Читать книгу A Lick and a Promise - Jo Leigh - Страница 7

THE LETTUCE SUCKED. Great. Marvelous. Just the way she wanted her first day as the food stylist for Whompies to start off. Yeah, that’s Whompies. Of the double double Angus beef Whompie burger with the special curly fries. Of course, she didn’t really work for Whompies, she worked for Galloway and Donnelly, one of the top advertising agencies in Manhattan. Who, if they liked the work she did on this shoot, could very well put her on staff, which would be, in the words of her aunt Sadie, such a blessing! Galloway and Donnelly’s food division paid top dollar, and got the best gigs.

On her own, she’d landed some pretty good jobs. That one for Bon Appétit had been stellar. But working for G and D would put her on the map. After five, six years working with some of the best foodies on the planet, she, Margot Janowitz, would have the name recognition and contacts to go back out on her own. Then she could ask for the moon…and get it.

But first, she had to get some lettuce that didn’t look like roadkill, pronto. She got her work phone book out of her kit and headed back to the prep kitchen, almost tripping over the thick cables connected to the mega-huge lights in Stage Four, one of the MidTown Production’s sound stages used for making commercials and rock videos.

She was going to be here a lot in the next five months. Not continuously, of course. In between the Whompies shoots she’d have print gigs, but it was the TV commercials that she was most excited about. Making burgers, fries, milk shakes, sodas, pizza, onion rings look so deliciously scrumptious that people watching the commercials would leap off their couches and race over to Whompies to chow down on everything on the menu.

Inside the huge prep kitchen, two of the camera guys were eating take-out Chinese broccoli beef. They both had their feet up on the big white table, having shoved her notebook to the very edge. She snatched it up, trying not to freak. Very calmly, she looked at the two men, both in their early twenties, and said, “Do you know what this table is?”

One of them, the light-haired guy who had clearly forgotten that hair needed washing from time to time, looked up with a full mouth, and replied, “Huh?”

“I said, do you know what this table is?”

He shook his head while he swallowed.

“It’s a food preparation table. Where actual food is prepared. And mostly, we don’t like it smelling of feet.”

The blond guy grunted. But they both slid their feet to the ground. They didn’t stop eating.

Margot sighed. “Shoo. Scram. Leave.” She waved four fingers. “Bu-bye.”

The darker guy stood. He wore cargo pants a couple of sizes too big, a Third Eye Blind T-shirt and a Mets cap. He raised his right eyebrow in her direction, then shuffled out, heading toward the employee lounge, where they should have been in the first place. Blondie followed. Slowly. But finally, she was alone.

It was just past 5:30 a.m. and she wanted all the food prep to be done before eight. The rest of the staff, whom she hadn’t met, would be here soon. From her past experience assisting on other food commercials, there would be at least one more stylist and three or four assistants. Which would be great, All she had to do was get fresh, crisp lettuce. Simple. Easy. She had a mile-long list of suppliers. No reason at all for her heart to beat like a Led Zeppelin drum solo.

She stopped. Took a deep breath. This was just like the dozens and dozens of jobs she’d assisted on. The only difference was, on this one, she was in charge. Which was a good thing. A marvelous thing. Something she’d worked hard for.

From this moment forward, this job was going to be one triumph after another. On time, on budget, exactly to the Whompies specifications. Period. She knew what to do, knew how to do it. Piece of cake.

She went back into the main studio, where more folks had arrived. She didn’t know anyone. Not yet. But soon, they’d all be joking around together, bitching about the work, pulling out all the stops to make the product shine.

She loved this part. A lot. The whole team thing. That was the bonus of doing television. It was good on print shoots, but this was more. Bigger. Better.

Her phone vibrated in her apron pocket. She flipped it on, her earphone snugly in place, as it always was. “Margot.”

“Babycakes.”

Margot smiled at her neighbor’s voice as she went to the craft service table to get her coffee. “Hi, Devon. ’Sup?”

“Just checking in on your first day at the new gig.”

