CHAPTER 9

Magali

Here I was off to New York for three days and having a panic attack. Ana had bugged me until I’d made the appointments with the two agents she’d referred me to. They’d both agreed to see me. I knew I should be grateful.

An open suitcase leered at me from the bed, a weekender mocked me by its side. There are two kinds of people in the world: those who know how to pack and those who are hopeless at it.

I pulled open my closet door and gazed into its depths of casual mommyhood. It was all jeans—not even the good designer kind—shirts, T-shirts, sweaters . . . boots, sandals, flats, a few nice pairs of heels. I liked to think of my clothes as throwaway chic but really, there was more throwaway than chic on the hangers. My one redeeming fashion rule: I refused to wear sneakers outside of a gym, which meant I had one pair bought two years ago and still in great shape. Which was more than I could say for myself.

At least my shoes were beautiful. They all fit perfectly, right down to the flip-flops. I’d wear my boots and build up from there. I pulled out a pair of black heels and brown flats and put them on the bed. I’d get dressed first, then pack around what I was wearing. Though by the time I got to the city, the clothes I was wearing would be ready for the wash.

One lunch date tomorrow, and a late afternoon meeting. I was treating myself to an extra night at Leo’s behest, with Art prodding me on.

I wasn’t used to leaving the girls. But if they were ever in good hands, it was now.

What would Jacqueline wear? She’d know how to pack for a short jaunt to New York. I couldn’t believe she’d traipsed off to Europe to selfishly further her career, leaving me not knowing what to wear or pack for this trip.

I had every intention of pitching, not my cookbooks or another cooking series, but a novel. It would all come together, but I had to look perfect.

I punched in my sister’s number. Got her voice mail.

The thing was, technically, I really did know how to dress. Lunch with an agent, taking the train, shopping, so comfort was a factor. As long as I was methodical, it would work.

“I know, I’ll phone Colette,” I said to the cat, who had settled herself on the bed.

Voice mail.

What had I done to make my two sisters abandon me just when I needed them most? Syd was at work, and since that night at The Two Lions, there had been a rift.

I tried my sisters again.

Nothing. I wished I had one of those old phones I could slam down. Pushing a button doesn’t vent frustration in quite the same way.

Deep breaths.

In my head, I heard a voice. All of a sudden I was Joan of Arc. It was Colette’s. I closed my eyes and pictured the round blue eyes, cropped dark curls, waving her hands in the air, nails bitten down to the quick. Oh my baby sister, why did you leave me?

What would she say?

Okay, Gali. Your body is a canvas. Create.

I opened my eyes. I went to my closet and picked out a soft black, long-sleeved T-shirt and black pants. New York in November. I couldn’t go wrong with black. I pulled out a cropped rust-colored jacket and low black ankle boots. My mother’s Hermès scarf.

On automatic pilot I pulled things from my closet and put them on the bed. Pretty soon, I had a decent stash.

For the trip, I’d wear my best jeans and a soft gray sweater. It all looked great with my jacket. Jewelry. Big earrings and decent underwear. The Chanel lipstick I’d won at the preschool Renaissance faire/fundraiser went into my oversized black tote. Too much black? Never.

Done.

The phone rang.

“Gali? It’s me. I got your message. What’s the big emergency?” asked Colette.

“Nothing. It’s over. How are you baby?” I closed my suitcase.

 

I kept finding little foil packets of peanuts in my bag. Leo had a habit of taking free stuff wherever he found it and stuffing it in my purse. I could be stranded for a weekend in the middle of a snowstorm and be able to survive on the contents of my bag alone.

The train rumbled its way to New York, it felt a bit like traveling in a washing machine. I sneaked a look at the man seated in front of me. Intent on the screen of his laptop, a Bluetooth thingy in his ear. He was wearing a coffee-colored sweater that matched his eyes, and jeans. A sports jacket was crumpled on the seat beside him. Great shoes.

“Thank you,” he smiled. He spoke with a British accent.

“Excuse me?”

“The compliment on my shoes. Thank you.”

I felt my face grow hot. “I hadn’t realized I’d spoken out loud.”

“It’s fine. Women notice shoes. Fact of life.”

I’m sure there are women out there who couldn’t care less about shoes, I thought.

He laughed.

I clamped my hand over my mouth.

“It’s fine. You’re a writer,” he said.

It wasn’t a question. I nodded.

“I knew it. Writers spend a lot of time alone and end up talking to themselves. Trying out dialogue and such.” He closed his laptop.

“You sound like you know a lot about it.”

“Too much. My ex is a writer.” His mouth turned up at the corners.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I appreciate the apology. You were, after all, responsible for the breakup.”

He was flirting. I tried to suppress a smile and averted my gaze. The Pennsylvania colors of autumn were tumbling out my window.

I thrust out my hand, knocking my purse to the floor. I went to pick it up but he beat me to it. I took my bag with one hand and stuck out the other. “I’m Nadia.” I had no idea where the name came from but it sounded writerly and mysterious.

“Simon.” His hand was warm and dry.

What a great name—solid.

“Thank you.”

“Why do I keep doing this? My thoughts burst out of my mouth and I’m powerless to stop them.”

“Maybe you need someone to talk to,” he said.

I opened my purse. “Peanuts?”

He shook his head. I opened a pack to give myself something to do. “Where are you headed?”

“The city.” His eyes crinkled at the edges. He must really think I’m an idiot. Normal, because I agree. Daddy’s low opinion of me was justified after all.

“And you?” he asked, sparing me. “Are you headed to New York for business or pleasure?”

“Oh, both. I live there.” Where this lie had come from, I had no idea. “You?”

“Business. I live in Philly.”

He opened his laptop and went back to whatever he’d been doing, while I slipped away to my happy place: the inside of a Williams-Sonoma with unlimited cash. Simon’s voice brought me back.

“. . . on Broadway.”

“Sorry?”

“I thought you’d slipped away there for a second. I play the saxophone and have a gig in a reprise of Seussical.” He tapped the instrument case beside him.

“I love Seussical! I’ve always wanted to play Gertrude McFuzz,” I said.

