Hadley becketts next dis.., p.7
Hadley Beckett's Next Dish, page 7
Okay . . . the good things weren’t helping very much.
When my phone rang and I saw Leo’s name, I instantly knew I’d never been more grateful for a manager who had no respect whatsoever for his clients’ desires not to be bothered late at night.
“Hey, Leo.”
“Good evening. Sorry to bother you so late.”
I glanced at the clock on the microwave: 9:34. Okay, so it wasn’t quite as late as I had thought. I would have sworn it was 2:00 a.m. in the year 2070 or so. I definitely felt like an octogenarian at the moment.
“No problem. What’s up?”
“You doing okay? All ready for the big move? I bet you’re exhausted.”
“I am, actually,” I replied with a yawn. I hadn’t realized just how exhausted until that moment. I speared the bacon with my fork, pulled it out of the pan, and placed it on the paper-towel-covered plate on the counter. I turned off the stovetop and looked around with exasperation at the mess I’d made for a quiche I no longer had any desire to make. “But everything is going well. We’re all set for tomorrow’s show”—Or we would be, if I hadn’t broken into Lacey’s Kentucky Derby ingredients—“and we’ll also tape one extra, just as security in case there are any unexpected delays with the move. And then Stuart and the guys will immediately break down the set—”
“The network will be sending over an additional crew to help.”
“Great. Yeah, so, I guess that’s all good. They’ll get everything moved over and set up at the new place, and then we’ll start taping there on Monday.”
“Good. Good. This is a positive thing, Hadley. An exciting thing. There’s already been such an impact, just from being in Nashville. Don’t you think?”
“Yep. Definitely.” I covered my mouth to try and stifle a second yawn, but it was to no avail.
Never one for silence of any kind in conversation, I’d already discovered, Leo jumped in again. My half-hearted, sleepy affirmation and acknowledgment that he had been right to move the show to Nashville was all he sought, I guess.
“And there are some other things in the pipeline too. Exciting things.”
“Oh really?” I asked, hopeful that my tone expressed interest. Because there was interest. I was greatly interested. I just also happened to suddenly feel like I’d run the Kentucky Derby.
If I had any hope of staying awake while Leo wrapped up the conversation, I knew I needed to keep moving. Clearly I wasn’t going to follow through on a quiche. As much as I wanted to dump it all down the garbage disposal and be done with it, I couldn’t ignore the guilt that had been instilled in me throughout my childhood and all thoughts of how a starving child in a third-world country would have benefitted from my egg pie. I begrudgingly began rifling around for plastic containers to store the mess I had created for myself.
“They want you on Renowned, Hadley.”
I froze, bacon-grease-splattered pot holder in hand. Surely my emotional and physical exhaustion had transported me to a dream-like state where I only thought my manager had just told me that the single greatest establishment in the history of culinary entertainment—with the possible exception of Dan Aykroyd’s Julia Child sketch on Saturday Night Live—wanted me as a guest. Me.
Renowned is the Hollywood Walk of Fame. No, that’s not big enough. Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen have a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Renowned is an all-star game. Careers were forever cemented as legendary on Renowned and, on a few disastrous occasions, careers came to a close on Renowned.
In my world, there was nothing else quite like it.
“You there?” Leo asked, after a little too much stunned silence.
“Yeah, I’m here. Did I hear you right? Did you just say—”
He laughed. “They want you on Renowned. You heard me right. Now, look . . . if you want to do this, things are going to move fast. Mario Borjomi was scheduled for this season, but he came down with tuberculosis or something while filming his National Geographic special.”
“Oh my gosh, Leo! Is he okay?”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine. But they’ll want to be out in Nashville soon—I’m talking next week—to scope out the house and some locations, and start filming some promos.” He gave me a moment to process before saying, “We’ll sort out the details over the next couple days, but congratulations, Hadley. You deserve every bit of this.”
