The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs

by Dana Bate

  “With any luck, he’ll give you a call in the next week or two,” Blake says.

  Before I can ask more questions about this potential client, a willowy blonde walks into the restaurant, surrounded by two men and two women. The woman looks familiar, and I realize that’s because she is Nicole, the belly dancer from last weekend, the one whose apartment building caught on fire and whose aunt works at L’Academie de Cuisine.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Nicole says, double kissing Blake and Anoop on the cheeks. Her four friends, two of whom I recognize from the Halloween party, offer hugs and waves. “Connecticut Avenue was a nightmare.”

  Blake pushes me forward by the small of my back. “Nicole, you remember Hannah?”

  “Of course. My aunt says she’s looking over your application as we speak.”

  “Really?” Finally, some good news.

  “Yep. The admissions department is a little backlogged at the moment, but with any luck, you’ll hear something soon. Apparently they have a record number of applications for the January start date.” She raises her eyebrows. “The competition is steep.”

  Great. Just what I wanted to hear.

  The hostess leads us to a round table in the middle of the room, and I pull up a seat between Blake and Anoop. A surly waitress tosses a basket of bread on our table, and before she stalks off, Blake orders a bottle of Côtes du Rhône. By the time the waitress returns, everyone at the table is swapping stories and telling jokes, and it becomes clear we won’t be ready to order for quite some time.

  “So check this out,” Anoop says. He launches into a story about one of his coworkers, a woman who dries her wet underwear on the radiator in her office. “So I walk in, and, sure enough, there they are: three pairs of stretched-out underwear and a bra, all lined up behind her desk. And she’s acting as if everything is normal—like, oh, doesn’t everyone wash their underwear at the office and dry it on the radiator? So I’m like, ‘Uh, whoa, isn’t that a fire hazard?’ And she’s like, ‘What, that? Oh, no. I’ve only burnt a pair once.’ Burnt a pair? Of underwear? What is wrong with these people?”

  “Sounds like my office,” I say. “Where do you work?”

  “The Center for Policy Solutions.”

  “I work at the Institute for Research and Discourse.” I pause. “Or at least I used to. I quit yesterday.”

  Blake leans forward and rests his hand on my shoulder. “You’re kidding. You quit?”

  My cheeks flush. “Don’t worry. I’ll still be able to make my rent.” I hope.

  “Where are you off to next?” Anoop asks before Blake can jump in with more questions.

  I grab my wineglass and take a long sip. “Not sure. Maybe culinary school. I’m still trying to figure it out.”

  Anoop attempts a supportive smile. “I … hope that works out for you.”

  I reach across the table for another slice of baguette, and as I do, I spot Jacob walking into the restaurant. He wears a navy moleskin blazer and jeans, and his hair is carefully styled into its signature haphazard coif. He approaches the hostess’s stand, gently resting his hand on the waist of the Asian woman walking beside him, whose glossy, pin-straight black hair reaches all the way to her waist. This woman, his apparent date, is not Hannah Sugarman. She also most certainly is not Alexis.

  I try not to let on that I’ve seen him, but as I rip violently into my piece of bread, shredding the soft interior into smaller and smaller pieces, my blood boils. How is it possible that I consistently fall for the biggest assholes in the universe? Who is this Asian chick? And what the hell is she doing with my reservation—a reservation that, quite frankly, shouldn’t have been anyone’s because Jacob is engaged?

  Jacob notices me from across the room but immediately pretends as if he hasn’t seen me, turning away and guiding his date through the restaurant as the hostess leads them to their table.

  I throw back a swig of Côtes du Rhône, blot the corners of my mouth with my napkin, and lift myself from my seat. “Excuse me,” I say, stepping away from the table. “I’ll be right back.”

  I march through the crowded room, the anger and wine pumping through me as I work my way to Jacob’s table. Jacob pretends he doesn’t see me coming, and his date has no reason to think anything of my presence until I stop directly in front of their table and stand there, staring at the two of them.

  The Asian woman’s eyes dart nervously between me and Jacob. “Um … hi,” she says. “Can I help you?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say, shifting my gaze in Jacob’s direction.

  He offers a casual shrug. “What do you want from me, Hannah?”

