Georgia’s Kitchen

by Jenny Nelson

  “Georgia.” He walked toward her, a duffel bag printed with the Smith, Standish and Lockton logo in his hand, a short stack of books under his arm. Sally barked behind him.

  “Glenn. What are you doing here? Why aren’t you working?” She stared at him. He looked good. Tired, but good. The circles under his eyes were deeper than usual, making his blue eyes even bluer. He wore a thin, white T-shirt emblazoned with the name of his alma mater, his lucky shirt.

  “I decided to take the day off. A mental health day, I guess. And I, well, I came back to grab some more stuff. Some clothes, some reading material.” He held the books up for inspection. “And I was hoping we could talk.”

  “Sure.” Georgia felt her stomach tighten. The “when” part of the breakup had been answered. “Guess you thought you’d need some help today?” she said, pointing to the T-shirt.

  “Oh, yeah, no, actually, just a coincidence.” He laughed nervously.

  “So how are you?”

  “Fine. Good, I guess. Staying with Ray, working a lot, you know. Same old stuff.”

  She nodded. “So what’s going on, Glenn? What are we doing here?”

  “The thing is, I’m not really sure.” He looked down, puffed out his cheeks, and exhaled a slow stream of air.

  “Could you be a little more specific? That’s not giving me much.”

  “This isn’t easy for me, Georgia.” He placed the bag and the books on the phone table. “I know I wanted to marry you. Two weeks ago I wanted to marry you. And I don’t know if it was that fight, or being away from you, or not doing any blow for the past few days, or all of the above, but I don’t know if I feel the same way anymore.”

  “You don’t know if you want to marry me?”

  He nodded his head without looking at her. The air grew heavy with silence.

  “Why?” she said at last.

  “It doesn’t feel perfect, or at least the way I want it to feel. Something’s out of whack. I’m partying too much, working too much, doing too much coke so I can work and party so much, and I think it’s because of us. Because of our commitment.”

  “Don’t blame your coke problem on me, Glenn.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I mean something is at the root of my, my”—he waved his hand in the air, searching for the right word—“my behavior of the past, I don’t know, couple of weeks.”

  “Couple of months, Glenn, months.”

  “Okay, months. Something is making me act this way, and I think it might be us. Or me.” He crossed the room to the sofa and sat down. “The thing is, I don’t know if I’m ready to get married.”

  “You don’t know if you’re ready to get married.” She sat in the tight-backed chair next to the sofa, folding her legs underneath her. “Then let’s call it off.”

  He looked at her. “Call it off?”

  “Yes, Glenn, call it off. Don’t act so surprised. That’s what you came over here to do, isn’t it?” She felt weary, unable to get as mad as she felt was her right.

  “I guess it is, Georgia.”

  “Did you see the Daily today, by any chance?”

  “You know I don’t read that junk. Why?”

  “The review was today.”

  “Oh, hey, that’s right. I forgot. With everything that’s been going on, I forgot about the review. Congratulations, George. You deserve it.”

  “We got half a fork.”

  “What? I thought you were getting three.”

  “We were supposed to, but we got half. When I walked in, I was walking in from getting fired, thanks to your pal Marco.” She stared at him. “And now I’ve been dumped too.”

  “Georgia, I had no idea. I swear, I would never have done this today.” He reached out his hand to touch her and then withdrew it. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I know you wouldn’t have. I just can’t believe it—no fiancé, no job, all in a mere”—she checked her watch—“six hours.”

  “Marco’s an asshole, George. He snorts so much coke he makes me look like Opie. You’re better off without that job. And you’re probably better off without me too.” His leg jiggled up and down as he considered his words.

  “I knew you were doing coke with Marco the night of the review.”

  He looked down at his hands, his silence confirming what he couldn’t say. A few days earlier this would have infuriated her, now it just made her sad.

  “I took almost all of your sleeping pills,” she said.

  “What?”

  “The sleeping pills. The ones Dr. Androse prescribed. I took all but one.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Not at once, Glenn. Don’t worry, I’m not that despondent.”

