoops into the kitchen with her hands on her hips and her tote bag slung over her shoulder.

“Are you coming?”

I toss a dirty paper towel into the trash can. “In a few minutes. I have a little more cleaning up to do.”

“I'd appreciate it if you could hurry. I have plans.”

“You don't have to wait for me,” I say, unsure why she's even implying she would. She never waits for me.

“Yes, unfortunately, I do. Olga left early because she isn't feeling well, and Natasha just left for a cocktail reception at the Savoy.”

“I can let myself out. It's fine. I know how to lock the door behind me.”

“I'm sure you do, but Natasha isn't comfortable with that.”

“Okay, well . . . maybe I could wait until Mr. Ballantine gets home and then leave.”

“No, that won't work at all.”

“Why not?”

“Well, aside from the fact that he's appearing on
Newsnight
tonight and won't be home until very late, Natasha specifically asked me to see you out.”

“She did?”

“Yes. Specifically.”

“Oh.” I try to buy myself time. “I thought by this point Natasha would trust me to lock up.”

“Natasha doesn't trust anyone,” Poppy says.

My face grows hot. “She must trust you.”

“That's because I'm the only person she
can
trust. She needs me.”

“She doesn't trust Olga?”

“A bit. She isn't too keen on trusting staff in general. The poor woman has been burned one too many times. You do know about the Matthew Rush saga, don't you?”

“He had an affair with Natasha's trainer, right?”

“And the housekeeper.”

“I thought the housekeeper was the one who sold the story to the tabloids.”

“Yes, and why do you think that was? Matthew had ended things with her, and she was jealous.”

“Oh. Wow. I didn't know.”

“Well, now you do. Natasha used to have a big entourage—bloody sycophants, the lot of them—but after the debacle with Matthew, she keeps a close circle. The fewer people she lets into the inner sanctum, the fewer people there are to let her down.”

“That seems like a really sad way to live—never trusting anyone.”

Poppy shrugs. “It comes with the territory. And anyway, sad or not, it's a far better way to live than having people constantly betray you, isn't it?”

“I guess.”

“Luckily, she's been in this business long enough to know how to sniff out the liars and the cheats. Those people get what they deserve.”

I flush. “Like . . . how?”

“She has her ways.”

“Ways? What ways?”

“I wouldn't be a very good assistant if I told you, would I?”

“I guess not.”

She purses her lips. “Anyway, as I said, I have plans for this evening, so could you
please
hurry up?”

“Two seconds—I just need to finish wiping down the counter.”

I grab a fresh rag and begin polishing the surfaces, trying not to dwell on the fact that Natasha did hire a person who betrayed her, and worse, she married one, too.

CHAPTER 39

Natasha is going to destroy me. Meg said it was a possibility, but if what Poppy says is true, my demise is both imminent and certain. Is there anything I can do to forestall catastrophe? Or am I gagged and bound to the tracks, while Natasha barrels toward me like a freight train?

The only person who might be able to save me is Hugh, but thanks to his
Newsnight
appearance, I can't talk to him until after the
Vogue
interview. I don't want to wait that long, but I also don't want to risk calling or texting or e-mailing him. Doing any of those things would leave a paper trail for Natasha or the paparazzi to pursue, and that's the last thing I need.

So I do the only things I can do: I focus on work, and I wait. The
Vogue
interview is set for eleven a.m., so I arrive at Natasha's house two hours earlier than normal to prep all of the food. I peel and slice the sweet potatoes and dump them in a large bowl of cold water, then grab the tray of cubed challah I left to dry out the night before and place it next to the other ingredients for the stuffing: the diced onion and celery, the sliced mushrooms, the powdered sage, and salt and pepper. I throw together the kale burgers and stick them in the refrigerator to chill and firm up before Natasha cooks them. She finally approved a version yesterday, though to be honest, at this point I can't tell how or why she likes this recipe better than the others. I added puréed sautéed mushrooms into the mix, so maybe she likes the meaty kick they add. I honestly have no idea.

Natasha arrives in the kitchen a little after ten, looking typically chic in a pair of silky black harem pants, a flowing white tank, and a long silver pendant that hangs from her graceful neck.

“You look nice,” I say. “I love that necklace.”

She touches the pendant absently. “Thanks. . . . So how are we doing? Is everything ready?”

“Nearly. I just have to set out a few more ingredients, like the cornstarch and the olive oil.” I glance quickly at her white tank top. “I assume you have an apron?”

“Why?”

“You're wearing a white shirt.”

“Are you suggesting I change?”

“No, no—you look great. I'd hate for you to ruin your shirt, though.”

“Since when do you care what happens to my clothing?”