“Then you should.”

He really was too cute. “Yeah. It would be nice if I knew how to sing. My sister got all those genes.” I shrugged.

“Your sister?”

I nodded. “Jacqueline. Jacqueline Arnaud. Opera. She sings with a small company in Brussels. Did you know that the inventor of the saxophone—”

“Was Belgian. Adolphe Saxe.”

Our gazes met and held. How often was it that you met someone at large who could finish your sentences?

“I was born there.” I tore my gaze away and stared out the window. We were slowing down, approaching a small station. My palms were sweaty. I took a peanut and offered one to him.

He shook his head. “Allergic.”

“Oh I’m sorry!” I stuffed the open packet back in my bag. Great. Now I’d have peanuts all over everything.

“I’m not that allergic. I can still watch people across the aisle eating them.”

I wiped my hands on my jeans. Sweat, salt, and oil. The picture of sophistication. Jacqueline would have tissues in her bag. Or even a real cloth handkerchief. I should have brought a pack of wipes. Next time, I’ll suggest to Leo that he switch to dry roasted. Thinking of Leo made my stomach churn. I pictured him at home, packing lunches, making dinner, taking care of the girls. Making them laugh more than I ever did. And me, mother of the year, I hadn’t even arrived at my destination and I was flirting with the first stranger I’d set my eyes on. At the drop of a hat. Or peanut, as the case may be.

“I don’t know anyone in New York except a couple of musicians. Would you like to get together for a drink or coffee or something? It would be brilliant to have a true New Yorker show me the ropes.” He smiled.

This was why I shouldn’t lie. Most of my knowledge of the city came from shopping sprees when I was little, the only place Maman could find her favorite Côte-d’Or chocolate, a few trips with Leo and the girls, usually at Christmas to skate by the tree in Rockefeller Center and gawk at the windows in Bergdorf’s. Plus my not-so-secret addiction to Sex and the City.

“You know I’m—”

“Married? Yeah, those rings on your left hand? Dead giveaway.”

I twisted my wedding band and engagement ring around. I loved them. White gold. From Tiffany’s.

“And while we’re at it, I’m—”

“Not a New Yorker?” He laughed. He really had the most delightful laugh.

“That’s amazing. If you went public, you could make a lot of money,” I said.

“I could attribute it to my uncanny powers of perception, but true New Yorkers tend to choose a different sort of reading material.”

We both looked at the book peeking out of my tote. The Michelin Guide to New York. I was nothing if not a traditionalist.

“Nadia,” he said, leaning forward, his laptop forgotten. “Look, just a casual drink or dinner or something. No harm in that, right?” he said in his charming British accent. His deep brown eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Right,” said Nadia.

 

With my feet pounding on the Manhattan pavement, I felt so jaunty I could have danced the jig. If I knew what a jig was, that is. Stopping somewhere to Google jig and take a lesson would most definitely detract from the spontaneity of the moment. I passed a homeless woman and gave her five dollars. She blessed me as I floated by. I should really have known better. The gods frown on too much unbridled joy. I suppose the gods prefer their joy more bridled, so as not to draw attention to itself.

I decided to shop for something to wear, something fabulous. I sailed down Eighth Avenue to drop off my bag at the midtown hotel I’d booked. My mother’s diary had pages and pages devoted to her first trip to New York with Daddy. They’d hit all the tourist attractions, but she’d made them sound like an adventure. The Statue of Liberty, Central Park, the Empire State Building, which she absolutely wanted to visit and kiss Daddy at the top, like in An Affair to Remember.

I wished I’d planned my trip a bit later when the Christmas lights would have been up. I’d come back with Leo and the girls. I spotted a Starbucks and ducked in, ordering a doppio macchiato. I swear if Superman had been created today, he’d be ducking into Starbucks instead of phone booths.

“Sure,” said the barista, her dreadlocks in sharp contrast to her trendy, designer glasses. “Name?”

“Nadia.” Okay, onward and upward with the lying, but really, what was the harm? I looked over my shoulder. Everyone lied about their name at Starbucks.

We could try on and discard new dresses, new shoes, a new haircut, we could change everything. Why not try out a new name? What was wrong with being Miranda one year and Vikki with two k’s the next? How about Natasha?

I sidled over to the pickup line and waited.

“Doppio macchiato for Nadia.”

What was set before me was a huge concoction topped with whipped cream and drizzled with caramel. Too late I realized my mistake. I picked up the drink and took a sip. It was so sweet, it made my teeth ache. I could just picture my dentist rubbing her hands in glee as she planned her next island jaunt to Tahiti or some such place that I wasn’t positive even existed. It was just some plot to make the majority of us who had never been someplace removed and exotic feel left out.

Gali would have taken the drink and slumped in a chair, pretending to sip it for a while before discarding the whole sticky mess and leaving.

But Nadia? She’d stand up for herself. She’d been raised by warm, doting parents who believed in her. I smiled and said, “I’m sorry. I wanted a double espresso topped with a spoonful of foam.”

“No problem!” The lanky blonde barista dumped it. “Go see Amanda to get a refund and I’ll have that for you in a sec.”

“No, just tell her to ring up the refund and stick it in the tip jar. I should have been more specific.” I smiled again and tilted my head. Here I was flirting with—I squinted at the name tag—Jason.

Was it a flirting epidemic? Was anything with a penis fair game now? Would I become compulsive? Have to join a 12-step program, Flirts Anonymous?

I shook my head to chase the thought and sat down with my coffee.

 

I had finally decided that head-to-toe black was my answer to how to dress for New York. Every year there was a new black—brown, gray, one year it was pink—none of which was as chic or slimming as the original. My butt in pink looked anything but. Did the fashion mafia think I was six?

What was I doing? I was on the verge of standing Simon up, hunting down the perfect pizza, heading back to my hotel, and watching a movie, when I saw the restaurant and immediately relaxed. Besides, the idea of spending one of my precious evenings in the city in front of the tube in Hotel Bland was too depressing.

I entered and my body relaxed. I smelled candles mixed with the aroma of something fabulous coming from the kitchen. It wasn’t one of those stainless minimalist restaurants where more effort had been put in the décor than the food. Which was perfectly all right if you were out for the design. Not my case.

