by Dana Bate
Desperate for answers, I decide I’ll show up half an hour early the next morning, so that I can run into Hugh before he leaves for the office. But when I arrive, I find he has already gone to work and, perplexingly, has left neither an “implement” nor a message on the kitchen counter. The only thing waiting for me is a knob of ginger, supplied by Olga, with the message “For Miss Kelly.”
I spend the morning working on the frittata recipe, making sure I finish cooking before eleven o’clock, when Natasha and I are scheduled to meet to discuss her book and the Vogue interview. As usual, she is late, and when she finally arrives, she is on the phone.
“Fine. Send the Lanvin and the Versace. But just so you know, that Prada dress was a fucking joke.” She hangs up and plops down in a chair across from me. “Yeah, because I want to look like a fucking ballerina on acid.”
“Sorry?”
She looks up, as if she is noticing for the first time that I’m sitting across from her. “Nothing. Stylist issues.”
“Ah.”
“Anyway, I hear Poppy briefed you on the Vogue interview.”
“She said you’re looking at some time later this month?”
“She and my publicist are dealing with the details, but yes. I think we’re looking at some time around July 15.”
“So . . . two weeks from now.”
“Like I said, I’m not the one working out the details.”
“Assuming it ends up being July 15, we have two weeks to practice a few recipes together so that you’re comfortable cooking on your own.”
She shrinks back defensively. “I am comfortable cooking on my own.”
“Of course you are. All I meant was . . . I’ve been the one developing and testing a lot of these recipes, so I should probably get you up to speed on what I’ve been doing.”
She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Well, yes. That would be helpful.”
“Here’s what I’ve written up so far.”
I push a stack of paper across the table and take her through all of the recipes I have developed over the past two months. She has, of course, tasted all of these dishes, but the last few weeks have been such a whirlwind that it’s helpful to have everything spelled out in an organized list, even for me.
Once we have gone through the manuscript-in-progress, I look down again at the list of completed recipes.
“So in terms of dishes you’ll cook with the Vogue writer, I was thinking your Cornish hens should be at the top of the list.”
She groans. “I feel like I make those all the time.”
Considering the last time she made them for Hugh was five years ago, I don’t see how that could possibly be the case, but whatever.
“That’s the reason you should make them,” I say. “You’re comfortable with the recipe. You could probably make it blindfolded. That’s good. You don’t want this guy writing some sort of hit piece about how you don’t know what you’re doing, right?”
“No. Definitely not.”
“Exactly. So why don’t you make that recipe, and then maybe your grandmother’s chocolate mousse? Or maybe the sweet potato fries. Those came out really well.”
She twirls her wedding ring around her finger. “What about the kale burgers?”
“No,” I say, probably more quickly than I should.
“No?”
“The recipe isn’t ready.”
“You have two weeks.”
“I’m not sure that’s enough time.”
“Why not?”
Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I’ve been testing kale burgers for more than a month and still haven’t made one you like?
“It’s a tricky recipe to get right,” I say. “And anyway, I realize this is your publicist’s domain, but do you really want to cook a recipe that makes you seem like a health nut?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not calling you a health nut. I’m saying a recipe like a kale burger might make you seem a certain way, and I’m not sure that’s the image you’re trying to convey.”
She taps her fingers against the counter. “I see what you’re saying. Fine. Let’s do the sweet potato fries. Those were good.”
“Perfect. I’ll let Poppy know. And if these recipes and headnotes look okay to you, I’ll touch base with your editor and pass them along for the writer to see.”
“Great. Do it.” She gets up from her seat as if she is about to leave.
“Wait—before you go, when do you want to go over the recipes together? I know you know how to make the Cornish hens, but maybe we could do a test run, along with the sweet potato fries.”
“Coordinate with Poppy. But I leave Thursday for LA, and I won’t be back until Tuesday, so it’ll have to be next week.”
“Oh. Wow. So that gives us less than a week to practice.”
She waves me off. “Plenty of time.”
“Okay. If you’re sure.”
“Of course I’m sure.” She heads for the refrigerator, where she grabs a pitcher of water filled with lemon slices. “On a totally different topic,” she says, pouring herself a glass, “I talked to Hugh last night.”
“Oh?”
She walks over to one of the kitchen drawers and pulls out a set of measuring spoons. “Are these yours?”
I squint from across the room as I look at them more closely. They are one of the sets of measuring spoons I brought from the States.
“Oh, yes,” I say. “They are.”
“Hugh found them in the Nottingham dishwasher and assumed they weren’t ours.” She saunters over to the table as she sips her water and dumps them in front of me. “Good catch, huh?”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Don’t thank me. Thank Hugh.”
“You’ll have to do it for me.”
I scoop up the spoons, and as I tuck them into my bag, I try to act something other than disappointed, even though that’s exactly how I feel.
