Too Many Cooks (30 page)

She carries Thomas's wine and a glass of water for herself to the other end of the kitchen table, where she and Thomas sit and carry on with the interview while they wait for the hens and fries to come out of the oven.

“So,” he says, “we've talked a bit about your family's influence on your interest in food and cooking, but what about your husband?”

“Oh, Hugh adores food. I have yet to find a dish he doesn't like.” She pauses. “I take that back. A friend made us kale burgers a few weeks back, and he thought they were disgusting.”

Thomas wrinkles his nose. “Kale burgers?”

“They're not as bad as they sound, at least when you make them right. But this friend . . . let's just say she didn't. She's actually made a few doozies, but of course Hugh is too polite to say anything.”

My cheeks flush as I clench my jaw. Hugh loves my food. He's
told
me he loves my food. He even said the kale burgers were good, even though he normally doesn't like that kind of thing—never mind that it was Natasha's idea that I make them in the first place.

“Do you two ever cook together?”

She titters. “Oh, God, no. Hugh loves to eat, but cooking . . . let's just say it's a good thing he leaves that to me.”

Not true!
I want to say. He made me a delicious English breakfast the morning after the Nottingham dinner, and after the fair, he cooked steaks and potatoes. He may not be Joël Robuchon, but he knows how to cook.

“It must be difficult to find time to eat together,” Thomas says, “given that you both have such high-powered careers.”

“It's definitely a challenge.”

“How often are you able to?”

“Not as often as either of us would like.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder and sits up straighter. “But we make time whenever we can. We are both very committed to our marriage.”

Her voice hardens in the last sentence, as if she is putting particular emphasis on this point. Is she doing that for Thomas? Or for me?

“That's lovely to hear,” Thomas says. “Most people with your kind of jobs would be like ships passing in the night.”

“It can feel that way sometimes, but we make an extra effort to reconnect. A marriage requires work and attention, and we both feel really strongly that we want to put in that time.”

“There's talk of your husband's becoming prime minister someday.”

She shrugs coyly. “Talk is talk.”

“But how would you feel about that?”

“I'd be supportive, of course. I think he'd make a great leader. He really does love this country. Having lived here a while, I can understand why. People here are so . . . likable. And sophisticated. Just the other week, we hosted a dinner for some of Hugh's constituents in Nottingham, and all I could think was, ‘These people care about all the right things.' ”

I take a calming breath, trying not to erupt in the midst of this sham of an interview. Natasha is so full of shit it's a wonder her sparkling green eyes haven't turned brown. Likable? Sophisticated? Since when does she think that? And what's all this about being committed to their marriage? What a load of crap.

“Has that not been your experience in America?” Thomas asks.

“Americans are just . . . different.”

“Different how?”

“I don't know. Less worldly, I guess. And just generally . . . different.”

Thomas nods and jots something in his notebook. “Two countries divided by a common language,” he says with a smirk.

She sips her water. “Anyway, all of this is speculative. Right now, Hugh is content with his post as an MP for Nottingham and as shadow education secretary. Anything to do with Downing Street would be way, way in the future.”

“Speaking of the future . . .” He looks up from his notebook. “Do you two have any plans for children at some point down the line?”

Given what Hugh has told me about their relationship, I expect Natasha to shift in her seat and blush and dismiss his question with a perfunctory,
Of course . . . someday
. Instead, she takes another sip of water, places the glass on the table, and smiles gently.

“Actually, I hadn't intended to bring this up yet, since it's very early, but . . .” She rests her hand gently on her stomach. “Hugh and I are expecting.”

Poppy's head whips up from her phone, and for a moment, I stop breathing. Did she just say . . . ? No. No, that can't be right.

Thomas raises his eyebrows. “I—I'm sorry . . . Are you . . . you're pregnant?”

She beams. “I am.”

“How far along?”

“Still early in the first trimester, which is why we haven't told anyone.”

My gut churns. That can't be right, can it? The room starts spinning. If she's pregnant, then that means . . . No. No, she can't be. That's impossible. Unless it's Jacques's?

“When do you plan to make an announcement?”

“Initially we wanted to wait, but . . . well, I guess the cat's out of the bag.”

“So I can report this?”

She shrugs. “Sure, why not? My publicist will probably flip, but the news will come out eventually, so it might as well be now.”

“As you know, this profile won't come out for many months, but if you don't mind my filing a quick newsflash sooner about the pregnancy . . .”

“Sure,” she says. “Go for it.”

Thomas starts to say something, but the timer for the sweet potatoes starts blaring and interrupts him.