“I don't.”

“Oh, so you don't care if I destroy a brand-new Alexander McQueen tank?”

“I mean . . . I guess that's your decision.”

“Oh, so now I've
decided
to ruin my own clothes?”

Dear God, what did this woman eat for breakfast this morning? Nothing, if I had to guess.

“I . . .” I shrug helplessly. “I don't know. Forget I said anything.”

She flicks her hair over her shoulder. “Whatever. Could you at least walk me through where everything is?”

“Sure.”

I gesture toward the bowl of soaking sweet potatoes and show her where I've left the ingredients for the stuffing. I take her through the steps of the sweet potato fries one last time, even though we made them yesterday, because I figure it always helps to have a recipe fresh in your mind. She seemed comfortable with the whole process yesterday, but the last thing I want is for her to freak out in the middle of the interview and then blame me later for not preparing her.

“And here are the raw Cornish hens and uncooked kale burgers,” I say, opening the refrigerator door.

She peers over my shoulder. “Those look disgusting.”

“The hens?”

“The burgers. What the hell did you do to them?”

“The same thing I did yesterday. . . .”
When you told me they were good.

“No. Those look completely different.”

“I don't think so. I used the same recipe—the same proportions of everything.”

“Are you calling me crazy, then?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Because only a
crazy
person would claim two identical things were totally different.”

“I don't think you're crazy,” I say, even though
oh my God, yes I do
.

“Then what am I?”

Dozens of words whiz through my head: crazy, insecure, self-centered, gorgeous, rude, bitchy, thin, inconsiderate, fit, forgetful, fashionable, paranoid, rich. And then it occurs to me: nervous. She's nervous about this interview. She's worried she'll make a mistake or that he'll write something unflattering about her, and she's taking it out on me. But I know better than to suggest she has a case of nerves. That won't end well for anyone.

“I don't know,” I say. “Maybe I did do something slightly different,” even though I know that isn't true.

“Well, they look totally disgusting, so there's no way I'm making them.”

“I promise they'll taste delicious,” I say. “Just like yesterday.”

“How could they taste ‘just like yesterday' if you did something slightly different?”

Because they are
exactly the same
.

“They will,” I say. “Trust me.”

“Famous last words.”

“We don't have to make them. As I said before, I think the Cornish hens and fries are plenty.”

“I know
you
thought that, but
I
wanted to make kale burgers, and now you've ruined everything. Did you at least bring pages from the manuscript for him to read?”

“I did.” I head for the kitchen table, where I grab a bound stack of papers. “I made sure your editor signed off on these pages before printing them out.”

Normally, when a project is running on schedule, I don't send off a manuscript until I've completed the entire thing. But since we're running behind, I've decided to submit the book to the editor in parts. If I'd known earlier about the potential for a
Vogue
interview, I probably would have approached the testing and writing more strategically. Then again, knowing what I know now about Natasha and Hugh and everything else, I would have done a lot of things differently. Maybe I never would have accepted this job to begin with.

Natasha flips through the manuscript and then nods curtly. “Fine. I'll give it to him when he arrives.”

This is also a little unconventional—letting a journalist see a book when it's still in early manuscript form. The thing isn't even copyedited. But apparently Natasha's publicist thinks giving a high-profile publication a sneak peek will build interest, especially since we will be much closer to publication by the time the profile comes out. The cookbook editor told me she's fine giving
Vogue
a preview of the manuscript, as long as whatever the writer prints doesn't “cannibalize” the book, but considering we haven't even started on the recipes from Natasha's time in London, there isn't much to cannibalize.

I take one more look around the kitchen. “So if that's it, I guess I'll head out until you've finished the interview.”

“What? No, you have to stay here.”

“But Poppy said you wouldn't want me here. That it would make you look bad to have me cooking with you.”

“Well, obviously. I don't want you
cooking
with me.”

“Then what would I be doing?” Sitting with my thumb up my ass?

“You'll be here with Poppy as one of my assistants. These writers always figure I have a legion of assistants, so he won't care.”

“But . . . if I'm not cooking, why do you need me here?”

“I don't
need
you. Believe me, in no way do I need you.”

“Okay . . .” Good to know I am completely unnecessary.

“But I do think it would be very useful for you to sit in on this interview,” she says. “You will learn some very . . . interesting information.”

“Oh?” Something about her tone sets me on edge.

She simpers, her green eyes twinkling in the light from the globular pendants. “I don't want to spoil it,” she says. “But I think you'll find the interview enlightening, to say the least.”

Her lips curl ever-so-slightly upward, and as she hands the manuscript back to me, I can't help but think things are about to go very, very wrong.

