The Secret Ingredient Page 13

  “I just hope—I mean—sometimes you get a taste of something and it isn’t enough,” Lola says.

  “Well, I know that this Jane Armont person isn’t going to drop everything and start mothering me, but I still need to see her.”

  “I know, just be careful. It’ll be great whatever happens—don’t worry about it.”

  Lola helps me bring the stuff over to FOOD, and as she’s leaving, I grab her arm and say, “Sometimes you call me a star. Well, you’re the star. You can’t lose that light you give out, that shine you put on the world. It needs Lola, the world needs Lola.”

  She starts to get teary, but when Jeremy comes up on his bike, she composes herself.

  “Thanks,” she says, touching my arm, and walks away.

  Jeremy hops off his bike. “Did I interrupt something?”

  “Long story. What’s going on?”

  His face lights up, and I know he got a record deal. My brother got a record contract.

  “Dude, it was a bidding war. Can you even deal? They want the cowrite with the cougar to be the single, but I don’t really care anymore. I’ll get behind a machine if it means I get a colossal advance and the chance to be heard.” He shakes the hair out of his face. “I know I’ve been a nightmare up until now. But this is it, Ol, this is my calling. By the way, I saw your Biker Boy. He came to my place looking for you.”

  “He did?”

  “He seemed kind of aggro.”

  I don’t want to go into the whole Theo thing with Jeremy, so I give him a hug and say, “I gotta go prep. I’m so happy for you.”

  “Yeah, well, nothing’s signed yet, but it’s all supposedly happening.”

  “As much as I’m still annoyed with you, you deserve it.”

  “Thanks, Ol. See you later.”

  For my special, I slice a large thin rectangle of watermelon and put it on the bottom of the plate, then crumble feta on top.…

  Rose hasn’t seen her for months, but she knows Eloise got arrested during a Women’s Liberation demonstration. She sees Eloise’s picture in the paper, and feels her chest swell with pride. Rose is bold, but she would never have gotten arrested. It’s a warm Saturday, and Rose is shopping with her mother. They’re going to make Welsh rarebit, Kurt’s favorite. Her mother is in great spirits, as Rose’s bump is beginning to show. When people ask, her mother takes over the conversation as if she is having the baby herself. Rose doesn’t mind. She’s happy, and knows it’s what everyone wants.

  If I ever get pregnant, will Jane be there to give me pointers? Will she ever know that she’s a grandmother? I add a line of arugula, and a sprinkling of pumpkin seeds for crunch. Then I start cutting lemons for the dressing.…

  Except Eloise. And there she is, standing by the melons, looking beautiful as ever, but when she gets closer, Rose notices something has drained from her eyes; they’ve lost their shine. Rose’s mother immediately excuses herself, and Rose is grateful. They stare at each other and smile. Eloise points to Rose’s bump and congratulates her. She’s so formal about it. Rose feels a sinking in her stomach. Is this how it’s going to be? Two acquaintances meeting in the grocery store? She hopes not. Eloise gives her a hug, and when she pulls away, tears fill her eyes and she says, “I hope it’s a girl.”

  The key is to squeeze lemon on the watermelon before everything else. It’s a perfect summer salad: sweet, sour, and savory. Which actually describes my life right now. Jeremy’s deal, Theo’s betrayal, my trip to Laguna. Just two more days and I’ll be there.

  The salad is a hit and sells out by eight o’clock. I’m proud, and happy for the temporary distraction. But now it’s all racing back. How could Theo do that? Am I really that bad a judge of character?

  When I leave, I find Bell in the alley, smoking. I know he must be beyond stressed out, because he quit five years ago.

  “Dad. Don’t do this.”

  “Sorry, Ollie. It’s all a bit crazy for me right now.”

  I take the cigarette from his mouth and put it out.

  “Is it about the house or the restaurant?” I ask.

  “Both. I never pictured it coming to this.”

  He shakes his head and I try to cheer him up. “Well, Jeremy is getting a huge record deal now. Has he told you yet?”

  Bell looks up to the sky, I think half expecting it to fall.