The walls were painted with warm golds, the lighting was recessed and just enough to set off both the food and the people enjoying it. Every table was a different size and shape. No two chairs matched. I breathed it all in.

Then I spotted Simon at the bar in head-to-toe black, smiling at me. I almost turned around to go back out. No one should look that good, even in this light. What was wrong with him that he was divorced? I made my way over and climbed onto a barstool.

“So how come you’re divorced?” I asked.

“Never discuss unpleasantness before drinks and at least a smidge of food.”

I looked down. “I’m hopeless, I’m a . . . social leper.”

“No, it’s charming.” He signaled the barman.

“I’m glad you got the memo on tonight’s color scheme.”

“It makes everything easier. I do one load of laundry and three-quarters of my wardrobe is back in commission.”

A man who did laundry. Now that was sexy.

“Do you think that’s how real New Yorkers spot wannabes? A native would be secure enough to wear a little color?” I asked.

He laughed. “You look great.”

“So do you.” Very restrained. I turned my head and scanned the crowd.

“I took the liberty of signing us up for a table. Unless you prefer the bar? Or maybe you’ve eaten already?”

“No. Great. Sounds wonderful.” Sounds wonderful? Could I sound more inane. Soon I was going to start using words like yummy and that would be the beginning of the end. Maybe I should switch to French. Not that I was wittier or more apropos or anything, it was just that fewer people would understand me, thus less embarrassment.

Before I could spout another inanity, the hostess came over and led us to our table. My heels clicked on the polished concrete floor. Don’t let me slip in front of all these people, please.

We ordered drinks—a Pinot Gris for me and a Macallan Single Malt for him. Classy.

I grabbed the menu and started reading.

“So, when did you become interested in food?” he asked.

I was in a restaurant, what should I be interested in, the waitstaff’s sense of style? I stared at him, annoyed. Did I look fat? My new black dress had a tapered waist and showed off my legs, which everyone said were good. Even my father once said I had inherited my mother’s legs. Only she was thinner than you, I was sure he’d been thinking.

“It’s just that you tore into that menu as if it were the latest unputdownable page-turner.”

“I . . . cook.” I didn’t want to get into that whole Institut-Culinaire, worked-as-a-chef-in-restaurant, had-family, ended-up-writing-cookbooks saga. Plus, for tonight at least, I was a writer. A writer of fiction. I hoped he wouldn’t ask me if he’d read anything I wrote.

He grinned. “Maybe you could give me some tips. I’ve just started. Found the most wonderful series of books: the Hopeless in the Kitchen cookbooks. Have you heard of them?”

“Rings a bell.” Thank goodness I’d always refused to have an author picture on the covers. The food was the star. The books were my bread and butter, so to speak, but they weren’t me.

“I love a woman who loves her food.”

Did he just say love? I twisted my wedding ring on my finger, wondering where the heck my wine was. I moved the candle closer to my menu, keeping my head down.

Our server came with the drinks and asked if we were ready to order.

What I really wanted was a steak-frites, but I didn’t want to look unsophisticated.

“I think I’ll have the frisée aux lardons and the duck confit.” There. Simple but elegant. I set the menu on the table and reached for my glass of wine.

“I’ll have the steak-frites. The house salad for an appetizer.”

Figured.

“Why don’t you tell me more about this cooking of yours?” said Simon.

“Nothing to tell. Besides, it’s your turn.”

He smiled, showing even, white teeth. Weren’t Brits supposed to have questionable dental hygiene? Or maybe that went the way of the French-not-bathing cliché.

I pressed on. “You don’t really live in Philly, do you?”

“Not anymore.”

“Aha!” Aha? Who was I, Inspector Clouseau? I wished the food would arrive so I could do something with my mouth other than spout drivel.

“I used to live there. My ex and her new husband still do . . . with my kids.”

I winced. I couldn’t imagine a life where I didn’t see my children every day.

He took out his wallet and handed me a photo of a boy and a girl, about the same age as mine. They had his smile, but they could be from Sweden they were so blonde and blue-eyed.

He seemed to read my thoughts. “They have their mother’s coloring. Tommy is ten and Shannon six.” She was dressed in typical princess fashion and looked as if she were about to whack her brother over the head with her wand. The little boy looked sweet, with eyes so sad it was devastating.

“They’re beautiful.” The gold standard of parent-speak, but in this case the children were truly lovely.

“Thank you.” He slid the photo back into his wallet.

“So, you actually live here now?”

“In a way, I’m rooming with one of the trumpets.”

“The neighbors must be thrilled.” You can take the girl out of the suburbs . . . But he just laughed.

“I came over from Bristol to attend the Berklee College of Music. One thing led to another and I never went back.” He took a sip of his drink.

Nick Drake flowed from the loudspeakers.

“I love Nick Drake,” I said.

“And good taste in music as well as charm.”

I really liked this guy, I raveled a fantasy—can you ravel? Or is it like saying someone is gainly?—of living with him in a fabulous but artsy apartment in a not-yet-but-soon-to-be-trendy neighborhood. On the verge. A verge neighborhood. Our place would be a salon, I would make fabulous food, weigh ten pounds less, and be in the center of a vibrant literary and artistic world.

There was only one tiny hitch. Leo and the girls. I didn’t mean any of it. Fantasies hurt no one, after all.

By the time the entrees arrived, we’d talked our way through the salads, my glass of wine, and a second Macallan for Simon. As the server put our food before us, I stopped in midsentence and devoted myself to what was on my plate. The duck looked crispy and succulent surrounded by juicy slices of orange, three tiny butter potatoes, and a bundle of five green beans wrapped in parchment and dusted with parsley. Simple, well presented without being overwhelming. Just right, I thought, feeling like Goldilocks.

“Would you like a different wine? May I recommend a Saint-Nicolas de Bourgueil?” asked our server, whose name was Raymond.

I looked at Simon, who shrugged his shoulders.

“Sure, why not? We’ll take a bottle.” I could, after all, write this off as a business expense. Or research. The beauty of working in food. It was times like this that I loved being a cookbook author.

