"One minute left on the clock!" the host shouts in my direction.
I risk a quick glance at the huge custom-made clock that's in the design of a pepperoni pizza and takes up nearly half the wall. I hurriedly sprinkle tarragon and grated coconut on my dish, before adding a finishing touch of mint leaves as a garnish. To my left and right are two other self-proclaimed celebrity chefs, both of whom I had never met before today. Cameras pan the kitchen, while the studio lights blaze down on us.
Three children are sitting off screen on a sofa as the ten-second countdown begins. They join the host in shouting the numbers out. Everyone rushes to complete their dishes.
And then it's over. A loud, over-dramatic gong sound blasts from speakers to signal the end.
"So, guys, whose dish are you going to try first?" the host, a young, good-looking man says to the children. He's one of the latest YouTube sensations to get big funding put behind his show, and this is all courtesy of that. The children: Three of this week's contestants, tasked with choosing the ingredients with which the chefs have to cook. It sounds bizarre, but it's actually an interesting and fun cooking game show formula. I've been a fan for over a year, so when the host said he wanted me on his show, after reading my book, I couldn't say no.
Now's the crunch. The kids sample my dish last. I can't believe how nervous I am. It's just a silly show that will have no bearing on my life, but I want to win. For the past seven months there have only been losses.
The ingredients were impossible to work with. I've seen this show many times, and it seems I got the hardest episode. It's as though the kids went out and chose the most obscure ingredients, which lack versatility and go with nothing! But as chefs I guess we're supposed to be able to weave magic no matter what we're working with.
The host and the other chefs, who are used to their celebrity, crack jokes between themselves. I'm not funny and never have been, plus this is all new to me.
"And now we come to Mama Kitchen's dish. Smells nice, looks a little Sweeney Todd, though."
He is, of course, referring to my souffle, which looks like it's about to sink in.
I laugh. "Don't be silly. I stopped putting people in pies years ago."
He laughs at my poor excuse for a joke, though I'm sure he doesn't find it funny. I cringe inside.
"What do you guys think?"
"It's nice," the kids say. Then they hold up their score cards. 7, 8, 8. I'm second.
The winner gets presented a state-of-the-art indoor electronic herb garden, courtesy of one of the show's sponsors, then the show wraps up.
"How did I do?" I ask Ivy once I've left the kitchen. She's texting someone when I meet her in the studio hallway.
"Hm, what?"
"You didn't watch it, did you?"
"Of course I did. You were fantastic!"
I don't believe her. A normal person would have fired her by now, I'm sure. But she is great at her job, she simply lacks people skills. Negotiating more money and perks, though, I'd take her over anyone any day.
"When does the footage go online?"
"About a week. It's not like TV, everything moves fast." She slips her cell away. "What about you; how was it out there?"
"Okay, I guess. I'm glad there was no studio audience. I think I would have frozen up. Just promise me that's it for a while. I can't bear to do any more appearances or radio talks. I'm a blog writer, not a TV personality."
"You're hot right now, Faye. You should take advantage of that. It all translates to money. With only one income coming in now, more money wouldn't go amiss."
She knows that she's put her foot in her mouth as soon as the words come out.
"Thanks for reminding me," I say.
"I didn't mean that. I'm sorry. I just want you to capitalize on this new-found fame."
My wounds haven't yet healed. Every time I think I've recovered, someone says something unintentionally insensitive, and I'm transported back to that sad, dark place. I am, however, past the worst of it. I don't cry anymore. When I think about Nikki with Angelique I'm only nauseous for a minute. And when I think about the life we shared together...well, I don't think about that at all now. It's taken me seven months to get to this point.
"Hey, I'm throwing a cocktail party next weekend. You should come." She changes the subject quickly. We make our way to the studio parking lot.
"I'm not in the mood for partying."
She laughs. "It's in nine days, how do you know you won't be in the mood?"
"I just know," I say. I'm still not ready for that type of pageantry, even though Ivy keeps insisting I put myself out there again. People disappoint me; people break my heart.
"Say you'll think about it."
I sigh. I won't, but anything to shut her up. "Fine. I'll think about it."
She gives me her signature air kisses and we climb into our cars and go our separate ways.
Nikki is waiting on the doorstep with Emily by the time I pull into my driveway. My stomach lurches when I see her. Every time. Because I see the liar that she ultimately became, and the monster. I see my enemy when I look at her. The hairs on my arms rise.
"Hi," she says shyly. She has a hard time looking at me even now. It seems the guilt is still eating at her. Good.
"You're early," I say, kissing my daughter, before stepping past Nikki to open the door.
"Yeah, I know. Something's come up. I tried to call you but your phone was off."
"I was filming," I say curtly. I'm incapable of speaking to her with civility. Well, when she left me for her father's fiancee, that wasn't civil!
We load into the house. Emily runs off to play in the living room. Nikki and I remain in the hallway. She doesn't get to come any further than that. This isn't her house anymore.
"I really wouldn't have come back early if it wasn't important."
"What was so important that you cut your visitation with your daughter short?"
She shifts uneasily. "I'm having a fitting done. It's the only time the tailor can squeeze me in at such short notice."
"A fitting? And that's more important than spending the day with your daughter? That's your emergency?" I ask with scorn.
Her head bows a little. "It's my wedding suit...I'm getting married next weekend. There was a cancellation."
I don't say anything. There's a ball in my throat the size of a fist and it won't budge. Six weeks have passed since our divorce was finalized. I knew this day would come, but it stings to hear that it has finally arrived.
"Oh," I say, my voice croaky.
