by Dana Bate
On Monday, I decide to tackle three new recipes: a topping for the kale burger, a spicy Brussels sprout hash, and a rendition of seafood paella, inspired by a dish Natasha once ate while on location in Spain. Neither plum ketchup nor honey mustard really goes with the kale burgers, but I develop a garlicky aioli that is perfect: creamy and peppy, with just the right amount of kick from the garlic. It is the ideal foil for the burger, which means Natasha will probably hate it.
By the time I finish that evening, it’s well past six, and Olga has already left for the day, having shown me how to lock the servants’ entrance behind me. As I scrub down the counter, my feet throb in pain, and a dull ache wraps itself around my lower back and down my legs. Putting in extra hours will help me finish this project sooner, but it may also kill me. I haven’t been on my feet this long since my first job washing dishes at Abe’s Coney Island, and that was when I was a fit, energetic fourteen-year-old. I may only be twenty-eight, but I’m rapidly losing the ability to stand on my feet for ten hours at a time.
The mere thought of walking a half mile to the Belsize Park tube station makes me want to cry, so I plop down on one of Natasha’s kitchen chairs and kick my feet up on the seat of another. I close my eyes and allow myself a quick catnap, drifting off to the rhythmic sound of the dishwasher as it whooshes through its cleaning cycle. Visions of croissants and steak frites float through my mind as I picture Natasha and Poppy prancing down the Champs-Élysées, cackling loudly as they mention my name and how sad I must be sitting in London, alone. I bet that was part of the plan all along. I bet it’s some big joke between the two of them.
As I envision Natasha tripping over a crack in the pavement and falling face-first into a tower of éclairs, I’m awoken by a voice in the kitchen.
“Hello?”
My eyes bolt open, and I leap up from my seat. “Hugh—Mr. Ballantine. Hi.”
“I’ve told you, call me Hugh.” His brow furrows. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in Paris?”
I wipe beneath my eyes, certain I have gobs of mascara and gunk stuck there. “I had to stay back and work on some recipes.”
“What? That’s rubbish. Why?”
“We’re starting to run into some deadline issues. Natasha—we didn’t think I could spare the time.”
“Oh, dear. How far behind are you?”
“Hard to say. We could be fine, if we stick to the plan, but she keeps—” I catch myself. “The plan is a little . . . in flux.”
“Ah. Right. With Natasha, that tends to happen.”
He drops his briefcase by the door and shimmies out of his suit jacket, a navy one with a slight sheen. He loosens his pink tie as he makes his way to the refrigerator.
“So what have you left for me tonight, then? Something delicious, or something gone very wrong?”
“I’d never leave you a stinker.”
He laughs. “Yes, well, thank God for that. Though admittedly even the recipes you consider disappointments have been lovely.”
“Thanks.” A familiar warm feeling washes over me.
He opens the refrigerator and pulls out the dish of paella and the plate of kale burgers.
“More bloody kale burgers?” he says, his eyes wide.
“Yes. Sorry. Natasha wanted me to tweak the recipe. Again.”
“Good grief. What version is this? The fifth?”
“Of the ones you’ve tried? The third.”
“And of the ones I haven’t?”
“I’ve lost track. The eighth, maybe?”
“All this for a burger made of kale?”
I shrug. “It’s what she wants.”
He scratches his temple as he lowers his voice to a mumble. “And we all know what that means. . . .”
“They’re not that bad, are they?”
“No—sorry. They’re not bad at all. The last version was quite nice, actually.” He grins. “For a kale burger.”
“Well, for both your sake and mine, I hope she likes this version. Because if I have to eat one more kale burger, I might start turning green.” I crack my knuckles and eye the door. “Anyway, I should take off. But let me know what you think of the paella. And the kale burger, if you dare.”
I grab my bag off one of the kitchen chairs and head for the utility room.
“Have a nice evening,” I say.
I lay my hand on the door handle, when Hugh interjects, “Where are you going?”
