Too Many Cooks (31 page)

CHAPTER 41

I'm trapped.
We're
trapped. I could barely envision a future for Hugh and me when he was simply a member of Parliament married to a movie star. But now he's a member of Parliament married to a
pregnant
movie star, and even if that pregnancy is faker than their marriage, the public doesn't know that. If Natasha has her way, they never will.

I call Hugh's cell phone as soon as I get home from work that evening. I hadn't wanted to call him, for fear of leaving a paper trail, but at this point, I'm more worried about my career and love life and the potential for both to implode.

Unfortunately, the call goes straight to voice mail. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. The press is probably hounding him after Natasha's announcement. I leave a brief but frantic message:

“Hi. It's me. Call me as soon as you get this.”

I contemplate calling his Nottingham office, too, but decide that's asking for trouble—a decision I increasingly regret when he doesn't call me back. Did he not get my message? Or does he not want to talk to me?

I check my e-mail obsessively all evening, hoping for a quick note from Hugh to indicate he at least received my message. But there's nothing. That means I'll have to wait until tomorrow to talk to him—assuming I don't lose my mind first.

Before I go to bed, I check my e-mail one last time. My pulse quickens when I see there's a new one in my in-box. But to my disappointment, it isn't from Hugh. It's from my brother.

The next morning, I arrive at Natasha's house to find a mob of paparazzi loitering out front, all of them hoping to snap a shot of Natasha's nonexistent “bump.” I hunch my shoulders and push my way through the crowd, and one of her security guards escorts me through the front gate. Cameras and flashes click in rapid succession as the gate opens and closes, but there is nothing to shoot, other than the guard and me.

“How long have they been out there?” I ask.

“Since yesterday,” the guard says. “Bit silly, really. She snuck out early this morning. She's already in Nottingham. Not sure what they're hoping to see.”

Olga lets me in the side entrance, seeming a little on edge. “All the cameras—
oy
. It haven't been like this since they move in.”

“Shouldn't someone tell them Natasha's not here? Or that she isn't coming back for a while?”

“Meh. If they too stupid to figure it out, they can wait.” She heads for the island and rearranges a bouquet of white lilies. “Oh, but I buy new brand of tahini on Edgware Road. Supposed to be best kind—special sesame seeds or something.”

I dump my bag on a chair. “Thanks. Sounds delicious.”

“I go pick up dry cleaning now. You need anything else?”

“No, I think I'm okay. But thank you.”

She grabs her purse and leaves through the servants' entrance, and as soon as I'm sure she's gone, I grab my phone and try Hugh's cell again. He picks up after two rings.

“Kelly?” He speaks in a low whisper.

“It's me.”

“Oh, thank God,” he says. “I've been going mad. I wanted to call you yesterday, but my office was swamped with reporters.”

“What is going on? What is this?”

“I don't know. Natasha arrived early this morning, and we're speaking later. It's a mess. I'm so sorry.”

“There's no way she could be pregnant, right?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

“I don't know. But I'll fix this. I promise.”

“How?”

“I just . . . will, okay? Give me time.”

“
Mr. Ballantine?
”

Someone calls to him in the background, and he muffles the receiver. “Mr. Brandt—hi. I'll be there in one minute.” He redirects his voice into the phone. “Listen, I have to go. But I'll call you once I've had a long talk with Natasha. Okay?”

“Okay . . .”

There is a brief silence on the other end. “I love you, Kelly. Whatever happens, I want you to know that.”

And although I know he means for those words to reassure me—words I've longed to hear him say—they don't. Today, they do the opposite.

 

Five days pass without my hearing from Hugh—or Natasha, for that matter. Poppy informs me they decided to take a quick trip to the Scottish Highlands to escape the paparazzi, meaning I have been on my own, with only Poppy to advise me. I hate the idea of Hugh and Natasha in some far-flung place. What are they doing up there? This is the longest period of time they've spent in each other's presence since I arrived and possibly in years. Picturing them together makes me blind with jealousy. I can't focus on anything else—not my work, not my appearance, not my weekly chores. All I can think about is Natasha's reeling Hugh in with her manipulative schemes.

