The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs

by Dana Bate

  I nod, unable to speak. Their presence has thrown off my entire flow, leaving me disoriented and off-kilter.

  “Huh,” she says, dragging her fingertips across the counter. “I thought you needed to find someplace cheaper after you guys broke up. This doesn’t look cheaper.”

  “She shares the house with roommates,” Rachel says, playing nervously with the collar of her violet boatneck tee.

  Adam flashes a toothy smile as he spots the red-and-white apron wrapped around my waist. “So you’re the ‘buxom hostess,’ eh?”

  I clench my jaw and grab the counter to keep myself from charging at him on the other side of the room. Through our entire relationship, he told me underground supper clubs were stupid and wouldn’t let me host one, and now here he is, the first to arrive at The Dupont Circle Supper Club, with a date in tow. What a hypocrite. I could scream.

  The doorbell rings again. Rachel must grasp my proximity to a full-blown nuclear meltdown because she wraps her arms around Adam and Millie. “Why don’t we move into the living room?” she says. “Hannah, can you answer the door?”

  I let in the next wave of guests and the next after that, and once everyone is chatting and drinking in the living room, I meet Rachel in the kitchen and grab her by the elbow.

  “Why didn’t you tell me Millie and Adam were on the guest list?”

  “Because they weren’t on the guest list. Here, look.” She hands me a copy of the guest list. “Millie used pseudonyms for both of them. She e-mailed from a fake Gmail account.”

  I glance down the list. “John Adams and Betsy Ross? Those names didn’t arouse any suspicions?”

  Rachel sighs. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Sorry.”

  “Great. So now I have to feed my ex-boyfriend and The Hemorrhoid, who—correct me if I’m wrong—appear to be dating.”

  Rachel peers into the living room. “It does look that way.”

  “Great. Awesome. Fantastic. As if I didn’t already have enough to worry about tonight.”

  “Relax.”

  Rachel wraps her arm around my shoulder and leads me to the stove top, trying to calm me down as we launch into the prep work for the first course. She tells me time and again everything will be fine—we’ll pull this off, we’ll clean up with time to spare, I should forget about Adam and Millie. But it doesn’t matter what she says. This dinner is already a disaster, and it hasn’t even started.

  With every passing second, the evening gets progressively worse. As I thread the hot dogs onto skewers and dip them in the cornmeal better, Rachel continues her pleas for me to slow down, relax, take a deep breath. But nothing she says or does relaxes me, and if anything my anxiety and rage feed on each other until I feel like a woman possessed. I thrust the corn dogs into the pot of sizzling oil and yank them out in an aggressive jolt that sends hot oil spattering across the kitchen. I drop the entire bowl of curried mustard all over the floor and send a knife hurling across the room when I lose my grip. I overcook three of the corn dogs and nearly burn the turkey legs, but no matter how hard I try, I cannot focus.

  Rachel storms back into the kitchen with a stack of dirty plates after the first course, at which point I am about to burn the potatoes. “Hannah, come on!” she snaps. “Get your head in the game.”

  But I can’t get my head in the game. My head is fighting multiple fronts and losing all of them. I’m worried about Blake coming home early, I’m worried about dinner taking too long, I’m worried about Adam and Millie mocking my cooking and making me feel like a failure. I cannot handle all this pressure.

  Rachel and I plate up the confit turkey legs, each tender piece of meat covered in a silky, garlicky gravy that I manage to drizzle all over the meat and all over the floor. I pile a side of deep-fried Brussels sprouts on each plate and then fan out a helping of “pokerchip potatoes,” which—I regret to report—are indeed slightly burnt.

  Carrying the plates with Rachel into the dining room, I lock eyes with Adam, who follows my every move as I proceed into the dining room. I can’t place his expression. Is it desire? Regret? Pity? Whatever it is, it’s pissing me off, and yet I cannot look away. My eyes remain glued to his face.

  This wouldn’t be such a problem if I weren’t carrying four plates up and down my arms and if Millie weren’t sitting next to Adam, watching my every move as well. But as soon as I notice Millie’s interest, I lose my footing and trip over the leg of one of the dining room chairs and go flying across the room, sending the four plates soaring through the air like Frisbees.