I turn around, my hand still resting on the handle. “Home . . . ?” “No, I mean why are you going into the utility room?”
“Because that’s where the servants’ entrance is.”
“Why are you using the servants’ entrance?”
“Because Natasha asked me to.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
He rolls his eyes. “Such bollocks.”
“It’s fine. Really.”
“No, it’s not fine. It’s ridiculous. We don’t live in Downton bloody Abbey. There’s no reason you can’t come in and out through the front door.”
“Well, technically speaking, I am her employee. . . .”
“Nevertheless. It’s silly.”
I shift uncomfortably from side to side, not knowing what to say. He runs his fingers through his hair. “Sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t . . . It’s just that Natasha and I come from different places on this sort of thing. She grew up the daughter of a wealthy lawyer, and I grew up the son of a factory worker who put together bikes for a living. The entire notion of having ‘staff’ is foreign to me.”
“You have a driver, don’t you?”
“Natasha’s contribution to the household, not mine. That isn’t to say I don’t appreciate the convenience of having these people around, but the idea that they have to use separate entrances and kowtow to us makes me uncomfortable.”
Part of me wonders why he doesn’t say something to Natasha if it makes him so uncomfortable, but somehow asking seems a bit too forward, even after spending the night in his house, wearing his shirt.
“Sorry—it’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, no—I’m the one who opened the door in the first place. Here I am, an advocate for the poor, and meanwhile I’m running a household where I make people feel like worthless underlings.”
“You don’t make me feel like a worthless underling.”
“No? Well . . . good. Because that certainly isn’t how I think of you.”
How do you think of me? I want to ask. But I can’t. Because that’s wrong. So instead I simply say, “I’m glad.”
We stand silent for a few awkward moments until Hugh glances down at the bowl of paella. “Are you sure you don’t want to join me for supper? Because there is no way I can finish all of this myself.”
I grip my purse strap tightly. “I really should go. I need to call my dad.”
“In Michigan?”
“Yeah, how did you . . . ?”
“At the Tate. You mentioned being a Michigander.”
“Oh, right. I forgot. That night is kind of a blur.”
“Funny. I remember it quite clearly.” He pauses. “I think of it often, actually.”
My fingers start tingling, and I want to tell him, Me too—I think about it all the time. But ever the realist, I hug my purse tighter, smile, and say, “Have a nice night. I hope you enjoy the paella.”
CHAPTER 21
I do have to call my dad. That wasn’t a lie. But, oh, how a part of me wanted to stay and share a bowl of paella with Hugh. It’s all I can think about the entire journey back to my apartment. Why couldn’t I have accepted his invitation? No, scratch that. I know why. Anyone with a brain knows why. But part of me still wishes I’d said yes. Every time we talk, all I can think is, I want to know everything about you.
But never mind. No point thinking about something that will never happen. It will only make me feel sadder and more alone.
Instead of losing myself in the world of fantasy, I d
ive face-first into the fiery pit of reality by trying my dad for the third time in eight days. I called him yesterday, but like the Sunday before, he wasn’t home, and I ended up speaking to Irene O’Malley for a second time. Apparently this time she was ironing his uniform—“because, dear, somebody has to take care of this poor man.”
Since it’s Monday afternoon back in Michigan, my dad will still be at work, so I call the post office directly, saving myself another awkward interaction with Irene. Aside from the fact that I have run out of things to discuss with her that do not involve my father, her ongoing presence in his house violates my mom’s number-one dying wish. I don’t believe in ghosts, but if ever there was a woman who would rise from the grave merely to prevent some other woman from making off with her widower, it’s my mother.
My dad picks up on the fourth ring, his cantankerous voice blasting through the receiver with his typically impassioned yet confrontational greeting, everything shouted like an accusation: “Ypsilanti Post Office! Can I help you!”
“Dad . . . hi. It’s Kelly.”
