by Dana Bate
“Thanks for looking out for me,” I say, terrified as to what this costume will look like. Regardless how good the food is, no one will want to hire a caterer who looks like a serial killer.
“Don’t worry,” Blake says. “It’ll be great.”
I somehow doubt that. But as I watch Blake’s eyes crinkle around the edges with excitement, I realize I don’t need great. I’ll settle for decent. Or even mediocre. Because, as much as I hate to admit it, I like being part of a duo again, and I’ll take it in whatever form it comes.
CHAPTER
thirty
I stare at my reflection in Blake’s full-length mirror and cannot believe what I see.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, tugging at the black corset strings around my waist. “Where the hell did you get this thing?”
Blake comes to the doorway and immediately hunches over in a fit of laughter. “Oh my god, it’s perfect.”
“Stop laughing. I look ridiculous.”
“No you don’t. Okay, maybe a little bit, but it’s Halloween. Seriously, it’s perfect.”
Perfect is not how I would describe this costume. Hideous, maybe, or highly flammable, but definitely not perfect. The black gauzy sleeves fall about an inch below my knuckles, and the tiered skirt cascades to the floor in a way that guarantees I will trip at least once during the party. And while I appreciate the slimming effects of the corset, I do not enjoy the supreme boost it gives to my breasts, which are now so perky they distract even me. Perhaps that was Blake’s intention.
Blake grabs my shoulders and spins me around to face him. He pulls a strand of hair away from my face. “I have a can of hair-spray in the bathroom, and a big bag of costume makeup.” He digs into his pocket. “Oh, and here’s a photo of Mrs. Lovett from the latest Sweeney Todd movie. You can use it as a guide.”
I take the picture from Blake and inspect Helena Bonham Carter’s white face and black, sunken eyes. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Of course I’m not joking. What’s wrong with that picture? Her makeup looks cool.”
“She looks insane. Can’t I mess up my hair and be done with it?”
“No,” he says. “That’s lame. There’s no point in dressing up if you only go halfway.”
“So then why don’t I not dress up at all?”
He sighs. “Because it’s Halloween. Everyone will be dressed up. Everyone will look ridiculous. Trust me.”
“Fine,” I say. “But don’t blame me when no one wants any food or drinks because I scare everyone away.”
Blake ruffles my hair with his fingers and steals a quick glance at my chest. “I assure you, my friend. That won’t happen.”
Thirty minutes before Blake’s friends show up, I march back into the kitchen, my hair teased into a frizzy mass atop my head and my makeup a near facsimile of Helena Bonham Carter’s. When Blake sees me, he gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up. I interpret this to mean I look absolutely hideous.
However ridiculous I look, Blake’s outfit gives me a run for my money. Let’s just say he’s no Johnny Depp. Aside from the puffy shirt and ornate cravat, his ratty wig puts the whole ensemble over the top. He looks like Don King.
“Blake, is that a pirate shirt?” I ask, pointing at his torso.
He looks down at his sleeves, which balloon from the arm-holes of his gray, button-down vest. “What, you don’t like it?”
“It looks a little, I don’t know …” I swoop my arm like a pirate. “Argh, matey!”
“Listen, Sugarman, I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is a Sweeney Todd costume.” He rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands in the sink.
“You probably should have dressed as a pirate. It would have been much more appropriate.”
“Because I like boats?”
“That, and the fact that you talk like a pirate half the time.”
“No I don’t. Do I?”
I dip my head and stare at him with widened eyes. “Are you kidding?”
“No. What are you talking about?”
I smack my forehead and shake my head. “Blake, I’ve been meaning to address this for weeks. You use sailor and fishing expressions all the time. ‘Welcome aboard.’ ‘Fish or cut bait.’ ‘Anchors aweigh.’ I could go on and on.”
He blushes and scratches his temple. “Really? Sorry. Sort of a throwback to childhood, I guess. When I was a kid, my dad used to call me First Mate, and I’d call him Skipper. It was a running joke between us—the Fischer Men, remember? I guess I still talk that way sometimes when I get nervous.”