  The plates crash to the ground, sending gravy and Brussels sprouts flying across the room, streaking Blake’s pale cream walls and leather couch. The room goes silent.

  “Sorry!” I shout from the floor, where I am splayed out like a squashed bug. “I’m okay. Everything is fine.”

  “I hope one of those wasn’t my plate,” Millie mumbles under her breath.

  I pull myself up from the floor and brush off my apron. “I’ll clean this up. Rachel will take care of you in the meantime.”

  By some miracle, the plates—a mix of Blake’s, NIRD’s and Rachel’s—haven’t shattered, but there is food scattered all over the floor—blobs of gravy and flakes of fried Brussels sprouts and squashed disks of potatoes. I scoop up the remains as best I can and pile them on separate plates and carry the plates back into the kitchen.

  “Rach, please tell me we have some extra Brussels sprouts and potatoes.”

  She glances into the pans on the stove. “You do. But as for the turkey legs …”

  “We’ll brush them off and add more gravy,” I say, lowering my voice. “It’ll be fine.”

  “The ones from the floor?” Rachel whispers.

  I nod. “The ones from the floor.”

  I bought thirty-six turkey legs for this dinner: no more, no less. I cannot afford to throw any of them out.

  We brush the dust and lint off the four turkey legs and replate them with new sides and a new dose of gravy. From this point on, I leave the serving up to Rachel because, quite clearly, I am incapable of functioning like a normal human being.

  Once everyone has been served, I join Rachel in the area between the dining and living rooms and begin explaining the theme of the dinner in more detail to both rooms. I tell them the first official U.S. state fair took place in Detroit in 1849 and that state fairs were originally intended as livestock exhibitions, eventually transforming into the fairs we know today, with rides and games and deep-fried everything. As soon as I start talking, my confidence slowly returns, creeping back with each smiling face I see. You can do this, I tell myself. You have nothing to be nervous about.

  Then, halfway through my spiel, Millie lets out a groan from the middle of the dining room table.

  “I didn’t realize each course was going to involve a lesson,” she says, rolling her eyes.

  I abruptly cut off my speech and narrow my eyes. “Well then maybe you shouldn’t have come.”

  She holds up her hands defensively and raises her eyebrows. “Whoa, sorry. Don’t get the chef mad.”

  “You know what?” I tap my foot frenetically against the floor as I glare at her. “No, never mind. Just … shut up. Okay? Shut up. Shut. Up. Shut up, shut up, shut up.”

  The other guests stare at me in horror as I sputter a stream of “shut ups,” which, apparently, is the only witty and piercing comment I can think of at the moment.

  “Nice,” Millie says. “Classy, as always.”

  Adam puts his hand over Millie’s. “Millie, stop. Not now.”

  “Don’t defend her,” Millie says. “Why do you always defend her?”

  I cackle loudly. “That’s a joke. He basically spent our entire relationship defending you.”

  Millie’s pursed lips relax slightly, and the room is filled with the sound of people shifting nervously in their seats as they watch this soap opera play out in front of them. If I knew how to make this conversation go away I would. Unfortunately I do not.

&
nbsp; Rachel, however, does. Before I can make a further ass of myself in front of our thirty-six guests, Rachel yanks me by the arm into the kitchen and throws me behind the stove. “Enough,” she says. “What is wrong with you tonight?”

  “Nothing is wrong,” I say, sticking the thermometer in the oil for the funnel cakes. “Leave me alone. I’m fine.”

  But I’m not fine, and we both know it. Adam and Millie have shaken my confidence, and any ability I had to ignore them and concentrate has entirely vanished. It’s not as if I wish I were the one sitting beside Adam. But when I see him sitting next to Millie, it confirms everything I always feared—that he always harbored feelings for her, that I was never quite good enough, that I will perpetually be two steps behind both of them. Why does Millie win at everything? She got all the accolades at work, she gets Adam, she gets to sit there and laugh while I drop turkey legs on the floor and burn the potatoes. While I flounder and squirm under my parents’ watchful eye, the two of them sail through life, succeeding at pretty much everything they do. It isn’t fair.

