Читать книгу A Catered Christmas - Isis Crawford - Страница 10

Bernie stopped short. She didn’t know what she’d expected to see, but it certainly wasn’t a view of Consuela’s ample derriere. Some people, she decided, shouldn’t wear pants with large tropical flowers on them.

“What are you doing?” Bernie demanded, not that the answer wasn’t fairly self-evident.

As Consuela turned and straightened up, Bernie frowned slightly. She knew she’d seen her before in another context, with a different name, but try as she might, she couldn’t remember. The question had been bothering her since she’d first seen the feature about Consuela in Food magazine last year. Then she’d forgotten about it until she’d seen her name on the list of contestants.

“Me?” Consuela replied. “Me? How about you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bernie said.

“I’m not the one who’s ridiculous,” Consuela shot back.

Bernie watched Consuela narrow her eyes. She’s good, she thought appreciatively. Given the circumstances, most people would have looked at least a little guilty or startled, but not Consuela. No, siree. She was practically vibrating with indignation. She looked like a hen about to peck someone to death.

Of course, the way Consuela was wearing her hair might have inspired her behavior, Bernie mused. Over the years, she’d noticed a correlation between bad hairstyles and bad behavior. Bernie was trying to figure out how Consuela had managed to achieve that look—Bernie was guessing paste—and why she’d want to, when Consuela opened her mouth and began shrieking for help.

Again, this was not what Bernie had expected. For a moment, Bernie was rendered speechless as she listened to Consuela’s screams. They were, Bernie reflected, impressively loud screams. In fact, they were the kind of screams that nineteenth-century novelists might describe as bloodcurdling, although how blood could actually curdle was something Bernie had yet to figure out. Obviously, blood could boil being a liquid and all. But curdle? No. Bernie didn’t think so. As far as she knew, only milk curdled.

“Stop,” Bernie shouted; but as she did, she realized that her lungs were no match for Consuela’s, who was now shrieking away like some sort of demented banshee, although here again, on reflection, Bernie wasn’t sure that banshees shrieked, so this was another infelicitous phrase.

From what she’d read, banshees were supernatural beings in Ireland and Scotland who took the shape of old women and moaned or sung outside of houses where people were going to die. So then where had the expression “shrieking like a banshee” come from? It was probably from a piece of literature. She was trying to figure out which story it could be when the door that led to the other kitchen banged open. Eric Royal, Hortense Calabash’s personal assistant, came running in.

Bernie decided he looked like a crane. Now this was a man who needed to update his look. His bowl haircut pointed attention to his large, curved nose, and his clothes, tight bell-bottom jeans, single-button lavender velvet jacket, and white shirt made him look even skinnier than he already was. The whole sixties thing definitely wasn’t working for him. But what would? Bernie wasn’t sure.

“What is going on?” he demanded.

Consuela stopped her screaming, pointed her finger at Bernie and Libby, and announced, “I caught them snooping around in here. They were looking for the file with the ingredients.”

Unfrigginbelievable, Bernie thought. Talk about chutzpah. Talk about unmitigated gall. She was just opening her mouth to say something when out of the corner of her eye she saw Libby moving past her.

“She’s lying,” Libby yelled as she shook a finger at Consuela. “She was the one looking in the file cabinet.”

“Me?” Consuela drew herself up. Bernie was interested to see that Consuela’s heels were higher than hers. “You’re accusing me?” Consuela asked. “That is ridiculous. I do not need to cheat to win this contest.”

“And you’re saying I do?” Libby spat.

Consuela shrugged and inspected her nails. Bernie noticed that each one had a silver star in its center.

“Think what you want,” she told Libby.

Eric Royal cleared his throat. “Ladies, ladies,” he said as he reluctantly moved forward into the fray—a fray it was perfectly obvious to Bernie he didn’t want any part of.

Consuela snorted and turned away from him while Libby didn’t even look up. Poor sap, Bernie thought as she laid a hand on her sister’s shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze, and stepped out in front of her.

“So you’re accusing us?” she asked Consuela.

“What did I just say?” Consuela replied.

“Frankly, I’m not sure what to think,” Bernie answered. “I’m really quite shocked at this show of perfidy.”

“Perfidy?” Consuela repeated uncertainly.

“That’s what I said,” Bernie told her as she reflected that it appeared as if Mrs. French, her fourth-grade English teacher, had spoken the truth when she’d said, “Children, trust in a large vocabulary. It will always serve you well.”

