Comfort Food (11 page)

Thinking about the past always made her anxious and therefore hungry. Hannah opened her bottom desk drawer, reached in without even looking. She had her candy stash memorized. Her eyes never veered from the CookingChannelWeb site message boards.

“Who’s hotter: Carmen Vega or Gus Simpson?” read the title of one thread. Hannah smiled. In one fluid motion she flipped open her cell phone and pushed Gus’s number, while simultaneously ripping open a bag of peanutM&M’s. Her penchant for sweets had never fully impacted her figure: she’d always had a good metabolism, thank God, even at thirty-six years of age. That, and she’d put a treadmill in the guest room instead of a bed. Wasn’t like anyone was going to be visiting her, anyway.

“Hey, lady, it appears you’ve set the foodie world aflame,” Hannah said to Gus’s hello. “You’ve apparently reached sex symbol status.” With surgical precision, she separated the blue candies from the other colors as she talked. It was a habit left over from long ago, when silly quirks, affected for their own sake, were indulged and entertained. The truth was that all the colors tasted the same to her now.

“Thank God it’s you—I’m so mad I could poke out Alan Holt’s eye,” said Gus. “Did you eat lunch?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sure you did. You’re going to end up with a sugar problem—diabetes or whatnot. I’m not going to let this go on.” Hannah remained silent. It was true that Gus had once—just once—tried to clear out the goodies in the house. The result was the only fight the women had ever had and it left Hannah hysterical, crying on the kitchen floor. It was just that Gus couldn’t help herself: she always had to fix, fix, fix things until she thought they were just right.

Mercifully, Gus launched right into sharing the details of her lunch with Alan, from the folds of the napkins to the talk of Carmen’s outfits for the show.

“And I’m supposed to be in a meeting in two hours with Miss Spain,” she concluded. “I had to get away so I’ve made up an errand. I’ve gathered up a little gypsy salami, some smoked provolone, and a jar of black Puglian olives to drop off at the girls’ apartment.”

“Bad idea.” Hannah slipped a candy into her mouth, only to suck and taste the coating. She’d never chew in Gus’s ear.

“No, it’s great. Who wouldn’t want to come home to a loaded refrigerator? ” Gus’s breathing was a little louder now, the combination of fast walking, a loaded bag of yummy delights, and wearing a heavy winter jacket under the warming spring weather.

“Gus, no good ever came of a parent letting herself into her daughters’ home without asking.”

“It’s not like that,” said Gus. “Besides, Sabrina wouldn’t mind.”

“Aimee certainly will,” insisted Hannah.

“Oh, I’m at the building,” Gus said, her voice triumphant. “I might even have time to whip up some brownies while I’m upstairs. Won’t that be lovely?” Hannah knew her friend well enough to know she wasn’t really asking a question.

The morning had been blissful: clear and sunny. Well, at least it looked that way out the window. Sabrina hadn’t made it out of bed, save for one discreettrip to the bathroom. Her love was still new enough that she liked to pretend she didn’t need to use such things as toilets and deodorant. She’d brushed away her bad breath and shaved, but didn’t shower lest her boyfriendcatch on that her silky smooth bikini line was something other than natural. She’d snuck back into bed without disturbing him, treating him to a breakfast that had been a series of perfect nibbles: fingers and lips and eyelids and earlobes. Who wouldn’t love playing hooky for this? They’d had some juice afterward, returned for a long nap that spilled into the afternoon.Sabrina lay on her right side and watched her boyfriend’s chest rise and fall with his shallow breathing. She put some strands of her deep black hair against his light blond fur, marveling at the difference. He was beautiful.They were beautiful.

The beginnings of a relationship were what she liked most, when every moment felt tinged with bright possibility, before all the expectation and obligation crept in. She placed her hand lightly on Billy’s white skin, staringat the princess-cut diamond glittering on her ring finger. He’d asked her last night. Soon enough they would find themselves looking at homes and buying sofas and discussing how a dinner fork should feel in a man’s hand. Sabrina had done all of that before. She’d had three previous engagement rings, all returned to the givers, of course. Two of them had been quite alike, in fact, round solitaire diamonds that twinkled and winked in the sunlight. They were more like gift certificates, rings to be exchanged when she and her fiancé of the moment went jewelry shopping together, to pick out somethingshe would like better. The other had been lapis lazuli in sterling silver. That was her very first ring, from Stephen Campbell, her very first serious boyfriend. They were barely twenty-one, had known each other since high school. He’d tried to insist she keep it. Gus made an even bigger fuss that the ring be returned.