If ever I needed a friend in London, it's now. But Jess Walters is on an exploratory trip to Sweden for work, and Poppy has made it abundantly clear that she is Natasha's surrogate, not my pal. Harry hasn't called me since I bailed on our last date, so he's out—and even if he weren't, the last thing he'd want to hear is that I've been sleeping with someone else instead of dating him. Meg has been at her grandparents' cottage on Saginaw Bay for the past week and is incommunicado, and I haven't kept up with the rest of my high school and college friends enough to warrant a call from England. Obviously I can't call Sam about this, given that I broke his heart and haven't spoken with him in months. I could call my dad or Stevie, but doing so would only make me more frustrated than I already am.

I suppose the person I want to speak with most is my mom. For all her faults, for all of the missed school plays and embarrassing outfits, she was always there with a hug when I needed it. She didn't always say exactly the right thing or have the perfect solution, but sometimes I didn't need words or answers. I just needed love, the unconditional kind that only a mother knows how to give, even when she didn't know how to provide much else. I miss her. And somehow, fearing Hugh is slipping through my fingers, I feel as if I'm losing her all over again.

When I feel lost and out of control like this, there are only two things that can ground me: cooking and writing. So as the week slips by, I buy a box of spaghetti, some ham, and a few other ingredients, including salad cream. Then on Friday evening, as I blast “Dancing Queen” on my computer, I whip up a batch of spaghetti salad. And then I sit in front of my computer, a massive bowl of spaghetti salad beside it, and I write.

 

Two hours later, I stare at the essay in front of me. The thousand words came pouring out in gushes—about my mom and her spaghetti salad, love and loss, forgiveness and regret. Like my mom, the recipe isn't perfect, but the flaws are what make it great. It isn't haute cuisine. It isn't meant to be. It's a salad made of spaghetti and Miracle Whip, and I love it for what it is. And I love my mom for who she was—for every one of her flaws, in all of their messy glory, the ones I couldn't fully accept until she was gone. I wish I'd told her that when she was alive. I hope she somehow knew.

Rereading my words, I can't believe how real and raw they are, how true they feel. I've spent so many years writing as other people—as François or Natasha, as anyone other than me—that I almost forgot who I was, that I had a voice, too. I'd perfected the art of being a ghost, but now it's my mother's ghost who has breathed life into my writing, reminding me of who I am and what I want.

I send the essay off to Meg with a quick note:

As soon as Meg returns to Ann Arbor Sunday afternoon, she calls me for a video chat. I answer after one ring, and within seconds, her face appears on my screen, her freckled, sun-kissed cheeks a familiar and much-needed tonic.

“I don't think I've ever been so happy to see your face,” I say.

“Ditto. My grandparents live in the Stone Age and don't have Internet or decent cell service. I've been going through Kelly withdrawal.”

“You haven't missed much. Just my spiraling into a pit of despair.”

“Before we talk about all of that—and we
must
—I have to say, that essay? Holy shit, Kelly. It's the best thing you've ever written. I cried. Like, five times.”

“Really?”

“Okay, fine, six times. Seriously. It's going on the Web site first thing tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Don't you have to clear it with your boss?”

“Technically, yes, but he's going to love it. Anyone with a pulse will love it. It's poignant and honest and just . . . wow.”

“Thanks. That means a lot. Especially since I don't feel so awesome lately.”

“Yeah, okay, so what is going
on?
I saw the news on People.com before I left, but I couldn't get online up in Bumblefuck. How can Natasha be
pregnant?
”

“She isn't.”

“What do you mean? She's lying?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she and Hugh don't have sex. And she got her period less than a month ago.
And
she's on birth control. Or at least she was.”

“What?”

“During my first week, I found her assistant rooting through Natasha's trash to keep the paparazzi from seeing one of her prescriptions. I assumed it was for diet pills or painkillers, but when I saw the name, it was some combination of estrogen and progesterone—the same two I take for my pill.”

“That was when? May?”

“Yeah.”

She scratches her head. “That is definitely suspicious. But not conclusive. It only takes one time, and the pill isn't foolproof.”

“True, but that seems like a long shot—especially since the guy she is sleeping with lives in Paris. Not only would the timing with her cycle have to be perfect, but then her pill would also have to fail. Seems highly unlikely.”

