Recipe for Disaster (8 page)

W
hen I wake up, the TV is still on, now showing some horrid infomercial. I squint at my phone. It’s nearly three. I slide off the couch and head to the bedroom, figuring I was so dead when Grant got home that he didn’t want to wake me. Except the bed is still made. Now I’m awake.

I grab my phone off the counter. No texts, no messages. This isn’t exactly the first time this has happened; the life of a chef begins after service at eleven or twelve. There are drinks, late meals that range from spectacular to spectacularly greasy. Sometimes a chef from out of town stops by unexpectedly to hang, or a celeb shows up for some coddling. I’m not the clingy type, I don’t need someone to account for their every moment and movement. Grant’s hours never really bothered me, and the spontaneity associated with the end of the workday and its appeals are not lost on me. When we were first dating, he would text to see if I wanted to come out and meet him, but I never really fit in well with his foodie crowd, so I stopped coming and he stopped asking. But for some reason the fact that it is so much closer to sunrise than sunset and he hasn’t even bothered to give me a heads-up? Is really pissing me off. I told him I’d had a shitty day. I could have used a friendly ear, some sympathy, maybe even a comfort quickie.

I shoot him a text.
Where R U? Home soon?

I get a drink of cold water; for some reason I always get worse cottonmouth on the couch than in the bed. I brush my teeth, run a hot washcloth over my face, set up the fancy coffeemaker to automatically grind beans and brew our morning cup. I check my phone. No reply.

Sersly, hope you R on ur way!

I take my phone and head for bed. By four o’clock I can’t keep my eyes open anymore, and Grant isn’t home, nor has he texted me back. Even my anger and hurt can’t keep me awake, but the knot in my stomach means my sleep isn’t exactly restful or deep. And when the door opens just after five, the noise wakes me like a shot.

“Morning, beautiful,” Grant says sheepishly, holding up a paper bag and a beverage holder with two small coffee take-out cups in it. The diminutive size can only mean one thing. He was in Pilsen, and grabbed two tiny cafés sweetened with condensed milk, which also means that the bag must have fresh quince and cheese pastries.

“So it is.”

“Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Who said I was asleep?” I know it is petulant and horrible to lie and imply I’ve been up all night worrying like some timid little thing, calling hospitals and police stations.

Grant smiles sheepishly. “The hair gives you away.”

I reach a hand up and can feel that there is some definite bedhead happening. “Whatever. Hope you were having fun.”

“Look, I’m sorry. We had a killer night, and then the Publican boys came in with the remnants of a private pig roast, and by the time we were ready to go it was almost one and I didn’t want to call, I figured you would have crashed by then, so we ended up at Tai’s, and then I dropped a couple of the boys home, didn’t want them on the bus at that hour.” Oy. Tai’s Til 4 is never a good idea.

“Did they prevent you from replying to my texts?”

Grant reaches into his pocket, hits the home button on his phone, and his face falls. He turns the black screen to me. “Shit. Phone is dead; I forgot to charge it after service. I had no idea you were texting me. I’m sorry, babe.”

Grant is a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one of them.

“Well, since you KNEW I had an epically shitty day, if you weren’t going to bother to come home to be with me, it might have been nice to at least THINK about getting in touch to let me know you wouldn’t be home till dawn.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight. Let’s just have some café and a pastry and a couple hours of snuggle sleep before we have to work, and I’ll make it up to you tonight.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

“What do you want from me, Anneke? I’m sorry. But really, you’re acting like a child. You know my schedule, how things go. When is the last time you came to the restaurant after work? When is the last time you came out with my friends and me? It can’t all be about you. And to be honest, I wouldn’t have known that yesterday was EPICALLY shitty because ANYTIME I ask you about work you say it was shitty, and frankly, I’m a little bored.”

“Well, I’m so sorry to be BORING,” I say snottily, dripping sarcasm, to cover the fact that deep down I sort of suspect that he has a point, I really never do just head over to the restaurant anymore. But since I’m human, and the strongest human impulse is to avoid being discovered to be wrong, I rally. “Maybe if you had even ASKED me to bid on building the new restaurant we might be spending more time together.” I’d convinced myself that my feelings weren’t hurt when he came home eight months ago and announced that Knauer would be doing his new place. I don’t have any commercial experience, but it would have been nice to be asked.

“That’s not fair. The investors hired the designer and the builder and you know that.”

“Did you even ask for me?”

“To be honest? No.”

“Well, thanks for that.”