  “Yes. And well he should. But that’s his money.”

  “Dad, your whole life has been dedicated to us. It’s our turn to start helping out.”

  He gives me a soulful look. Bell always taught me to accept compliments with grace, to not be afraid of being helped, that we can’t do everything alone.

  “Yes. You’re right. Now off you go.”

  CHAPTER 23

  The next day, Enrique wakes me up from an after-work nap.

  “Ollie, I need a favor for you.”

  “A favor from me.”

  “Yes. There is a dinner. Tonight. The house of Len, the studio guy who loved your bruschetta. Bell will be at FOOD and can’t come, obviously, but I have to go and I need you to come with me. This film he’s doing, it has gotten the green light, and it’s about ballet, and he’s paying me to consult with him. I don’t know if it will be enough to get us out of our hole, but it could be a lot. I can’t show up alone. When he says bring someone, you bring someone, it doesn’t matter who. But I’m sure he will be happy to see you.”

  Enrique is really trying, and maybe it’s because I’m groggy, but it touches me.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Great. Six o’clock.”

  “Okay, Papá, okay.”

  He does an arabesque.

  On our way to Bel Air, I secretly thank myself that I put a good dress on. Yes, it’s secondhand, but the style is timeless and suits my body. Enrique is wearing a sports coat I’ve never seen before. And he’s done his hair with a part, making him look very Mad Men.

  When we arrive at Len’s house, a giant gate is opened. The driveway goes on forever. The place looks like Versailles, or what I’ve seen of it in textbooks. When we get to the front door, what appear to be British butlers greet us and lead us down a long hallway adorned with paintings that are probably original van Goghs. On the way, a waiter pops out a side door and hands us each a glass of champagne.

  “Just have a sip,” Enrique whispers.

  The house is completely overdone, with ornate gilt-framed mirrors and lush red carpets, crystal chandeliers, and intricate moldings. We finally reach a room where Len, presumably his assistant, and two other gentlemen sit. We all say hello, and Len looks surprised to see me. “Miss Bruschetta! What a pleasure!”

  Enrique clears his throat and looks proud.

  Len smiles and says, “Great. So, what do you think of the house?”

  “Understated,” I blurt out, Bell’s ironic edge coming through me. Thankfully, Len thinks it’s hilarious and cracks up. The other two guys look at me funny. Swarms of servants surround us with appetizers and more drinks. I see those frozen quiche things and almost gasp. But there are some fresh tuna rolls, so I let it pass. I believe that all food can be prepared in an enjoyable way, whether it’s rice and beans or filet mignon, but a kajillionaire serving mini frozen quiches? Do you know how long it takes to make quiche? If you have the crust, basically about five minutes.

  They talk about the film for a while, and I zone out, thinking about the Laguna trip—what I’ll wear, how I’ll sit, what Lola and I will discuss as I look around for Jane. When I tune back in, I manage to gather that one of the guys, Ross, is the director, and the other is the writer, but that’s about all I retain. Enrique is on fire, making everyone laugh and being as charming as possible without grating on them.

  “I started when I was seven. My mother took me to a ballet, and I knew right then. My classmates were mean about it, but they were just jealous because I got to hang out with beautiful girls all day. Of course, they didn’t know that I was batting for the other team.”

  After a while, there is a ge
neral sense of bewilderment due to the fact that dinner has not yet been served. The drinks have been refilled, but the appetizers lie in sad heaps on the trays, long discarded. Finally, a man I assume to be the head butler comes out and whispers extensively in Len’s ear, making him turn bright red. Afterward, Len clears his throat and says, “I’m afraid my chef is a no-show. Would you all mind terribly if we ordered in?”

  I picture us eating out of containers in this beautiful house, and it just seems wrong. “Well, I could take a look and maybe whip something up?” I offer.

  Len’s eyes widen, and even the writer, who has been a little stiff all night, seems to loosen at the mention of a home-cooked meal.

