Chapter 4
My three students were due to arrive in five minutes for the first class. Well, two of the three, since Sara was already there. I’d spent the day shopping at the grocery store and the farmers’ market for the menu—lasagna, sun-dried tomato and eggplant bruschetta, and a simple salad—and scrubbing the kitchen with white vinegar and baking soda until it sparkled.
My cell rang. Please don’t be one of the two calling to cancel, I prayed.
It was just my mom and dad calling to wish me luck. Then Ty. Then Sara from the bedroom, asking if her Target Missoni skirt would be too short if she were sitting on one of the kitchen bar stools. It wasn’t.
The buzzer rang, and I pressed TALK . “Skinny Bitch Cooking School,” I said.
“We’re at the right place then,” a guy said. “It’s me, Duncan, and—I’m sorry, what’s your name?” Silence. “And Eva right behind me.” I buzzed them up.
“He sounds cute,” Sara said.
The doorbell rang. I took a deep breath and opened it.
He was kind of cute. A bit uptight looking, maybe. Twentysomething with short, sandy blond hair and blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He had a messenger bag slung over his torso. “Hi, I’m Duncan. Ridley.”
Behind him, a scowling thirty-something redhead with a chin-length bob and dark circles under her eyes said, “I’m Eva Ackerman. Eva. Not Eve. Not Eves. Not Evie. Eva. Just Eva. For some reason, people have trouble with this.”
“Hi, Eves!” Sara said, sticking out her hand. “Just kidding.”
“I have no sense of humor,” Eva said, marching in with a great eye roll at Sara. “In fact, my soon-to-be ex-husband screamed that into my ear about five minutes ago before he hung up on me. Tell me, is this funny? ‘Maybe you wouldn’t need to request so much alimony if you stopped eating like a cow.’”
“I don’t think that’s funny,” Duncan said. Quite earnestly, too, which meant he’d already won Sara’s heart.
“Yeah. Not funny,” I said. “But come in. I’m Clementine Cooper, your teacher.”
“And I’m Sara, the teacher’s roommate, but also a fellow student. No discount, either. I’m not a vegan. Or a vegetarian. But I’m following Clementine’s Skinny Bitch diet, and I’ve already lost almost five pounds in a week.”
“Really?” Eva asked, eyeing her up and down, then down and up.
“Well, you can’t totally tell yet,” Sara said.
“Since we’re a small group,” I said, thinking I’d better separate Sara and Just Eva, “why don’t we sit down for a minute and do that dopey introduction thing—why you want to take the class, what you eat now, what you hope to learn, all that jazz.” I got that break-the-ice idea from my sister, naturally. “I’m Clementine Cooper, and I grew up on an organic farm in northern California. I could peel and chop an onion without crying by age five. The summer after high school I went nuts and ate everything my parents wouldn’t put on their table—burgers, lobster rolls, fried everything, eggs galore, sugar—and fake sugar—up the wazoo. After a month I felt and looked like total shit and went back to how I grew up eating. I have a certificate in vegan cooking from the Vegan Culinary Institute and have worked at a slew of restaurants. What I’m really into is helping people cut the crap out of their life.”
I glanced at Eva, and she cleared her throat.
“I’m Eva Ackerman, just Eva, as I’ve said, which is something my boss’s moronic assistant can’t seem to remember. ‘Hey, Eves,’ every fucking morning. ‘Night, Eves,’ every fucking night. And she’s twenty-two and has an amazing body and I hate her guts and—”
“I hate twenty-two-year-olds with perfect bodies, too,” Sara chimed in.
Eva gave a wobbly smile and went on. “My husband left me two weeks ago for some absolute child in his Pilates class. I didn’t even know he was taking Pilates. I’m dealing with the separation agreement now, and it is a nightmare. My therapist says I need something positive in my life to focus on, something just for me, and suggested I take a class, writing or healthy cooking or something. I’ve been shoving McDonald’s super-size French fries in my mouth lately.” She glanced around, seeming like a human being for the first time. “I probably wasn’t supposed to give you guys my life story in the first five seconds, was I?”
“I like people who lay it on the table,” I reassured her. She shot me another wobbly smile.
Sara introduced herself as an office drone/aspiring actress on a self-appointed mission to go from fat extra to ingénue. “Your turn, Duncan,” she said, turning to him, rather rapt.
He cleared his throat. “Duncan Ridley, twenty-eight. Vegetarian interested in going all the way. Oh, and librarian. Anyone laughs or says ‘Really?’ gets shot.”
Sara laughed. “Really? I mean, you’d really shoot us?”
He didn’t smile. “Male librarians and nurses freak people out. I can’t love books?”
“My husband takes Pilates, so, yeah, I’d say you can love books,” Eva muttered.
