Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [108]
The thought of one’s ex moving on and prospering might be enough to cause some people to get out there and really give it a go. Make a stab at showing their exes just what a good deal they threw away. “How did I ever let her go?” they ask themselves in our fantasies. Was I missing that particular gene or something? That “I’ll show him” gene?
I groan. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Have that conversation, Mira.”
“I feel like an idiot,” I wail.
“It’s an important exercise. Brush your hair and put on some makeup. Remember what you say and how you say it, and we’ll talk about it tomorrow. Besides, it will also be good preparation for your meeting with Enid. You’re really going to need to sell yourself. Remember, feelings follow behavior, Mira. If you pretend to be relaxed and confident, eventually you will become relaxed and confident.”
“I know, I know,” I tell her. And after I hang up, I take another stab at it, although it takes several attempts before I can start the conversation without crying or looking like I’m about to. But once I get started, I find I have plenty to say, none, or almost none of it, true. I tell Jake that I’ve opened another restaurant; perhaps he had caught the review in last month’s Food and Wine? That, and I’m here in New York City to pick up my James Beard Award for my latest book, the newest collection of my food writings. I’ve even come up with a title for it: With Fork in Hand, and Tongue in Cheek: A Chef’s Guide to Eating Around the World. I also tell him Chloe is a terrific kid and that he really missed out.
By the time Renata calls back, I’m in bed, going over my review in preparation for Wednesday’s meeting with Enid Maxwell. “I swear, I thought about telling you, but Michael talked me out of it,” Renata says.
“Fine. It’s fine. I’m better now.”
“You sounded awful.”
“I was just surprised. That’s all.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was just a bad moment.”
“So, how are you? How’s Chloe? Did she get our birthday present?” Renata and Michael had sent Chloe a bottle of port, to be opened on her twenty-first birthday.
“Thanks. She loved it.”
There’s so much that I want to ask her, but I don’t know if I should. Aside from not wanting to appear obsessed, I’m really not sure I want to know when Jake’s baby is due. “So, has Jake’s baby been born yet?” I blurt out.
Renata hesitates. “She miscarried. Or at least that is what they’re telling people, or the few people who knew, anyway. It never really was public knowledge, if you know what I mean.”
“What do you mean, at least that’s what they’re telling people?”
Renata doesn’t reply right away, and I can tell she’s deciding what to say. Whether or not I can handle it.
“Well, it just didn’t make sense. The sommelier thing? She went away to do it. A four-week course in Las Vegas, with closed registration and a long waiting list. I checked. You don’t go registering for a sommelier course when you know you’re pregnant. Not unless you’re an idiot—that’s a hell of a lot of wine to be spitting out—or unless you never intended to have the baby.”
“You think she had an abortion?” I ask.
“I don’t know, Mira. All I know is that she came home from Las Vegas and suddenly they’re obsessed with this idea of the enoteca. It’s not exactly the time to be opening a new restaurant, you know. They bought this little tapas place that was going under. On Fulton Street. They moved right in and turned it around in record time.”
“Where did they get the money? Jake made it seem like they were really strapped after the Grappa buyout.”
Renata exhales softly into the phone. “First of all, why you would believe anything that man had to say is beyond me. But now that you mention it, I did hear a rumor a few weeks ago that Jake has hooked up with some serious investors, some sort of restaurant collaborative, based in Vegas.”
“Vegas? Why would they be interested in Jake?”
“I don’t know,