I let my gaze fall on Simon’s plate. His pommes frites and steak looked divine.

“Would you like a taste?”

“What?” I resurfaced.

“You’re studying my frites as if you were cramming for A levels. Would you like one?”

I shook my head and felt my face grow hot.

“Go ahead, please. I value an expert’s opinion. How often do you get to eat pommes frites with a Belgian?”

So I did. It was an act of intimacy to eat food off another’s plate. I felt as if I were betraying Leo. Most women feel guilty for the fries themselves, all the starch and fat and salt, but that wouldn’t be enough for me.

The fries were above average. Good, even. What if Leo could see me now? Or anyone I knew for that matter? I looked around the room and drank some water. No sooner had I set my glass down than a server came over to top it off.

“The verdict?” he asked.

I felt like saying guilty.

“On the fries?” he prodded.

“Oh. Not bad.” I busied myself with my food, losing myself in the moment. Zen would be a lot easier if food were involved. I’d be a master for sure. Maybe I could create a religion? The church of divine morsels or something. That could be misconstrued. Our Lady of Chocolate?

I felt better. After all, what were a couple of innocent frites between friends? Then he grabbed my hand. I froze. I raised my eyes to meet his. His face was ashen, beads of sweat dotted his brow.

“What’s wrong? Water! You need water.” I handed him his glass.

Maybe he was choking. I’d never mastered the Heimlich maneuver. I suddenly flashed on Eddie Izzard’s riff on Dr. Heimlich and his maneuver and, unable to stop myself, I burst out laughing. Everyone in the room was staring. I tried to think. The more I pictured how inappropriate my laughing was, the less I could stop. Finally, coughing and sputtering, I brought my fit under control.

Red, then blue, were the colors of someone who had food stuck in his throat. Simon was the color of a timid ghost.

“Simon?” Three servers had clustered around our table. “Simon? What’s wrong?”

“Feeling poorly.” His voice was a raw whisper. There was such a thing as taking the classic British understatement too far. He released my hand and slumped in his chair. I looked helplessly at the waitstaff.

“A doctor! We need a doctor.” In movies, there was always a doctor in the house. A plump kindly man stood on the other side of the room. Dr. Welby. We were saved.

I rose, tipping my chair over, to the annoyance of the man seated behind me.

“Call nine-one-one,” someone yelled.

“Done and done,” replied a voice by the bar.

Dr. Welby came over. “Give him room. Stand back.”

“You’re a doctor?” I felt like kneeling and kissing his feet.

“Technically, no. I’m a vet.”

“A vet? But you can’t—”

“I’m not planning on operating on him with a steak knife. I just want everyone to move back. Does anyone have a blanket?”

I handed over my good black coat and Marcus Welby for canines draped it over Simon, who was now lying on the floor of the restaurant.

“Stay calm and breathe,” said Marcus.

“Nadia? Where are you? Don’t leave me,” said Simon.

I got about seven dirty looks and a gorgeous woman in a short, slinky, low-cut dress that I couldn’t pull off in a million years shouted, “Yeah, Nadia, don’t leave him!”

“If she doesn’t want him, I’ll take him,” said her companion.

“What a bitch.”

“Never a good idea to impart bad news during a meal,” Dr. Welby said, giving me a stern look.

“But, I’m not . . .”

Before I could explain, the medics burst into the room shooting sparks of testosterone.

Naturally, since everyone thought I was the bitch who caused the attack, I rode with him to the ER.

As the ambulance sped away, I thought of the duck I was leaving behind.

 

It was after two when I got back to my hotel, drained and with a headache from the wine I’d had earlier. Simon was going to be fine. It hadn’t been a heart attack after all. Turned out Simon had had an anxiety attack. A severe anxiety attack can mimic the symptoms of a heart attack, I was informed by a twelve-year-old in an intern’s white coat.

Hospitals always brought back memories of the last days with my mother. How Daddy looked sad and angry at the same time, all the time. We’d huddled together under the stark fluorescent-lit waiting room for our turn to see her. When she died, he’d hugged us, hard. For the last time.

Tonight, I’d gone through Simon’s wallet, looking for information. Initially I’d called his wife—well, ex—who was still his emergency contact. She was the one who’d tipped me off. It had happened before.

“A trifle. Nothing to worry about.” Had I ever worried about a trifle? No, it was a simple enough dessert to make.

“Are you coming?” I’d asked.

“I have a full schedule tomorrow. But do keep me informed, will you? What’s your name?”

“Gali, but I’m not—”

“Gali, then. Cute name. Good night, Gali. You sound nicer than the last few.”

Why was everyone persisting in treating me as if I were Simon’s girlfriend? Was it impossible to have dinner with a guy in all innocence? The whole evening was a blur of trying to explain that no, I wasn’t his girlfriend-wife-lover-sister, just some stranger he’d met on the train a few hours ago.

Going up the elevator, I felt leaden with exhaustion. Thank God my first meeting wasn’t till twelve-thirty. The second was at four. Ana had arranged everything. I’d do a bit of shopping, go see a show tomorrow night, and return home the next day at noon.

I remembered that my phone was off. I checked it. Three missed calls. Home. Probably the girls wanting to tell me one last victory or adventure before bed. Suddenly I missed them. I hated not giving them their good-night kiss.

I swiped my key card, thinking only of bed, heavenly, wonderful, divine bed. Maybe just a bite of chocolate before.

“Hi.”

I almost jumped out of my skin.

On my bed, looking rumpled but wearing a nice shirt and pants, sat Leo, with a huge smile on his face.

I stood there and stared. I opened my mouth but nothing came out.

“Surprise,” he said weakly, rubbing his eyes. “Must have drifted off.”

“Hi. But what—”

“I just wanted to surprise you. You know, have a night on our own, just the two of us in the city.”

I noticed the chocolate on the table and an ice bucket with an unopened champagne bottle sticking out of it. I walked over, kicking off my shoes as I went, and sank onto the opposite side of the bed from him. My eyes felt gritty and all I wanted was a shower and sleep.