Before we explored that little gem again, I stood up and said, “Okay, so everyone up, and let’s hit the kitchen. We’re making a vegan lasagna, but you won’t be able to tell you’re not eating ricotta cheese or ground beef. That’s how amazing it’ll be. We’re also going to make one of my favorite things— sun-dried tomato and eggplant bruschetta. And a simple green salad with a miso-ginger dressing.”
They crowded around me at the long stretch of counter, which wasn’t hideous formica but a nice white tile that I was suddenly really grateful for. “We’ll start with the lasagna, since it takes the longest to prepare and assemble. Tonight we’ll use prepared strips of pasta, but in another class I’ll teach you how to make your own dough.”
Everything was laid out on the counter, including the recipe, which I adapted from Candle 22, the restaurant that gave me my start as vegetable chef. No one’s lasagna was better—except for mine. Big pot of water on the stove, baking dish prepped, I was showing them how to properly peel and chop garlic when the intercom buzzed.
Another student off the street? I grabbed a dish towel, wiped the gunk from my hands, and pressed TALK on the intercom. “Skinny Bitch Cooking School, Clementine speaking.”
“Um, yes,” said an English accent. “Clementine, my name is Alexander Orr. I’m the new sous chef at Fresh.”
Never heard of him. I pressed TALK again. “And?” Had he come to rub his job in my face?
“Um, well, I was sorry about what transpired at Fresh and all, and was passing by and saw your sign for the cooking class, and realized I was right in front of your building, and—”
Jesus. I pressed UNLOCK and let the poor English sap up.
“‘ Transpired ’ is a nice word,” Sara said, whipping her knife around so fast that she almost maimed Duncan.
“I like that you appreciate words,” Duncan said. Sara smiled.
Interesting. He wasn’t her type at all. But Sara had an open mind. When it came to eating and dating. This was a good thing.
I held open the door and could hear him clomping up the steps. Finally, there appeared a very cute guy, thirty tops, with sandy-brown almost-curly hair and dark brown eyes. He had a dimple in both cheeks. He was tall and lanky and wearing a long-sleeved button-down white shirt and army-green cargo pants. Converse sneakers.
“Ah, the famous Clementine in the flesh,” he said, and his cheeks actually reddened. “It’s been a long time since I last saw you.”
“We’ve met?”
“At Desdemona’s. I was waiting for my interview with the chef. You were a line cook, working on artichokes, I recall. You told me if I wanted the job I’d better talk extra fast during the interview because the chef was in a shitty mood. I didn’t get the job, but he said he could tell I was an okay bloke and recommended me to Organic X, where I worked for the past year as an assistant sous chef until Fresh recruited me.”
“Oh, yeah! I do remember you.” He’d tripped over the sack of potatoes and his glasses went flying off his face and almost landed in a sauté pan full of onions. He must have gotten contacts.
He glanced through the archway into the kitchen. “I can see you’re in the middle of your class. I guess I just, well, wanted to say I’m sorry I got a great job at your expense. Though I see you’re doing quite well.”
The compliment, accent, and dimples conspired against me. “You can hang out if you want, be co-teacher tonight.”
He looked at me intently for a moment as if trying to decide if I was just being friendly. I wasn’t sure myself. “I would love to, Clementine, I really would, but I promised my ill grand-mum I’d stop by with some soup.” He pointed at the bag he’d put down by the door. “Maybe I could, um, give you a call sometime? Or you could call me.” He pulled a card out of his wallet, scribbled his number on the back, and handed it to me.
Wow, picked up in my own apartment. That was new. “Um, sure,” I said.
“Cute!” Sara said when the door shut behind him. “And bringing his ill grand mum soup!”
He was cute. Not totally my type, which was a lot more jerkish from the get-go, unfortunately. But cute. And a chef. And, like Sara said, bringing his grandmum soup.
“Watch out,” Eva said, knife pointed at me. “British guys trap you with their accents and use all these terms that make you think they care much more than they actually do. I dated a Brit once, and two seconds after dumping me he said he ‘fancied a shag.’ It sounded so polite I couldn’t resist.”
“My college roommate was from Wales and he was a great guy. Chap,” Duncan said, sliding the garlic bits off his knife with his finger.
I helped Eva chop her garlic more finely. “For all I know, he was sent by Emil—the executive chef at this restaurant that unfairly fired me—to spy on me or get back at me in some way.” I’d never been much of a cynic until a pat of butter entered my life. “I mean, who could think that sweet face and Englishness could be up to no good?”
“Well, at least go out with him,” Sara said. “You can get him to convince everyone that you were set up. Clear your name.”
Smart thinking. “We’ll see. Okay, now on to the mush-rooms.”