She wished she had it now. Not that she wanted to be with Stephen. She didn’t. She just wished she had some piece of her heart from all those years ago, something she could hold in her hand and say, Yes, this mattered to me. Some way to remember what she’d wanted then.

Troy Park had never given her a ring. She’d expected it. Wanted it. He’d been different, that one. He’d demanded something the others had not. Sabrina looked up at Billy, at the shadow along his jawline, at his pink lips. Did she love this mouth? This man?

“Am I happy?” she whispered. He didn’t stir. They never did.

“Am I happy?” she said again. It was the same question that came from her lips whenever she awakened in a cold sweat late at night, the room dark and quiet, her heart racing, her brain uncertain where she was. Alone with her thoughts, she didn’t have to power up and turn on the cheeriness that everyone seemed to require. She wondered, in those still hours, what her father would have thought about how she’d turned out. Which one of her boyfriends he’d have liked better.

“I’m a serial monogamist,” she’d told Aimee when notifying her that Troy was no longer in the picture and she was now involved with Billy. That’s how she’d phrased it: in the picture. As though exclusion in her life was as simple as replacing the snapshot of the smiling boyfriend in the pewter frame on her dresser.

“You’re an idiot,” her sister had replied, shaking her head. She looked as though she wanted to say more but she didn’t. For once.

Sabrina was relieved, didn’t want to hem and haw over how she’d met William Angle. They were introduced by a guy she’d known at design school who worked as a graphic designer in Billy’s office. Billy was a rising exec at a media company owned by a global conglomerate, with lots of connectionsto fun parties and prospective clients. That had been what interested Sabrina initially, and meeting him for a drink had been all about networking.It was a pleasant way to spend an evening: he had this wonderfully calm way of talking, which slowed everything down, and he seemed remarkably self-assured. But he surprised her, too, when he told her he volunteered as a Big Brother and had to leave early because he was taking his Little Brother golfing at Chelsea Piers the next morning.

He seemed so unlike all the other men she’d met that Sabrina was fascinated.She was always attracted to what was new. Nothing happened, mind you. She wasn’t that kind of girl. She simply flirted and emailed until she was certain there was something there—Sabrina never made a move until she knew who she was moving on to—and then she packed up Troy’s things in a paper bag.

“I don’t know,” she’d told her mother when asked what had gone wrong.

“I don’t know,” she’d answered when Aimee asked her if she loved Troy.

“I don’t know,” she’d said when each of her boyfriends, in turn, asked her what she wanted. Now she glanced about her bedroom: the walls were painted a cool blue-gray, as though looking at the sky through a veil of fog. Her double bed, an explosion of throw pillows the night before, was scarcely big enough for two. Theirs had been an impromptu stopover on their way to Billy’s apartment—just for Sabrina to pick up a few more clothes—before they carried on. Instead, they got deliciously carried away. They’d never stayed the night at her place before.

“Let’s not leave this bed,” she’d whispered, before skillfully convincing Billy to call in sick. “Let’s pretend we’re stranded on a raft no bigger than this bed and no one can find us.” It was one of her favorite games. And as long as she was up to playing what he wanted, Billy had no need to be rescued.

Sabrina had just drifted off again when she heard rustling sounds in the kitchen. Noises from an empty New York City kitchen were never a good thing. She nudged Billy awake.

“We’ve got a mouse,” she hissed.

“And you’ve got a mousehole,” he growled, reaching for her.

“Come off it, Billy, I’m serious.”

He paused. “I don’t hear anything,” he said in his normal voice.

But Sabrina was already up, throwing on a T-shirt and passing him his boxers. “Let’s go out there.”

“Don’t you live with your sister?”

“It’s the middle of the afternoon—she’s at work.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, stretching lazily before sliding his underwear over his thighs. As a joke, he grabbed an umbrella from the top of her dresser and held it over his head, looking back at Sabrina as he opened the door with a flourish and took an exaggerated step, Elmer Fudd style, toward the kitchen.

