by Dana Bate
Her expression indicates this is the most unwelcome advice she has ever received. “Do you honestly think I need your advice on how to handle a dinner plate?”
“No, I was just trying . . . I just thought . . .”
“You thought what? That I needed diet help from a twenty-something cookbook writer?”
“It wasn’t diet help. I was just trying to be . . . friendly, I guess.”
“Friendly?” Natasha sneers. “I hate to break it to you, but we’re not ‘friends.’ You work for me. Remember?”
“Right, but I figured that after you told me about your mom, and I told you about my mom . . .”
“What? That because both our moms are dead we’d somehow become BFFs?”
“No. I thought . . .” What did I think? That she’d finally treat me with respect? “I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I thought we’d reached an understanding.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
And for a lot of reasons I don’t even fully understand, all I can think is, Me too.
From the moment the guests arrive, the house bustles with activity. Natasha and Hugh greet them, and introduce me as “the woman helping with Natasha’s cookbook,” though I do notice that Hugh chooses the word “woman” and Natasha tends to favor “girl.” They make it sound as if Natasha has been slaving away, page after page, and I am merely the assistant helping with odds and ends, even though the opposite is true. But tonight that doesn’t matter. Tonight, I am whatever Natasha needs me to be.
I help Natasha shuttle light hors d’oeuvres back and forth from the kitchen, while Hugh works the room, chatting with various members of his constituency. Natasha wasn’t entirely wrong about the haircuts. One sixty-something woman sports a spiky brown coif, which she appears to have highlighted with tiger stripes of red and platinum blond, and there is a man wearing what is surely the most unnatural toupee on planet Earth. But considering I grew up in the eighties and nineties in a small Midwestern town, all of these styles are well within my comfort zone, and frankly, I feel much more at home here than I would have among Natasha’s “fabulous” friends in London.
While the beef rests on the counter, covered by a tent of aluminum foil, Natasha dons a gray-and-white-striped apron from one of the cupboards.
“All right,” she says, rubbing her hands together. “Where are the potatoes?”
“Still in the oven.” I point to the large white bowl at the far end of the counter. “I was about to dump them in there, if you want to take them out.”
I half expect her to balk, but ever since the guests arrived, she has been all business—serving hors d’oeuvres, taking drink orders, shaking hands. When we get back into the kitchen, I’m the one doing most of the work, but she puts on a good face in public. I suppose that’s part of her job—she is an actress, after all. I’m starting to understand how she makes her marriage look so convincing.
“I’ll take them out, but maybe you can scoop them into the bowl,” she says. “I don’t want to get too messy.”
She grabs a pair of potholders and pulls the pan from the oven. I scrape the crispy, rosemary-scented potatoes into the bowl and sneak a taste of one for quality control. They came out perfectly: golden brown and crusty on the outside, soft and creamy on the inside, with enough salt, garlic, and rosemary to make the flavor pop.
“They’re going to love these,” I say.
“They’d better. Although who knows with this crowd. Did you see that one woman’s top? Nineteen eighty-three called: It wants its shirt back. . . .”
I’m not exactly sure which top she is referring to, though my guess is it’s the blue bow-tie-neck blouse with small white polka dots, which looks as if it could have come out of Margaret Thatcher’s closet. My mom had one of those when I was growing up—a hunter green one by Liz Claiborne that she called her “fancy shirt.” She often wore it on Christmas, tucked into a tan A-line skirt, and perhaps for that reason, I actually smiled when the woman walked through the door. It’s strange the things that remind me of my mother and where they appear. I never would have expected to find comfort in a fifty-five-year-old woman from Nottingham, but seeing her made me feel unexpectedly at home.
Natasha and I cart out the bowls of potatoes and green beans to the dining room table, and once everyone takes his or her seat, including me, Natasha appears in the doorway, the platter of roasted beef resting on her arms.
“Dinner is served,” she announces.
She parades into the room and lays the beef in front of Hugh, the apron still tied around her neck and waist.
“I figured I’d leave you with the honor of carving,” she says.