  “I didn’t think you were.”

  “I hope you deal with the coke. I mean really deal with it. Therapy or something.”

  “I know. I will.”

  Sally nudged Georgia’s hand with her wet nose, and Georgia stroked her dog’s head. The realization that Glenn’s coke problem would not be her problem made her feel suddenly lighter.

  “I guess you’ll want this back.” She twisted the engagement ring off her finger, yanking it past her knuckle, and held it out to him. He plucked it from her outstretched hand, brushing his fingertips against her palm.

  “You know, I really did think you’d like it.”

  “I know. But it makes it easier to give back.” She smiled thinly.

  “I’ll miss you, George. I know it’s a cliché, but I hope we can be friends.”

  “Maybe at some point. But not right now.”

  He nodded. “If you need me to take Sally or anything, let me know. Ray said I could stay with him as long as I want, rent-free too. Guess he’s lonely in that big old loft with no one to share it with.”

  “Honestly, I have no idea what I’m going to do next. But I’ll figure it out.” She stood up. She was done being dumped.

  Glenn stared out the window. “Check that out.” He gestured to the mammoth barge stealing up the river. “Wonder where it’s going.”

  Georgia looked at the boat, then at him. “Now you notice?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “It’s nothing.”

  There was something vaguely glamorous about taking a sleeping pill at four in the afternoon. There was also something that reeked of an aging ingenue on a slow, downward spiral. Regardless, Georgia needed sleep. She turned off her cell and home phones and called down to Danny the doorman to let him know she was officially not home. For anyone.

  The bedroom was dark as a cave, thanks to the heavy-duty blackout shades Glenn had special-ordered, and acoustical windows muffled the sounds from the street below. She swallowed the last pill with a gulp of water from the glass on her bedside table, then slipped into bed, pulled the covers up to her nose, and closed her eyes.

  Comfort food. She needed comfort food. But what to eat after being jilted right after being fired right after being publicly humiliated in the city’s most popular newspaper? Even for a seasoned chef, this was a stumper. Still groggy from her late-afternoon nap, even though it was after ten, Georgia poked around her fridge and freezer, scanned her kitchen cabinets, and hastily assembled the ingredients for an easy meal that would feed her head, heart, and, most important, her stomach. She decided on soup, a simple zuppa di ceci she’d learned to make in Florence; bread, because carbs were good and because the last time she baked Grammy’s sourdough she froze half a loaf; cheese, because she’d yet to meet an occasion—happy or sad—that cheese didn’t make better; and wine, no explanation necessary.

  One bowl of zuppa, two quince-paste-and-Manchego-slathered pieces of bread, and three glasses of Sancerre later, Georgia threw on an old pair of ill-fitting jeans and a light jacket and walked out the door, Sally at her side.

  “See you later, Danny,” she said to the doorman on her way out. The mirror in the lobby showed her frizz factor registering an eight and a half, but she didn’t care.

  Danny nodded. �
��Your friends came by. I told them you weren’t home.”

  “Thanks.” Clem and Lo, along with her parents and anyone else who’d read the review, would have to wait.

  Georgia and Sally strolled to Park Avenue, a favorite spot for late-night walks. The avenue’s famously broad medians were dressed with tulips, their rounded tips barely visible from the sidewalk. It was after midnight, and traffic, foot and motor, was light, save for the occasional hedge-funder yammering into an iPhone or white-gloved doorman getting a breath of air. She walked quickly, her head tucked down, hoping speed would keep her from remembering all the things the little pink pill had helped her forget. Without looking up, she stepped off the curb at Eighty-first Street.

  First, she heard the revved-up engine. Then she saw it, the emerald green convertible tearing across the avenue, straight toward her and Sally. She froze in the middle of the crosswalk, getting a way-too-close look at the miniature-yet-menacing jaguar atop the car’s hood, before it slammed on its brakes and screeched to a stop inches from Sally. Georgia’s heart pole-vaulted straight into her esophagus. “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  The driver, a mustachioed man with windswept hair, pumped his fist at Georgia. “Where’s your head!” he shouted before peeling out.

