“Can that happen? I mean, aren’t there contracts . . .” I trail off. No wonder this is happening so fast. It all makes sense.
“The other pilot didn’t track. Really bad numbers. We had to start from scratch—no pun intended!” Donna jokes. I feel sick to my stomach.
“I’m back,” Paul announces, pulling out his chair. Donna slides her binder over and flips it open to the first page. The idea of shelving my show permeates my thoughts.
“So you’re thinking of starting out with a Hollywood Bowl box lunch?” Donna blurts.
“Yes. I think it exemplifies what we’re going for. The L.A. scene and the food that blends with it. It’ll be a great jumping-off point,” I say.
“By the way, the marketing people have thrown out a few ideas for the name of the show,” Paul begins carefully.
“Oh?” I ask.
“We thought Page by Page: A Singleton’s Life in L.A. was cute,” Donna says, tittering. Thoughts of the velvet-blazered guy at Rascal’s book signing spring to mind. That’s quite possibly the worst name I’ve ever heard.
“Wow, that is a great . . . Wow . . .” I trail off. The waitress approaches our table. Trying to steady my breathing, I order oatmeal and fresh fruit. I try to figure out how being single isn’t such a bankable asset anymore. Paul orders eggs Benedict. You know, Paul, in my profession, being single is a necessary prerequisite to being taken seriously. Donna reiterates that she’s already had a “huge breakfast.” My eyes dart around the restaurant.
“Did you have another way you’d like to go with this?” Paul fishes.
“Something about pastry. That’s where my background is, at least professionally. It’s not what the show is about, but if you do a biographical overview of me, it’s going to be heavy in the dessert portion. So I thought Life Is Sweet,” I say. Paul and Donna look at each other. We fall into an awkward silence. I know exactly what they’re going to say. I break in before they can. “What about Life Is Sweet with Elisabeth Page?” I’m trying to find some kind of middle ground. Paul smiles widely and nods in agreement.
“That’s adorable!” Donna says.
I’m nearly bursting out of my skin as I park the car and walk to the restaurant. Page by Page: A Singleton’s Life in L.A. Oh my God. Why don’t you just call the show Ben Page’s Loner Kid Cooks? I’m glad I didn’t pitch that one; they might have taken me up on it. The meeting was troubling. It felt like a circus sideshow. What other things are they going to trot out? What other ideas from the “marketing department” should I brace myself for? What am I getting myself into?
I hate finding street parking when I get to work every day. I hate not having a parking spot. Once you’ve made a decision to move on, everything about the place you’re leaving just bugs the shit out of you. I stand outside the restaurant and look up at its tasteful, nondescript visage. I make a promise to myself as the traffic zooms past and the clock ticks on—I may not know what comes next, but I can’t go on living like this. Cross my heart.
“Elisabeth! You’re late!” Chef Canet is leaning against the pastry corner, glass of wine in hand. Julie and Samuel are frantic behind him.
“Yes, Chef,” I say, walking past him and into the back room.
He follows me. “I heard you had visitors the other day,” he says as I slide on my chef’s jacket. I freeze.
“Yes, Chef,” I say, turning to face him.
“The trip to New York? You’re constantly late. This is all because you are going onto the television!” he pronounces. I’ve never been late. I’m not even late right now; I’m just not as early as usual.
“No, Chef,” I say, hating myself. Chef zeroes in. I take a long, deep breath.
“You were what . . . how you say . . . a stray when I found you, yes?” he starts.
“Yes, Chef,” I say.
“And now you . . . you use my restaurant as . . . ummm . . . something to make you better?” Chef is struggling for words.
“No, Chef.”
“Yes, Elisabeth . . . you use Beverly to trap another job.” Chef’s voice rises.
“No, Chef.” My voice is quiet. My brain is in familiar territory.
“Beg me. Beg me to stay,” Chef says, his glass of wine spilling slightly.
“I want to stay, Chef,” I say, my voice calm and strong.
“Beg, petite chienne,” Chef says, hitting the G with disdain.
“Please,” I say, looking him in the eye, despite his calling me a “little dog.”
“Please what?” he says, one inch from my face. I can smell the wine on his breath.
“Please, Chef,” I answer, my emotional shutdown complete.
