The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs (33 page)

“And horny.”

Anoop laughs. “That, too. So I hear you’ve been hanging out with Blake a bit, huh?”

I shrug. “I’ve been helping him get ready for the party. If that constitutes hanging out.”

“Yeah, you made all this food, right? Those bacon-wrapped oysters are killer.”

“Thanks.”

“And I love the ribs. I ate like five already.”

I put on my best smile. “If you ever need a caterer …”

Anoop smirks and shakes his finger at me. “I’ll keep that in mind. Anyway, Blake is a great guy. One of the best, actually.”

“Who apparently is very lucky to have such loyal and complimentary friends.”

Anoop lifts his glass and toasts the air. “It’s true. He surrounds himself with only the best.”

Blake lets out a loud belly laugh from across the room, and I watch as he shakes with laughter. “Would you check out that wig?” I say. “How does he even hold that thing up?”

“With the strength of a thousand bulls.” Anoop grins and holds out his glass. “I’ll leave you in peace, but before I go, could you hit me with another glass of red?”

“That’s what I’m here for,” I say as I refill his glass.

“Nah, that’s not the only reason you’re here.”

I scrunch my eyebrows together. “Oh, really? I’m pretty sure it is. I’m the caterer.”

“No. There’s more to it than that. Trust me.” He studies my expression and shakes his head, staring into his wineglass. “Ah, Dionysus. You make me forget myself.” He looks back up at me. “I’ve already said too much. But be good to Blake. He’s a quality guy.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Before Anoop can get away, Blake sneaks up behind him and gives him a playful elbow in the side. “What are you two chatting about over here?”

“Hannah’s excellent cooking,” Anoop says.

Blake grins. “She’s pretty great, huh?”

Anoop looks me up and down. “That she is.”

“Oh, so get this,” Blake says, facing Anoop. “I was talking to Nicole, and apparently she ran into Geeta last week.”

“Geeta?” Anoop and I ask in unison.

They turn and look at me. “Anoop’s ex-girlfriend,” Blake says. “Anyway, apparently she is as crazy as ever.”

Anoop shakes his head. “Some things never change. Did she ask about me?”

“Yeah, she asked about all of us.” A lithe blonde dressed as a belly dancer approaches the bar with a few of her friends, and Blake nods in her direction. “Hey, Nicole—what was Geeta saying? About that underground supper club?”

My ears perk up, and I feel all the blood rush to my face.

Anoop furrows his brow. “What underground supper club?”

Nicole flicks her hair over her shoulder. “You haven’t heard about this? Apparently some amateur chef is running an unlicensed restaurant out of her house. Just Google ‘Dupont Circle Supper Club’ and you’ll find the Web site.”

“Oh,
riiiight,”
Anoop says. “I read about that.”

“Well, Geeta went the other weekend, and according to her, it’s right in this neighborhood. One of Blake’s neighbors, apparently.”

I pull out a glass and two bottles of wine. “More wine anyone?” Everyone shakes their heads. “What about some scotch?” Rebuffed again. “Vodka?”

“Actually,” says a black man dressed as a cow, “it’s supposed to be really good. I’ve been trying to make a reservation, but they’re completely booked up. Their schedule is a little erratic.”

Blake huffs and widens his eyes. “You’d actually
go
to one of these dinners?”

The cow man shrugs. “It sounds fun.”

“But the whole operation is totally irresponsible,” Blake says. “Not to mention illegal.”

“It’s sort of a gray area,” I blurt out. Everyone turns and stares at me. “It’s … not legal, per se, but it isn’t really …
illegal
either.”

“Someone is serving food to paying customers without a license from the health department,” Blake says. “That’s illegal. What if someone gets food poisoning? What if there is damage to the property?”

I clear my throat. “I … don’t know.”

Blake snickers. “I mean, why should some people not have to follow the rules? All the other restaurants in Dupont Circle have to pay for a liquor license and health inspections—and rightfully get in trouble when they don’t. Why should this woman get a free pass?”

“I don’t think it’s that big of a deal,” says the cow man.