  I glance at the thermometer as Rachel tosses the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. The oil is cold. “Shit!” I say. “I forgot to preheat the oil for the funnel cakes.”

  Rachel turns on the heat under the pot. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it. You get the sno-cones ready and whisk together the batter for the funnel cakes.” She heads back into the dining room to finish clearing the plates, and I grab the pear-ginger ice from the freezer and begin scooping it into a series of small shot glasses.

  I don’t wish I were in Millie’s position. I don’t. But when I see the two of them together, giggling at each other’s jokes and sharing food off each other’s plates, I realize what I miss, what I have been missing these past four months, is the intimacy of a relationship.

  I never thought I’d say that. As an only child who lacked a boyfriend for most of her life, I thrived on independence and solitude. I never needed anyone else, and I was happy to keep it that way. It wasn’t until I met Adam that I learned what it meant to lean on someone else, to function as part of a unit. No sooner had I become accustomed to the joys of codependence than Adam ripped it away from me. Now I miss the companionship and the closeness, the regular kisses and “Just-Add-Water” social life. I want to pluck out all the good parts of our relationship and assemble them into something new and better and wonderful. I don’t want to be alone anymore.

  As I scoop the last of the pear-ginger ice into the shot glasses, a deep, smoky odor wafts past my nose. I sniff the air, which suddenly smells bitter and charred. Weird. Is something … burning? I whip my head around, and that’s when I see the unthinkable.

  Two-foot flames erupt around the pot of boiling oil, which has overflowed onto the stove. The blaze rages ever higher, catching onto the dish towel next to the stove and setting the roll of paper towels on fire.

  “RACHEL!”

  Rachel scurries in from the dining room, her eyes wide as she catches sight of the fire, which now stretches across the six-burner range. The kitchen fills with smoke and, right on cue, triggers the fire alarm, which blares throughout the house with an earsplitting wail.

  “OH MY GOD!” Rachel shouts, covering her ears.

  The dining and living rooms break out in chaos. People throw back their chairs and scurry into the kitchen and hallway, covering their ears as they shout at each other.

  “Everyone stay calm!” I yell.

  No one listens. Half the guests grab for their coats and make a beeline for the door as the fire continues to rage in the kitchen. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Adam grab Millie by the elbow and mouth, “Let’s get the hell out of here.” They run out the front door and leave. Assholes.

  Rachel fills an empty pot with water and throws it on the fire, which only intensifies the flames, sending them roaring into the hood over Blake’s stove.

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I shout. “DON’T USE WATER ON A GREASE FIRE!”

  Rachel’s eyes fill with tears. “SORRY!”

  Seconds later, the phone rings.

  “Don’t answer that!” I shout. “It’s probably the alarm company. We’re not even supposed to be here.”

  Rachel growls. “Thanks—I hadn’t realized.”

  The phone rings and rings and rings, and one of the guests rushes into the kitchen. “Where is the fire extinguisher?”

  I open a canister of baking soda and begin tossing it on the flames. “I don’t know.”

  He flashes a panicked look. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  “I don’t live here.”

  His eyes widen, and he backs out of the room as he whips out his cell phone to call 911. “Jesus Christ.”

  Rachel dashes into Blake’s hallway and opens his coat closet. “Found it!”

  She comes back, pulls the pin, and begins spraying everything—me, the fire, Blake’s drapes and floor and ceiling. How the hell am I going to explain this to Blake? By telling him his kitchen just spontaneously caught fire, and we tried to put it out? Oh god, this is horrible. Horrible!

  “What are you doing?” I shout at Rachel. “Don’t spray me!”

  “I’m putting out the fire!”

  “Move faster!”

  “I’M TRYING!”

  The guests pile out the door while Rachel showers the kitchen with fire retardant foam, and all I can hear is the blaring fire alarm, which blasts at an unholy decibel level. Even as the flames die down, the alarm continues shrieking its alert to the entire neighborhood.