“Ah, sounds like the fries are ready,” Natasha says.

“Brilliant.” He clears his throat. “Would you mind if I . . . popped outside for a moment to call my editor? I'd like to brief her on all of this.”

“Sure,” Natasha says. “Not a problem at all.”

She lets him out the door to the back garden, and as she makes her way toward the oven, she glances over her shoulder, and for a fleeting instant, so brief I could have imagined it, I swear she fixes her eyes on mine and smiles.

CHAPTER 40

No. This can't be happening. She can't be pregnant. She
can't
. Aside from the fact that she and Hugh allegedly never have sex, she is on birth control. Or at least she was in early May, when I helped Poppy sort through her trash. I realize birth control pills aren't 100 percent effective, but they work most of the time. And didn't she just have her period a few weeks ago?

I need to talk to Hugh. That's what I need to do. I need to talk to him and figure out what is going on. Has he been lying to me? Or is Natasha lying to all of us? What if she is pregnant with her lover's baby? What if she isn't pregnant at all?

My head is still spinning when Thomas comes back inside, feverish with excitement over this latest turn of events. “I've spoken to my editor,” he says. “She wants to run something within the hour, but she wanted me to double-check with you first. Are you sure you're okay with revealing your pregnancy this way? It's . . . quite unconventional.”

“It's fine,” she says.

“Okay. If you're sure.”

I know what he's thinking:
Are you sure your publicist will be okay with this? Are you sure your HUSBAND will be okay with this?
Because even I know the answer to those questions is a resounding,
NO
. This is Natasha going rogue, for reasons only she knows, and part of me senses she cares less about the immediate impact on her own reputation and more about the impact on others. But whether she has me or Hugh or someone else in her sights, I'm not sure.

“What, then, is the quote you and your husband would like to give about this happy news?”

She bites her lip as she shovels the sweet potato fries into a napkin-lined basket. “How about . . . ‘We are thrilled that our dream of becoming parents has finally come true, and we cannot wait to meet the new addition to our family.'”

“Lovely.” Thomas smiles as he writes furiously in his notebook. “If you'll give me one more quick second to send this along to my editor, I'll be back to join you for what looks like a delicious lunch.”

She looks up at the clock. “I'm a little tight on time. . . .”

“Not to worry. I won't be more than a moment.”

He steps outside again, and once he has closed the door behind him, Poppy clears her throat.

“Shall I contact Nicole?” she asks, referring to Natasha's publicist, who is based in LA.

“Yeah, that's probably a good idea,” Natasha says as she brings the fries to the table.

“And . . . Mr. Ballantine?”

“What about him?”

“Shall I contact him as well?”

“To tell him I'm pregnant?”

“No, to tell him
Vogue
will be reporting the news within the hour.”

“Oh. Right.” She pauses. “No, why don't you stick to Nicole. You'll have your hands full with her.”

“I can call Mr. Ballantine,” I blurt out, before I can stop myself.

Natasha and Poppy lock eyes with each other and then look at me. Poppy frowns. “Why would
you
call Mr. Ballantine?”

“Just to, you know, cover the bases. Since you'll be busy dealing with Nicole.”

“You don't think I can handle my own husband?”

“Of course—it's just . . . you're having lunch with Thomas, and you still have to finish the interview. I thought I'd save you time.”

My real motive, of course, is to speak with Hugh before the news comes out so that I can figure out what the hell is going on and what this means for me—for
us
.

“Thanks, but I have this under control,” Natasha says. “And anyway, Hugh will be impossible to get ahold of today. He's in Nottingham again, in meetings all day.”

My stomach sinks. “He is?” I try not to show my disappointment. “When will he be back?”

“Why do you care?”

“I don't. I was just curious.”

Natasha takes the Cornish hens from the oven. “I have no idea when he'll return. I'm going up tomorrow to meet him, and we're spending the weekend together, and I'm not really sure when either of us is coming back.”

“Oh.” My hand starts shaking beneath the table, and the air in the room feels thicker with each passing second. She doesn't know when they'll be coming back? What does that even mean? Surely Hugh has to return to London at some point because that's where Parliament is. On the other hand, from what Hugh told me, nothing really happens in July or August. Does that mean Hugh could be in Nottingham for the rest of the summer? Would he really do that without even saying good-bye to me?

I take a deep breath, trying to keep my composure. “We still have a lot of recipes to test for the book,” I say.

“So?”

“So it would be great to have you around for tastings and advice. Do you think you'll be back within the next week or so?”

