Too Many Cooks (5 page)

CHAPTER 6

I startle awake to some sort of siren whizzing past my window, the flashing lights illuminating my darkened room like a disco. For a hazy moment, I think I'm back in Ypsilanti, where I spent nearly three weeks after Sam kicked me out of our apartment. But as my eyes bring the room into focus, I realize, no, I'm not in Ypsi; I'm in London.

London.

Natasha.

Dinner.

I leap out of bed and grab my watch: 6:53. Oh, my God. How did this happen? The last thing I remember is sitting on my bed and writing a few notes in my project journal. That was at . . . what? Three o'clock? And now it's almost seven. I should already be walking to Natasha's house from the tube station. Crap!

I rush into the bathroom and grab my brush off the windowsill, trying to unfurl the gnarly knots in my long, unwashed blond hair. No time to shower. No time for much of anything, really. Which, considering I'm about to meet one of the most gorgeous and famous women in the world, who happens to be my new employer, is freaking perfect.

The outfit I'd planned to wear still smells like the plane's luggage hold, so I reach for the medicine cabinet to grab a bottle of my perfume, and as I do, I catch a glimpse of my reflection.

Jiminy fucking Christmas. I have pen all over my face.

I grab a washcloth and begin scrubbing my skin, trying to remove the swirls of black ink from my cheeks and chin. What the effing eff? I must have fallen asleep on my journal. Jetlag: 1. Kelly: 0.

By some miracle, the pen hasn't tattooed my face, although with all of the scrubbing, my chin is now red and raw and chapped. Whatever. Better to look as if I have a drooling problem than a beard.

I slap on some foundation and a coat of mascara before grabbing my jacket, purse, and keys and rushing out the door. I glance down at my watch: 7:05. Great. I'm already late, and I haven't even left the building.

When I get outside, I hurry across Weymouth Street and nearly die as a car barrels down the street and almost hits me. I might have noticed the silver Mercedes if I hadn't been looking the wrong way, expecting the cars to be on the American side of the street.

“Sorry!” I shout holding up my hands defensively. “I'm American.”

The driver shakes his head and steps on the gas, plowing onward.

My heart still racing, I flag a taxi on the other side of the road. I'd planned to take the tube—Poppy had told me I'd need to get an Oyster card for my travels around town—but given that I'm already ten minutes late, I don't have time.

“Where to, love?” the driver asks as I stumble into the taxi.

“Um . . . Belsize Park . . . ?” I rummage through my purse in search of the address Poppy gave me. “51-52 Belsize Square. Across from St. Peter's.”

“Lovely,” he says. “Off we go.”

He steps on the gas and tears down the street, whisking me around parks, shops, and cafés toward Natasha's house. As we speed through London, I stare out the window and soak up the bustling city around me: bright red double-decker buses, shiny black taxis, block upon block of Georgian brick and knotted ivy. I can't believe that less than twenty-four hours ago, I was standing in my dad's living room, trying to shoo Irene O'Malley out the door as she brought my father yet another casserole. (“Well, a man has to
eat,
” she'd said as she rolled back her shoulders, thrusting her ample bosom in my dad's direction.)

Moving back into the house I grew up in was . . . well, let's just say it wasn't my favorite. My mom's death has made my dad even more irritable and loony than he was before, probably because he refuses to talk about it at all. Once the funeral was over and done with, he went back to his job with the Postal Service like nothing had happened. He occasionally drifts away in thought, or pauses briefly when he finds one of her old crochet hooks or bobby pins, but if anyone brings up my mother by name, he snaps and says something like, “Why does everyone have to
talk
all the time? Is there something wrong with silence?” So being in the house with him for almost three weeks wasn't the most fun I've ever had.