  Next thing you know, I am amid all the black-and-white-uniformed people who apparently only know how to unwrap food and pour drinks. I open the huge pantry doors and see a large box of whole-wheat penne. I fill a big pot with water, pinch in some salt, and search the fridge for some sauce ingredients. Someone named Pepe hands me some really good olive oil, like he knows that’s exactly what I was looking for. I find a block of feta cheese, a clove of garlic, some tomato paste, and a half-filled container of heavy cream. As I frantically try to put it all together, the staff watches me, their mouths open. While the pasta boils, I grab the cookbook out of my bag. Toward the end there’s the recipe for beef stew and Rose’s familiar writing underneath:

  Made for a party.

  But then scratched and made meatballs.

  Sometimes you have to just stick with what you know.

  I slip the book back into my bag and strain the pasta. I scour the place for the finishing touch, that last component that will make the dish. There’s nothing in the pantry or in the small compartments of the fridge. Defeated, I turn around to a smile from Pepe, who leads me with his finger to a narrow door that looks like it once held an ironing board, the kind that folds out. I open it and boom, there it is—black truffle. I shave some on top of the dish and give the staff the go-ahead to take it out. They are all giggling with delight.

  Halfway through the meal, Len raises his wineglass and says, “Bruschetta, you’ve done it again!”

  “Just don’t start calling me Penne. Bruschetta has a better ring to it,” I reply.

  Enrique gives me a smile so wide it looks like his face might fall off. Since his mouth is full, the director can only say “Mmmm,” while the writer kisses the tips of his fingers. In that moment, all my worry is lifted and I feel like I am exactly where I need to be. I think about Theo, telling me that very same thing. He seemed so genuine. So kind. How could it all have been an act?

  They talk more about ballet, and I’m amazed at how articulate Enrique is. It’s strange when you see your parents in real-life situations and realize how intelligent they are.

  “People are intimidated. But you don’t have to know the positions to understand it. You simply have to watch it,” Enrique says. “For the dancer, it is all mind-driven. If ballet were a sport, it would be tennis. Yes, the physicality is important, but a lot of it is in the head. And you have to train, train, train. It is cruel, really, for the dancer. Always striving for perfection. I was dancing in Mexico’s greatest company, and I still never felt good enough. But there is nothing in this life that could take me so far away. It’s like living in another world, on the stage, and when you get close, when you can almost smell the perfection, magic happens.”

  Silence falls over the room as people wipe up the remaining sauce on their plates with bread. When you make pasta, it is very important not to oversauce. After you are finished, there should be enough sauce left for two swipes.

  As the coffee is served, the writer guy starts talking about the film they’re shooting, and how the cast is unreliable. I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, but before I’m out of the room I hear Ross, who has been frantically texting someone, say that his location manager is “back off the wagon” and screwed up booking their restaurant shoot for the next day.

  “So basically I need a fully working restaurant for forty-eight hours starting tomorrow at noon,” he says. “Good times.”

  I turn around and walk back to the table, unable to contain my excitement. Enrique’s eyes light up. He has the same idea. I put my hand on the director’s shoulder. At first he’s shocked, but then he says, “Yes?”

  “About the restaurant. We may be able to help you out with that.”

  CHAPTER 24

  I convince Janice that being on a set would help me in my job, so she lets me leave at one o’clock.

  When I get to FOOD, I barely recognize it. There are several trucks parked outside, a slew of boom microphones, and a city of lights. Production assistants swarm the place with their black shirts and walkie-talkies. I find Bell in the kitchen, telling the cooks to pretend it’s just a regular night, as that’s what the director wants. When he sees me his face brightens and he motions for me to come into the walk-in cooler. He sits on a box of potatoes and gets choked up, but this time out of joy.

  “The onions?” I ask him.

  He smiles.

  “Ollie, I can’t believe this. They’re paying us fifteen thousand dollars. It’s not going to solve everything, but it will buy us some time.”

  “Great. Maybe you can form a relationship with the studio, you know?”

  He smiles again, but there’s a hint of condescension. “Look at you, my little businesswoman.”

  “Dad, we’ve got to save this place. It’s your everything.”

  He wipes at his left eye with the dish towel he’s holding.