“Well, except for phone calls at dawn, things are going really well.”

She heard a ferocious yawn. Then, “I’m going to bed in five. You know, the new guy is moving in today.”

“Did you find out anything else?”

Her neighbor chuckled. “Eric thinks he’s straight.”

Margot checked out the few people standing around the doughnuts. She didn’t recognize any of them. “Gotta love Eric,” she said.

“He’s never wrong. He also said he’s a major babe, although he was wearing off-the-rack.”

“I’m surprised he wasn’t struck by lightning.”

Devon laughed. “I’m too tired to live. Kick ass, babe. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

She clicked off her phone, then it was her turn at the coffee. She should have brought a mug; she hated foam cups. Behind her, some grips and electricians were talking and laughing, and she got excited all over again at the thought of soon becoming one of the gang. In fact, she was going to introduce herself to the woman behind her, then her phone rang again.

“Margot.”

“Hello, darling.”

“Ma.”

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Nope. Been up since three-thirty.”

“That’s not good. You’re not sleeping?”

“New job. Remember?”

“Of course I do. That’s why I’m calling. To wish you luck.”

“That’s nice, Ma. Really. But I’m in the middle—”

“Would you do something for me?”

Margot sighed. Getting off the phone with her mother should be an Olympic event. “What?”

“Talk to him.”

“Him” was her father. It was always her father. Unless it was one of her uncles. Or her cousins. Or her neighbors. “What’s wrong?”

“He bought five cases of broken dishes.”

Margot sighed. “Are you sure they’re all broken?”

“If they aren’t, they will be by the time he gets them. I ask you. What is he going to do with five cases?”

“I don’t know, Mom, but I’m sure he has his reasons.”

“Reasons. We have the meshugge storage unit which is costing an arm and a leg, and now he says he needs another unit because he can’t move the merchandise.”

“I’ll talk to him. But, Ma, I have to go.”

“Okay, bubele. We’ll talk later.”

It wasn’t even six, and the troops were calling already. She fully expected to hear from Corrie, her other next-door neighbor, before seven. Which was fine.

Margot liked keeping in touch, and her co-op in Chelsea was a hotbed of wonderfulness, full of fascinating characters who she’d come to love. A month ago Seth Boronski had died, poor man, leaving his second-floor unit vacant, and just last week it had been bought by a single man. Daniel was his name, but that’s all Margot knew about him. Which was unusual, because frankly, no one knew more about the comings and goings of 18 West 16th Street. Not even the super, who only came around when threatened by mass revolt or bribed with oatmeal raisin cookies.

The new job had been all she’d thought about for days, planning, thinking, styling in her head. She’d have time to scope out Daniel on Sunday during the weekly co-op dinner.

Right now, though, she needed to get to the kitchen. She had to order the lettuce. And the troops should be arriving any minute.

DANIEL WINCED as his friends Terry and Bill lurched through the front door with his oak headboard, narrowly missing the molding. “Careful with that, damn it.”

Bill gave him an evil look. “You know what you can do with your careful, Daniel, old buddy?”

“That headboard’s eighteenth century.”

Terry cut the discussion short with a succinct curse.

“Fine. Be asses,” Daniel said, leading them into the bedroom. “Put it there.”

The two men, his old roommates from Rutgers, put the headboard down with matching grunts. “Think you could get some heavier furniture next time?” Bill asked.

“I’ll work on it,” Daniel said, anxious to get back to the truck. Steve was down there, guarding the rest of his possessions, although the lion’s share of boxes was already inside. He had beer in the fridge and pizzas coming in an hour, so he wanted to be done by then. “Come on, we still have the rest of the bed.”

Terry, who was a big guy in college and an even bigger guy now that he was a stockbroker, wiped his face with his NYT T-shirt. “I can’t believe you got me here to do this on a Thursday. I’m losing millions and sweating way the hell too much.”

“It’s your vacation, and I don’t recall a lot of arm-twisting,” Daniel said as he led his reluctant mover toward the door.