“I WANTED TO MAKE SURE YOU HAD TIME FOR PALMER BECAUSE YOU LOVE IT THERE!” Grant throws his hands up in frustration, and Schatzi comes clicking down the hall to see who is annoying her favorite person.

“The consideration is noted.” I hate me like this. This? Right here? Is why I never bothered with real relationships. I just don’t know how to do them.

Grant sighs, his shoulders sagging. “I’m going to take the dog for a walk for ten minutes and clear my head. When I get back, I’d like us both to have a calmer conversation, can you agree to that?”

“Fine.”

Grant heads out and I go back to the bathroom to pee and try to fix the snarled shrubbery on my head. Half of it is mashed flat and the rest is sticking out everywhere, so I can’t imagine he could even take me seriously. I stick my head under the cold water in the sink, which wakes me fully, and I can begin to think about rationality. I run a brush through my wet hair and pull it back into a ponytail, brush my teeth, and throw on some jeans and a fleece. I pull on my work boots, coat, throw a hat over my wet head, and put my keys in my pocket. I think for a minute, and then I grab the bag and coffees on my way out.

I catch up to Grant halfway back from his trek around the block. The sky is just lightening, and Schatzi prances proudly by his side. He tilts his head down and looks at me with eyebrows raised, as if to ask if the crazy lady is gone.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi there. Want to walk with us?” He holds out his arm, and I slide my arm through it, gripping his puffy down coat. We don’t speak till we get to the park, where we can sit on a bench while Schatzi finds a patch of bare earth under a tree to groom herself, and we each open a cup of fragrant sweet coffee, and begin to munch our pastries.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” Grant says around a mouthful of quince and crumbs, “and I’m sorry it didn’t occur to me to check my phone. I knew you had a bad day, and it was shitty of me. I think I probably wanted to avoid you a little bit.”

I swallow the last crunchy corner of my own pastry, and brush crumbs off my jacket. “Why? Am I so bad?”

He puts his arm around me and pulls me close. “You’re fabulous. You are my favorite person in the world. But you are so independent, so self-sufficient. It kills me how much your job takes out of you emotionally, but I know that the more I push you to quit, the more you shut down about it, so I feel a little stymied. I want you to do something to move your career forward and away from those assholes, but I know you have to do it in your own time and your own way and not feel like I pressured you.”

Now I feel like even more of a shitheel. “I love that you want me to be able to do what I want, I really do. It is one of the kindest things anyone has ever offered me. It’s like, JOE-worthy. Really.” He knows what I mean when I say that, and he squeezes me close.

“I didn’t know it hurt your feelings that I didn’t ask you to bid on the new place, and you’re right, I should have asked you.”

“No, you’re right, I’m just being an asshole. Those guys are awesome and they’re going to make it perfect for you.”

“Want to come see it?” he asks expectantly. “You haven’t been there in weeks.”

“Yeah. I do.” I really do. And I can feel my shoulders unclench. “Wanna come to Palmer?”

He smiles. “Of course. Do we have time to do both before you have to go to work?”

“Absolutely. Let’s do it.”

He stands and offers me his hand, and he pulls me off the bench and into his arms, and a deep, soulful kiss. “I love you, Anneke. More than anything. You know that, right?”

“I do. And I love you.” He pulls me tightly against him, and I feel like his embrace is my lifeline. In his arms, all the icky shit just goes away. He knows me. He gets me. He wants me happy. That’s all a girl could possibly want or need.

T
here are days and there are days. Mine begins with a six a.m. wakeup call from the Mannings, insisting on a seven o’clock meet at the site. I throw on the cleanest jeans and thermal shirt I can find, and head over. Warren and Susie are there, looking gassy.

“We’re disappointed with this,” Warren says in his clipped tone, gesturing at the empty lot, overgrown with weeds and scattered with garbage.

“I’m not really sure what you mean?” I say, perplexed. The lot looks exactly the same as when they bought it, with the small addition of some piles of snow and patches of ice.

Susie sighs, as if dealing with a stupid child. “I know we haven’t completely finished the design discussions, but the footprint of the plans is set; we’re a little curious as to why the foundation has not been started.”

Good lord. The obtuseness of these people is gargantuan.

“As I explained when we met in October, we don’t dig foundation when the ground is frozen. There are too many complications and risks for future damage. And considering the endless polar vortex this winter, the ground is particularly deeply frozen. So we won’t be able to begin digging until late March at the soonest, more likely early April.”

“They’re doing foundation.” Warren points across the street, where a build company I will not name is blithely setting up concrete forms.

