Skinny Bitch in Love (22 page)

They loaded him up with all kinds of fruit and vegetables from their fields and the Irish soda bread my mother had made that morning, then I once again found myself in the passenger seat of his sleek black Mercedes for the long drive back to Santa Monica.

“What’s this?” he asked, picking up a small, oval-shaped fruit from the goodie bag my dad had packed us. “Some kind of orange?”

“It’s a kumquat.”

“At least I know my raspberries,” he said, grabbing a bunch.

“Actually, those are salmonberries.”

“I knew I was smart to hire you for The Silver Steer,” he said. “Salmonberries. Never heard of them.”

My ringing phone interrupted me from saying something sarcastic about a restaurant owner not knowing anything about food. I glanced at the display screen. Gerry from Cali Bakes. I owed him two dozen scones and two dozen mixed cookies on Friday. Bet he was calling to double the order.

“Hey, Gerry.”

“Clementine, I’m sorry to have to say this, but I need to cancel my order for Friday. I’m afraid the scones I ordered Saturday haven’t sold. And I only sold one slice of the chocolate pudding pie. And it’s not just your stuff. I’m having to cancel
orders from other vendors, too. Competition is crazy in Santa Monica.”

Well, shit. “Will you check out my website—I added five new amazing things. Rosewater cheesecake cookies and—”

“I wish I could, Clem,” he interrupted. “I love your stuff. But I’ll have to pass.”

Ty had told me to expect calls like this and not to take it personally, that it was a reflection of a particular café’s business and not me or Skinny Bitch Bakes. But I still would have liked my cupcakes and cookies and scones to edge out other vendors because mine completely killed.

“Well, thanks for trying me out. I appreciate that, Gerry.” We hung up and I leaned back in my seat.

“What’s up?” Zach asked.

“I just lost a client. A good one, too—Cali Bakes. My stuff didn’t sell.”

“Sorry to hear that. And surprised. I’ve had your cookies and my sister didn’t shut up about that scone she had at your place. You’re an amazing baker.”

The praise did make me feel better. “It’s just one client, right? No big deal.”

He nodded. “Exactly. And it says more about the place, or the economy, than your pies and cookies, Clem. They’re probably just not moving a lot of baked goods. You lost one client, but you’re about to take on three more and branch out in a whole new way.”

He filled me in on the restaurants that wanted me to design vegan menus—the two four-star steakhouses that needed to
get more models and starlets in, and an Asian Fusion place that did have vegan stuff on the menu but no one was ordering any of it. I’d make good money, and he had no doubt there’d be more restaurants down the line.

Thousand here, thousand there. Couple hundred here, couple hundred there. In a few weeks I’d announce a new cooking class, maybe two. That little spot up Montana would definitely be mine soon enough. Cali Bakes or not.

“In fact, I wish I had one of your scones instead of this weird-looking fruit,” he said, one hand on the wheel, the other picking up a couple of salmonberries as he turned on to the freeway.

“So you said you were trying to ref between your father and Jolie yesterday?” I asked. “Success?”

“Took me a couple of hours of arguing with him, but I won. Well, Jolie won.”

“He’s re-funding her life?”

“Just her education—if she chooses an acting school that Meryl Streep or Robert DeNiro attended. And her apartment, since he decided it’s like a dorm while she’s studying her craft.”

“That’s cool. What’s your father like?”

“Loud, stubborn, intimidates everyone. You have to know how to work him, and Jolie usually does, but sometimes her pride gets in her way and she tells him to butt out. He’s crazy about Jolie, but his third wife got burned on the casting couch, so he was mostly just nervous for her.”

“What’s the third wife like?” I asked.

“About to be divorced.”

“For number four?”

“Yup. One of his lawyers, too. And she’s his age. Shocking. That had better be some prenup.”

“My parents have been married for thirty years. Equally shocking.”

He glanced at me. “You just have to get married for the right reasons. At the right time. Then you end up growing old together, picking kumquats and salmonberries.”

“Yeah, but half the people in the world don’t do that. Something bad happens. Like the husband wants someone else.”

“Or the wife.”

Weirder than watching Zach Jeffries shake my dad’s hand and hug my mom was sitting in his black Mercedes talking about people’s marriages.

“Well, at least your trip up here ended with good news for Jolie,” I said. “I like that girl.”

“Me, too. And it ended with good news for me.”

I shot him a smile.

It didn’t end with good news for Sara, who called to report that she and Duncan had gotten into a huge argument on the way back with Eva trying to referee. Sara had made Eva stop the car miles from our apartment because she was so pissed, then was even more pissed at having to walk all the way home.

“I am over that dickhead!” she shouted so loud into the phone that even Zach heard her.

“I want you to know right now that I’m not a dickhead,” Zach whispered. “Never was, never will be.”

“We’ll see,” I whispered back, shooting him another smile.

Chapter 15

“How is he in bed?” Sara asked the minute she walked in the door on Sunday afternoon. “I want details.”

I’d been trying not to think about Zach so I could concentrate on my work. I let my pencil drop down on my pad. For the past hour I’d been sitting at the kitchen table with very strong black tea, making lists of vegan dinners and sides that sounded four-star-restaurant worthy. Nothing too ordinary, nothing too Cherry Seitan Napoleon. Something in between. I’d emailed back and forth with two of the three restaurant owners so far. I had a couple of weeks to come up with five entrees and three sides, different ones for both restaurants, and the third owner would probably get back to me tomorrow and want the same. But now instead of pasta and eggplant and interesting things to do with beans,
I had Zach on the brain. I could feel the stupid moony smile coming.