He looked at his watch. “Two . . . what? Where were you?”

“Just let me grab a shower and I’ll tell you.” I headed into the bathroom.

“Want some company?”

Normally I loved shower sex. Put all normal showers to shame. But tonight I needed to wash off Nadia and put Gali back on.

I shook my head. “I’ll only be a few minutes, promise.”

“Your loss.” He leaned back against the pile of pillows and closed his eyes. “I’ll be right here if you change your mind.”

God, he was so familiar and gorgeous, yet weird and out of place.

I turned the water on full force, without much success. Probably one of those water savers that I saw on an episode of Seinfeld. But it was hot. I rubbed my skin almost raw, toweled off, and wrapped myself in the spa robe I’d brought from home. This wasn’t the kind of hotel that supplied them. I padded back into the room and Leo’s eyes snapped open.

“I was worried.”

I didn’t know what to say so I sat next to him on the bed and snuggled up. He was stiff next to me but slid his arm around my shoulder anyway.

“I was out to dinner.”

“Till two-thirty?” His arm slid off my shoulder. “Come on, Gali, you can do better than that.”

“Let me finish and then, if you want, climb right back up on that high horse.”

He nodded, keeping his eyes trained on my face.

“I met someone on the train—a musician—who didn’t know a soul in town. We hit it off and decided to hook up for dinner to finish the conversation we’d started on the trip up.” So far so good, no lies.

“Long dinner. What did you do, go clubbing?” He tilted his chin up. He loved nightlife. I usually just went along to make him happy. It was one of the great untold advantages of having kids that so few opportunities for clubbing came along anymore. I always felt old and frumpy at those places, not a feeling I tended to seek out with any alacrity.

“God, no. You know me better than that.”

He grinned and pulled me in closer, his body softening into mine.

“So she—”

“She, yes.” He just assumed I’d met a woman. “She,” I began.

“What was her name?”

“Si—mona. Yeah I know, weird pronunciation, huh, with the long i, anyway, she had some kind of seizure in the restaurant and I went along to the ER. Thought she was having a heart attack . . . so scary. But it turned out to be an anxiety attack and not life-threatening. I called her ex who told me it had happened tons of times before”—I needed to stop babbling—but I still had a hard time leaving her. All alone and no one to come see her, isn’t that sad?” I took a deep breath.

“Poor baby. Here, have some of this.” He got up and retrieved the dripping bottle of champagne, popped the cork, and filled two glasses. “Of course you stayed. What choice did you have?” He clinked his glass against mine. “So much for surprises.”

After we’d polished off most of the champagne and I’d had three truffles, we made love. As I drifted off, I could feel a knot of emotion in the pit of my stomach, something I couldn’t quite identify.

I was almost asleep before I finally recognized it.

Anger.

 

The following morning, everything seemed perfect on the surface, like a cake that had risen unevenly but was camouflaged by a skillfully applied layer of luscious frosting.

We had room service, which I loved as a rule, and this one was no exception. Maybe this was a midrange hotel, but there was nothing midrange about breakfast. The coffee was strong but so smooth that even Leo refrained from adding sugar. Two fresh croissants, flaky and warm. There was nothing worse than a poor croissant. Either one that’s so dry, it disintegrates at the first bite or one that has so much butter, it oozes grease between your teeth and leaves your hands gleaming with melted fat. Great for the skin, though. We had fresh orange juice and fruit that was juicy and ripened to a peak: sweet pears and crunchy apples layered with fat slices of emerald kiwi. The chef clearly loved food. I could picture him bundled up at the market at three a.m. picking only what would be perfect right now. No anemic strawberries or bland out-of-season cantaloupe.

And through it all, I smiled and ate and sipped coffee and seethed.

Once Leo had gone, I tried to settle down and figure out why I was so upset. Technically I should feel guilty because I’d sort of lied to him about Simon-Simona. I’d love a romantic getaway with him and he could even surprise me with it, but this was my getaway. I had wanted to be on my own, alone for once. Being Nadia was like a part in a play or a character in a book I might write. She was the opposite of me. Nadia was brave and confident and had loving, supportive parents. She would always rise to a challenge. It was . . . fun.

Too agitated—not to mention caffeinated—to settle down in bed, I got up and dressed. Black again today, but with a red silk tank top playing peekaboo at the V of my sweater. I belted my coat and headed out.

Once on the street, I felt better. I loved the purposefulness of a city waking up on a weekday. Weekend mornings, lovely as they were, just didn’t have the same allure. I breathed in the energy that crackled through the air. I ended up at a big chain bookstore on Union Square.

If I lived here, I would be so skinny and toned.

I ducked into the superstore and bought a blank notebook with a picture of a 1930s-era Underwood and a cup of coffee on the cover. After grabbing a latte at the café, I sat down at a tiny round table near the window and dug a pen out of my purse. I opened the book. Here is where I would start to jot down notes for my Great American Novel. It would be hailed as a fresh voice. It would astound crowds. It would live on the New York Times bestseller list and Oprah would have me on her show. No one would have suspected that the little cookbook author had it in her. It would recount a journey from darkness to enlightenment in such a profound way that people would no longer look at the world with the same eyes.

And Daddy would sit up and look at me with pride. I would bask in it. I would bathe in it. Maybe I’d even get an offer by Christmas.

My latte was cold, my blank book still blank, my hand clutching the pen was still poised above the first page. If I didn’t want to be late for lunch, I would have to take a cab to Café Ste. Claire, where I was to meet the agent who would surely be my angel of change.

 

As I fixed my lipstick, the taxi screeched to a halt, causing my hand to slip and draw a thick streak of Burnt Coffee across my cheek. A limp tissue rescued from the bottom of my bag among the loose peanuts did what it could to repair the damage. I scrambled for money to pay the driver and stepped out in front of the Upper East Side restaurant. The pale sun of morning had ceded to a steel sky.

I’d thought the Upper West Side was the trendy spot du jour but maybe I’d missed a chapter and the focus had shifted back to the other side of the park.

“Bonjour,” the hostess greeted me.

“Ah, vous parlez français!” Relief at being able to relax into French flooded my body.