“Neither do I,” says Anoop. “In fact, it’s sounds pretty cool. Didn’t I read somewhere that this woman made cheesesteak arancini and coconut cream pie? I can dig it.”

“No, I see what Blake is saying,” Nicole says. “If this woman wants to open a restaurant, she should open a restaurant. She can’t have it both ways.”

“Exactly,” Blake says. He wraps his arm around me and gives me a squeeze. “Look at this lady. She’s trying to run an honest catering operation over here. You don’t see her running around, flouting the rules, do you?”

I laugh nervously as Blake squeezes me tighter and gives me a quick peck on the forehead, an act that, apparently, surprises everyone else as much as it surprises me. I pretend to ignore the awkwardness and decant a hefty pour of eighteen-year Macallan into a glass.

Nicole taps her fingers on her exposed, toned stomach. “Well, once you’re elected you should make shutting down that supper club a priority.”

“Once I’m elected, I’ll actually have time,” Blake says. “Frankly, I have too much going on at the moment to chase down some amateur cook. But once things settle down, I’ll look into it.” He grins and nudges me in the side. “If only for Hannah’s sake.”

I gulp down a mouthful of scotch. “Don’t do it on my behalf. It doesn’t bother me that much.”

“No, no—you need a level playing field if you’re going to make your cooking dreams a reality. And if I can help you along, well, that would make me a very happy guy.”

He gives me another squeeze as I down the rest of my scotch, and I realize there is nothing I can do to make this situation better other than drinking scotch until I am physically incapable of speaking.

I don’t drink any more scotch, mostly because I hate scotch, even if it is $150, eighteen-year Macallan. Besides, I have a party to cater, and getting blackout drunk won’t ingratiate me with any potential future clients. To my infinite delight, however, I manage to escape any further discussion of supper clubs and campaigns for the rest of the party, and by midnight, I find myself back in the kitchen, where heaps of plates and glasses cover Blake’s breakfast bar. Since cleanup is also my responsibility, I decide I’ll start now to avoid an onslaught of work later, when I will be twice as tired.

I pull out a large black trash bag and stuff the dirty napkins and plates inside, amazed at the mess fifty people can generate. I rinse out the dirty glasses in the sink, and as I start putting them in the dishwasher, I feel a blunt edge press into my back. I glance over my shoulder and see Wes standing behind me, pushing into me with his pizza box.

“Special delivery,” he says. He ogles me with a droopy, drunken smile.

I turn around and look down at the pizza box. “Yeah, okay, I’m gonna go ahead and refuse the package.”

“Trust me, you want a taste of this.”

“No, I assure you, I do not.”

He throws his head back and lets out a slow, lazy laugh, then snaps his head back down and stands there, gawking. “You’re hot,” he says.

“You’re drunk.”

He smiles. “You’re hot.”

“You’re drunk.”

I’m beginning to think we could go on and on like this, in an endless back-and-forth, a theory Wes proves by adding, one more time, “You’re hot.”

“Thank you,” I say, wanting nothing more than to bring this interaction to a close.

Wes reaches out and lays his broad hand on my shoulder and starts massaging my neck, a move I am certain has worked many times in his favor because, like a puppy being rubbed behind the ears, I go limp. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you? Tell daddy how much you like it.”

And then I awake from my trance. “You’re gross.”

“I can be as gross as you need me to be,” he says, his left eyelid sagging.

“Listen—I have to clean up. Why don’t you join your friends in the other room?”

I try to slip away from him, but he throws both his hands onto the counter, trapping me between them and his pizza box. “Not so fast,” he says. “I don’t think we’re done here.”

He leans in and starts slobbering in my ear and on my neck, covering me with the stale, sour smell of his breath. “Stop,” I say. I push him away with my hands, but that involves me touching his bare chest, which eggs him on. I start slapping him on the arm.

“Mrrreeeoooww …,” he purrs.

“Wes, seriously. Stop.”

He releases his right hand from the counter and grabs my breast. “How can you say stop when you’re wearing a dress like this?”