“Kelly? Hang on a sec.” He puts me on hold, and two minutes later he picks up again. “Hi. Sorry. Had to wait on a customer.”
“Not a problem.” Not that I’m calling from England or anything. . .
“So how’s it going? I got your letter. Sounds pretty fancy over there.”
“It’s definitely a different lifestyle, that’s for sure. Not so much for me as for my employer. But still.”
“Have you met the queen yet?”
“No, I haven’t met the queen. Nor will I, if I had to guess.”
He snorts. “I’m just joshing. How old is she now, anyway? She must be getting up there.”
“Old enough to be your mother,” I say.
“So not that old, then.”
As usual, I can’t tell if he is joking. “I guess it depends on your reference point. So how are things with you? I . . . understand Irene has been spending a fair amount of time at the house.”
“Yeah, but don’t worry, she’s in your old room.”
I start. “I’m sorry—what?”
“She’s staying in your old room. Not mine.”
“Wait. Hold on. What do you mean she’s ‘staying’ in my old room?”
“It means what it means: She’s sleeping in your old room.”
“She’s living with you?”
“No.” He pauses. “It’s just temporary.”
“It’s just temporary? Why is it anything? Why is she there?”
“To help around the house. Y’know—doing the stuff your mom used to do.”
I sit on my couch with my mouth open, unable to process what my dad just said. Aside from the fact that my mom probably never did half the things Irene is currently doing, my mom always saw Irene as her archrival, the woman who’d hijacked my mom’s Queen Bee status in adulthood. When she was a student, my mom always showed up to school with her hair perfectly feathered and her bright pink lipstick artfully applied. As she got older, her style remained the same—the same haircut, the same colors of lipstick and eye shadow, as if her teenage look had been fossilized—but its application suffered. Most of the time, she’d pick me up from school in a sweat suit, but sometimes she’d be dressed in a bathrobe with rollers still in her hair.
Irene, meanwhile, always showed up in full makeup and freshly pressed pants, her hair teased and sprayed into poufy stasis. My mom was thinner and probably naturally more beautiful, but Irene’s doughy face glowed with a bright, unblemished complexion, helped along by a thick coat of foundation (“She must apply that gunk with a trowel,” my mom always said). My mom’s skin, meanwhile, always looked reddish, even more so when she’d had a few drinks, and her makeup application was always a little slapdash, with a glob of mascara here and a smudge of eyeliner there, assuming she’d had the energy to use either.
The competition between the two of them wasn’t overt. They’d be perfectly cordial when they ran into each other at the supermarket or neighborhood gatherings. But they also couldn’t get through a conversation without making some sort of veiled criticism, and Irene was always worse than my mom (“Cynthia—my goodness, I almost didn’t recognize you without your curlers!” “Now tell me—is making the macaroni real gummy part of the recipe?” “My gosh, I haven’t seen pants like those since 1975!”). The fact that Irene is sleeping in my old bedroom would make my mother’s head explode.
“Does helping around the house really necessitate her sleeping under the same roof as you?” I ask. “Can’t she sleep at her own place and swing by during the day?”
“That’s kind of an imposition, don’t you think?”
“Dad, she’s the one who is supposed to be helping you. Out of the kindness of her heart, allegedly.”
“I don’t care for your tone.”
“Sorry—you’ll excuse me if I’m not overjoyed that Mom’s former arch nemesis is now residing in her abode.”
“Well, look at you and your ten-dollar words.”
I pause. “Which words are we referring to . . . ?”
“Nemesis. Residing. Abode. I think those English folks are wearing off on you.”
“Dad, I assure you—I used those words long before I moved to England. Along with millions of other Americans, none of them particularly fancy.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Then he quickly adds, “I know what they mean, by the way. Those words.”
“I never doubted you did.”
“Well . . . good,” he says.
“Why do you always play down your intelligence? Mom always said you were a bookworm in school.”
“That was high school. A long time ago.”