She shook her sleek head. “Sorry.”

“Oh! I just thought . . . you have a great accent, you know?” I could tell this from “bonjour”? So now I was Madame Irma with an advanced degree in comparative linguistics?

I’d trailed off, but this sleek, sophisticated creature with perfect skin and makeup came to my rescue. “Thanks. I mean merci. I’m an actress and also, apparently, a cliché.” She glanced at a passing waiter, who grinned as if to say Aren’t we all? “I’ve been taking an accent workshop. I’m auditioning for The Maids tomorrow.”

“Jean Genet! I played Solange in college.” It felt like another life, before culinary school had even crossed my mind. “Good luck to you. You sound great!” Could I stop gushing now please?

“Merci.”

We stood there a moment, staring at each other, her with an expectant gleam in her eye. Was I supposed to say something more?

The corners of her mouth tipped up. “Table for . . .”

“Oh. Oh yes. Of course. I’m meeting someone.” And for the life of me I could not recall his name. Total blank. The last of my name-memory brain cells had gone to Charlotte. “Just a sec.” I rummaged through my bag to grab my day planner, spilling a tube of lipstick and several crumpled receipts onto the floor. She bent down to help me as I flipped through the book. If this person was about to change my life, what did it mean that I couldn’t even remember his name?

“Here it is. Terry d’Agostino.”

“You are so charming, you remind me of my favorite aunt.” I just hoped it was her mother’s much younger sister.

“So you’re a writer,” she said over her shoulder as we threaded our way through the bistro. Each table held ceramic oil and vinegar bottles as well as the usual salt and pepper shakers. A bud vase with a single gerbera daisy sat in the center of each. The place was crowded and warm. The whitewashed walls sported vintage ad posters from France and Italy as well as some antique utensils and copper pots.

I relaxed. This Terry certainly had a flair for choosing an appropriate place for a lunch meeting.

“Here we are,” my actress/hostess declared, waving her arm. We’d stopped at a rectangular table along the back wall of the restaurant. Sitting on the booth side was Terry. He slid out and extended his hand. It reminded me of Elly’s, so smooth and still dimpled. He was dressed like a grown-up, in nice pants, a white shirt, but no tie, and a charcoal jacket.

“Magali?” He smiled, and adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses.

“Yes.” I took his hand and shook it, then, horrified at the energy in my gesture, released it as if it had burned my fingers.

When exactly had these children taken over the earth? They were the doctors and businessmen, artists, and boutique owners. What had I been doing all this time?

I sat down, feeling old. Had I missed my opportunity while I’d been fussing around my kitchen jotting down my silly musings on food? I forced a smile. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“And you. The day my mother learned to cook thanks to your books was better than Christmas.”

I choked on the ice water I was sipping. His mother? Oh God! First an aunt, then a mom. When did I get so old?

“Really, it’s an honor to meet you. You saved the latter part of my childhood and probably my parents’ marriage to boot,” he said.

I was feeling more and more like some ancient foreign dignitary who’d had a brilliant past and was wheeled out occasionally to be honored.

“Shall we order?” He opened his menu.

“Yeah, I mean yes, sure.” I was pretty sure foreign dignitaries didn’t say yeah. I scanned the menu while our waitress-server or whatever they like to be called these days filled our water glasses.

“Our soup is a pumpkin cream and our quiche today is mushroom spinach. Would you like a few more minutes?”

I shook my head, not being able to concentrate on the menu. “That sounds good. I’ll have the quiche.”

“It comes with salad,” she said.

“Wonderful.” Wonderful? What if it had come with steamed asparagus? Would I have swooned in ecstasy?

“Dressing?” She ticked off an impressive list of sauces while my companion scanned the menu.

“Champagne vinaigrette.”

“Good choice,” she said. Did they ever frown and say, No, really, don’t choose that, why just yesterday a patron got food poisoning from that salad?

“I’ll have the same. When dining with an expert . . .” He handed her the menu. “Do you know who this is?”

She shook her head, looking intrigued.

“Magali Arnaud!” he stage-whispered.

She looked blank, but expectant.

“She wrote the Hopeless in the Kitchen series.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m sure they’re wonderful. But I don’t cook.”

“But that’s the point, isn’t it? They are for someone just like you.” He turned back to me and removed his glasses. His huge, blue, nearsighted eyes made him look even younger, if that were possible.

“That’s the problem.” He wiped his glasses.

“What?” Smudged eyewear?

“Name recognition. I’m thinking just keep doing what you’re doing but get you a blitz of media coverage, guest spots on morning shows and—” He put his glasses back on and leaned forward. So did I. I felt as if I were about to be given the map to the Holy Grail.

“Two words,” he continued. “Food Network.”

My mouth dropped open. “But—”

“And let’s not forget an app. It’s going to be fabulous. You’d keep helping people and be a star. We’ll all make oodles of money.”

Did he just say oodles? I could not confide my dream, my heart’s desire, to this sweet-faced man-boy who said oodles. I must have looked crestfallen because he said, “Don’t look so worried. You’ll be amazing. Promise me one thing. Don’t change. Just stay as you are and your people will build this around you,” he said.

“I’m . . . I’ll . . .” He was looking at me expectantly. I felt as if it were Charlotte sitting in front of me and she’d just had this great idea to tie-dye the cat bright pink so she would look nice against her purple pillow.

I twirled my water glass on the table, staring at it. Then I looked at him. “I’ll think about it.”

The food arrived and I realized that for once in my life, I wasn’t the least bit hungry. I needed to call Syd and tell her. This was nuts.

He unfolded his napkin and picked up his knife and fork. “Are you seeing someone else?”

Baffled, I pointed to my ring finger.

“Another agent?” he prodded.

I nodded.

His confidence bubbled back up. “I know you’ll make the right choice. We’ll have so much fun.”

“Oodles,” I replied.

 

Becky Sternfeld didn’t look like a Becky at all—more like a Rebecca. She was about fifty and gorgeous in that pulled-together-I-know-how-to-accessorize-and-maximize-my-good-points way that my mother had mastered. Or invented. I wondered if her suit was a real Chanel or not. Real, I decided.