  “It’s too cold to have the top down!” she yelled after him. It was the best she could come up with.

  Safely on the sidewalk, she stooped down and threw her arms around Sally, who seemed blissfully unaware of how close she’d been to becoming urban roadkill. She nuzzled Georgia’s shoulder, and Georgia did what she’d been trying so hard not to. She cried. Tears pooled in her eyes and she let them fall, watching them disappear in Sally’s fur. A wet spot formed in the middle of Sally’s head, then spread to her ears, and Georgia knew she was nowhere near done.

  She walked down the street trying to steady her breath, her brain hopscotching through a minefield of images from the day that had passed. For once, she was grateful for her mass of hair, and she walked with her eyes firmly on the sidewalk, her curls an impenetrable curtain around her face. Eighteen long blocks and months of festering dissatisfaction later, she reached her building, her tears just beginning.

  The buzzer rang. And rang again. Georgia cursed Danny for not leaving a do-not-disturb note for the day doorman. She could easily have spent the day in bed, especially after last night’s sob fest. Exhausted though she was, she felt relieved to have run out of pink pills. Suffering through a few sleepless nights was definitely better than developing a pill problem. Too Anna Nicole.

  Before she could drag herself to the buzzer there was a knock at the door. And another, this time followed by the doorbell in short, annoying bursts. She pulled on a pair of yoga pants balled at the foot of her bed and walked to the door, peering through the peephole.

  “We’re here to kidnap you,” Lo yelled through the closed door. “We know you’re there.”

  Georgia opened the door and Lo stepped around her and into the apartment. As usual, she looked like a poster child for the high-low look the fashion magazines always touted: Chanel sunglasses pushed back on disheveled black hair, gigantic It Bag in hand, black beat-style turtleneck, skinny black jeans, and Chuck Taylor high-tops.

  “Jesus, George, are you still sleeping?” Clem asked.

  “I was sleeping,” Georgia mumbled. “Why? What time is it?”

  “It’s almost three,” Lo said.

  “Seriously? I don’t think I’ve slept this late since you made me go to that after-hours club in Williamsburg.” Georgia walked into the kitchen and pulled out the illy coffee beans.

  “Coffee?” she asked her friends, patting her matted hair.

  “On it,” Clem said, handing her a to-go coffee cup. “Triple-shot macchiato, one sugar. We came here to rescue you. You blew us off all night and the damn doorman almost didn’t let us up.”

  “He shouldn’t have,” Georgia muttered, taking the cup. “And shouldn’t you be working? What is it with everyone not working? I’m the one who’s unemployed.”

  “I’m at an ad sales meeting that’s going to run really long, all afternoon actually. And you’re coming with us,” Clem said. “Now.”

  Georgia stared at the floor. “I really don’t want to go out. I feel like shit. I don’t think I can handle lunch at some trend pit.”

  “We’re not going to lunch. We’re going to the Bamboo Baths, Lo’s treat. We have massages and facials in forty-five minutes, and then we’ll sit in the steam and flog ourselves with olive branches. Grab your flip-flops and your bathing suit, and let’s go,” Clem said as Lo charged into the bedroom.

  Georgia didn’t move. “That’s really nice of you guys, but I think I’d rather stay home and figure out—”

  “Now,” Clem said, pushing her toward the bedroom. “There’ll be plenty of time for figuring things out later.”

  “I’ve already got them right here,” Lo said, holding pink flip-flops triumphantly in one hand and a green bikini in the other. “And we need an outfit too. We’ll be going for dinner after. Nothing too trendy, don’t worry.” She slid open the closet door and rifled through the hangers. “Oh my God. How many pairs of jeans do you have?”

  “I don’t know,” Georgia lied. “A lot.”

  Clem and Lo looked at each other and then at her.

  “What can I say? I like jeans.”

  “How about this?” Lo asked, pulling out the black dress Georgia had worn to Millbrook. She tossed it into her bag without waiting for an answer.