  The Asian woman furrows her brow. “You two know each other?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry—did he not mention me?” I reach out my hand. “I’m Hannah. The one who was supposed to be sitting in your seat tonight.”

  The woman stares at my outstretched hand. She doesn’t shake it. “I thought you said your sister canceled on you,” the woman says, glancing up at Jacob.

  “His sister?” I let out a bitter laugh. “No, not his sister. Me. But I’m guessing Jacob never mentioned my name. Or Alexis’s for that matter.”

  “Alexis?”

  “His fiancée? The woman he’s been dating for five years? Her name never came up?”

  Jacob opens his mouth to respond, but before he can speak, Blake sidles up behind me and rests his hand on my shoulder. “Everything okay over here?”

  “Fine,” I say. “I’m just saying hello to Jacob—the guy I was supposed to have dinner with tonight?—and his new friend … I’m sorry, I never caught your name.”

  “Vanessa.”

  “Vanessa. Well, Vanessa, this is my landlord, Blake.” I turn to Blake. “Apparently Vanessa didn’t know about Jacob’s fiancée either. Isn’t that funny?” I let out a protracted brittle laugh.

  Jacob lazily places his menu back down on the table. “Hannah, come on …”

  “Come on, what? You’re just lucky Alexis hasn’t found out yet. My friend Becca Gorman knows all about us.”

  Jacob’s fair complexion morphs into a color resembling wet clay. He smiles nervously. “Becca Gorman. Got it. Didn’t realize you knew her.”

  “Yeah, well, if it’s not me telling Alexis, it’ll be Vanessa, and if it’s not Vanessa it’ll be someone else. How many times can you dodge a bullet?”

  Jacob sneers. “Like you’re in any position to talk about dodging bullets.”

  Blake and Vanessa rumple their brows in unison, and my stomach drops.

  Jacob narrows his eyes. “Yeah, that’s right. What about your little side gig, huh?”

  My eyes flit between Vanessa and Blake, and then I glance over both shoulders, as if I am confused as to whom Jacob could possibly be speaking and, with every gesticulation, am broadcasting, Who, me?

  Blake contorts his face. “What is he talking about?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Jacob says, staring at Blake. “You’re the one letting her cook in your kitchen.”

  My stomach gurgles loudly, and my heart races in my chest, and oh my god I think I might vomit.

  Blake grimaces. “Listen, buddy. I checked it out, and what she did was totally legal. The rest is between me and Hannah.”

  Totally legal? What is he talking about? And how, with every passing second, does this day manage to get increasingly worse?

  Jacob cackles. “Legal, huh? I’m not so sure about that.”

  “Well, you should be,” Blake says. “I can pay whomever I want to cater my Halloween party, and it’s really none of your business.”

  Jacob furrows his brow. “Your Halloween party?”

  “Yeah, why? What are you talking about?”

  “I have absolutely no idea,” I say, jumping in loudly as a river of sweat trickles down my cleavage. Oh god, oh god, oh god. Confronting Jacob was a terrible idea. My plan is totally backfiring. This is the worst. The worst!

  I straighten my posture and slide back my shoulders,
narrowing my eyes at Jacob. “All I know is that the rest of our table is waiting for us to order their dinners, and I never want to talk to you again—ever.”

  Jacob snorts. “Oh, so now you’re going to play dumb? Come on, you know you—”

  “Hey, guy? Shut up,” Blake says. “Hannah has made it abundantly clear she wants nothing to do with you. So why don’t you leave her alone and let us get back to our table.”

  Jacob shoots both Blake and me a cold stare and lets out a huff. “Whatever.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Good luck with your totally effed-up career, Hannah. And by the way, your cinnamon buns aren’t that great.”

  He plucks his menu off the table, and with Vanessa’s brow in knots, Blake pushes me back to my seat and orders another bottle of wine.

  My cinnamon buns aren’t that great? My cinnamon buns aren’t that great? What the fuck is he talking about? No, I cannot even address this because, quite clearly, Jacob’s taste buds are up his ass. Also, I cannot address the fact that I am more upset about him not liking my cinnamon buns than I am about him using me for sex. Because, let’s be honest, that makes me sound 100 percent, A-plus crazy.