That said, I didn't really have a choice. Sam gave me three days to pack up my things and leave the apartment, and since Poppy wasn't sure how long it would take to get me a work visa, rent me a flat, and send me all of the paperwork (contract, nondisclosure agreement, and on and on), I couldn't just hang out in Chicago indefinitely without a place to live. And as much as I dreaded living in close quarters with my father again, part of me was glad to leave Sam and Chicago behind. I felt—still feel—rotten about how I handled our breakup, and I worried the longer I stayed in that apartment, the greater the chance I'd change my mind and beg Sam to take me back. Sam is comfortable. Sam is safe. But right now, a voice in my head is telling me I don't need safe. I need risk. I need a change.

The taxi whizzes past a series of row houses made of rust-colored brick, which eventually yields to rows of semi-detached white stucco mansions with big bay windows and column-clad front porticos. The driver slows as he approaches a double-wide white mansion with two driveway entrances, both of which are gated, with security guards standing out front.

“Here we are, love. Ten pound twenty.”

I open my wallet, and when I look inside, I panic. I only have dollars. Thanks to my afternoon snooze, I never made it to the ATM.

“This is so embarrassing,” I say. “I only have US currency. Do you accept dollars?”

“'Fraid not,” he says. “Pounds only.”

“What about credit cards?”

He shakes his head. “I can drive round to a cash machine. There's one on Haverstock Hill.”

I look at my watch. It's already seven thirty. I don't have time to drive around for ten or twenty more minutes while we try to find an ATM.

“The thing is . . . I'm already late.”

The driver looks at me dumbly. What am I expecting him to say?
Oh, sure, well in that case, the ride's on me!

Then it occurs to me: Poppy.

“Let me text my contact,” I say. “She'll be able to help.”

I shoot Poppy a quick text, and seconds later, she is flying through the front gate and past the guards, her phone clutched tightly in her hand. She is taller than I expected—probably five foot eight—with a slim build and straight, chestnut hair that, tonight, is pulled into a slick, high ponytail. Her silky cream top is tucked into a navy-and-green-striped pencil skirt that comes to her knees, and she sports a pair of low cream wedges.

“Come along,” she says as she rushes toward the taxi. “You don't want to keep Natasha waiting more than you already have.”

I step out of the car as she hands the driver a neatly creased collection of bills and smooth my black pants and teal blouse. As the taxi pulls away, Poppy sidles up beside me and gasps.

“You haven't brought flowers!”

Fuck. The flowers. This jetlag is ruining my life.

“I'm so sorry. I've never had jetlag before, and I fell asleep by accident, and before I knew it—”

“Enough,” Poppy says. “We'll just tell Natasha you are allergic.”

“To flowers?”

“Yes.”

“All flowers?”

She sighs. “Oh, that won't work, will it? She has bloody flowers everywhere. Just say the flower shop near you was out of white flowers, and all they had were mums. She hates mums.”

“Okay . . .”

“Good.” She looks me up and down. “What's happened to your chin?”

I reach up and touch it, the skin still sore from scrubbing away all of the pen marks. “I . . . fell asleep on a pen.”

A blank stare.

“I was writing notes in my project journal, and I must have—”

Poppy holds up her hand. “That's enough, thank you. I don't need to hear any more.”

She leads me up a long flight of steps to the front door, which is painted dark gray. Unlike the other white houses on the block, this one doesn't have any protruding bay windows or rounded columns. Instead, the house has been remodeled with a contemporary flair, so that all of the windows lie flush with the façade, the window grids all painted the same deep gray as the front door. The front portico has a modern edge as well, with square columns and a thick rectangular overhang. Something about it screams California, even though we're in north London.

Poppy opens the front door and whisks me into the foyer, an airy, minimalist temple. White marble tiles cover the floor, gleaming like a single sheet of smooth ice, and the walls are painted the color of snow, bare except for three abstract black-and-white paintings. Halfway down the hallway to the left, a curved staircase made of solid white marble sweeps to the upper floors, encircling a chandelier of dangling globe lights that hangs from the floor above. The living room is directly to my left, the blond hardwood floors stretching from end to end, beneath a gray-and-black-striped area rug and midcentury modern furniture. As in the entryway, the white walls are adorned with abstract expressionist paintings and prints, many resembling works I studied in college. I have taken in no more than 10 percent of this house, and already it is the most amazing home I have ever seen.