After a quick smile and a signal for me to sit, she returned to her phone call.

“I don’t know, Chris. The auction closes on Monday. I can talk to the author, but . . .” She shrugged. Her office didn’t feel feminine: all black leather and chrome, hard surfaces, hard edges with nary a throw pillow in sight.

“Right, Monday then.” She rolled her eyes at me and made a circular motion with her finger indicating that she was trying to wrap this up. “Sounds good.” She cut the connection.

“Now, on to the present business.” She scrutinized me and I couldn’t help but sit up straighter. Then she smiled, seeming satisfied with what she saw. I repressed the urge to sigh with relief.

“It is wonderful to finally meet you. I’ve known Ana for ages and she raves about you.” Really?

She held out her hand and I hesitated, almost wanting to hide my scarred fingers, but then took a breath and grasped her hand. It was surprisingly warm, as was the look in her hazel eyes. I suddenly felt as if I were the most important person on the planet.

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

She pressed a button on the front edge of her desk. “Jenna? Could you bring two coffees, please? Thanks, darling.” She turned her focus back on me. “I have such plans for you.”

Please don’t say cooking show.

“We,” she continued, “are going to blast you out of the midlist to superstardom. Would you like to know how?”

I almost cringed. Not cooking show, I mentally shouted at her. In spite of myself, I leaned forward. The woman was magnetic.

“The first Hopeless in the Kitchen diet books. Gluten-free, vegan, paleo . . . As soon as it comes out, we release an adaptation. I’m sure I could even get a classic like Weight Watchers on board.” She leaned back.

“But,” I sputtered, “that’s not—”

“—anything you’ve ever thought of before, I know. But Ana told me you were fast and dependable. A real pro.”

“What my philosophy is all about.” Had she ever read one of my books?

“And then,” she went on, but we were interrupted by Jenna bearing coffee on a red-and-black lacquered tray.

I pounced on the interruption. “What I really wanted was a bit of a change.” My voice was two notches too loud in my ears. She looked at me. “More than a bit. Maybe slightly drastic?”

“I’d love to hear your idea.” She smiled.

“Fiction,” I blurted. At the look of confusion on her face, I almost backed down. “You know, a novel?” My voice drizzled out to a whisper.

“Why not? Have you got something ready?”

“No, but—”

“It’s a wonderful project but why don’t we go with my idea first. Plus you haven’t heard the rest of it.”

I grasped my coffee cup, leaching warmth from it.

“We would expand: mixes, frozen entrees, desserts . . . prepackaged Magali. Everyone will go wild,” she said.

“Again, it’s not really what my books are about?” I felt hot and had a sudden urge to remove my jacket.

She went on as if she hadn’t heard me, “—and not pots and pans, but our angle would be dishes, tablecloths, decorating items to make your kitchen into a Magali kitchen. Sponsoring a brand of appliance. You will be a first name.”

Despite myself, I liked the idea of dishes. I could have my own shelf at Williams-Sonoma. Maybe I’d even get a discount.

She looked at her watch. “I will send you a contract. Leave all your info with Jenna before you go. Try to get an outline on the first diet book to me by next week. And a few sample recipes. I think we should start with gluten-free and go from there, don’t you think? Because, frankly, it might have a more limited shelf life than the others.” She drained her coffee. I hadn’t touched mine.

Without waiting for a reply, she was leading me through the door. “I’m excited.”

 

Once out in the street, I felt hot with shame. Right now I wanted a bath, wine, and chocolate. Lots and lots of the latter two.

I turned my phone back on. Three missed calls again—one from Colette, one from home, and a number I didn’t recognize.

I put in a quick call to Colette and my family—I put off telling anyone about what had happened in the meetings. The third message was from Simon. I pressed redial.

As I fended off his apologies for the night before—after all, having a medical condition wasn’t his fault—I realized that there was one thing that would make this day go away.

I stepped to the right to avoid a group of gorgeous Amazons coming in the other direction. Models, probably.

I wanted—no, needed—to cook food. To buy raw ingredients, put them together into something edible. I stopped at a red light and stepped back as a taxi careened around a corner.

After establishing that he did have something resembling a kitchen in his apartment, I told him to text me his address. I’d be there at seven. He could take care of the wine.

The light turned green but I was lost in mental menu preparation and made no move to cross. A woman pushing a stroller jostled me from behind.

I called Terry d’Agostino and asked him where I could find a good quality grocery store. He gave me directions to Fairway, and there I purchased veal, three different types of forest mushrooms, onion, Belgian endives, garlic, mustard, cream, potatoes, nutmeg, butter, cheese, then after a bit of thought, salt, pepper, and sugar. Who knew what state the cupboards were in. I added pears and chocolate for dessert, as well as a baguette, a St.-Marcelin, and an aged Comté.

Thus laden, I hailed a cab and told him to take me to the nearest Williams-Sonoma. There I purchased a Wüsthof chef’s knife and, what the hell, a new whisk. I’d have to sneak this one into the house and squirrel it away while Leo wasn’t watching.

I remembered the best part of the pastry-making kit from the Easy-Bake Oven Syd had bought the girls was a doll-sized whisk for beating a tablespoon of egg. I’d been about to tuck it into my whisk drawer, just for safekeeping, when Elly had caught me.

“We can keep it safe,” she’d said.

“Yeth,” had added Charlotte. “Safe from what?”

So I’d left it with their things. But not without a pang.

Feeling reckless about the amount of money I was spending, I grabbed another cab and gave the driver Simon’s address.

“How ARE you?” I asked, when he opened the door.

“I’m fine, really. I do want to apologize for last night. What a horrible way for you to spend an evening in New York. Bit of an embarrassment for me as well.”

“Really, it was no problem. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“You spoke to her, then.” His voice was flat.

“I did.”

“Yes, she was on the phone first thing this morning informing me in no uncertain terms of how she no longer wishes to be woken in the middle of the night and would I please remove her name from my emergency contact list.”

My heart almost broke, right there in the foyer.