“You’re nuts,” Consuela retorted, gathering steam again.

As Bernie listened to Consuela rant on about how terrible Bernie was for using a word like that, it occurred to her that the more wrought up Consuela became, the less Spanish her accent sounded and the more New Jersey it became; suddenly she knew where she remembered Consuela from.

“You went to school in Hoboken,” Bernie told her, breaking into Consuela’s ravings. “Your name used to be Darlene Brown.”

Bernie was interested to see that Consuela shut up. Instantly. Bernie could see a flicker of fear passing over her face. And why shouldn’t it? After all, Bernie reasoned, Consuela had made her rep as a plucky Dominica who’d cooked her way up from the ghetto.

That was her brand, as they liked to say in the advertising business. Bernie wondered what her fans would think if they knew that Consuela was just a middle-class Jersey girl who knew as much about rice and beans as someone from Ohio. No, they wouldn’t be too happy, Bernie was willing to wager. Once credibility was lost, it was hard to get it back.

“You’re crazy,” Consuela told her.

“No. I’m not. You used to go out with Peter Dorset. We met at a party once.”

Consuela lifted her chin up. “I’ve never been to Hoboken.”

Bernie laughed. “You are such a liar.”

Consuela gasped and put her hand over her heart. “Excuse me?”

As Eric moved forward, Bernie noticed that he had a small stain on the lapel of his lavender jacket. It looked like oil, Bernie thought. Or maybe grease. Eric waved his hands in the air to get Consuela’s attention. She ignored him.

“Did I hear you right?” she asked Bernie.

Bernie smiled at her. “Of course, I meant that in the nicest possible way.”

She was about to add something else equally insincere when the door opened again and Hortense Calabash, strands of hair wrapped in little pieces of foil, sailed into the room, the arms of her silk kimono flapping behind her. Eric froze. As Bernie watched Hortense approaching, she reflected that she looked a lot older off screen than on, even allowing for her lack of make-up.

“Eric,” Hortense demanded. “What is going on here? I can hear the noise in my room for heaven’s sake. How can I focus?”

“I’m so sorry,” Eric said.

Hortense looked him up and down. A moment elapsed, then she said, “Don’t be sorry, Eric. Sorry is a waste of time. Just fix the problem and move on. This is a television show, not a kindergarten.” Two red dots of color appeared on Eric’s cheeks. He started to say something, but Hortense held up her hand. “I’m not interested in an explanation,” she informed him. “I’m really not. Explanations are excuses, and I don’t tolerate excuses.”

Eric took a step back, looking for all the world, Bernie thought, like a whipped dog.

“Yes, Hortense,” he said.

Hortense ignored him and glanced around the room. When she got to Consuela, her eyebrows shot up and her nostrils quivered ever so slightly. She moved toward her. “How good to see you again,” she purred as she came to a stop in front of her.

“You too,” Consuela muttered.

When Hortense smiled, Bernie reflected that her teeth looked like Chiclets. Whoever had done Hortense’s veneers should be sued.

“I hope you’re all right,” Hortense said.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Consuela asked.

Hortense put her hand over her mouth for a moment and shook her head. It was, Bernie reflected, a gesture designed to show great concern for your fellow man.

“Well, I heard you were having that small problem with your suppliers. I hope you managed to fix it.”

Consuela clenched her jaw muscles.

“Everything’s fine,” she spit out.

“Good. Good. Good,” said Hortense. “I’m so relieved.” She shook her head and moved over to where Libby was standing. “And Libby,” she said, looking her up and down, “our very own star. I’m so glad you and your sister could come.”

“Me too,” Libby said in what Bernie considered to be a very unconvincing tone.

Hortense reached over and patted Libby’s hand.

“Our own little local celebrities.” Hortense turned to Eric. “It’s true, you know,” she told Eric. “What’s more, they’re crime fighters in the bargain. You didn’t know that, did you, Consuela?” Hortense asked.

Consuela shook her head.

“Yes. They’re quite famous.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Libby demurred.

“You were in the papers,” Hortense said. “Bree showed me the article.”

Libby flinched, remembering how unhappy Bree had been about the coverage of their first and second ventures.

“It’s so reassuring having you here,” Hortense continued. She smiled. “That way if anything happens to me, you’ll be right on the scene. Don’t you find that reassuring, Eric?”

Bernie decided he looked anything but reassured when he said, “Oh yes.”