I put my arm out behind me to feel around for the stool I desperately needed to sit down on. I found it and pulled it a little closer and collapsed onto it. I nearly biffed it, but I righted my position and settled in. Renowned. I had watched Renowned with my dad from the time I was a little girl, and I’d never missed an episode in the years since his death. It wasn’t like any other show. It wasn’t like the current state of entertainment—not even the current state of entertainment I was a part of. Now we worked hard and we worked fast to try and keep up. Constant content. Constant publicity. Constant attempts to somehow stand apart.
Renowned stood apart by maintaining the same slow, methodical pace it had employed since the 70s. It was a relic from a different time.
One season of eight episodes ran each year, and each year a different chef was the subject of all eight of those episodes. Joël Robuchon, Nobu Matsuhisa, Jacques Pépin, Wolfgang Puck . . . Julia! The best of the best. My heroes. They’d all been the subject of a season of Renowned, and I’d read quotes from each of them about how it had been one of the greatest honors of their ludicrously distinguished careers.
And now Marshall Simons—who had created the show and hosted every single episode since—was going to be in the kitchen with me. Hadley Beckett from Nashville, Tennessee, who had a Bachelor of Business Administration degree but had dropped out of culinary school. Lover of fried okra and hot chicken and sweet tea. Henceforth those things wouldn’t be used against me as insults. Henceforth other chefs—of the too-big-for-their-britches variety—wouldn’t look down their noses at me for calling it powdered sugar rather than confectioners sugar.
Henceforth I would be important enough to get away with using words like henceforth.
“I’m really at a loss for words here, Leo. I have so many questions, but . . .”
“I get it, kid. This is big.”
I shook myself out of my stupor. “You made this possible.” My eyes began to burn as I thought back through the past several months—and really, everything that had ever happened in my entire life—leading up to the moment. “I just don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you enough for—”
“You’re welcome.” He interrupted my moment of appreciation, which was no doubt about to get sappy. “But you need to also remember to give credit where credit is due. Clearly, I’m not the only one who sees the special qualities that come to life just by letting Hadley be Hadley. Now, as for all those questions you have . . . don’t worry about them. Not yet. I can fly out tomorrow and we can sit down and—”
“To Nashville? Oh, there’s no need to go to all that trouble. We can talk on the phone. Or I can fly to New York if that would be easier.”
He laughed. “When are you going to stop acting like you don’t want to inconvenience me?”
“Well, I don’t want to inconvenience you . . .”
“And I appreciate that. But this is my job, Hadley. You’re my job. And any client of mine who is appearing on Renowned is, quite frankly, my most important job. Besides . . .” He cleared his throat and his tone shifted completely—from “easy breezy” to “I am gravely vexed!” “I’m afraid there’s one part of all of this that you may not be too crazy about.”
I scoffed. That was difficult to imagine. Unless Marshall Simons was going to expect me to make turducken . . . I smiled at the thought and then without thinking glanced again at the clock. It should only take, what? Thirteen, fourteen hours? I could still squeeze one in tonight if I needed to.
“Leo, it’s really difficult to think of anything that could ruin this for me, so you might as well just go ahead and—”
“The invitation is for you and Max Cavanagh, Hadley.” He took a deep breath. “Together.”
A pounding began to reverberate inside my head. No. No, no, no. That didn’t make any sense. Renowned featured one chef each season. One. I mean, there was that one married couple that had appeared together, but they were famous for their partnership as much as they were famous for their ramen (which I’d had the opportunity to try once while passing through the East Village in New York, and which was legitimately Renowned-worthy), so that made sense. Jacques Pépin and Julia Child had been featured jointly around the time their first series together began taking off, but that also made sense. Besides, they had already been featured individually.
But Max and me? That just seemed, I don’t know . . . exploitative, I guess. Cheap. Mean.
“I saw him tonight,” I muttered softly, sort of into the phone but sort of to myself.
“Who?” Leo asked calmly, before more urgently adding, “Hang on. Max? You saw Max tonight?”
I nodded and then quietly said, “Yes,” when I realized Leo couldn’t see me nod. “He came to apologize.”