“Some vacation. I should be in Aruba, soaking in the sun.”

“What about me?” Bill said. “I’m not on vacation.”

“You’re on a permanent vacation,” Terry said, shouldering his friend out of his way. “In case you’ve forgotten.”

“Hey, I offered to pay for movers.”

Daniel laughed. “That’s what I like about you, Bill. When in doubt, throw money around.”

Bill shrugged. He still had his good looks, although his lifestyle was starting to show on his face. The heir to a huge manufacturing fortune, he’d given the reins of the business to his younger brothers and decided on a life of decadence. But he was such a generous guy, none of his friends could complain too much. Still, Daniel worried about Bill’s fast-lane life. The man was pushing thirty-five and the way he was going, it was questionable he’d reach forty.

They got to the elevator, and rested against the walls as they rode down the two floors. They’d started out taking the stairs, but exhaustion had hit hard about two hours ago. Daniel still couldn’t believe he’d done it. Given up his place in Greenwich, Connecticut, to move to the city. The short commute alone was worth it, but that he’d found this place in Chelsea, well, that was something else.

Chelsea. Everyone knew about Chelsea. How the art scene had changed the landscape in the late eighties and expatriates fleeing the Village’s high prices had moved here, renovating lofts and garment buildings into high-end co-ops. The area had been predominantly gay, but now was home for an eclectic mix of people. That mix gave Chelsea a vibrancy, an aliveness, and had attracted him. In Greenwich, he’d had a nice place, but there was no… Hell, he didn’t know what was missing, except that his life had become stale. Boring as an old shoe.

His move had raised eyebrows at the firm, but he didn’t care. Well, he cared, but not enough to alter his plans.

They reached the lobby and headed for the double-parked truck in front of the building. Steve rested against the back bumper, reading. He held up a finger, making them wait while he finished his chapter, then closed the paperback. “Bed?”

“Yeah,” Daniel said. “And it’s your turn, so get off your lazy butt.”

Steve looked at the other two men. “Can you believe this guy?”

“I say we let him take up the mattress by himself,” Bill said, jumping up to sit next to Steve.

“Hey, I’ve got pizza coming in an hour. I’d prefer to eat it hot.”

Terry squished up his face and repeated Daniel’s words in a voice worthy of a cranky two-year-old.

Daniel ignored him, jumped up onto the back of the truck and whipped the guys into shape. Bill stayed behind this time, but they managed to get the mattress upstairs without him. Waiting just inside the door was a surprise. A woman stood amidst the jumble, tall, very thin, wearing a tiny stretch top that just covered her small, high breasts, and tights. Her abdomen was bared, and he could tell she worked out.

“Hi,” she said, giving him a wide smile. “Welcome to the building. I’m Corrie. 302. Married to Nels.”

“I’m Daniel.” He held out his hand. “Daniel Houghton III.”

She put her little birdlike hand in his, and he was careful not to squeeze too hard. “Sundays we have this dinner,” she said. Her voice was high and as thin as she was. “Everybody comes. We go from apartment to apartment. We all make something. Appetizers, salads, main course.” She blushed. It made her look like a teenager. “Anyway, first time, you’re off the hook for food. But please join us, okay?”

He nodded. “I’d love to.”

She smiled again. “I’ve got—” she nodded toward the door “—things to do.”

“Thanks, Corrie,” he said.

“We start at five,” she said, backing up, almost tripping over a box. “Oh, you can bring wine. Wine’s good.”

“Great.”

Behind him, the guys came out of the bedroom.

“Okay, then,” she said. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

“Now I get it,” Terry said.

Daniel turned. “Get what?”

“Why you moved here. All these straight women have so few straight guys to choose from.” He turned to Steve. “He’s not as dumb as he looks.”

“Well, thanks. Now get your ass back to the truck.”

Steve laughed as he headed out the door. Terry just glared. But they’d finish the job soon, and Daniel was grateful for that. He had four days to unpack this mess. Then it was back to work.