He shrugged then caught sight of my load. He burst out laughing, then put down an open bottle of wine—white, I noted with satisfaction, the perfect aperitif—before unburdening me of two of my bags.

“Shall I pop around the corner and invite a few of the homeless to come join us?”

“Too much?”

“Maybe a tad.” He was dressed more casually tonight, in jeans and a crew-neck navy blue sweater. “But who am I to complain? A beautiful woman invites herself over to cook me dinner.”

I followed him to the kitchen. “You’ll have leftovers.” I put the other packages down on the counter. I’d never met a kitchen I didn’t like. But Simon’s put that to the test. Cramped and not about to win an award for cleanliness, though I detected the odor of scouring powder. He must have given it a once-over.

“Do you have any more of that scouring powder? And maybe some rubber gloves?” I removed my jacket. I hadn’t gone back to the hotel to change.

“Under the sink. No gloves though, I’m afraid. You know, I just did that.”

“Sorry, I’m compulsive about sinks.” I set about making the sink sparkle, the most necessary prep step to cooking after washing your hands. “I have something I have to confess,” I said.

“Of course, anything.” He was pouring wine into two glasses.

“It’s bad,” I said.

He handed me my wine. “How bad can it be?”

I took a sip of wine. Not great, but not horrible. A little too fruity for me. “My name . . . it isn’t really Nadia.”

“Oh, well. No harm in that, is there?” He tasted his own wine and made a face.

I shook my head. “My real name is Magali.”

“Just like . . . the cookbook? You’re one and the same?”

“Guilty as charged. Sorry.” I unpacked the groceries and washed the new knife.

“What’s to be sorry about? I was already looking forward to the meal before, but now I feel like royalty. A famous chef in my kitchen.” He raised his glass to me.

I winced, but let it go.

As I set about chopping onion and celery and sautéing them in a pan over low heat, I relaxed for the first time all day. All told, it took me an hour and a half to prepare the veal, gratin dauphinois, and braised Belgian endive. An hour and a half during which we’d polished off a bottle of wine and opened another. A better one.

We went into the living room while the meal finished cooking. I’d bought some tapenade and broke off a few chunks of baguette to have with our wine.

Moving easily together, we set the table—Simon even managed to dig up a half-melted candle.

“Ambiance is everything,” he said.

Since there was no dining table per se, we ate at the coffee table, sitting on cushions piled on the floor.

The veal and gratin were fragrant and tender. Paired with a tart salad, the meal was a joy.

I raised my glass. “Simon, thank you. I haven’t felt this good all day. How about you?”

“Fine.” He cleared his throat. “My . . . condition is brought on by stress, and at the moment I’m quite mellow.”

He clinked his glass against mine, a nice Nuits-Saint-Georges.

After the poached pears dipped in melted chocolate and topped off with a generous spoonful of crème fraîche, I was slightly woozy and it was almost one in the morning. I didn’t remember where I put my shoes. Simon and I were side by side, on the floor leaning against the couch.

“Where did the time go?”

“Lost in music, food, and wine. Can’t think of a better use for it.” He leaned into me and I allowed myself to relax into him, feeling his body warm against mine.

A red light flashed in my brain. What was I doing?

It would be so easy to sink into this man further and further and allow him to completely sink into me, so to speak. I sprang up, almost toppling him.

“I’ve really got to go. Let me clean up a bit first.” I grabbed two plates. He took them from me. I found my shoes near the kitchen.

“Leave it. I’ll do them in the morning. Stay a bit longer.” He put his hand on my arm. My skin tingled.

I wondered what his penis looked like. I hadn’t been with another man in so many years I had no idea what it would be like to have an unfamiliar penis inside me.

I turned away and grabbed my coat and scarf, winding the latter around my neck. I was buttoning my coat when Simon put a hand on my shoulder.

“Let me take you to your hotel, at least. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

He was behind me and so slowly his hand drifted from my shoulder, caressing my side and landing on my hip.

It started to inch its way toward my lower belly inside my not-quite-buttoned coat.

“Please,” I whispered.

His hand stopped. I was throbbing. “Please what? Please go on?” His hand pressed a bit harder on my skin.

“Stop,” I croaked. “Please stop.”

He released me and spun me around to face him.

“I know you’re married. But no one will know. Who could it hurt? It would be just a lark. Two people coming together for an instant of happiness.”

My eyes inadvertently slid down his body to the bulge in his jeans. He grinned.

I turned and fled. I stepped out into the chilled night. Luck was with me. An empty cab was cruising down the street. I hailed it and, once inside, I shook all the way to my hotel.

I was still shaky twenty minutes later when I slammed—or tried to slam—my hotel room door behind me. It was one of those doors that had a brake on the hinges.

It was fine. Nothing happened. I didn’t do anything.

But I’d wanted to.

I was almost asleep before I remembered I’d left my whisk at Simon’s.

Chicons braisées

BRAISED BELGIAN ENDIVE

 

 

This side dish is as easy as it is spectacular. Braising reduces the bitterness of the endive, rendering them almost sweet.

 

7 or 8 Belgian endives
2 (or more) cloves of garlic
2 tablespoons butter
Water
Juice of ½ lemon
Sea salt
Freshly ground pepper
1 or 2 teaspoons sugar—any kind: raw, white, or brown (optional)

 

Rinse the endives, pat dry, and slice off the bottom (not too much so they don’t fall apart). Remove any browned or wilted outer leaves.

Peel the garlic, slice the cloves in half, and remove the green sprout (or germ). Mince and reserve.

Melt the butter in a large stainless-steel or enamel pot with a tight-fitting lid. Throw in the garlic and let it cook for about a minute.

Place the endives in a single layer in the pot. Add a bit of water (start with ½ cup and be prepared to add more if needed), the lemon juice, the sea salt, and pepper.

Cover tightly and cook over medium-low heat for 25 to 30 minutes.

Remove the lid and check the liquid. Add more water if necessary. Increase the heat to high and cook uncovered until brown. If you are using sugar, add it at this stage to further caramelize the endives.

This is one of my biggest hits with guests. Just don’t tell anyone how easy it is. Bon appétit!