“Remember who found you, little stray,” Chef says, pulling away from me and slithering out of the room. I breathe in deeply. Again. My body heaves in pain—the wails caught in my throat—silently screaming. Julie and Samuel come into the back room. I straighten my body and swallow down any outward signs of emotion.
“Sweetie . . . sweetie . . .” Julie soothes, sweeping me into her arms. Samuel holds a cup of tea in front of him. I breathe deeply, trying to get control.
“Everything’s fine . . . the usual,” I say, pulling away from Julie. I smile at Samuel as I take the mug of tea.
“Should I not have told him about the meeting?” Julie asks, straightening her gingham handkerchief.
I zero in on her. “No, not at all. Thank you for being so thoughtful,” I say, not letting her have one iota of pleasure in my evisceration. Julie presses out a tight smile and retreats into the kitchen. Fucking bitch. Samuel watches her leave and focuses back on me.
“You all right?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly.
“I’m going to head on back,” Samuel says.
“Okay, I’ll be right there,” I say.
Samuel walks over to me. “Don’t let them win,” he says. His intensity is unnerving. He waits. “You ready?”
I breathe in through my nose, closing my eyes and trying to quiet the demons. “Ready,” I say.
Samuel nods. “Okay, then,” he says almost to himself.
“I’m right behind you,” I say, slowly buttoning up my chef’s jacket. I allow myself to think about a life without tantrums in those brief moments. I used to live in an apartment that had a refrigerator that constantly ran, day and night. When I moved into the apartment I have now, I had to buy a new refrigerator. It was so quiet I couldn’t fall sleep without the constant drone. Will I be able to stand the silence of a life without tantrums?
Luckily, the night blurs by. I feel like the walking dead. I can’t touch any emotion. Chef Canet never says another word to me all night. Julie is on her best behavior. Samuel keeps to himself and turns out one work of art after another; as usual, his need to control something comes out in each dessert. A man after my own heart.
I climb into my car. The quiet surrounds me. My throat is burning. I try to control it. I look at the clock—two A.M. I take out my BlackBerry and hold it tightly. I dial Daniel’s number, hoping he’ll pick up.
He answers on the fourth ring. “Hello?” He sounds sleepy.
“Were you sleeping?” I ask, my voice cracking.
“Are you okay?” he asks, ignoring my question.
“I had a rough night,” I admit.
“I’ll be right there. Are you home?” Daniel speaks quickly.
“No, I’m driving home from work,” I answer, leaving out the fact that I’m driving toward his apartment.
“Come over,” he says.
“I’d like that,” I say, making my way into Westwood. My breathing steadies. My stomach quiets, despite visions of Samuel at the restaurant trying to handle a distraught Margot, unable to be in two places at once.
I find parking and call up to Daniel. He says he’ll be down to let me in. I can see my breath in the cold air. I hear the zooming of traffic in the distance.
I look in through the large glass double doors. The elevator door opens, and Daniel walks out. He has h
is comforter draped over his shoulders and is wearing an undershirt and boxers. His Frankenstein scar cuts a wide swath down his right leg. His Crayola-brown hair is everywhere, and he’s rubbing his eyes as he approaches the door. God, I miss him. Daniel flips open the lock on the door and holds it open as I walk into the warm lobby.
“I’m glad you called,” he says, tugging the comforter around his shoulders.
“I hope you don’t mind—it was just a rough night,” I say. My scary monotone is back. I feel awkward.
“Hm,” Daniel says, pushing the button to the elevator. It dings right away, of course. What sane person would be using it at this time of night? He waits for me to walk in first. He pushes the button for the third floor, and the doors close. The fluorescent lighting is stark and unflattering. The elevator moans and slowly ascends.
I have to be at the farmers’ market bright and early tomorrow morning, and there’s no way I can be late. Not Chef Canet’s newly crowned little bitch. It was a mistake to come here. I should have gone home.
“Come here,” Daniel says, opening his arms wide to envelop me in the warmth of the comforter, my head on his chest. The tears start rolling down my face. He closes his arms tightly around me. His breathing is slow and steady as he rubs my back.