There was chopping, talking, laughing, instruction, and there were sips of wine. And a few minutes later, everyone crowded around me to learn about tofu—how to buy, how to handle, and how braising it first before sautéing it with the vegetables would give it flavor and texture. “Okay, so you take the block of tofu and—”
A booming drill sounded right outside the window.
“What the hell is that?” Sara asked, going over to the living room to peer out the window as another mind-blowing whir of drill blasted us. “Oh, shit.”
“What?” I asked, following her. The noise was deafening, like someone was drilling into my head. By the time I got to the window, it stopped. Because the guy on a ladder across the street was done hanging a huge sign that was covered in bubble wrap.
Above the beautiful arched windowpane of my space for Clementine’s No Crap Café. Oh, shit was right.
Sara rubbed my shoulder. “Sorry, Clem. I know you had your eye on that space. But just think, by the time whatever’s going in goes out of business in three months like the last place, you might have enough money to lease it.”
That actually made me feel better.
A man came out the door, put on dark sunglasses, and stared up at the sign. He seemed to be okaying how it had been mounted. The man on the ladder started unwrapping the bubble wrap. After two solid minutes of unwrapping, facing right at me was a 3D silver steer’s head. A steer’s head. Fucking horns and everything. As he unwrapped the entire sign, I could clearly read the etched name from here.
THE SILVER STEER.
“Why not just call the place ‘Meat’?” I muttered. Fuck. Shit. Fuck shit! No way was I doing my sunrise yoga while looking out the window at a dead steer head. “Sara, can you hold the fort while I confront this carcass-eating moron about his stupid sign? I’ll be back in five.”
“You’re gonna tell him to move it?” Eva asked, and I could tell I went up a few notches in her estimation.
“Shit, yeah, I am. Or at least to take off the dead deer head. It’s totally offensive.”
I marched downstairs and crossed the street and pulled open The Silver Steer’s door. A group of people was crowded around the one table in the place, a roll of blueprints spread out. An officious-looking woman with a clipboard and safety goggles around her neck came storming up to me. “No one can enter without authorization,” she said. “For safety purposes.”
“I have a problem with the sign outside. For my safety.” And yours, lady.
“The sign meets city regulations, Miss. Now if you’ll—”
“Who owns this place?” I asked, looking around for the guy in the dark sunglasses.
“Miss, Mr. Jeffries is very busy. If you’ll—”
“Is there a problem?” a man asked, leaning back from the table to eye me. “I’m Zach Jeffries.” It was the guy in the dark sunglasses, except now he wasn’t wearing sunglasses. And he was so unbelievably good-looking that I couldn’t speak for a moment. Tall. Thick dark brown hair. Intense dark blue eyes. Okay, yes, a teeny bit like Ben’s. White shirt, sleeves rolled up. The slightest cleft in his chin.
Because I’d gone mute, he’d leaned back in, and the meeting resumed.
“The sign,” I said, raising my voice. “It has to go.”
He leaned back again and stared at me. “What about it bothers you?”
“I live across the street,” I said, pointing up at my window, not that he’d know which one it was. “I’m a vegan chef and I am conducting cooking classes out of my home. I was about to teach my students how to properly handle a block of tofu when your dead animal sign went up and is now staring with its dead eyes directly into my living room.”
There was a hint of smile. “And?” he prompted.
I thought I had covered the and . “And it’s bad enough that you stole this space out from under me before I even had a chance—” I took a deep breath. Stick to the subject. “ And this is not good for business! The smell of rotting animal carcass will make my students—and me—want to hurl.” Although I was the only vegan in my apartment at the moment. Not that this asshole needed to know that. “My students are very upset. They might not even be willing to return next week. And it’s only the first night of class.”
“I sympathize,” he replied, his dark blue eyes looking straight into mine. “My sister Avery is a vegan. Drinks all sorts of raw vegetables for breakfast, carries around her own not-cheese in some sort of purse cooler.”
“So you’ll take down the dead cow?” I asked, hopeful.
“Steer,” he corrected. “And no, sorry. You’re cute, though.”
Someone laughed. Trust that it wasn’t me.
Could he be more condescending?
“Zach, I’ve only got ten minutes,” someone at the table said.
“Excuse us, please,” Zach said to me. “And again, my apologies.”
“This way, Miss,” Clipboard said.
“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer,” I shot toward Zach Jeffries like an idiot. My carnivore lawyer sister would probably ask if I could get her into The Silver Steer on opening night.
As I left, I saw him watching me go.
I forced myself to take deep cleansing breaths on the way back to my apartment. These people weren’t paying four hundred bucks to listen to me snarl curses at an aluminum sign. So when I opened the front door, I calmly announced that the owner was an ass and we had bruschetta to make and a lasagna to assemble.
Eva was a little aggressive with her chopping, but she seemed to need this class more than I needed perfectly sliced zucchini. Duncan and Sara were becoming very chummy as they parboiled the tomatoes for the bruschetta and sliced the Italian bread, rubbing the rounds with olive oil and garlic.