He was an architect. A good one. The firm he worked for, Kogen, Teasdale and Webster, was well respected in the industry, and he was inching his way up, slowly but surely, to partner.

Daniel checked his watch. He figured another three hours and he’d be alone. Not that he didn’t appreciate his friends lending a hand, but he wanted to get on with it. Get this place livable so he could begin this new phase of his life. Exploring the streets, checking out the architecture, the galleries, restaurants, finding his local market, the dry cleaners.

He grinned. Dinner with all the tenants. In the five years he’d lived in Greenwich, he’d met two of his neighbors, but he’d never shared so much as a cup of coffee with them. This was a good move. A new beginning. But he’d have to break out of his old habits, be willing to experiment. He headed toward the elevator. This felt right. Just what he needed. He hoped.

“OH, MY GOD, he’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. I swear, Margot, he’s like six feet tall, and he has dark hair that’s tragically unhip, and he wears these round glasses that went out with the eighties, and his jeans were ironed. He tucked in his Polo shirt, for heaven’s sake. And I swear, if I wasn’t married I’d eat him up with a spoon. Wait’ll you see.”

Margot couldn’t help but laugh. When Corrie got going it was like listening to an auctioneer on helium. “Is he coming on Sunday?”

“Yep. He’s in. Oh, God, what a doll baby. I’m telling you, girl, we’re going to have so much fun with this one.”

“It sounds like a major redo.”

“From the ground up. His tennis shoes. Did I mention his tennis shoes?”

“No, but I can’t hear about it now. I’ve got serious staff issues.”

“Oh, I’m such a jerk. You’re having this first-day thing, and I’m going on and on about Daniel. Can you stand it? Daniel Houghton III. Have you ever?”

“Never. But they only gave me two assistants, which is insanity. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Break a leg.”

“Right. Bye.” Margot switched off her phone and watched as one of the assistants, Bettina, shaved lettuce. The other one, Rick, was sorting buns. She couldn’t believe there were only two, and neither one of them had enough experience to clean the fridge.

It was unheard of that there were so few people on a food commercial. She’d put in a call to her boss, Janice, but the woman hadn’t been there. Surely this was a mistake, and would be rectified soon, but in the meantime, she had to get her ass in gear if she expected to get anything out to the director.

They had almost a hundred buns that had to be sorted, looking for the perfect combination of symmetry, color, shape, size and the placement of the sesame seeds. Once they’d found the perfect bun, what they called the hero in the biz, they’d set that aside. The second best, they’d use as the stand-in, building a burger for the lighting guys. She had her bag of extra sesame seeds in her kit, along with glue, in case they had to make adjustments.

Then there was the lettuce to tear, the ketchup to drain, the burgers to shape and cook just enough so they wouldn’t look raw, the grill marks to place, the cheese to melt, the onions, the tomatoes… It was too much for so few people with so little time.

She sat down with Rick and examined buns. The thing to do was take it one step at a time. And not hyperventilate.

Fifteen minutes and forty-six rejects later, the assistant director stuck her head in the door. “What’s your ETA?”

“At least three hours.”

“Oh, shit.”

“It’s the best I can do.”

“I’ll tell him.”

Him was Joe DeVario, the director. In the five seconds she’d talked to him, she’d gotten a really bad feeling. He scowled, didn’t shake her hand and dismissed her without so much as a backward glance.

Her mood didn’t improve when she heard his voice, yelling from the sound stage.

Not a good way to start a new job.

The only bright spot in all of this was one Daniel Houghton III. Interesting.

From Corrie’s description, he sounded like a man who needed a fashionista’s touch. A designer’s eye. Devon and Eric had to be giddy with anticipation. She just hoped they wouldn’t scare Daniel off, as they had one of the previous residents.

Margot smiled. There was nothing she liked more than a new project. A challenge. Surprises.

“Aha,” she said, holding up the most gorgeous bun this side of heaven. “We have our hero!”