“Ah. Right.” Hugh claps his hands together. “Where’s the knife?”
I reach for a large carving knife on the table and hand it to him. We lock eyes for a brief moment. “Thank you,” he says.
I tear my eyes away. “You’re welcome.”
Hugh carves the beef to the ooohs and aaahs of the crowd, and everyone passes along their plates, before digging into the beans and potatoes. Then Hugh raises his glass.
“A toast—to all of you, for everything you do to keep this town the lovely, vibrant place it is. Cheers.”
Everyone clinks glasses, then dives into the meal. My knife glides through the slice of beef without resistance, like cutting through a softened stick of butter.
“Natasha, you really have outdone yourself,” says the woman in the Thatcheresque top. “This beef is absolutely gorgeous.”
Natasha doesn’t respond at first, as if she hasn’t heard, but then she snaps to attention and smiles. “Thank you. I’m so glad you like it.”
“It really is brilliant,” Hugh says. His eyes shift to me. “You’ll have to make sure you include this one in the book.”
“Yes! Tell us more about the cookbook,” says the man with the horrendous toupee. “When can we buy our copies?”
Natasha cuts her beef into minuscule pieces. “Probably about a year from now, maybe sooner. It depends on how quickly I finish testing the recipes.”
“And now—Kelly, was it? Kelly, what exactly is your role?”
I open my mouth to speak, but Natasha cuts me off. “She brings a method to my cooking madness,” she says.
“And what, exactly, does that entail?” he asks.
I try to jump in, but once again Natasha speaks before I can utter a word. “Oh, you know . . . following me around in the kitchen, writing down what I do, trying to take my improvisational style and turn it into something people can do at home.”
“Do you know each other from America?”
“Oh, God no.” She clears her throat, then flashes a smile, bringing herself back into character. “Sorry—no, I got her name through an American chef I know. She worked on his book.”
“And how does one get into that line of work?” he asks, finally posing a question Natasha can’t answer for me.
“It’s kind of a long story,” I say, “but I got interested in cooking when I was a teenager, and I always loved writing, so when I had a chance to help with a cookbook after college, all the pieces sort of fell into place.”
“Did you go to culinary school?” the woman with the tiger-striped hair asks.
“No, sadly not. All of my training has been on the job. I’ve worked in kitchens ever since I was a kid, though—washing dishes, working the sandwich line—so I have a decent amount of experience.”
“Ah, yes, washing up,” the man with the toupee says. “That was my first job, too, many, many years ago. I worked at the local pub and made a tenner a week.”
“Did you, Nigel?” Hugh says. “I never knew that.”
“Hard work, isn’t it, dear?” Nigel says.
“Let’s just say I was glad when I got promoted to the deep-fryer—although that was significantly messier.”
He laughs. “I once worked at a chip shop. Smelt like the place for days, even after showering.”
“Right? No matter how much I showered, I always
smelled like someone had fried me.”
“Was your job also at a chip shop, then?”
“No, it was at a place called Abe’s Coney Island.”
“Coney Island in New York? I think my son-in-law went there once.”
“No, this is a chain of restaurants called ‘Coney Islands.’ They’re basically big American diners that serve everything you can imagine.”
“Natasha, have you been to one of these ‘Coney Islands’?”
She looks up, as if she hasn’t been listening. “Sorry?”
“A ‘Coney Island’—have you eaten at one?”
She pushes the meat around her plate. “No . . . I don’t think so....”
“It’s very much a Michigan thing,” I say, trying to save her. “Especially in and around Detroit.”
“Are you from Detroit?” a spectacled gentleman asks. “I’ve read some terrible stories in the paper about what’s happening there.”
“I’m from a small town about forty minutes west,” I say. “But yes, what’s happening in Detroit is heartbreaking. The entire city has basically collapsed. There are a lot of reasons why, but what’s saddest, to me at least, is that I can’t imagine the city bouncing back in my lifetime. It was badly managed for so long.” I look up at Hugh as I cut into my beef. “Now, perhaps if they had Mr. Ballantine to lead the way, they would be on stronger footing. . . .”