  I will also choose to ignore how close I just came to blowing my cover in front of Blake. If he finds out I am The Dupont Circle Supper Club, I’ll lose his friendship and support and advice. At least Jacob and I both hold sensitive information about each other. If Jacob rats me out, I will find Alexis and go nuclear on him.

  Five minutes after we return to our table, Vanessa storms out of the restaurant, and Jacob follows after her. Once he is no longer in my presence, my stomach gradually disentangles itself, and I manage to enjoy a dinner of steak frites and red wine with Blake and his friends. Every so often, between courses, Blake leans over and whispers, “You okay?” to which I reply, “Of course,” which for most of the dinner is only half true. By the end of dinner, however, I’m not lying anymore. I am okay. I’m over it.

  After dinner, Blake walks with me down Connecticut Avenue toward his house, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket. A chilled wind blows in our faces, and I cross my arms to keep from shivering. After a mild October, November is here, and the weather has finally started to turn.

  As we cross Dupont Circle, Blake takes off his coat and hands it to me. “Oh—no. I’m fine,” I say, my teeth chattering. “Thanks, though.”

  “You’re shivering,” he says. “Take the damn coat.”

  I pull on Blake’s coat, which is about ten sizes too big, and cross my arms over the front to keep it shut. “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “You could have stayed with your friends, you know. You didn’t have to walk me home.”

  “I know. But I’ll feel better knowing you got home okay. I’ll meet up with them later.”

  “Well, thanks. And thanks for taking me out tonight. I’m sorry if I messed up your plans.”

  “No need to apologize. I had fun. And I’m glad I kept you from drowning in a quart of Edy’s tonight.”

  “There are worse fates …”

  Blake laughs. “I can’t believe you were actually going to spend Saturday night all alone.”

  “You can go ahead and crown me the least social person you know.”

  “I—sorry, that’s not what I meant,” he says.

  I smile. “I know. No offense taken.”

  As we reach our building, I fish out my keys from the bottom of my purse and slip out of Blake’s jacket. Blake puts his coat back on and grinds his heels into the pavement while I throw my purse over my shoulder.

  “So … I was wondering,” he says. “I’ve been invited to a gala next Saturday hosted by the Georgetown Cancer Center. My boss helped pass a bill that increased access to cancer screening, and he’s winning an award for that, so I have to go. But I’m allowed to bring a date, so I thought … maybe you’d like to come with me.”

  My stomach sinks. Next Saturday night is the carnival-themed supper club we’re holding at the rental loft in Northeast. As much as I relish the idea of re-creating the pumpkin funnel cake I remember from my days in Ithaca, I have to admit: there is a part of me, however small, that would like to accompany Blake.

  “I … already have plans,” I say.

  “It’s just up the street at the Hilton …,” he says, trying to persuade me.

  “Sorry.... I can’t.”

  Blake presses his lips together and nods, visibly disappointed. “Oh, well. It might have been too much for you anyway. I have to show up at six with my boss for the silent auction, and the gala goes until midnight.”

  “Wow. A marathon.”

  He chuckles. “Yeah. Like I said, it probably would have been too much. I’m sure spending six hours with your pirate-talking landlord isn’t your idea of a good time.”

  I look down at the pavement as I rub my hands together to keep warm. “It doesn’t sound so bad,” I say.

  When I look up, Blake’s eyes are fixed on mine, his lips drawn into a soft smile, the apples of his cheeks stained with the slightest hint of pink. He searches my face as he removes his hands from his coat pockets and presses them together, tilting them back and forth as he cracks his knuckles.

  “Hang in there,” he says. “Not all guys are assholes.”

  “So I hear.”

  He stops cracking his knuckles and points his finger at me. “Hey—I’m not an asshole.”

  “True,” I say, biting my lip to keep from smiling. “At least that’s what the evidence so far suggests.”

  He knocks me playfully on the shoulder. “All right, to bed with you. I’ll talk to you sometime next week.”

  “Good night,” I say. “See you soon.”

  And, as I watch him walk away down Church Street, I hope that I do.

  CHAPTER

  thirty-eight

  At noon on Monday, I meet Rachel outside the NIRD office, and we hop in a cab headed for Hugo’s loft in Northeast. We zip down Massachusetts Avenue, passing the Washington Convention Center and NPR’s headquarters, as dozens of people wander up and down the sidewalks on their lunch breaks. The cabdriver veers onto H Street and crosses North Capitol Street, taking us from the northwestern quadrant of the city into Northeast, and almost immediately, the landscape changes. The sidewalks become less dense and the buildings are spaced farther apart and the areas around us feel eerily quiet and dead. In the distance, however, I see signs of life, with multicolored storefronts and traffic congestion and signs for restaurants and coffee shops.