She places her potholders on the counter. “Probably. And if not, I'll make sure Poppy has all the information you need.”

“Okay.”

I can't ask the follow-up questions I really want to ask:
Will Hugh come back with you? And if not, when does he plan to return?
But that's all I really care about, and something about Natasha's demeanor tells me she is hell-bent on my not knowing the answer.

Thomas reappears as Natasha places the platter of hens on the table, a big smile on his face. “All settled,” he says. “The story should appear online within the hour.”

Natasha gently presses her hand against her stomach as she slides into one of the kitchen chairs. “I should probably prepare for an onslaught.”

“If anyone can handle it, my guess is you can,” Thomas says.

“Yeah, this isn't my first time at the rodeo. . . .” The anxious edge in her voice belies the smile on her face.

Thomas pulls out a chair across from Natasha and claps his hands together. “Right. So shall we dig in? This all looks marvelous.”

“Please—help yourself.”

She passes both platters to Thomas, while Poppy and I sit, gawking at the two of them from the other end of the table. When he has filled his plate, he passes them back to her, and she helps herself to one of the hens, along with a small portion of fries.

“Better take more than that,” Thomas says with a wink. “You're eating for two now.”

She smiles politely and reaches for the serving fork, but as she hesitates, her hand hovering in the air as if it's suspended in ice, the only thought running through my head is,
No, she isn't
.

 

Within the hour, Thomas has left, and Natasha's and Poppy's phones are ringing nonstop. Predictably, Natasha's publicist, Nicole, is going apeshit, as she now has to deal with a barrage of media calls on a matter for which she has no game plan and about which she had no prior knowledge.

“Nicole—chill,” I hear Natasha say as I help Olga tidy the kitchen so that I can continue testing this afternoon. “It's fine. The news is out there. It's over.”

I hear loud screeching coming through the receiver. “Listen, I'm sorry I didn't talk to you first, but it just sort of came out in the middle of the interview. It isn't a big deal.”

More screeching.

“I know it's early. Yes, I know what can happen in the first trimester.” Natasha sighs. “And if that happens, we'll cross that bridge, okay? I don't see the point in keeping it all a big secret.”

She carries on mollifying Nicole, while Poppy fends off calls from other people in the industry, like Natasha's agent, who is similarly pissed that he is finding out about this news on the Internet. As all of this is going on, I wonder how bad it will be if and when it comes out that Natasha isn't pregnant after all—that this is all a big ruse.

Because it is. It has to be. A mere two weeks ago, she was drinking so much Scotch in Nottingham that she had a hangover. I guess she could have been pregnant and not known, but when I try to do the math—the timing of her period, the birth control—it doesn't add up. She doesn't have any symptoms—no nausea, no fatigue, no lightheadedness. She's been bitchy ever since she returned from LA, but that's standard operating procedure. Absolutely nothing has changed, other than her sudden suspicious attitude toward me.

I finish helping Olga clean up the kitchen, and then Olga disappears upstairs with Poppy to help Natasha organize and pack for Nottingham. Even though I feel like curling into a ball and hiding in a corner somewhere, I decide to press on with the recipe development, turning my sights now to a roasted eggplant salad and garlicky white bean dip.

As I search through the walk-in pantry for a few cans of white beans, I hear Natasha enter the kitchen on her phone.

“Well, maybe if I could ever get ahold of you, you wouldn't have found out through a Web site.”

I freeze, staying out of sight in the pantry as Natasha continues to talk on the phone.

“So?” She pauses. “What difference does that make? We can figure that out later. I don't understand why you're freaking out about this. No one will know.”

I can barely breath as I eavesdrop on her conversation. She has to be talking to Hugh.

“I thought this was what you wanted. I thought you said a family would be great for your career.” She huffs. “Well, maybe you should have been clearer.” She listens as he says something on the other end. “Why should I have to clear it with you first? You don't clear everything with me. . . . Like what? Oh, I don't know, maybe like taking my ghostwriter with you to Nottingham.” I hear her open the refrigerator and close it again. “You think I care? It looks bad—for both of us.” She takes a sip of something. “So? We'll figure it out. And if we have to lose the baby, we lose the baby. People will understand. Miscarriages happen. They'll have sympathy for me—for
us
.”

Her voice fades as she leaves the room, and I emerge from the pantry, my hands shaking as they clasp two cans of white beans, my stomach in knots. I place the cans on the counter and slide into one of the kitchen chairs, and then I hold my head in my hands and start crying because, at this point, I'm not sure what else to do.