 

The
Vogue
writer is named Thomas, and he arrives at eleven o'clock on the dot, dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt, and a black blazer. He has a bit of a potbelly, which pokes out from above his black leather belt, and his curly, ginger hair is pulled into a low ponytail.

“Lovely to finally meet you in person,” he says as he shakes Natasha's hand. According to Poppy, they spoke on the phone last week, before Natasha left for LA. “I happened to be passing through Paris over the weekend and picked up some of that tea you recommended—divine.”

Natasha smiles, obviously tickled he took her advice. “I'm so glad you like it.”

“Adore it. In fact, as a little thank-you . . .” He reaches into his worn leather briefcase and pulls out a small tin. “They mentioned this is a new herbal tea they just started selling over the weekend. I thought you might enjoy it.”

“My goodness—thank you,” she says, taking it from his hand. “That was so thoughtful of you.”

I notice how gracious Natasha is being now that Thomas is in the room, almost as if she has transformed into a different person—the Natasha I imagined working with rather than the Natasha I actually got.

“My pleasure,” Thomas says. He looks around the room. “What a fantastic kitchen. Absolutely stunning.”

“Thank you. We put a lot of thought into getting it right.”

“I'll make sure the photographer gets plenty of shots of the space to accompany the piece.”

I crane my neck looking for a photographer, but don't see anyone.

“The photos happen later,” Poppy whispers in my ear, assuming—rightly—that I am a total newbie when it comes to celebrity magazine profiles.

“I actually have something for you,” Natasha says. She grabs the bound manuscript off the kitchen counter. “An early look at the manuscript.”

“Ah, brilliant. I can't wait to dig in.”

“It obviously still needs polishing, but at least you'll get an idea.” She glances at the clock. “Anyway, I'm on a bit of a tight schedule, so we should probably get started. . . .”

“Right. Of course. Where should we begin?”

“With my grandmother's Cornish hen recipe. Come on. I'll show you.”

She leads him to the area along the counter where I laid out all of the ingredients for the hens and throws on a crisp navy-and-white-striped apron.

“I hope you don't mind,” she says, as she ties the apron strings behind her back. “I told my assistants, Poppy and Kelly, they could hang around for the interview.”

“No problem at all,” he says, smiling in our direction. Poppy and I are still standing by the kitchen table, our hands clasped in front of us.

“Good,” Natasha says. “Now, let's start with the stuffing.”

Thomas places a small recorder on the counter, and Poppy and I take seats at the table while the two of them start cooking. As Poppy taps away on her phone, I try not to jump in with a suggestion or a correction as Natasha sautés the onions and celery or seasons the mushrooms. It's not that she's doing anything wrong, but she isn't executing the recipe the way I wrote it in the manuscript—the very manuscript she just gave Thomas to read and cook through on his own. If he tries to replicate this recipe, it will definitely taste different—possibly better, given how much testing I did, but different nonetheless.

As they slice and sauté and stuff, they chat about Natasha's mother, her grandmother, her favorite restaurants growing up in Philadelphia. Thomas occasionally pulls a small notebook from his pocket and scribbles in it, especially when Natasha says something touching about her mom or a particular childhood memory. Having spent a decent amount of time around Natasha by this point, I'm impressed by her ability to seem so open and forthcoming, when in fact I know she is holding a lot back. She gives just enough information to make herself seem real and rounded, but not quite enough to seem flawed. It's masterful.

Once the Cornish hens are in the oven, Natasha and Thomas move on to the sweet potato fries, which Natasha prepares exactly as we did yesterday, a huge relief on my part. I'd worried that, on a whim, she'd decide I'd used too much oil or not enough cornstarch and go rogue at some point during the cooking process. But unlike with the Cornish hens, which she's made many times, she's only made the fries with me, so she seems more comfortable sticking to the playbook.

Thomas opens the door to the second oven, and Natasha slides the tray of sweet potato fries inside. After she's rinsed her hands and wiped them dry, she offers Thomas a glass of Chablis, which he gladly accepts. She grabs a glass, pausing momentarily as she notices there is one red wineglass missing on the shelf above. My breath shortens as I recall the night—
the
night—when everything changed, right here in this kitchen. Did Hugh ever explain about the broken glass? Did he tell her he did it? Or did he forget?

She shakes herself out of her trance and places the glass on the counter, filling it with a crisp white wine that sparkles as it splashes into the glass. I notice she does not pour herself any, which seems a little odd, but then again, I've never seen Natasha drink very much. Even at the dinner in Nottingham, she only had a single glass of wine, though maybe that's because she was still hungover from the Scotch the night before. That, or she decided she didn't need the extra calories.