“Not just when you’re nervous,” I say. “You do it all the time.”
“Around you,” he says, turning his back to me as he opens the refrigerator.
“Right. All the time … around me.”
Before I can ask Blake to explain what he means, he hands me a container of marinated artichokes hearts and a box of toothpicks. “I had an idea.”
I poke a toothpick into an artichoke and hold it up for Blake to see. “A ‘stake in the heart’?”
He smiles. “Exactly.”
“Nice. I hadn’t thought of that one.”
I arrange the artichokes in concentric circles on a big, porcelain platter, occasionally stealing glances at Blake out of the corner of my eye. He does look ridiculous in that wig, but it’s sort of endearing, like people who wear knee-high tube socks or super white sneakers without a hint of irony. I want to hug those people and hold them and tell them everything will be okay.
As I stab a toothpick into the last artichoke, I sense Blake standing behind me. “Can I squeeze in there a sec?” he asks. “I need to grab a spatula.”
I move to the right, but he grabs me by the waist and moves me to the left. I jump.
“You ticklish?” he asks, smirking.
“No,” I say. This is a lie. I am extremely ticklish.
“Oh?” He grabs my sides again. This time I squeal. “You’re not? So if I went like this”—he wiggles his fingers under my arms—“you’d be fine?”
I let out a sharp yelp, and he starts poking me in the side and behind my knees, and before I know it I am on the ground and he is kneeling over me, prodding me all over as I giggle and shriek and tell him to stop.
“Bwahahaha, you cannot escape from Sweeney Todd!”
I screech and slap his hands away, and finally he stops when he is laughing so hard he can’t manage to tickle me anymore. He wipes the tears away from his eyes, still kneeling over me with his legs straddled across my knees. His expression turns serious, and his gray eyes fix on mine.
“You know, there’s something we need to talk about,” he says. But before he can finish his thought, the doorbell rings.
“What?” I ask, trying not to let the panic rise in my voice. The supper club. He knows. “What do we need to talk about?”
He presses his lips together and looks away as he tugs at his wig. “Never mind,” he says, shaking his head. “Let’s get the door.”
He grabs my hand and pulls me up from the ground, and he doesn’t loosen his grip until we reach the front door.
CHAPTER
thirty-one
As the crowd in Blake’s living room multiplies, I discover I am not alone in looking like a lunatic. One guy is completely naked, save a pizza box, which he wears around his waist like a tutu. I imagine the box’s contents are a special delivery for some lucky gal at the party tonight. Another man is dressed as Borat, clad in a neon yellow V-shaped unitard, which seems dated and unoriginal but, nevertheless, manages to attract the attention of everyone at the party due to its emphasis on this particular gentleman’s, shall we say, impressive anatomy. These costumes, combined with a man dressed as a snake charmer (charming his own “snake”), lead me to revise my thesis on Halloween costumes. Girls aren’t the only ones who dress like sluts on Halloween; apparently men are enthralled by any costume that showcases their schlong.
The man wearing the pizza box sidles up to the bar, where I am te
mporarily serving as the bartender while I wait for the crowd to deplete some of the platters. “Whatcha got?” he asks.
“Red and white wine and the usual hard stuff. The beer keg is out back.”
He scans the bookshelves behind me, which Blake and I lined with bottles of rum, vodka, and other liquor. “You know what—I’ll stick with beer,” he says. He eyes me up and down. “Nice costume.”
“You, too.”
He smirks. “Sausage, baby. Extra large.”
I roll my eyes. “The beer is out back.”
“Oooh, the surly type. Me likey. Don’t worry. I’ll be back later.”
“Don’t hurry,” I call after him.
A short Indian man cloaked in silver Mylar slips in front of the pizza guy and approaches me at the bar, smiling as he watches me stare in puzzlement at his shiny costume.
“You like?” he asks, holding out his arms and spinning around, so that I can take in the whole ensemble. The silver material hangs over him and puffs out in the middle like a balloon.
“Um … yeah.... What are you supposed to be?”