“He—he—you’re saying he came—” I’d never heard Leo sound flustered before. It made me feel better about the relative levelheadedness with which I had handled it all. “To Nashville? Max Cavanagh is in Nashville?”
I nodded again and added a shrug to the silent mix. “He said he was sorry he had treated me so horribly. He actually seemed surprisingly sincere about—”
I was interrupted by Leo’s laughter. “Of course. Of course! Oh, Hadley, I’m sorry I didn’t anticipate this sooner. I should have seen it coming so I could have warned you.”
“Warned me about what?”
“He must have already gotten the call about Renowned.”
I didn’t understand what that had to do with anything. Unless . . . “You’re saying he just wanted to clear the air before we had to work together.”
“Something like that. I imagine he isn’t entirely sure you’ll agree to work with him again.” He laughed again, this time more quietly. “He didn’t mention Renowned at all?”
“No,” I whispered. “Not a word.”
“Smart.”
I saw his eyes in my memory again—not the cruel, unfeeling eyes but the pair that had caused me to question my initial perception. Did he really have the ability to manipulate the very fiber of his being that way, all so he could manipulate me? Well, I wasn’t going to allow him to play those games with me. But I also knew I wouldn’t allow him to cheat me out of the greatest opportunity to ever come along in my career. Neither set of eyes got to have that kind of power over me.
I picked up a sponge and resumed my cleanup. “Don’t come to Nashville, Leo. I appreciate it, but I’m fine. The next few days are going to be pretty busy anyway. Just give me a call when you’re ready to fill me in on all the details, and we’ll go from there. Sound good?”
“Sounds good. Get some rest and we’ll talk soon. And Hadley . . . this is it, kid. This is the big time. Don’t get bogged down in the details. You’re going to be on Renowned! That’s all you need to think about for the time being.”
I smiled. “Thanks, Leo. Good night.”
I hung up the call but didn’t set down my phone. Rather, I wiped the drop of splattered bacon grease off of Max’s pretentious card and dialed.
“Chef Cavanagh? Yeah, this is Hadley Beckett. If you’re sticking around Nashville for a bit, I was wondering if you might have time for breakfast in the morning.”
7. Chill overnight.
MAX
Max was awake with the sun, as he usually was. Admittedly, Tennessee sun felt different from New York sun. At the very least, it seemed like there was so much more of it. He sat on the edge of the bed and stretched his arms over his head, and then reached down to touch his toes. His custom-made Range Rover was more comfortable than at least the first four homes he’d lived in in his life, but it had still been an awfully long time to sit in one position. Of course, that vehicle had been designed for him with just that purpose in mind. During filming of To the Max, he spent more time on the road than in any one location. For months that Range Rover had sat in a parking garage, wasting away, probably wondering (if machines were susceptible to such thoughts) if its entire purpose in life had been undermined.
Max knew the feeling.
He clicked the remote on the bedside table, meaning to turn on the television. Instead the curtains opened, and the rising sun very nearly blinded him. He was a morning person, but that was a bit much.
He picked up the phone and was greeted by a perky voice from the front desk. “Yes, Mr. Cavanagh? How can I assist you this morning? Do you need a ride, sir? Or some coffee perhaps?”
With a grunt and a stretch, he responded. “Coffee. Black. Strong. And bacon.”
“Absolutely, Mr. Cavanagh. And how would you like—”
“Black. Strong. That’s it.”
“No, sir, I’m sorry . . . I was referring to your bacon.”
It was a little too early for the perkiness, but the attention to detail won him over. “As crispy as possible without burning it. And one egg. Poached.” He caught himself. He just wasn’t in the mood for a bad food experience, and there was nothing worse than a chef who didn’t know how to properly poach an egg. “Actually, how is your breakfast chef here?”
“He is excellent, Mr. Cav—” She gasped. “Oh, forgive me, sir. I didn’t realize that you are . . . I mean, I’m sorry. It just clicked.” She cleared her throat. “All of our chefs are excellent, Chef Cavanagh. I wouldn’t necessarily recommend the poached eggs, but they are delicious, in my opinion.”