“The kitchen is downstairs,” Poppy says, pointing to the stairway, which continues downward. “That's where you'll be doing most of your work.”

“Oh—I assumed I'd be testing the recipes in my kitchen.”

Poppy raises an eyebrow. “Your kitchen?”

“The one in my flat.”

“No. You'll be testing the recipes here. At least that's what Natasha told me.”

“What did I tell you?”

We both look toward the living room as Natasha glides our way, her long, black hair tumbling in waves over her narrow shoulders. She wears a thin gray cashmere sweater, which dips over her left shoulder, revealing the strap of a black camisole underneath, and black leather leggings that stop at the ankle, right above her pointy black flats. Her features are even more striking in person: perfectly plump lips, chiseled cheekbones, and hypnotic eyes as green and sparkling as emeralds. She is shorter than I'd expected, but also thinner, her head perched on her fragile frame like a lollypop on a stick.

Poppy composes herself. “We were just talking about the recipe testing.”

“Ah.” Natasha smiles and extends her hand in my direction. “You must be Kelly. So nice to meet you.”

I shake her hand, which feels smooth and delicate, like a Christmas ornament made of blown glass. “Sorry I'm late. I . . .” Poppy shoots me a stern look. “. . . was searching for flowers, but the florist by my flat only had mums.”

Natasha puckers her lips. “Ick. Mums.”

“I know.” I look at Poppy, who gives me an approving nod.

“Anyway, so what were you ladies discussing about recipe testing?”

“Kelly thought she might be testing the recipes in her kitchen at Hampden House,” Poppy says.

“Oh, God, no. You're basically living in student housing. I can't expect you to cook out of that kitchen.”

The kitchen in my flat is nicer than the kitchen I grew up with and most of the kitchens I've called my own, as a student or otherwise. Frankly, if the Hampden House is mostly student housing, it's the nicest student housing I've ever seen.

“You'll cook here, in my kitchen,” she says. “But before we get into any of that, we should probably have something to eat.” She looks down at her watch. “My husband said he'd be joining us, but he's running a little late. The dining room is up here, but I figured we'd eat in the kitchen tonight. Shall we?”

She gestures toward the stairway, and Poppy and I follow her to the floor below, where we tread along a short hallway toward the kitchen at the back of the house.

I cross the threshold and nearly gasp as I take in my surroundings. The entire back wall is one big window that looks onto a garden, which is landscaped with shrubs, hedges, and a series of rectangular reflecting pools. The window extends upward to the first floor, which I can see through the opening in the ceiling over the kitchen table, where there is an overlook from the living room above. As in the rest of the house, the décor exhibits a contemporary flair, with glossy white cabinetry, dark gray marble counters, stainless-steel appliances, and white floor tiles that, when the light catches them a certain way, appear to have the texture of alligator skin. A vast rectangular island sits in the middle of the room, beneath a light fixture consisting of shiny silver spheres of all different sizes, some as big as my head. Cooking in here on a regular basis? Yeah, I'll be just fine.

“Something smells delicious,” I say as I breathe in a rich, herb-laced aroma. “What's on the menu?”

“Stuffed Cornish game hens, steamed asparagus, and truffled white bean purée.”

“Wow. That sounds . . . amazing.”

“You seem surprised.”

“Not at all. I just . . .”

My eyes trace her boney frame, and I think back to all the stories about her bizarre dieting habits—the enemas and liquid cleanses and her brief time as a vegan after she broke up with Matthew Rush. But then I remember Poppy's stern warning on the phone, and I decide to keep my mouth shut.

“I'm not surprised at all,” I say.

The oven timer starts beeping loudly from across the kitchen. “Almost ready,” Natasha says.

She motions for me to have a seat at the kitchen table, a long, rectangular slab made of brushed concrete. The table is set for four, with woven silver placemats, stark white plates, and sparkling crystal glasses.