“Balloon Boy! You know, the kid who supposedly got trapped in that air balloon?”
“A few years back?” I chuckle. “Wow. Hadn’t thought about that one in a while.”
“Yeah, well, the truth is, I went on Amazon to buy a Mylar blanket to line my sleeping bag for a camping trip, but I accidentally bought a pack of twelve, so I was looking for a way to use a few of them up.”
“Nice job. I’d say you used at least three.”
“Five, actually. I stuffed a few inside.” He grins and extends his arm across the bar. “I’m Anoop, by the way.”
I grab his hand and shake it. “Hannah.”
“I see you met Wes,” he says, pointing to the guy wearing the pizza box, who is now chatting up a woman dressed as Catwoman. “Don’t worry, he’s harmless. Just crazy.”
“And horny.”
Anoop laughs. “That, too. So I hear you’ve been hanging out with Blake a bit, huh?”
I shrug. “I’ve been helping him get ready for the party. If that constitutes hanging out.”
“Yeah, you made all this food, right? Those bacon-wrapped oysters are killer.”
“Thanks.”
“And I love the ribs. I ate like five already.”
I put on my best smile. “If you ever need a caterer …”
Anoop smirks and shakes his finger at me. “I’ll keep that in mind. Anyway, Blake is a great guy. One of the best, actually.”
“Who apparently is very lucky to have such loyal and complimentary friends.”
Anoop lifts his glass and toasts the air. “It’s true. He surrounds himself with only the best.”
Blake lets out a loud belly laugh from across the room, and I watch as he shakes with laughter. “Would you check out that wig?” I say. “How does he even hold that thing up?”
“With the strength of a thousand bulls.” Anoop grins and holds out his glass. “I’ll leave you in peace, but before I go, could you hit me with another glass of red?”
“That’s what I’m here for,” I say as I refill his glass.
“Nah, that’s not the only reason you’re here.”
I scrunch my eyebrows together. “Oh, really? I’m pretty sure it is. I’m the caterer.”
“No. There’s more to it than that. Trust me.” He studies my expression and shakes his head, staring into his wineglass. “Ah, Dionysus. You make me forget myself.” He looks back up at me. “I’ve already said too much. But be good to Blake. He’s a quality guy.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Before Anoop can get away, Blake sneaks up behind him and gives him a playful elbow in the side. “What are you two chatting about over here?”
“Hannah’s excellent cooking,” Anoop says.
Blake grins. “She’s pretty great, huh?”
Anoop looks me up and down. “That she is.”
“Oh, so get this,” Blake says, facing Anoop. “I was talking to Nicole, and apparently she ran into Geeta last week.”
“Geeta?” Anoop and I ask in unison.
They turn and look at me. “Anoop’s ex-girlfriend,” Blake says. “Anyway, apparently she is as crazy as ever.”
Anoop shakes his head. “Some things never change. Did she ask about me?”
“Yeah, she asked about all of us.” A lithe blonde dressed as a belly dancer approaches the bar with a few of her friends, and Blake nods in her direction. “Hey, Nicole—what was Geeta saying? About that underground supper club?”
My ears perk up, and I feel all the blood rush to my face.
Anoop furrows his brow. “What underground supper club?”
Nicole flicks her hair over her shoulder. “You haven’t heard about this? Apparently some amateur chef is running an unlicensed restaurant out of her house. Just Google ‘Dupont Circle Supper Club’ and you’ll find the Web site.”
“Oh, riiiight,” Anoop says. “I read about that.”
“Well, Geeta went the other weekend, and according to her, it’s right in this neighborhood. One of Blake’s neighbors, apparently.”
I pull out a glass and two bottles of wine. “More wine anyone?” Everyone shakes their heads. “What about some scotch?” Rebuffed again. “Vodka?”
“Actually,” says a black man dressed as a cow, “it’s supposed to be really good. I’ve been trying to make a reservation, but they’re completely booked up. Their schedule is a little erratic.”
Blake huffs and widens his eyes. “You’d actually go to one of these dinners?”