This was far more conversation than he had ever wanted pre-coffee. “But you wouldn’t recommend them?” He knew he didn’t really require breakfast, since he was meeting Hadley in less than an hour, but he hadn’t had the opportunity to go to the gym for four days now, and he just wasn’t sure he would be able to find anything remotely healthy to eat at a place called Pancake Pantry.
“I just meant, sir, that I’m sure my taste is not as, um . . . discerning as yours. I’ve had them and I like them. But I don’t know if my standard is up to your—”
“Yeah, I get it,” he replied, rubbing his eyes. When he ordered food, he often felt like a police officer, minding his own business, frustrated that everyone on the road was driving 35 in a 65, just because he was in the lane behind them. “Let’s just go with the bacon. And the coffee. Definitely the coffee.”
“Yes, sir. Black, strong coffee is on the way to your room right now, and the bacon—extra crisp—should be to you in just a few minutes. If you change your mind on the egg, just let me—”
“Yes, yes, it’s fine.” He prepared to hang up the phone, the conversation coming to its conclusion, finally, but he had thoughts of Hadley—or, rather, thoughts of Hadley’s perception of him—running through his head. He took a deep breath and added, “Thank you for your help. Sorry if I’m a little cranky this morning. I’m sure that coffee will do the trick.”
“Oh no, sir. Not at all. And I’m happy to assist, however I can. Please don’t hesitate to call if there’s anything else I can do for you.”
With that he hung up the phone, satisfied by how much better he felt about it all.
It wasn’t that he thought about Chef Hadley all that often. Not the woman herself, anyway. But very early on at Tranquility Peaks, once he’d allowed himself to settle in and become somewhat open to it all—having gotten used to not being able to go to the bathroom without Martin, the yoga instructor, saying “Namaste” as he passed his studio—they’d taught him that one of the best ways to tackle his anger was to personalize it. Not just the anger itself, but the results of losing control of the anger in unhealthy ways. For him, that would always look like Hadley Beckett—dark circles under bloodshot eyes, complete shock written across her face—being robbed of what should have been one of the proudest moments of her career. As much as it pained him to admit it, that sight was one of the very few things he actually remembered from that day.
Thirty seconds later there was a knock on the door, and Max rushed to receive his coffee, not certain he would survive another moment without it. He was forced to slow things down just a bit, however, as he realized, once his hand was on the doorknob, that he was only wearing his underwear. He groaned, threw open the closet door, and was relieved to find a hotel-provided bathrobe inside. He slipped it on and cinched the tie around his waist as he pulled open the door.
A man in full hotel uniform greeted him and began rolling a cart into the room. He was instantly about his business of performing each step of the process—pushing down the little brake on the cart wheels, assuring that the presentation was flawless, talking to Max in a way that made it evident he, unlike the sane people of the world, had been up for hours and had already consumed unfathomable quantities of caffeine. Max appreciated the effort but still decided to cut to the chase and pour the coffee for himself.
“My apologies, sir. Allow me to pour that for you.”
Max shook his head emphatically but gently—so as not to spill—as he lifted the cup to his lips and gulped down as much of the steaming black gold as his throat could stand. When he came up for air he said, “No apology necessary. The coffee is just desperately needed this morning.”
The man in uniform nodded and walked toward the door, but stopped and turned, just short of his exit. Ah. Of course. The internationally recognized symbol for, “Aren’t you going to tip me, you doofus?” Before Max could scramble for his wallet, a second uniformed man—boy, really—showed up in the open doorway with a covered plate of what was hopefully very crispy bacon.
“Good morning, Mr. Cavanagh,” he said in greeting. “I hope everything meets your approval.”
Max gestured that he could set the plate down on the cart, as he took another gulp of coffee and then poured himself a refill. As he drank, he fumbled around for his wallet, only to discover he didn’t have any cash.