In the two days before Natasha leaves for LA, I manage to finalize the recipes for the asparagus frittata and Asian poached chicken, and I come very close to nailing the Paleo seed bread, which makes Natasha very happy. I will never be someone who gives up wheat or grains (give me gluten or give me death), but I’m surprised at how delicious the nut-and-seed-based bread is and how much of that is down to Natasha’s guidance. Unlike with most of the recipes, she had a lot of specific instructions with this one (“Almonds and hazelnuts, coconut oil, and a mix of seeds—try sunflower, pumpkin and sesame. Maybe some flax. A little honey as well, but no more than a tablespoon”). I wish she were that prescriptive with her stupid kale burger. When she tries, she can actually be helpful, but most of the time, she doesn’t bother.
When I arrive Thursday morning, Natasha has already left for the airport, but I find a note from her on the counter:
Kelly—
Please try to have the seed bread ready for me when I get back. Also, the shrimp tacos and the kale burger (I really don’t see why you’re having so much trouble with that one). Oh, and if you could prepare a few things for Hugh to have for dinner while I’m gone, that would be great. Try to keep it light. He’s looking a little soft.
N
Looking at the note, the significance of her absence finally sinks in. It’s not that I didn’t grasp before what her trip meant—that she’d be gone for more than five days, that I’d have Hugh to myself—but I was so busy testing recipes and trying to polish the manuscript that I didn’t have much time to dwell on it. I also think part of me didn’t want to wallow in the disappointment of his not-so-cryptic message and the cold reality that I might be more emotionally invested in our liaison than he is.
I spend the day finalizing the seed bread and also making a variation with dried sour cherries, which add a lovely sweet-and-sour tang and yield a loaf that would be equally delicious topped with cheese or slathered in fresh jam. Since both loaves will keep for up to a week in the refrigerator, I leave half of each in Natasha’s fridge and decide I’ll take the
rest home with me. In my head, I’m already concocting uses for both: a smoked trout spread for the plain version, and a whipped vanilla-bean ricotta for the one with cherries.
Rather than take another stab at the kale burger, something I know Hugh won’t want to eat for dinner, I decide to whip up another frittata, using up the leftover odds and ends in the refrigerator. Even though I’ve made my fair share of frittatas recently, I never tire of them. Not only can I make them with an endless number of ingredients, but I can also serve them hot or at room temperature, an important factor when leaving dinner for Hugh. Part of me fantasizes about making something elaborate like a creamy lobster risotto and having a steaming bowl of it resting on the table when he returns, while I sit in a chair wearing nothing but an apron, but I know I can’t do that. That would be a step too far, an overt act of seduction as opposed to the relative happenstance of what has transpired so far. I’m not sure what basis I have for these arbitrary moral boundaries, but having them in place gives me at least the illusion of virtue.
I leave the frittata on the counter with a note for Hugh (“For dinner—enjoy. Thanks for returning the measuring spoons.”) and then head out with Olga, who locks the door behind her.
“I come late tomorrow,” she says as we make our way up Glenloch Road.
“How late?”
“Ten. Eleven, maybe. I have doctor’s appointment.”
“Okay. What time should I meet you, then?”
“Mmmm, noon? Mr. Ballantine, he will be at work.”
“Noon works. Oh, but were you able to find any jalepeño or poblano peppers?”
“No. But I keep trying. Tomorrow, maybe.”
We go our separate ways, and the next morning I take advantage of the late start time to catch a few extra hours of sleep and grab a relaxing breakfast across the street at Villandry. But when I arrive at Natasha’s house at noon and ring the bell beside the gate, Olga isn’t there to greet me. Hugh is.
“Hello,” he says as he meets me in the driveway.
“Hi. . . .” I glance at my watch. “Shouldn’t you be at the office?”
“Nope. I took off early because I’m heading back to my constituency this afternoon. And anyway, it’s a slow Friday. There isn’t much going on.”
“Where’s Olga?”
“Running a bit behind. Apparently she’s on a quest for some specific ingredient you’ve asked her to buy.”
“Oh. Probably the peppers.”
“Peppers?”
“Jalepeños and poblanos. You can find them almost anywhere in the States, but we’ve had a lot of trouble finding them here.”
“Have you tried Borough Market?”
“No. I’ve actually never been there.”
His eyes widen. “You’re joking. Surely you, of all people, must know about Borough Market.”
“I’ve heard of it. I’ve just never been there.”
“You must. Really, you’ll adore it. It’s open today. In fact . . .” He glances down at his watch. “I haven’t had any lunch yet. Why don’t we go together?”
“Right now?”
“Right now. I wasn’t planning to leave for a few hours anyway.”
“But what will Olga think? She already seems suspicious of the two of us.”
“Because of the sheets?”
“Not just the sheets. She’s made comments.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. Olga may report to Natasha, but she’s always had a soft spot for me. She’s sort of like a great aunt. If I told her I was giving you a tour of the market, my guess is she wouldn’t give it a second thought.”
“But what if we run into someone? Or someone recognizes you?”
“People rarely recognize me unless I’m with Natasha. Much as I’d like people to be as passionate about politics as they are about celebrity culture, they aren’t. To most people, I’m the lanky git on Natasha’s arm.”