“True.” Meg's expression turns serious. “What does this mean for you, then?”

“I wish I knew. I talked to Hugh more than a week ago, but he hadn't had the big talk with Natasha yet. He said he'd call me once they did, but now he's in fucking Scotland, and I haven't heard a peep.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope. My guess is that between Natasha and the paparazzi, he hasn't had a second to breathe. But still. I'm going crazy.”

“Maybe you could e-mail TMZ or
People
—give them proof she isn't actually preggo, tell them about her lover.”

“No, I can't. I signed a nondisclosure agreement.”

“Oh. Can't you break it?”

“Not unless I want Natasha's lawyers to come after me for all I'm worth.”

She grins. “Which is what, at this point? A hundred bucks? Plus the fifty or so we'll give you for your essay.”

“More than that, thank you. Though compared to how much money Natasha has, it might as well be.”

Meg bites her thumbnail. “Okay, so . . . what are you going to do then?”

I consider her question, the same question I've asked myself over the past week. What
can
I do? Anything? I've run various scenarios through my mind, but in the end, I always come back to the same conclusion.

“I have to wait,” I say. “And hope for the best.”

She rests her chin on her palm and gives me a pitying smile because we both know if that's the best plan I've got, I'm probably doomed.

CHAPTER 42

The next morning, before I leave for work, my stomach seizes when I find a note in my in-box from Hugh:

The e-mail is abrupt—sterile, even—which makes sense, given who he is and what we've done and what would happen if anyone hacked his account. But if he was going to e-mail at all, why didn't he do so sooner? And why is he planning to call me and not see me in person? Is he still in Scotland? Is Natasha with him?

When I arrive at Natasha's, Olga greets me at the servants' entrance, her auburn hair glinting with flecks of copper. I have a dozen questions to ask her about Natasha and Hugh, but with Olga, I've learned to start off with pleasantries rather than dive straight into the nitty-gritty.

“Good morning,” I say. “How was your weekend?”

She heads inside and makes for the sink. “Okay. Busy.”

“Did you do anything special?”

“Special? No. Was a weekend like any weekend.”

No matter how many times I've tried to probe Olga for information—about herself, about Natasha, about Hugh—she never gives me anything. I've tried to ask if she is married, has children, has siblings, likes England, but she always counters my questions with stiff, succinct replies, none of which gives me any insight into who she is and what she's really like. Is she Russian or Ukrainian? (“Yes.”) How long has she worked for Natasha? (“A few years.”) How long has she been in England? (“A few more years.”) The only interesting information she has ever provided has come unprompted, like when she told me Hugh “liked hodgepodge,” and even then, she only gives me enough to whet my appetite.

“Have Natasha and Mr. Ballantine returned?” I ask, deciding to get straight to the point.

“Miss Natasha, yes. Mr. Ballantine, he return to Nottingham for couple more days.”

I rest my bag on a chair, my stomach in knots. “So they didn't come back together?”

“How are they coming back together if Mr. Ballantine is in Nottingham?”

“Right. Sorry.”

This is good, right? That they're not together? Maybe they've separated. Maybe Hugh settled things after all. Though I suppose that still doesn't resolve the matter of my future employment.

I clear my throat. “Is Natasha in the house, then?”

“I am.”

I whirl around to see Natasha standing in the doorway. She wears a black maxi dress and black sandals, a gold cuff shaped like a snake around her upper arm. Her hair spills over her shoulders in loose waves, and I notice the dress's empire waist carefully disguises her stomach.

“Did you have a nice trip?” I ask, my voice tight.

“I did. It was great to reconnect.”

My stomach churns.
To reconnect?
What does that mean?

She saunters to the island, across from where I'm standing, and presses her hands against the cool surface. “Olga, maybe you should leave the two of us. Kelly and I have a lot to discuss.” Her eyes flit toward Olga. “About the book,” she adds.

“I go shopping anyway,” Olga says. She looks at me. “You need more ingredients?”

“I could actually use some—”

“She's fine,” Natasha says. “Why don't you get going?”

Olga slips out of the kitchen, and Natasha and I stand in silence, staring at each other.

“So, what did you want to discuss?” I start to say.

She keeps her eyes fixed on mine. “You know exactly what I want to discuss.”