“Mr. Manning, I can’t speak to other companies’ practices. But I can assure you that the chances you take when you dig and pour in winter, especially a brutally cold winter, are not worth the small gain in timing. Work in winter is a snail’s pace at best; workers have to be bundled up and can’t move very well, and have to take frequent breaks to warm up. You have to not work at all when there is snow and ice or bitter cold, but you have to pay the workers for their time anyway when there are weather delays. There’s the risk of the concrete not setting properly, and cracking when the weather warms up, which would mean a life of leaking and potential flooding in your basement, not to mention structural instability for the house. We want to build you something of the highest quality, and because of that we want to be sure that the most important part of this build, the infrastructure, is done under optimal conditions to prevent future problems. I assure you, we will take these next couple of months to perfect the design, to research and hire the best people for the job at the best prices, and to secure all the permits. A great build is eighty percent planning and twenty percent execution. When the weather is ready for us to get started, we’ll have an amazing plan in place and hit the ground running.”

“Harrumph,” Warren grumbles.

“Hmmm,” Susie groans. They both look constipated, and glare at me as if I’m the specific blockage.

I keep smiling. One thing about MacMurphy, the client is always right. Especially the very wealthy ones. “Is there anything else I can do for you both this morning?” I say, maybe a bit more brusquely than I would have if my sleep hadn’t been interrupted.

“I think not,” Warren says, and escorts Susie back to their long Mercedes sedan.

Good grief. No point in heading back home. I decide just to go to the office. At least at this hour it will be quiet, and I can get some work done.

H
ey, Annlucka?” A new Barbie clicks on my door with long acrylic fingernails. Apparently Spinner Barbie got a new gig hocking pharmaceuticals, so she has been replaced with a new one, who is about eleven feet tall with legs up to her ears, and everything she owns is bedazzled in crystals, long rhinestone chandelier earrings dangling in her platinum tresses, a big necklace of enormous sparkers gently lying on her heaving bosom. I call her Disco Ball Barbie. “Mac and Murph want to see you in the conference room.”

I look up, stretching my shoulders. I’ve been eyeball-deep in bids and budgets since I got here at a quarter to eight, and now it’s nearly one. I even forgot to stop for lunch, a fact my growling stomach is now quick to remind me. I grab my water bottle, hoping the hydration will stop the audible rumbling, and head over to the glass-walled conference room.

Mac and Murph are inside, and looking grim. The Mannings are with them.

“Hello, Anneke, please take a seat.” I walk around the table and take the chair Murph has gestured to, facing the tribunal. As I sit down, I see Liam on the other side of the glass, mugging and waving a finger at me, shaking his head and showing that he knows I’m in some sort of trouble. Which means that Murph must have said something. It irks me to no end that not only have I apparently put my foot in it again, but that the peanut gallery was consulted. I hate when people talk about me behind my back. I’m absolutely the last person to gossip about anyone, ever, and it always feels like such an invasion to be certain that Murph is telling his idiot cousin every bad thing he thinks about me.

“Anneke, the Mannings are a little concerned about having you head up this project. So we thought we should all sit down and go over things, get everyone on the same page,” Murph says, clearly pissed off. He hates having to be involved in actual work stuff. Murph likes to show up at eleven, lunch at twelve, flirt with Barbies till three, and then head out. Monday through Thursday. Once-a-month team meetings he attends reluctantly. Actual management is really irritating to him.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I say directly to Warren and Susie. “I would love to address any concerns you might have.”

“You can see the tone to which we were referring,” Susie says to Mac, pointing in my direction with an accusatory finger.

“It’s like she barely tolerates us,” Warren says to Murph.

“Tone?” I’m flabbergasted. “What tone? I’m just trying to ascertain what the difficulties are here so that we can discuss them.”

“That’s all we want to do,” Mac says, ever the reluctant voice of reason. “Just get a handle on the situation.” Mac is more hands-on, more present than Murph. But he’s also very nonconfrontational, so this must make him really uncomfortable.

Susie nods at Warren. He turns his back on me to face Mac and Murph directly. “The situation is simple. If you want to keep our business, we’d like a different project manager. One who doesn’t act like she thinks we’re stupid, or insufferable. Someone who doesn’t act like she hates working with us.”

A red haze falls over my eyes. I’ve never been anything but respectful with these jackasses. I’ve been friendly and calm and accommodating. But this? This running to my bosses and tattling like spoiled children? Asking to have me removed because I told them that I want to build their stupid house so that it doesn’t fall down? This is major bullshit, and my blood pressure soars. My carefully-fought-for bit of restraint that I’ve been struggling so hard to maintain shatters into a zillion pieces. And before I know it, words are flying out the front of my head.