“That smile tells me everything I need to know.”

“Does it tell you how complicated everything is, too? Just when I think everything’s great, everything sucks.”

“Yeah, I know that feeling.”

“You okay about Duncan?” I asked. “Will the class be too awkward for you?”

“Who?” she asked. “Awkward used to be my middle name. I can handle Duncan Ridley, librarian. Can anyone handle Zach Jeffries, though? That is the question.”

“Me and Dead Deer Sign Jeffries. Am I really doing this?”

“Yeah, you are. And I kind of love it. He’s the opposite of you. Of course, it’s not easy.”

“I know. Nothing about us makes sense.”

“So he’s amazing in bed?” she asked again with an evil smile, but my phone rang before I could tell her to get out. I’d forgotten to set the timer on my vanilla chai cupcakes and was too distracted as it was. “Probably your boyfriend,” she sing-songed and darted out.

It wasn’t Zach. It was Alexander, with another nonpaying job for me. He was teaching a class on healthy eating at the after-school program Jesse went to on Thursday and did I want to be his copilot? Paid in karma, he said with that hopeful British accent of his.

I could always use some good karma.

Monday night: Three dozen red roses arrived from Zach.

Followed by nothing. For two days.

Wednesday night:
Friday night, come over at 7. I miss the hell out of you. Z

On the way to the kiddie center on Thursday I got a call from Java Joe’s, which happened to be steps away from Zach’s beach house and a place I never went because Emil, asshole owner of Fresh, hung out there and knew the manager. Java Joe’s was one of the most popular coffee bars in Santa Monica, packed all day long. And this would be the third new baking client this week. I knew the first two were probably word-of-mouth referrals from Ty and Julia, but no way would Ty even bother trying to get me into Java Joe’s.

I called Zach. “Guess who just got into Java Joe’s? They never take anyone new. Joe said he tasted my Chocolate Espresso Raspberry cake at his biggest competition—Julia’s—to see what the fuss was all about and bought her out of it. Tomorrow night, let’s celebrate this up-yours-Emil coup.”

“Oh, we will. And you’re welcome. Sometimes money really does talk, Clem. So I’m thinking Napa tomorrow night. I want to show you a spot—”

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk on Wilshire Boulevard and a man walking two French poodles almost slammed into me. “Wait, what? You paid Java Joe’s to order from me?”

“I just said I’d cover what didn’t sell. To just give you a try.”

Hear someone letting out a low growl of frustration on Wilshire? It’s me. “I don’t need that kind of help, Zach. We already went over this.” Though, granted, we were naked in bed at the time, so maybe he had my body instead of my business on the brain. “That’s not how I do things. That’s not how I want to run my business.”

“Clem, it
is
business. And I only did it because I know the second he puts your stuff out for sale, he’ll sell out. You’re that good.”

Okay, he didn’t get it. And he thought he was helping. But. Still. What part of I’m-not-a-mooching-gold-digging-ass-kisser didn’t he understand? “Zach, I appreciate that you think so. I really do. But I don’t need you to cover my ass. Ever.”

“Jesus, Clem. I’m just trying to help. Calling a friend. It’s done all the time. Give and take.”

“So that’s how I got O’Hara’s and Bakery 310 to order from me? You got me in those two places the same way? This is bullshit. I told you I didn’t want my success to be based on favors my rich boyfriend pulls for me.”

“Clem, calm down. And yeah, I’m going to say this: Grow up. Just say thank you and let’s move on.”

Asshole. “Excuse me? Thank you? Move on?”

“I think you’re on repeat, Clem. Come on, just—”

“I have to go.”
Click
.

This kind of mover and shaker kiss-ass favor-trading bullshit made me kind of sick. It just seemed so . . . fake—and condescending.

My brother once paid a guy on the lacrosse team at his high school a hundred bucks to ask Kale’s good friend, a girl with zero sex appeal whose name I forget, to the senior prom. The girl was crazy about the guy and spent a fortune on a dress and had her hair and makeup and nails done at a spa, and when it came out on the way to the prom that the date had been bought, the girl flipped out, but went because she wanted to, then punched Kale in the stomach and never spoke to him again. Which was what I would have done, too.

I had to plaster something of a smile on my face because I’d reached the Welcome Youth Center. Three kids dribbling basketballs almost knocked me over at the door. Was I in the mood to be here in the slightest? No.

Alexander had told me to meet him upstairs in a room marked “Kitchen.” I found him standing in the large room surrounded by kids—eleven- and twelve-year-olds from the looks of them—all with white chef hats on. I had a feeling he’d bought the hats.

Alexander introduced me as a famous chef and told the kids we were going to make the best burritos they’d ever had. Which was how I ended up talking fractions and measuring cups and beans and spices with half the kids at one long table. They weren’t allowed to use knives, so Alexander had pre-chopped the veggies. Each kid got a tortilla and spooned in the good stuff; trying to properly fold the burrito at the ends had them either giggling or telling dirty jokes about butts.

The kids liked Alexander, clearly. They liked his accent. That he called the boys “blokes.” They liked how he spoke to
them—kindly, even if one kid flung a tortilla at another kid and a fight broke out, which he cleared up fast. And Jesse worshipped him.

One annoying girl who never stopped whining made a fist and slammed it down on the burrito the girl next to her had just painstakingly folded.

“Oh, shit, come on,” I said.

“She said the S-word!” a boy yelled.