Maybe I did go home after all.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I can hear the alarm on my BlackBerry sounding from the pocket of my checked pants, which are lying somewhere in Daniel’s bedroom. Seven-thirty A.M. Daniel slept on the couch, after making sure I was settled. I gather my clothes and walk out into the living room.
“Is that thing going to go off every morning?” Daniel says, stirring, the comforter twisting around his body. His shirt is off. I’ve never really seen him this . . . well, this naked. We fooled around a little after our dinner-and-a-movie date. But that was pretty tame and definitely not as well lit as I would have liked.
“Yep. I have to. The farmers’ market beckons,” I say, sitting on the edge of the couch next to him.
Daniel turns over. “You don’t have to be at work until eleven-thirty, right?”
“Yeah, I know. But I go on a morning run and then do a breakfast thing before the market.” I kiss him gently. “Thank you for letting me stay here,” I say close to his face.
“Let me get ready, and I’ll go with you. A run would do me some good,” he says, untwisting himself from the comforter. With me? On my morning run? Daniel walks down the hallway into his bedroom, stretching his body, working his neck out—all of the basic exercises you would do if you were a former basketball player with a blown-out knee who had to sleep on a couch the night before.
I sit on the couch and wait. The minutes tick by. I can’t be late. I can’t be late. I check my watch again. What’s taking him so long?
“Let’s hit the road, Jack.” Daniel walks down the hallway in sweats and a KU T-shirt. I stand quickly. He continues speaking as he gets to the door. “I’ll take my car—that way you can go right to work.” He has a look on his face. Or maybe there is no look. Maybe I’m searching for a look, a confirmation that the other shoe is about to drop.
“It’s not always going to be like this,” I say, looking up at him.
“Okay,” Daniel says.
“I don’t like it any more than you do,” I say, wedging my body between him and the door. Old habits.
“Are we talking about your job or the fact that I slept on the couch last night?” Daniel asks. He raises a single eyebrow. My face must read pure surprise—I don’t know why. I thought someone this stable wouldn’t have the same passion or spontaneity that someone like Will has. I’d decided I’d have to give up my kitchen-floor rendezvous and settle for a weekly missionary-position kind of life with Daniel. Like there had to be something wrong with him—a downside—a reason to choose Will. Daniel and I are frozen in this high-stakes game of chicken.
Daniel leans in and gives me a kiss. The sweetest little toothpaste kiss. I feel his stubble on my face. I realize this kiss is morphing into something completely different. The thoughts run rampant in my mind. My schedule . . . my BlackBerry alarm . . . my morning run . . . all fly out the window.
We stumble over and stand next to the beige burlap sack of a couch. I think quickly about my undergarments. I have on a nice bra. The panties. Oh, God. Am I wearing my Superman panties? Why am I thinking about this, for chrissakes? I lift his shirt from the very bottom all the way up over his head and throw it on the ground at his feet. I slip his sweats down, exposing his boxers and that scar: the scar that stopped me in my tracks that first night. He steps out of his sweats and closer to me, his chest pressing against me. I stop. Daniel is still, his breath fast. I look up at him, the darkest of blue eyes waiting and patient. Yes. Yes to Daniel. Yes to the scar. I run my hand down the front of him. Daniel closes his eyes, clearly experiencing all of it. Trusting me. I grab hold of the bottom of my own T-shirt and bring it up over my head, whipping it onto the couch. I take his face in my hands and dive in to him again.
I had always tried hard to reserve and isolate certain parts of my personality, out of some blind sense of protection of self. Don’t get too attached to people, because you’ll just have to go without them. I had to stay in control. I had to know what’s coming next. If I know it’s going to be nothing—probably going to be nothing—then I’m not crushed. I couldn’t be a victim of the roller coaster if I didn’t get on in the first place. That’s why I made a career out of baking—it’s an exact science of measurements and timing. But then I turned my career into my whole life. I thought being with Will was hard. But this? This is terrifying. More terrifying than anything I’ve felt with Will.
As we lie on the floor later that morning, I prop myself up on one elbow, grab the sheet off the couch, and wrap it around me. The chill is sneaking in through the paper-thin walls. I seize the moment to take in every inch of him.