The table erupts in laughter, with the exception of Natasha, who looks startled, as if the laughter has jolted her out of a daydream.
“It’s quite scary, though,” says Nigel. “If it could happen to a city like Detroit, it could happen anywhere. It wasn’t long ago that entire cities in this country were decimated after the coal mine closures in the eighties. That’s why we need sensible policies, locally and nationally.”
“Indeed,” Hugh says, “and that’s why I feel so very strongly that this education bill will put our city—and all English cities, for that matter—at a serious disadvantage in the future.”
The woman with tiger-striped hair blots the corners of her mouth. “But is it wise to challenge the prime minister on his signature piece of legislation? Surely, as a party, we are setting ourselves up for failure.”
“In actual fact, I believe challenging him on it is the only way for us to succeed,” Hugh says.
He goes on to explain his strategy for blocking the prime minister’s bill and for leading his party to victory in next year’s election. As he speaks, the entire table is quiet, every pair of eyes fixed on Hugh as he speaks with enthusiasm and passion about his visions for the future—both for his constituency in Nottingham and for the entire United Kingdom. The more he speaks, the faster my heart beats. Aside from being charming and absurdly handsome, he is the kind of person who could change the world—who wants to, who seems to have been designed for that very task. How could I not fall for someone like that? How could I possibly look away?
When he has spoken for a good five minutes without interruption, he stops himself abruptly and smiles. “And now I’ll stop talking because I fear I’m boring my wife and Kelly to tears.”
“No, no!” I blurt out before I can stop myself. I cover my mouth when I catch Natasha’s unfriendly expression, confirming that I have, indeed, spoken out of turn.
Hugh laughs, defusing the tension. “No, no?”
“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean . . . All I meant was, I wasn’t bored to tears. I don’t know anything about British politics, but what you were saying . . . it was inspiring.”
Nigel guffaws. “A British politician inspiring an American? I say, Ballantine, perhaps you really are the young hope for the party.”
There is a collective chuckle around the table, and Hugh smiles. “Dearest Nigel, thank you for calling me young.” He raises his glass. “That, my friend, is something I can drink to.”
Everyone clinks glasses, and then the hum of conversation returns as the guests break off in smaller groups around the table. Hugh catches my stare for the briefest of moments, and as our eyes meet, I pray Natasha can’t see the blush in my cheeks or, even worse, the fact that I am, against my better judgment, falling in love with her husband.
CHAPTER 29
In love? How can I be falling in love? With Sam, it took three months of exclusive dating before we exchanged “I love you”s, and even then, it was another month before I really felt as if I meant it. I’ve known Hugh for less than two months. But in that brief time, I’ve felt something click between us, like two jigsaw pieces snapping into place. I’d always assumed love was complicated and layered—like my relationship with my parents or Sam—but maybe I was wrong. Maybe love is as simple as an arrow through the heart.
Once Natasha has served the rhubarb crumble and there isn’t a speck left in the dish or on anyone’s plate, she and I clear the table with the help of a few of the guests.
“Ms. Spencer, that crumble was divine,” says the woman in the Thatcheresque top. “It’s lovely to meet someone as beautiful and talented as you who can actually cook.”
“Thank you,” Natasha says, accepting a compliment about my cooking without hesitation.
“I can’t wait to buy a copy of your cookbook when it comes out.”
“You’ll only have to wait about a year, assuming we don’t run into any more unnecessary delays.” She lets the word linger, as if any of the delays so far have been my fault. She reaches for the dessert plates the woman is carrying. “Here, I’ll take those.” She passes them to me. “I think Hugh, Nigel, and Malcolm were going to talk shop over some Scotch. You should join them.”
“Oh, no, I’m afraid I must go. But thank you very much for having me.” She grabs Natasha’s hand and squeezes it. “I am truly such a fan of your work.”
“Thank you,” Natasha says.
“And lovely to meet you, Kelly. I hope you enjoy your time in England.”