“So? You don’t need to play the dummy. You’re way smarter than most people I encounter on a daily basis.”
“Bah,” he growls.
“I’m serious. I’ve always thought you’d have made a great lawyer.”
He snorts. “Not a chance.”
“Why not? You certainly like to argue. . . .”
“Because lawyers are assholes,” he says.
“QED . . .”
“What?”
“Nothing. Never mind. So how long is Irene planning to camp out in my old bedroom?”
“How the heck should I know?”
“Because it’s your house, and there is a random person sleeping under your roof. I figured perhaps you might know when she planned to leave.”
“She hasn’t said.”
“Well, maybe you could gently suggest she return to her own house.”
“Why? She’s helping me.” There is a brief silence. “I’ve been lonely, Kelly. I miss your mom.”
“I know. Me too.”
A lump forms in my throat. I’ve managed to distract myself with work since I arrived in London, like putting a bandage over a cut, hoping if I can’t see it and don’t think about it, it’ll go away. But it’s still there, and talking to my dad is like reopening the wound.
My relationship with my mom was unconventional and strained at times, but even when we hadn’t talked in a while, I liked knowing she was there, that if I wanted to, I could call her or send her a card. When I moved to Chicago and started working on the cake book, I called her one evening after a particularly grueling day at the bake house. My boss, Katie, had given me instructions to start working on an Andy Warhol–inspired napoleon. The idea was completely insane—layers of colored puff pastry, in shades ranging from brown (chocolate) to pink (strawberry), interspersed with bands of multicolored pastry cream, to represent Warhol’s pop palette. I tried to tell her pink puff pastry was beyond my skill set, and certainly beyond that of the average home cook, and anyway, puff pastry wasn’t cake, the subject of the book. But she wouldn’t listen and gave me her standard puff pastry recipe, and off I went to test the worst idea I’d ever heard.
I’d made puff pastry a few times before, but I wasn’t an expert, so even when I thought the amount of butter seemed obscene, I told myself Katie knew be
tter than I. Besides, this was chocolate puff pastry, an entirely different beast. As it turned out, I should have trusted my gut. Katie had forgotten to scale down the butter with the flour and salt, so the dough was a mess, and when I tried to bake it, the butter melted out of the dough onto the bottom of the oven and caught fire, like the world’s biggest oil lamp. Katie screamed at me, made me clean up the mess, and then scrapped the recipe for a multicolored pound cake, even though the whole thing had been her fault.
I called my mom that night in tears. I didn’t expect her to do anything—she was in Michigan, and she’d never been a problem solver anyway—but I just needed her to listen. Sam was always trying to fix my problems, but I didn’t need a fixer. I needed a mom. She listened to my story and, outraged, hooted, “But it wasn’t even your fault!” Then she sighed. “Pour yourself a scotch, sweetie. You deserve it.”
It was exactly what I needed to hear. But now she’s gone, and I can’t ever call her like that again, even if I wanted to.
“I guess I’m having trouble ignoring how Mom would feel about all of this,” I say, wondering if my dad has considered this too. “You know she wasn’t Irene’s biggest fan.”
“Yeah. But don’t worry. I’m not planning to marry the woman or anything. She’s just helping out with housework and stuff. Some ironing, some cleaning, a few nursing duties.”
“Nursing duties . . . ?”
“You know, like picking up my cholesterol meds and making sure I take my vitamins. Oh, and last week she drew me a bubble bath.”
“A bubble bath?”
“Apparently it had been too long since I’d given the old ’pits a good scruberoo.” He chuckles. “Irene got in there good and cleaned me out.”
“Oh,” I say. “Okay.”
I need to get that woman out of his house.
The only good news to come out of that conversation with my dad is that he has started bathing again. Which, given that his stench had grown foul enough for Meg to express concern, is a very positive development. Other than that, I fear I am mere days away from an unpleasant encounter with my mother’s ghost.