  “AAAAH, SHUT UUUUUP!” Rachel screams as she sprays the fire extinguisher across the kitchen.

  Suddenly, mixed in with the cry of the fire alarm, I hear the fire trucks howling down the street in the direction of the house.

  Rachel and I lock eyes. Shit.

  The howl of the fire trucks intensifies as they barrel in our direction, and then the sirens stop. The front door bursts open, and three men in thick boots and black-and-yellow firefighter uniforms storm down the hallway into the kitchen.

  “Everyone out!” shouts the firefighter in charge, yelling above the din of the smoke detector as his colleague disables it. “Everyone out now!”

  The alarm shuts off, and the house goes silent, and any lingering guests scurry out the front door. The firefighter in charge grabs me by the shoulder. “This your place, ma’am?”

  I fidget with the box of baking soda, my ears still ringing. “Um … actually … it’s complicated.”

  “Yes or no, ma’am?”

  I clear my throat. “No.”

  “Then I’m going to have to ask you to step outside.” He turns to Rachel. “You the owner?”

  She shakes her head. “No.”

  The firefighter lets out an irritated sigh. “Could someone tell me who the damn owner of this house is?”

  “I am.”

  Rachel and I whip our heads around and see Blake standing in the kitchen doorway, dressed in a tuxedo and holding his cell phone in his right hand, his eyes darting anxiously around the kitchen. And that’s when I know for certain that the hell of this evening isn’t even close to being over. No, in a classic twist of Hannah Sugarman luck, the hell has only begun.

  CHAPTER

  forty-one

  Blake’s forehead twists into knots. “Can someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  The firefighter nods in the direction of the stove top. “It appears there’s been a grease fire in the kitchen, sir.”

  “But … that’s impossible. I’ve been at a gala all night.” He waves his cell phone. “The only reason I’m here is because I got a call from my security company about a fire alert. Luckily I was only a three-minute cab ride away.”

  The firefighter shifts his eyes from Blake to me to Rachel. “I’m going to have to ask the three of you to step outside while we inspect the property. Sir? Ma’am?” He gestures toward the doorway.

  The three of us walk down the front hallway and out the front door, my hair and apron covered in soot and
chunks of food. A crowd has congregated outside the house, some of them neighbors, some of them guests of The Dupont Circle Supper Club.

  When we reach the bottom of the wrought iron stairway, Blake turns to me, his brow still rumpled into thick creases. “Who are all these people? Why were you in my kitchen?” He glances down at my apron, and the blood rushes to his face. “Were you … throwing a party in my house?”

  I grab the iron banister to keep from passing out. I might throw up. “No,” I say. “Not exactly.”

  “Not exactly?” His face has turned the color of a red grape. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  I have never heard Blake use the word fuck. I have also never seen him this angry. A thick vein pulses across his forehead, and he clenches his jaw and flares his nostrils and, oh my god, I think he might kill me.

  “I … I … it’s not what it looks like.”

  “Oh, really? So you weren’t throwing a party in my house?”

  I suppose the phrase it’s not what it looks like is only effective when whatever “it looks like” is far worse than whatever “it (actually) is.” In my case, however, the opposite is true, and so I have no response that will not result in my immediate eviction.

  As I stare at Blake, my chin quivering and my eyes filling with tears, a stranger strolls past the crowd and asks what the hell is going on.

  “Dude, The Dupont Circle Supper Club went down in flames tonight,” someone bellows. “Literally.”

  Blake shifts his eyes from the crowd to his house and back to me again. His gray eyes fill with incredulity, then realization. The ice cream in his freezer, the missing port and scotch, my familiarity with his kitchen—all of the pieces come together at last. He shakes his head, his face painted with the pain of treachery and betrayal.

  “You’re fucking kidding me,” he says, his voice gradually rising. “You’re fucking kidding me!”

  “I … we didn’t … I mean …”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  I bite my lip and wipe the tears away from my eyes. I cannot bring myself to speak. Neither can Rachel, who has stood silently beside us, watching the horror unfold before her eyes.