“If you’re sure . . .”
“I am. And even if someone does recognize me, it’s not as if we’ll be snogging in the middle of the market. There’s nothing wrong with my showing you a bit of British food culture.”
“I guess that’s true.”
“Of course it is. Come on—let’s write Olga a note telling her we’ve stepped out and get on our way.”
I follow him into the house and realize I’m not the only one inventing ethical boundaries to suit my needs, and I wonder how many times we can rewrite the rules before they cease to exist.
CHAPTER 34
Borough Market is like nothing I’ve ever seen. I’ve been to farmers’ markets before—in Ann Arbor growing up, in Chicago, even here in London, at my local market in Marylebone—but Borough Market is like all of the others combined, times a thousand.
As soon as we emerge from the tube and walk through the limestone archway on Borough High Street, we are bombarded by purveyors of everything from fresh vegetables and buttery pastries to goat’s milk ice cream and soft, eggy strands of pasta. Hugh lets me wander up and down the aisles, and I stop to watch one vendor stir a three-foot-wide paella pan, offering up piping hot bowls of tender prawns and rice to a throng of hungry customers. The market is vast, occupying three distinct spaces—the Green Market, Three Crown Square, and Jubilee Place—and as I zigzag through the maze of stalls, I’m glad Hugh is here to keep me from getting lost.
“This place—I feel like I’m in a fairy tale.”
“I thought you’d like it.”
“Like it? I love it. I may never leave.”
“Ah, so my plan to get you to stay in London is working . . .”
I catch his stare but look away, afraid someone might see us, as if anyone around us even cares. “You have a plan?”
“Not really. I was kidding. Sort of.”
“Ah.” I try not to sound disappointed, but like with the measuring spoons, I keep looking for signs—that I’m more than just an easy shag, that he cares about me, too.
“I’ve been thinking about you a lot,” he says, as if on cue. “Not that I didn’t think about you before, but since Nottingham . . . I don’t know. It’s been different. More real.”
I scan a table of Turkish pastries. I want to ask how much he thinks about me, if it’s even half as much as I think about him. But I can’t—partly because I can’t get up the courage to ask and partly because I’m not ready to hear the answer.
“I thought you were trying to send me some sort of message with those measuring spoons the other day,” I say.
“I was. Well, sort of.”
“What was it? Because I’m pretty sure I missed it.”
“Just that you’d left something behind. But I also wanted to let you know that I was coming back, and that I’d been thinking about you.”
“Oh.” I try a sample of baklava from a tray resting on top of the table. “Then why did you give the spoons to Natasha?”
“I didn’t. I gave them to Poppy.”
“Natasha said you gave them to her. She said you found them in the dishwasher and figured they were mine.”
“No, that’s what I told Poppy.” He rumples his brow. “Did she not give you the note?”
My stomach curdles. “What note?”
“The note I left with the spoons.”
I suddenly feel sick. “There was no note. Natasha reached into the kitchen drawer, pulled them out, and gave them to me. That was it.”
He goes pale, then takes a deep breath. “Oh, dear.”
“Why? What was in the note?”
The color returns to his face, and he waves me off. “It was nothing, really. Nothing Natasha would care about, anyway. It said something like, ‘I expect you’ll need these. Thank you again for making everything so lovely.’”
“And you don’t think that might rankle her?”
“Not really.”
“Come on—after everything that happened with Matthew Rush? He cheated on her with her trainer.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“Because she was madly in love with him. She’s never felt like that about me. Even in the early days, it was strictly lust. And now she has Jacques. Why do you think she’s always jetting off to Paris?”
“I thought that was for her new perfume.”
“Which Jacques helped her launch. Convenient, isn’t it?”
“If she wouldn’t care, then why didn’t she give me the note?”
He shrugs. “Probably because she didn’t want you to feel too pleased with yourself. I wouldn’t worry. Honestly.”
But as we make our way toward a towering stack of cookies, I’m not sure if he actually means that, or if he’s just saying whatever he can to keep me from panicking.
We share a bowl of silky, fragrant paella for lunch, and then we split a pillowy doughnut from one of the bakery stands for dessert. As much as I enjoy the food, I can’t help but feel a little nauseous. What if Natasha knows? What happens then?
I find some poblano peppers at a stall that specializes in chilies and Mexican ingredients. In addition to the poblanos, I load up on corn tortillas, dried ancho chilies, chipotles, and a few chili powders, but when I open my wallet to pay, I only have a five-pound note. Before I can reach for my credit card, Hugh reaches over me and hands the vendor a stack of bills. “I’ll do it,” Hugh says. “Cash is easier.”
“Thanks,” I say as we stroll down the thoroughfare. “I should have stopped at the ATM.”
“I hear Natasha set you up with a Barclay’s account?”
“Just for cookbook-related expenses. But it’s been useful. At least one of my bank accounts is flush.”
“What do you mean?”
“I haven’t really been . . . paid since I got here.”
Hugh stops in his tracks. “What?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