  I tap Rachel on the shoulder and point through the front windshield. “Have you visited this neighborhood recently?”

  “The ‘Atlas District’? Not since it gentrified and became a hipster hot spot. But it’s supposed to be great—lots of cool restaurants. Kind of the perfect spot for us, actually.”

  “Except for the fact that the name of our supper club doesn’t make sense anymore.”

  Rachel shrugs. “Details.”

  Our cabdriver speeds past Ethiopic Ethiopian Restaurant and Sidamo Coffee and Tea, navigating the bumpy road, half of which is being ripped up by a series of large bulldozers, another sign of the neighborhood’s ongoing change. He turns right onto Eighth Street NE, guiding us down a street that, with its blue and pink and white row houses, looks awfully similar to Church Street. Before long, he turns left onto a small side street, at the corner of which sits a tall brick building with a series of modern balconies cascading up its face.

  Rachel and I pay the cabdriver and head for the building’s front door, which is covered by an angular, brushed metal awning. Using the key Jackson gave her, Rachel buzzes us through the front door, and we stride through the contemporary steel-and-concrete lobby to the elevator bay in the back.

  We slip into the elevator, and Rachel presses the button for the third floor. As we wait for the doors to close, I glance over at Rachel, who—with her mustard tweed jacket, gray camisole, and cream pants—appears to be wearing the J.Crew catalog from head to toe. I, on
the other hand, am wearing jeans and a plaid button-down because I am unemployed.

  “So … how is the boy?” I ask timidly.

  Rachel’s cheeks flush. “Good. He wants to take me to Middle-burg next month for a weekend getaway at some B&B.”

  “Wow. Romantic.”

  “Yeah, I know, it’s crazy. Me and romance? Who’d have thunk it.”

  I nudge her in the side. “Eh, it gets the best of us.”

  “I guess so.”

  She smiles softly, and I search the dreamy look in her eyes, a starry-eyed expression I don’t think I’ve seen on Rachel in … well … ever. “You really like this guy, huh?”

  She presses her lips together and slowly nods. “I think I might even love him.”

  “Whoa—love? Seriously? That’s huge.”

  She shrugs. “It’s like I’m a new woman. I don’t even recognize myself.”

  I chuckle as the elevator ticks up to the third floor. “I like this new woman. Tell her to stick around.”

  The elevator doors open, spitting us out onto a long, narrow hallway with dark concrete floors and bright white walls, which are lined with industrial caged sconces. We tread down the hallway until we reach Hugo’s studio, a corner unit at the end of the hall. Rachel jiggles the key into the lock, and as soon as she opens the door and lets us inside, I know the space will be perfect.

  The room is open and bright, with a wall of windows on two sides and exposed brick on the other two walls. The studio isn’t huge, but it’s larger than Blake’s dining and living rooms, meaning we will easily be able to fit thirty-six people in here. A small sliver of a kitchen sits along one of the brick walls and includes a refrigerator, a sink, and a gas range. The kitchen is only moderately bigger than the one in my apartment, but I’ve chosen a menu I think I can manage in a kitchen of this size and will do most of the prep work in advance.

  I decided to base this weekend’s menu on carnival foods, inspired by the traveling carnivals and amusement parks I visited as a kid. When I was young, my friend Lisa’s parents would take a group of us to the June Fete every summer, where we’d gorge ourselves on funnel cakes and sno-cones, after riding the Gravitron and Ferris wheel and getting our faces painted. The tradition continued when friends invited me to their New Jersey beach houses over the summer, and we visited Gillian’s Wonderland Pier, where we’d play bumper cars and ride the Tilt-A-Whirl and stuff our faces with hot dogs and boardwalk fries. Admittedly, I always wished I could visit an official state fair, the kind where hogs and cattle are on display and everything—from butter to Oreos—is deep-fried. But growing up in the Philadelphia suburbs, the June Fete and the Jersey Shore were as close as a girl could get.