  “Fine. I’ll come with you, but please don’t ask me any questions. I’m not ready to talk about anything yet.”

  The girls nodded solemnly. “No questions, Scout’s honor,” said Clem. “I’ll take Sally out while you doll yourself up.”

  Despite herself, Georgia sniffled. She walked to the bathroom and splashed cool water on her face and around her eyes, determined not to cry. Last night’s meltdown was enough. She brushed her teeth, threw on a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans, and joined her friends, her eyes puffy but dry.

  True to their word, the girls didn’t ask a single question on the cab ride down to the Bamboo, as Lo called it. Not until they had checked in with the spa’s stony-faced receptionist (“Why do spa and salon receptionists always have attitude?” Clem whispered loudly), had changed into their robes, and were drinking green tea in the lounge did Lo break.

  “I can’t stand it anymore! Are you okay? Can we please talk about this now?”

  Georgia placed her mug on the wood-slab coffee table and folded her arms across her chest. “If we have to.” She spotted a statue of Ganesh on a table in the far corner and sat up a little straighter. “Let’s see. First, I had breakfast at Balthazar, where I ate oysters, drank champagne, and got fired. Then I got home and Glenn was there.” She paused. “And he broke up with me.” She held out her ringless left hand. “See? No more dazzle.”

  “No way,” said Clem. “That bastard. After that review he dumped you?”

  “He said he didn’t read it, and I believe him. But even if he did, who cares. The point is I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Georgia wrapped both hands around the mug and let the heat seep into her skin. “I’m all alone. I have no career to speak of and I’m all alone.” It was the first time she had said this aloud.

  “But you’re not alone,” Lo said. “You have us. And Ricky. And your family. And—”

  “I know I have you guys, for which I am eternally grateful. But my parents? Please.” Clem had her folks and a bundle of brothers back in Kentucky, and even poor little rich girl Lo had her sister, her dad, and whichever Spence schoolmate of hers he was dating at the moment. They’d never get what it felt like to grow up in a household where you were a third wheel to your parents.

  “You know what really sucks? Aside from the fact I’m essentially unemployable unless I want to move to Boston?” Georgia took a sip from her mug and wrinkled her nose. “This tea is really bad.”

  “Isn’t it disgusting? What is it?” C
lem finally spoke up.

  “It’s good for you, Clem.” Lo shot Clem a dirty look. “Go on, George.”

  “The worst part is discovering what I dreamed about having my entire life—a career, a handsome, successful fiancé, the possibility of a family soon—even that didn’t make me happy. Even before I found out about the coke I wasn’t happy. And if being on the verge of getting everything I wanted didn’t make me happy, then what will?”

  “You’ll find another job, George. And another guy,” Lo said.

  “Or open your own place,” Clem interjected.

  “I know I will. Eventually. But who’s to say I’ll be any happier than I was with Glenn or at Marco? What if the real problem isn’t with either of them, but with me?” Georgia stood up and walked to the ceramic Ganesh idol, painted blue, orange, and red—fiesta colors. She ran her hand over the glaze, crackled with age, stopping at the spots that had been rubbed bare.

  “Wait a second. Just because you weren’t happy with your cokehead fiancé and at your job with your asshole boss doesn’t mean you’ll never be happy again. Glenn has a drug problem, George, and maybe it’s not the sole reason he didn’t make you happy, but it certainly has something to do with it,” said Clem.

  “She’s right, George,” Lo said. “And the job wasn’t all that. Sure you were head chef at a superhot restaurant, but you weren’t even allowed to change the menu. What’s so great about that?”

  Georgia shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “You know, no one knows what will make them truly happy until they find it. Think of it as finding the right pair of jeans—we all know you’re good at that. The J Brand’s may be too low, the Earnest Sewns too saggy in the butt, the Citizens too tight in the tummy, but the Rogan’s, now those make your legs look a mile long, your belly flat as a Frisbee, and your tush like a juicy Georgia peach.” Clem sat back and smiled, pleased with her metaphor.

  “But you have to go for it, George, or try on the jeans, in Clem-speak,” Lo added.