“Mr. and Mrs. Manning, everyone here at MacMurphy wants you to be happy with your experience. And you should absolutely work with someone you connect with. I recommend Liam Murphy; he’s your kind of ass-kissing suck-up guy. He will tell you what you want to hear, one hundred percent of the time. He will build your monstrous tasteless house and fill it with your cut-rate special-deal fell-off-the-truck fixtures that your buddies pawn off on you. He’ll never tell you that you are building something with built-in lack of resale value due to your appallingly bad taste, and that you are doing it at a price nearly twice what the market in that neighborhood will ever bear. He can be the one to ignore your calls in two years when your screening room walls sprout black mold and your ghastly gold-flecked marble backsplash cracks in half as the kitchen settles six inches into your unstable leaky basement. As for your perception that I act like I think you are stupid and insufferable and I hate working with you? Let me assure you. That? Is no act.”

I get up, and calmly walk out of the conference room, and back to my office. I can hear a little kerfuffle up the hallway as I gather the few bits and pieces of personal detritus that I have here, and put them in my satchel and fill a small file box with the rest of my stuff. I email my one folder of personal files to myself, and wipe them off the computer. With every minute that goes by, my heart pounding intensifies, my blood boils harder. These bastards have never once been grateful for the work I’ve done, the money I’ve made. Never once in years of puff pieces in the local papers and magazines have they ever mentioned me, or any of the other hardworking people on their staff. There has never been a bonus, even in the precrash years when they were raking it in hand over fist. Even the annual Christmas party is chintzy, pizza and beer in the office, and everyone gets the yearly gift-with-logo, the cheap messenger bags and fleeces and travel coffee mugs piling up in desk drawers and only actually used by the most brownnosiest of the employees. So, essentially Liam and anyone on his team.

If they were just cheap, it might have been easy to let it all go, if only they didn’t play favorites and weren’t so exclusionary. I’m a girl, so I’ve never once been invited to one of the boys-only sporting events or beers after work. I’m actually a sports fan, thanks to Joe and his devotion to all of the local teams, but have they ever even bothered to ask me? Never. Do the Barbies get to hang out in the skyboxes and studio suites and courtside seats when they are available? You had better believe it. I guess if you want to go to the company outing, you had better be the kind of girl most likely to be sought out in the audience for appearances on the stadium big screens. Well, I’m done. The hell with them. They couldn’t even have the decency to have a private discussion with me first, just threw me to the lions? They don’t begin to deserve me, and suddenly the supreme rightness of Grant’s endless offering to bankroll Palmer and our life together, and the girls’ very vocal support, settles in my heart like a balm, and my pulse slows and my breathing gets still. By the time Murph appears red-faced in my doorway, I feel ten feet tall and invincible.

“Anneke, I don’t know what the FUCK just got into you, but if you want to have a job here, I suggest you go home now and think about what you want to say to us tomorrow to make us want to keep you.”

I look him dead in his beady little eyes and with a deep sense of calm, I unload, pretty as you please with honeyed tones. “You don’t have to worry, Murph. I don’t want to have a job here. I’m tired of the bullshit kowtowing to entitled crapbuckets like the Mannings. I’m tired of you and Mac never giving me my due or having my back. I’m tired of you feeding all the good stuff to your obsequious cousin Liam and leaving me all the shit. I’m tired of your endless series of talentless legs and boobs and hair extensions that you like wandering around here despite their general incompetence. I’m finished. I’m the best you had and the only one you should have trained to replace you in three years when you want to retire and still draw income. And you’ve never once done anything to show that you know it. So, since it’s clear that you will always take the word of the client over someone who has been a valuable employee for nearly a decade, I am fucking done.” I never raise my voice; the smile never leaves my face. I deliver this blow with as much grace as I can muster, throw my bag over my shoulder, grab the small box of my personal effects, and push past him before he can even close his gaping jaw.

I head out of my office, feeling flushed and nervous, but also giddy. Liam is standing next to the front desk, chatting up Pinky Tuscadero Barbie.

“That’s a lot of yelling back there, Annamuk.” He leers at me. “That time of the month?”

The Barbie giggles.

“Hey, Liam? A word to the wise. That fancy truck? Doesn’t mean you don’t HAVE a tiny little dick. It just means that you want the WHOLE WORLD to know it.”

And with that, I open the door wide, letting the frigid wind blow through, leaving them both gape-jawed in a tornado of papers.