Natasha escorts her to the front door, and soon the others follow, until the only people left are Hugh, the toupeed Nigel, and the spectacled Malcolm, who chat in the drawing room while they sip their Scotch.
“I’m really sorry about earlier,” I say, when Natasha comes back into the kitchen.
“When?”
“At the table. When Hugh—Mr. Ballantine—was talking politics. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn.”
She waves me off. “Oh, that. Don’t even worry about it. At least one of us was paying attention. My mind was elsewhere.”
“Well . . . good,” I say. Then I quickly add, “That I didn’t speak out of turn. Not that your mind was elsewhere.”
She stares at me for a beat. “You’re weird, you know that?”
“Yes, actually, I do.”
She rinses her hands in the sink. “Anyway, my agent called right before we sat down to dinner, and I need to leave for Paris again tonight for this lame promotional thing, so I basically spent dinner going through my mental checklist. Poppy usually takes care of packing everything, but since she isn’t here . . .”
I glance at the clock. “You’re flying to Paris tonight? It’s almost ten. And Heathrow is more than two hours away.”
“Oh, I’m flying privately,” she says. “The company behind my perfume needs me there for a Sunday breakfast event, so they’re flying me from the Nottingham airport. Sunil will drive me there in a few minutes.”
“But . . . where am I supposed to go? I thought I was driving back with you and Sunil tomorrow?”
“Sunil will take you home tomorrow morning.”
“Oh . . . So . . . I’m staying here tonight? Alone?”
“Not alone. Hugh will be here. And Olga and Sunil are in the guesthouse.”
“Oh, okay. That’s good. At least there will be other people around.”
“Don’t worry—this place may be old, but I promise it isn’t haunted. There’s no reason to be scared.”
“Right,” I say, trying to sound relieved. “Of course not.” But I am scared, and the reason has nothing to do with the house.
; Within minutes Natasha has dashed upstairs, grabbed her bags, and rushed out the door to meet Sunil, who was already waiting with the car running. Olga joins me in the kitchen to finish scrubbing the pots and pans and load the dishwasher.
“The dinner, it was good?” she asks.
“It was great,” Hugh says, appearing in the doorway, a nearly empty glass of Scotch in his hand. “Kelly and Natasha really outdid themselves.” He smiles. “Mostly Kelly, I’m guessing.”
“Natasha helped make the crumble. And she trimmed some of the green beans and peeled a few potatoes. She has excellent knife skills.”
“I’ll have to compliment her when I see her. I hear she’s off to Paris again?”
I nod. “I didn’t realize there was an airport in Nottingham.”
“It’s very small—mainly for private planes. Not that I’ve had the chance to fly on one myself.”
“That makes two of us.”
He smiles again and then shifts his gaze to Olga. “Olga, you’ve done quite enough this evening. Please, allow me to take over.”
He rests his glass on the counter and takes the dishtowel from her hands.
“Please,” she says, resisting, “is my pleasure to help.”
“Nonsense. You do plenty to help at home. You deserve a break. You, too, Kelly. Go and put your feet up. Relax.”
“I still have to pack up the leftover cheese and oatcakes,” I say.
“I’m quite confident I can do that myself. I’m not as incompetent as I look.”
“Okay . . . If you’re sure.”
“Absolutely.”
I wipe my hands on a dishtowel and follow Olga out of the kitchen and down the hallway. She and Sunil are staying in the small guesthouse next door, but since it has only two bedrooms, I am staying in a small room in the main house, down the hall from Hugh and Natasha’s separate bedrooms. I close the door behind Olga and then head up to my bedroom, which is tucked in the far corner of the house on the second floor, just above the kitchen. I kick off my shoes and plop down on the bed, a narrow twin covered by a blue-and-white patchwork quilt. I lean my head against the white metal headboard and take a deep breath as I close my eyes, letting the sounds of Hugh rattling around in the kitchen wash over me. I try not to think about him, try not to picture his face or wonder what he’s doing down there, but I can’t help myself. Hearing him speak tonight ignited something inside me, and the more I try to extinguish it, the hotter it burns.