Once the lasagna and bruschetta were in the oven, we sat around my laptop and Googled The Silver Steer, Santa Monica. Up came more than twenty articles about how Zach Jeffries, thirty-two-year-old millionaire restaurateur, was opening a new steakhouse on Montana Avenue in a prime corner location.
As Duncan and Sara worked on the salad, and Eva and I started the miso-ginger dressing, the buzzer buzzed. I pressed TALK. “Skinny Bitch Cooking School, Clementine speaking.” Honestly, I didn’t know how much longer I could go around spitting out that mouthful.
“It’s Zach Jeffries. From across the street. I assume you’re the woman who doesn’t care for my sign?”
It took a lot to shock me, but Zach Jeffries just pulled it off. I turned toward the table. They were as shocked as I was. I mean, two seconds ago, we were staring daggers at the guy’s picture in the L.A. Times , reading about his new blooddripping restaurant, and here he was, using the tinny intercom downstairs.
“Can I speak with you?” he asked. “I mean, face-to-face. I really don’t like the idea of offending a neighbor and potentially hurting a fellow business across the street.”
A fellow business. That was nice. I pressed UNLOCK .
“Maybe he’s not a jerk,” Duncan said. “He seems to actually care that the sign bothers you.”
“Please. Look at her,” Eva snapped, upping her chin at me. “He wants to get in Clementine’s pants, and he sees his opportunity. A few dinners, a good lay or two, and you’ll back off the sign. By then, he’ll have all his permits in order.”
“God, you’re cynical,” Sara said to Eva. “I love that.”
Eva stared at her and then belly laughed.
Normally I would open the door and await him, the way I had for Alexander, nice British vegan chef, but Zach Jeffries, of the dead animal signage, could knock.
I could hear him jogging up the five flights.
Finally, the knock. A firm rap of the knuckles.
I opened the door.
Damn. He held a motorcycle helmet, and a black leather jacket was draped over his arm. In his other hand was a bottle of wine. Bed and expensive.
“So it’s just you four?” he asked. “That must mean you have room for one more student.”
I stared at him. “Lady with the clipboard?”
He smiled. “Me.”
I laughed. “You? Right.”
“I’m interested in all kinds of food, neighbor.”
“So you want to take my class.”
He put down his stuff and pulled out his wallet and a Skinny Bitch Cooking School flyer that he must have ripped off the light post on the corner. “Four hundred, right?” He took bills from the black wallet and handed me two hundreds and four fifties. Then he walked right in and sat down at the table. “I’d introduce myself,” he added, glancing at the laptop, open to his photo in the L.A. Times , “but I see you’ve met me.”
Sara studied him, head to toe. “I’m Sara, teacher’s roommate, so, also a neighbor.”
“Duncan Ridley, librarian,” Duncan said and we all waited. But Zach’s expression didn’t budge.
Eva shook his hand. “Eva Ackerman. Single?”
“I’m not married,” Zach said, his eyes on me. “So, by the amazing smell coming from the oven and this dressed salad, I assume I’ve missed most of class.”
Sara started setting the table. “We get to eat our work. You’re just in time for the first course.”
Definition of surreal: sitting at your thrift-store kitchen table, eating student-made leafy greens with miso-ginger dressing while Zach Jeffries poured the wine he brought, listening to him talk about the thousand-acre cattle ranch his family had owned for generations in northern California, where he grew up, not too far from Bluff Valley.
“We seem to have more in common than not,” he said to me as he popped an olive into his mouth.
“Really? Because I don’t drink wine made with red dye from crushed beetles.”
Everyone pushed their glass away from them. Except Zach.
“My motto is everything in moderation,” he said, taking a sip. “Mmm, that’s good.”
Sara, Eva, and Duncan looked From Zach to me like we were at Wimbledon.
My turn. “We have northern California in common, but you’re a leather-jacket-wearing carnivore and I’m a faux-suede-wearing vegan,” I said, extending one silver sandal for emphasis—and so he could get a glimpse of my yoga-toned leg.
His eyes went up my leg, to my skirt, and finally landed on my face.
Oh shit. My toes tingled. My toes .
He’d taken one bite of the bruschetta and declared it “damned good” when his cell phone rang. He listened for a moment, then said, “On my way, Baby.”
Oh. Deflated back to earth. I glanced at Sara. She looked disappointed, too.
Of course, there was a Baby in his life. A supermodel, no doubt, that would blow even Laurel soon-to-be Frasier off the runway.
But who cared? Zach Jeffries grew up slaughtering animals and thought nothing of selling twenty-seven-dollar burgers and spewing fuel emissions into the atmosphere. Being attracted to him was ridiculous.
But I was. Very traitorously attracted.