"Sandra said she would bring Emily. It's my day to have her, but I just want to check if it's all right with you that she comes?"
No! Hell no is it all right with me! I don't want my child to watch you marry another woman; I don't want you confusing her. That's what I'm screaming inside. But what I really say is, "Like you said, it's your day to have her." My shrug is so forced and weak. Despite my attempt to play up my indifference, I can tell she sees right through it.
"As long as you're okay with it..."
I don't respond. I can't. There's no way I would ever be okay with it, and she knows that. But I won't refuse her. The diplomatic ex-wife – that's me.
When she leaves, I cry for the first time in four weeks.
"Are you sure this is what you want for dinner, honey?" I ask Emily that evening. It's this new thing we do. Since she turned four, I've been giving her autonomy to choose her meals. Sometimes. She already knows what she likes, what flavors appeal to her, and what level of spice she can take.
She nods her little head.
"You can't just have pasta and pesto on its own. Should I whip together some roasted carrots and parsnips? Maybe make a nice sauce to go with them?"
She thinks about this for a second, then nods again. "Okay."
I'm surprised by her choice. Usually her meal requests are more inventive than simply pasta. After all, she's the child of a chef. The pasta and pesto is probably something they had at daycare, and now she's obsessed with it. That's how children are. This will likely be the only thing she wants to eat for the rest of the week, until she gets sick of it.
"Pasta, pesto and roasted vegetables coming up, madam," I say. She giggles at my address of her. "Are you going to watch me cook?"
She shakes her head. "No," she says simply, and runs off to play while I prepare her meal.
The kitchen has always been where I feel most at ease. I think it goes back to when I was a child, dragging my stool in there and watching my mother cook. She was always cooking; I can't remember a time when she wasn't in the kitchen. Those memories are fond ones. I want Emily to have that, too, but she doesn't seem very interested in any type of culinary pursuits – besides eating, of course. That's a trait she's inherited from Nikki.
Once the pasta's boiling and the vegetables are under the grill, I join Emily in the living room. As I'm about to draw the curtains shut, I see movement behind a shrub on the front lawn. Someone's there.
I wait it out, a little shaken. They're going to great pains to not be seen. Could it be a child hiding out, and not some stalker spying on me? Or could I have imagined the whole thing?
I unlock the window, push it open. "Who's there?" I say into the air.
For a second it's still, just a slight breeze making the leaves rustle. And then someone steps out. It's difficult to recognize the face at first, due to the overgrown beard and scruffy hair. But his eyes give him away. His eyes are not just his – they're Nikki's, too.
"Bernie?" The incredulity in my voice is heavy. He's really let himself go.
I rush to the door and let him in. He smells like stale cigarettes and booze. He's clearly in yesterday's – or the day before's – clothes...
"What were you doing out there? Why were you hiding in the bushes?"
I sit him down in the kitchen, put the kettle on. He looks like an image of the prehistoric man depicted on television. The soul has abandoned his eyes. There's just an emptiness in them now.
"I didn't want to disturb you. I didn't know how you would react to seeing me."
I sit beside him. "You know now, don't you?"
"That my fiancee left me for my daughter? That the two were sleeping together while we were engaged? That she wouldn't give it up to me but happily spread her legs for my only child? Yeah, I know."
We're both silent for a moment – the two wronged parties. And I thought I had taken it badly. He looks like he's about to take a bunch of people hostage. But I've had seven months to come to terms with my grief; maybe his is new.
"When did you find out?"
"She called it off months ago. Then I started hearing things from my nephew. He said they were an item and weren't making a secret of it. The little tramp didn't even have the decency to tell me herself."
Who is he referring to? The pejorative can apply to both of them.
"She sat there and listened to me pine for that woman. They must have been laughing at me. At us."
I'd thought the same, that they lay in bed having jokes at my expense. It's hard to feel anything but crippling loathing when you have that image in your head.
"When was the last time you spoke to Nikki?" I'm about to make his day a lot worse.
"About a month ago."
I look away. "They're getting married next weekend."
I let the words hang in the air. Bernie says nothing, and when I look at him again, his face says the same thing. Then, without warning, he lets out a maniacal laugh.
"I feel like I've just stepped into the Twilight Zone. You couldn't make this stuff up."
I know exactly how he feels. The whole situation is so absurd, it's almost comical. Almost. But I can't laugh. Not yet. I'm thirty-seven, a single mother, and my ex-wife is the only person I have ever loved. The day I finally find amusement, even sarcastic amusement, in what she's done to me, is the day I stop breathing.
He looks at me and stops laughing. "I'm sorry. That's insensitive. But if I don't laugh I'll cry. Can you imagine that? A grown man with my mileage, crying over a woman. A stupid old man who let himself fall in love again despite being adamant that he never would after his wife died. I used to laugh at men like me who fell for the younger woman. When did I become one of them?"
"You can't blame yourself for being blindsided, Bernie."
"Oh, I don't. This is their doing. And they'll rot in hell for it."
There's something sinister in his voice, something that unsettles me. It sounds like a thinly-veiled threat. Maybe it's simply the anger talking. I wouldn't like to think he means them any physical harm. Nikki's still Emily's mother, and as much as I hate her, I don't wish physical harm on her.
"How are you holding up?"
I shrug. "I'm managing. One day at a time."
He places a hand over mine. "She doesn't deserve you. She never did. I thought that the moment I met you."
It's easy to say that now, with the benefit of hindsight. But there's a real sincerity in his eyes that suggests he's telling the truth.
Now I have to believe it myself.