Daniel yawns and turns over. “You’re looking at me like a piece of chicken you just deboned,” he says. He is completely naked. No sheet. No clothes. Just sunlight and everything God gave him.
I blush. “You caught me.”
Daniel reaches up and pulls me in to him. “Come here,” he says. He sounds more relaxed than earlier. He’s got a youthful drawl now. I adjust the sheet and look down at him. Isn’t he supposed to get up and tell me he’s leaving for Venezuela? I feel strange. I’m sitting here looking like a cross between the Schmoo and Buddha, and this beautiful man wants me to “come here.” I shift the sheet and put my head on Daniel’s chest. He strokes my hair. I can hear his stomach gurgling.
“Go ahead and check the time,” Daniel taunts sleepily, his voice deep in his chest. I hop up, leaving the sheet behind, and find my BlackBerry. Nine-thirty A.M. I quickly do the math. If I stop at Whole Foods on the way to work, that’ll take about an hour off my morning routine. I don’t need a run now; my mind is clear, and my workout is taken care of, thank you, Daniel. I tap the buttons on my BlackBerry, resetting the alarm for ten-thirty, which allows me enough time to get ready, stop at the store, and make it to work on time. Daniel creaks his way into a standing position. I finish programming the alarm just as Daniel takes my hand and leads me back to his bedroom. He falls into bed, pulling the covers open for me. I crawl in and curl up next to him. My stomach at rest. My mind calm. I close my eyes and go back to sleep. Just like that. I haven’t slept this hard, this peacefully, in I can’t remember how long.
Chapter Twenty-eight
I drive from Westwood that Saturday morning to meet Mom at Toast, one of several breakfast places along Third Street, to go over the Thanksgiving dinner menu. I’ve been staying at Daniel’s apartment every night since that first time. I bought a quart of Greek yogurt at Trader Joe’s, some fresh fruit from the farmers’ market, and made a batch of yogi tea to keep at Daniel’s. If I had to choose between our apartments, mine would be more attractive—I don’t have Hell Week or hog butchering happening right outside my door. But since I’m always the one
arriving last, it makes sense for Daniel to stay at his apartment instead of waiting by himself at mine. Plus, I don’t have a PlayStation.
I left Daniel lying in bed, half naked and with several invitations to stay. It took everything I had to go. He’s leaving later this afternoon for the Maui Invitational, a weeklong tournament. Paul and Donna have set up the big pilot shoot for this weekend—perfect timing. I’m supposed to show up at the first location shoot tomorrow morning at six A.M. Apparently, sleeping in isn’t an option just yet.
I valet the car and walk to the hostess stand outside of Toast. “I’m meeting someone,” I say, motioning that I don’t need to be seated. The hostess/actress/model acts like I’ve insulted her in some way: She apparently wanted to reject me before I rejected her. I weave in between wooden tables, through couples who are both on cell phones, celebrities meeting and “eating,” your basic morning rituals. I stop.
Mom. Rascal. Will.
All sitting around a table. One chair vacant. Mine. It’s odd, seeing Will now. I can feel my heart contract a little. Mom stands and kisses me on the cheek, wiping off the lipstick. Rascal leans back in his chair, holding out his already empty coffee mug as he tries to get the waitress’s attention. He nods a distracted hello. Back from Montana, I suppose. Will. I can’t even look at him. He’ll know. I don’t know what it is he’ll know. I’m not sure what I know right now. I sit down next to Will. That smell. It’s him. It’s him. He wraps his arm around the back of my chair. I turn my head as the waitress comes over with a pot of coffee for Rascal. I sneak a quick glance at Will. He turns and makes a face, letting me know that I’m wearing the most bizarre expression. Like I’ve quantum-leaped into this body and I’m acquainting myself with these new surroundings for the first time. It’s actually not that far off. His eyes crinkle up, and he smiles, whispering that he missed me. I feel like I’ve betrayed Will in some way. Not because I’m sleeping with Daniel, I suddenly realize, but because I’m starting to fall in love with Daniel.
“What are we having?” I ask. The waitress looks directly at me. I’m the only one who hasn’t ordered. I quickly order a bowl of yogurt and granola and a big side of fruit. And an Earl Grey tea. I just keep adding things. Mom is horrified at my lack of decorum.