Hortense’s lips twitched up into a smile.

“For heaven’s sake, I was just joking, Eric. Who would want to harm me?”

“No one, Hortense,” Eric replied in what Bernie judged to be a less-than-satisfactory tone.

“Of course not. I just think it’s better to be prepared for all eventualities.” Hortense patted Libby’s hands again. “You know that Bree thinks the world of you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Libby said. That was news to her.

“And any friend of hers is a friend of mine, which is why I hope you don’t mind my giving you a teeny piece of advice.”

Bernie could see her sister’s shoulders stiffening as she said, “Not at all.”

“Good,” Hortense said. “I knew you wouldn’t. Bree told me you go for the rumpled look, but I hope you’re planning to change into something more flattering than what you’re wearing. What you have on makes you look a tad chunky, so I can’t imagine what it will do on TV. You do know the camera adds between ten and twenty pounds to your weight?”

“I know,” Libby said, her complexion having gone to beet red.

“Wonderful,” Hortense said. “Now I suggest you all adjourn to the green room. I have to finish with my hair and get into my Santa Claus outfit. I adore dressing up, and this outfit is so fun. I got it made especially for me by Auberge. Auberge the designer.”

“I know who Auberge is,” Bernie told her.

Hortense rewarded her with a perfunctory smile. “How clever of you. And by the way, in case any of you are interested, the list of ingredients for tomorrow’s dinner is with me.” She patted the breast pocket of what Bernie was sure was a one hundred percent silk robe. “And will continue to be, not that it would occur to any of you to try and riffle through my file cabinet to find it. However, I feel one can never be too careful in matters such as these. Isn’t that right, Consuela?”

Consuela nodded.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” Hortense told her.

“That’s right,” Consuela said, looking down at the floor.

Hortense nodded her approval.

“Good. Eric will fill you in on the routine when everyone gets here. We thought it might be good if we did some team-building exercises before the show, right, Eric?”

“Right,” Eric repeated.

“Just checking,” Hortense said. “Sometimes I think I give you too much to do. I’ve been wondering lately if I haven’t been overburdening you. There’s so much involved. Perhaps it would be better if I split this job in two.”

“I’m fine,” Eric muttered.

Hortense absentmindedly touched one of the foils in her hair. “I’m glad to hear that. I was worried. You seem to be forgetting things, small things it’s true, like yesterday when you forgot to put out my eyelash curler; but still, once material starts to unravel, it’s hard to stop. Generally, one has to cut the material and resew it.”

Was that a threat? Bernie wondered as she noted the expression of fear on Eric’s face.

“Or perhaps,” Hortense continued, “you need a vacation. You haven’t had one in a while.”

“I’m fine,” Eric insisted.

Hortense looked Eric up and down. Then she finally said, “If you say so.”

“I do.”

“I work him terribly hard,” she confided to Libby. Then she turned back to Eric. “Listen,” she said. “Don’t forget about the Christmas tree ornaments.” At which point she turned and headed toward the door. When she got to it, she stopped and turned around. “Bernie,” she said.

“Yes,” Bernie replied sweetly, wondering what un-nice thing Hortense was going to say to her.

“I don’t mean to appear picky—”

“But that’s why you’re famous,” Bernie interjected. She was gratified to see a slight flush forming on Hortense’s cheeks.

“But those shoes,” Hortense continued.

“I know. They’re Jimmy Choos. Aren’t they fabulous?” Bernie gushed. In her opinion, a good offense was always the best defense. Then, for good measure, she flashed Hortense her best smile. “Did I say anything?” she asked Eric, playing the innocence card as Hortense beat a retreat.

“Huh? No. Yes. I mean no. I have to get her tea. She hates being interrupted before a show.”

Bernie nodded. “You know that the sinks in the kitchen aren’t working properly,” Bernie informed him.

“I’ll tell Joe.” Eric was doing a little dance with his feet. He looked at his watch. “He should be here soon to show everyone around the set and answer any questions that people have.”

Now it was Bernie’s turn to look at her watch. They had a half hour to go before the meeting. “Maybe we should adjourn to the green room,” Bernie said brightly.

“Yes, maybe you should,” Eric said. “If you’ll excuse me, Hortense is waiting.” And he bolted out the door.

“Can you imagine working for her?” Libby asked Bernie as she slipped in beside her.

“That would be my definition of hell,” Bernie replied.

“Mine too,” Libby replied.