The cow man shrugs. “It sounds fun.”
“But the whole operation is totally irresponsible,” Blake says. “Not to mention illegal.”
“It’s sort of a gray area,” I blurt out. Everyone turns and stares at me. “It’s … not legal, per se, but it isn’t really … illegal either.”
“Someone is serving food to paying customers without a license from the health department,” Blake says. “That’s illegal. What if someone gets food poisoning? What if there is damage to the property?”
I clear my throat. “I … don’t know.”
Blake snickers. “I mean, why should some people not have to follow the rules? All the other restaurants in Dupont Circle have to pay for a liquor license and health inspections—and rightfully get in trouble when they don’t. Why should this woman get a free pass?”
“I don’t think it’s that big of a deal,” says the cow man.
“Neither do I,” says Anoop. “In fact, it’s sounds pretty cool. Didn’t I read somewhere that this woman made cheesesteak arancini and coconut cream pie? I can dig it.”
“No, I see what Blake is saying,” Nicole says. “If this woman wants to open a restaurant, she should open a restaurant. She can’t have it both ways.”
“Exactly,” Blake says. He wraps his arm around me and gives me a squeeze. “Look at this lady. She’s trying to run an honest catering operation over here. You don’t see her running around, flouting the rules, do you?”
I laugh nervously as Blake squeezes me tighter and gives me a quick peck on the forehead, an act that, apparently, surprises everyone else as much as it surprises me. I pretend to ignore the awkwardness and decant a hefty pour of eighteen-year Macallan into a glass.
Nicole taps her fingers on her exposed, toned stomach. “Well, once you’re elected you should make shutting down that supper club a priority.”
“Once I’m elected, I’ll actually have time,” Blake says. “Frankly, I have too much going on at the moment to chase down some amateur cook. But once things settle down, I’ll look into it.” He grins and nudges me in the side. “If only for Hannah’s sake.”
I gulp down a mouthful of scotch. “Don’t do it on my behalf. It doesn’t bother me that much.”
“No, no—you need a level playing field if you’re going to make your cooking dreams a reality. And if I can help you along, well, that would make me a very happy guy.”
&nbs
p; He gives me another squeeze as I down the rest of my scotch, and I realize there is nothing I can do to make this situation better other than drinking scotch until I am physically incapable of speaking.
I don’t drink any more scotch, mostly because I hate scotch, even if it is $150, eighteen-year Macallan. Besides, I have a party to cater, and getting blackout drunk won’t ingratiate me with any potential future clients. To my infinite delight, however, I manage to escape any further discussion of supper clubs and campaigns for the rest of the party, and by midnight, I find myself back in the kitchen, where heaps of plates and glasses cover Blake’s breakfast bar. Since cleanup is also my responsibility, I decide I’ll start now to avoid an onslaught of work later, when I will be twice as tired.
I pull out a large black trash bag and stuff the dirty napkins and plates inside, amazed at the mess fifty people can generate. I rinse out the dirty glasses in the sink, and as I start putting them in the dishwasher, I feel a blunt edge press into my back. I glance over my shoulder and see Wes standing behind me, pushing into me with his pizza box.
“Special delivery,” he says. He ogles me with a droopy, drunken smile.
I turn around and look down at the pizza box. “Yeah, okay, I’m gonna go ahead and refuse the package.”
“Trust me, you want a taste of this.”
“No, I assure you, I do not.”
He throws his head back and lets out a slow, lazy laugh, then snaps his head back down and stands there, gawking. “You’re hot,” he says.
“You’re drunk.”
He smiles. “You’re hot.”
“You’re drunk.”
I’m beginning to think we could go on and on like this, in an endless back-and-forth, a theory Wes proves by adding, one more time, “You’re hot.”
“Thank you,” I say, wanting nothing more than to bring this interaction to a close.
Wes reaches out and lays his broad hand on my shoulder and starts massaging my neck, a move I am certain has worked many times in his favor because, like a puppy being rubbed behind the ears, I go limp. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you? Tell daddy how much you like it.”