“What’s going on in here?” Blake ambles into the kitchen from the dining room and moves toward us, clenching his jaw when he sees Wes’s hand on my chest.

Wes whirls around to face him. “Hey, man. We’re just having a little fun.”

Blake’s black-rimmed eyes lock on mine, and he reads the panic in them. “Wes, you’re drunk. Leave Hannah alone.”

Wes puffs up his chest. “What’s your problem, man?”

“No problem. I just want you to stop bothering Hannah.”

“I’m not bothering her.”

“Yes,” I say. “You are.”

Wes twirls around to face me and runs his hand down the front of my dress, plucking my corset strings in an attempt to undo them. “You didn’t seem bothered a minute ago,” he says, leaning in again and nibbling on my earlobe.

Blake rushes up behind Wes and grabs the pizza box with both hands, yanking it upward with a quick thrust. Wes screams in pain. “How many times do I have to tell you? Leave her alone,” Blake says.

Wes backs away from me, writhing as he tries to pull the pizza box back into place. “Just ’cause you’re not fucking her doesn’t mean no one else can,” he says.

Even the white makeup isn’t enough to cover the redness in Blake’s face, and he grabs Wes by the neck, tilting Wes’s chin toward the ceiling. “Get the fuck out of my house,” he says.

Wes coughs violently as Blake releases him and hobbles toward the front hallway, shooting me a hateful look as he passes through the kitchen doorway. “Cock tease,” he says. Then he stumbles through the foyer and leaves.

The party winds down around three in the morning, at which point a few stragglers hang out in the living room, drinking Blake’s newly purchased port and whiskey while they listen to some guy named Jorge (or Jose?) play the guitar as part of his Carlos Santana costume (though, inexplicably, he plays songs by everyone
but
Santana). I remain in the kitchen, scrubbing sheet pans and rinsing out glasses while I listen to Blake massacre the tune and lyrics of “Hotel California.” Don Henley, wherever you are: I am sorry.

Blake’s tone deafness aside, the party has been a raging success, although I’m still a little shaken by what happened with Wes. I think Blake is, too. He told me I could go home if I wanted to, but I didn’t want to do that, for two reasons. One, I’d still be able to hear everyone thumping around upstairs, so it’s not as if I’d be able to sleep, and two, the last thing a girl wants to do after being groped by a stranger is sit in her claustrophobic, basement apartment, alone. So I stayed.

But, on the plus side, I did hand out my contact information to a few inquiring guests, which could lead to future catering gigs down the line. Everyone raved about my light and crunchy calamari and smoky ribs, and I received more than a few requests for the devils on horseback recipe (My secret? Stuffing the dates with honey-laced mascarpone). I realize many of the compliments and requests will amount to nothing, but all I need is one person, aside from Blake, who is willing to take a chance on me. If that happens, tonight could be the beginning of something big.

As I throw the last of the glasses into the dishwasher and add some detergent, Blake waltzes into the kitchen warbling the tune to “Wish You Were Here.”

“You might need Pink Floyd’s permission if you’re going to do that to their song,” I say as I wipe my hands on a dish towel.

“What?” he says, playing an air guitar. “You’re not enjoying the sweet stylings of Blake Fischer?”

“Is that what you call this?”

He smiles and grabs my hands, placing one on his shoulder and raising the other with his as he holds me by the waist. He leads me in a slow dance around the kitchen, every now and then erupting into song in a key and tone that can only sound good in his head, and probably not even there.

“I’m really sorry about what happened earlier,” he says. “With Wes.”

I try to shrug it off. “No biggie. He was drunk.”

“That may be a reason, but it’s not an excuse.” He twirls me around and pulls me back in. “We have a history.”

“Oh, do you?”

“We were roommates at Georgetown, and after college he got engaged to this girl who was one thousand percent awful. I took him out for a drink before their wedding and told him I thought he was making a big mistake. He got really pissed and cut me out of the wedding party. Then, two years later, they divorced. He and I patched things up, but he’s still pretty bitter about the whole situation. I think he’s angry that I was right and managed never to say ‘I told you so.”