  “Ollie, you’re my everything. Now let’s get out of here, it’s freezing.”

  “Okay.”

  When we come out of the cooler, I notice there’s a crowd on the street checking out what’s going on. The trailers for the talent are here, and Ross is scoping the place out. When he notices me, he runs over and gives me a hug. He takes me into the biggest trailer, where the main character, whom he calls “the star of the picture,” is warming up. Her name is Jasmine, of course, and she’s tiny, with short spiky red hair and big blue eyes. A mini version of me, if I chopped off my hair and starved myself. I’ve seen her in a commercial for something. She looks bored. A heavyset woman is dabbing powder on her cheeks.

  “This is a crucial scene,” Ross tells me, “and the place is perfect. Our girl here has got a secret, and she needs to reveal it in a public place.”

  “I’m telling my boyfriend that I’m a lesbian,” Jasmine says, as if it’s not a big deal.

  “And …,” Ross says.

  “And I’m in love with his sister.”

  The makeup woman gasps. Ross smiles and says, “I didn’t write it, I’m just directing it.”

  Ross continues taking me around, and there are three assistants hovering like flies around him. One of them has been trying to give him a bottle of water for twenty minutes. He doesn’t even seem to notice them but is fixated on me, and even though I’m not sure why, it feels good to seem important.

  “What should she order?” Ross asks me. “I mean, what should she be eating? Nothing too complicated, but I want to show that she’s still hungry. That she’s so comfortable with her revelation, she can still have an appetite.”

  “How about a salad with a protein?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Tuna or chicken?”

  “Definitely chicken,” he says. “Tuna is too feminine.”

  I smile and he says, “You see how important my job is? I constantly have to worry about things like protein. These people,” he whispers, pointing to the gaggle of assistants, “probably don’t even know how to make a sandwich. Their idea of lunch is a Snapple and a cigarette.”

  We choose the table by the window because, as Ross tells me, “Film is all about reflection.”

  He is called away by the arrival of the male star, and Bell comes up and whispers in my ear, “Jude Law is here!” I smile and follow him into the main dining room. Sure enough, it’s Jude Law. He doesn’t have an entourage, and he’s jok
ing around with one of the PAs. I’ve never cared about the few celebrities I’ve met with Enrique, but this is totally different. Kind of a rush, actually, especially because we’re at FOOD.

  The first time Ross yells “Action,” the whole room takes on a sense of magic, a heightened expanse of time. All the preparation has led up to this moment, and everyone is wishing for the perfect take. Jude Law’s reaction to the news is calm during the first take, and he starts moving the silverware around, distracting himself, I guess. Jasmine is surprisingly good, her eyes boring into him effortlessly. The news comes out fairly believable, and I’m impressed by her craft. Jude’s character gets more and more angry as the scene progresses, and he ends up swiping the whole table with his hand on the last take, breaking two of our glasses.

  As I walk home, I realize I still have Theo’s necklace on. I’ve worn it pretty much all the time since he gave it to me. I wonder what he could possibly have to say, why he went to Jeremy looking for me. How could he have been so blatant? I knew there was probably someone else from before. There’s no way someone as cute as Theo spent a year without hooking up with someone. I wouldn’t have expected him to. But not now—not after we … I just wanted everything to be out in the open, but I didn’t pressure him to tell me what I wanted to know because I didn’t want to push him away. I feel like he walked into the agency for a reason, and it’s connected to other reasons, like routes on a map. The trouble is, no one tells you which turns to take or even where you’re going. And now we’ve reached a dead end.

  Jeremy stops by Saturday morning, and as I pour us each a bowl of cereal he looks at me suspiciously.

  “You’re not experimenting with drugs, are you?”

  I have to laugh, seeing Jeremy’s face, trying to look like a concerned adult.

  “Not unless Advil is all the rage.”

  He smiles and takes a spoonful of his cereal.

  “You never make cereal. It’s not a dish.”

  I shrug. My bag is already packed upstairs and my stomach is twisted in a hundred knots. I can’t tell if I’m excited or scared about Laguna, or if the sick feeling inside me is all about Theo.