I swallow hard. “Do I?”

“Cut the bullshit. Your little ingénue act—it's pathetic.”

Her words sock me like a punch in the gut. As much as I hate lying to her face, as much as I've been dying to tell her the truth, to have it out once and for all in a big, messy fight, I'm not sure I'm ready for this. The steely look in her eyes, the tightness of her jaw—she'll crush me.

“Okay. Fine,” I say, the courage building inside me. I can do this. I have to. “Let's cut the bullshit, then.” My eyes drift toward her cabinets. “Maybe we should talk over a glass of wine. Unless that would be bad for the baby.”

I wait for her to take the bait, but she just stares at me.

“There is a baby, right? You wouldn't make something like that up. Only a crazy person would do that. Only someone who was truly horrible, all the way to her core.”

She clenches her jaw. “You have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Yes, I do. And you know it.”

“Watch yourself.”

“Why? So you can steamroll me like you steamroll everyone? You don't even love him.”

“You have no idea how I feel. About anything.”

“I know your marriage is one of convenience. That you sleep in separate bedrooms. That you're having an affair with a guy named Jacques.”

“And I suppose that makes you an expert on my love life.”

“No, but it means I know you don't have Hugh's interests at heart.”

“What do you know about his interests? You think you can parachute in, five years into our marriage, and decide you understand how or why any of this works? You think a month or two of screwing means you know more about him than I do?”

“I know he doesn't love you. I know he never did.”

“Well, la-di-da. Here's a newsflash: It takes more than love to make a relationship work.”

“But you can't really make a relationship work without it, can you?”

“You can if you want to.”

“Only if both people do. And Hugh doesn't. Not anymore.”

“Is that so? Then tell me, why did he just spend more than a week with me, discussing our future?”

“Because you created a phantom pregnancy without consulting him? Because he's trying to do damage control?”

“Ah, I see. Is that what you keep telling yourself?”

My face grows hot. “It kills you that he'd choose me over you.”

She throws her head back and cackles. “Is that what you think? That he'd choose you? Christ, you're even more naïve than I thought.”

“He loves me,” I say. “He said so.”

“You know what else he loves? His career. And how do you think you fit in with that? Let me answer for you: You don't.”

My hands are shaking. “What about you? You're having an affair with some French guy named Jacques. How do you think that will play with Hugh's constituency? Let me answer for
you
: Not well.”

“Jacques and I are through.”

The blood rushes to my cheeks. “What?”

“We called it off. It's over. I'm going to focus on my marriage.”

“What marriage? You mean your business relationship?”

“It is what it is.”

“Do you even care about Hugh at all?”

“Why is it any business of yours?”

My chest tightens. “Because
I
care about him. I love him.”

“Aw, isn't that sweet. Well, guess what? Your little schoolgirl crush is a fucking fantasy. Love isn't some silly crush. Love is complicated and layered and a hell of a lot deeper than a sex-driven fling. Wake up and join the rest of us in the real world.”

“The real world? Is that where people play house for publicity's sake? Where people care more about what
OK!
magazine might say about them than how they actually feel?”

She smacks her hand against the counter with force. “Don't you dare pretend you know what it's like to be me. To have the paparazzi hound you day and night. To have them splash the gory details of your breakup across the Web for everyone to see. To have them revel in your heartbreak. And to have them waiting—drooling—for someone to break your heart again. You don't have a fucking clue.”

“So, what, you protect yourself by marrying someone you don't care about and ruin his life, too?”

“I'm not ruining his life.”

“You've lied about being pregnant to trap him in a marriage. That's even worse than not loving someone. It's cruel. It's the opposite of love.”

“Wrong. The opposite of love is indifference. And I am not indifferent.”

“Then what are you?”

She stares at me, her expression cold and hard as ice. “Winning.”

She stands firmly in place, watching me closely as I try not to react, my breath so shallow I'm afraid I might faint.

“You haven't won yet,” I say. “This isn't over.”

She glowers at me, her face like stone. “Oh, yes, it is.”

She turns around and walks toward the hall. When she reaches the doorway, she rests her hand on the frame and gives me one last probing look.

“Oh, and in case you were wondering,” she says, “you're fired.”