“I’m hunting wabbits,” he singsonged, waiting for Sabrina to laugh.

“Omigod!” his girlfriend screamed, her face flushing. Billy whipped his head forward, every ounce alert. He was completely serious now. And there, in the kitchen, still wearing her winter coat and holding a jar of black olives in one hand, stood television’s most famous host: Gus Simpson.

“Mom! What the hell are you doing here?” Sabrina felt naked even though her T-shirt covered her somewhat.

“Go back in that room and put on a shirt!” Gus was practically shouting as she pointed to Billy.

“No.” Billy placed his arm around Sabrina’s shoulders but she shook him off. “You’re trespassing.”

“You—you’re the trespasser!” Gus
was
shouting now. “I can come to my daughter’s home anytime I like.”

“No,” he repeated. And simply stood there in his boxers.

Gus changed tactics. “Get yourself dressed right now,” she said to Sabrina. “You and I need to have a talk.”

“Mrs. Simpson—Gus—this is uncomfortable for all of us,” Billy said, pleased by his own maturity. It wasn’t how he had planned to break the news to his future mother-in-law, but Billy was a big believer in facing things head-on. You just had to roll with it. Now he grinned at Sabrina even as he felt the heat from Gus’s glare. “But I really think you should calm down. Your daughter and I are getting married.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” said Gus, putting the jar of olives on the counter with such force that it slid right off and smashed on the linoleum. She watched the liquid seep out onto the floor.

“I’d say congratulations, but, God help me, I can’t go through this again.”

Although filming of
Eat Drink and Be
was to take place at Gus’s home, meetingswere still held at the New York studio. It was more convenient . . . for everyone else. About two seasons ago, Gus believed she was on the verge of being able to request all meetings be brought to her, in her home. She already had the knives, the pots, the pans, the salad spinner co-branded with the CookingChannel. It hardly seemed fair that the ratings dip left her in a battle for all that she’d created. To be frank, there simply couldn’t have been a Carmen Vega without a Gus Simpson. And she was going to make sure that tarty beauty queen didn’t forget it.

Gus’s feet ached inside her black leather boots as she entered the CookingChannelheadquarters: too much walking in too-high heels. It amazed her how anger could fuel the stride, leaving her blistered and more frustratedthan when she started out. She hoped Sabrina’s Billy choked on that little picnic! The entire day was a disaster, from Alan to Sabrina and her monstrous boyfriend, and she still had to meet again with Porter. Being late wasn’t something Gus did. To be fair, Gus had always made a point of being punctual. But her life now was a far cry from when she’d just been Gus Simpson,private citizen, and sometimes it chafed. There were a lot of rules and regs to being Gus Simpson, celeb TV host. And chief among them was smilingon cue.

“Carmen—what a surprise,” said Gus, even-tempered and pleasant, as she walked through Porter’s open door. “Am I late?”

“Never,” said Porter, watching her carefully. “Carmen was early. She was just saying how excited she is to work with you.”

“I’ve been studying your shows like a blueprint,” Carmen said, smiling broadly. “I could learn so much from you,
sabes
? ”

“Indeed,” said Gus. “I’m so glad
All About Eve
was playing on the classic movie channel last night. I feel so much more prepared. Porter?”

“Okay, ladies, let’s go sit at the table over here. There’s something I want both of you to see: a selection of videos that came in after the show. We’re going to upload several to the CookingChannel Web site—the response has been amazing.” Porter turned his laptop so both women could see the screen, taking care to place the computer equally between Carmen and Gus. He clicked “Play” to start a streaming video of a group of twentysomething men and women.

“Gus Simpson, welcome to my own March Madness party. I used to think it was impossible to be you,” said an Asian woman in a Syracuse T-shirt. “But now I’m inspired! It’s okay to mess up—and please, who is that cute bald guy?”

“You can have Oliver!” shouted another young woman in the background,“I want the other one!” A chubby guy behind her playfully hit her over the head with an oven mitt before leaning into the shot to hold up an “I love Carmen” banner.

“Go, Gus!” the crowd shouted in unison as the video ended.

Porter moved the laptop out of the way and handed out copies of some notes he’d made.