Ben smiles softly, firstly to himself and then at me. He holds up his sundae glass. “Cheers to living a little,” he says.
I clink mine against his and whisper, “Cheers.”
* * *
Ben kisses me again at the end of the night. He orders me a cab home and kisses me on his doorstep until it arrives. He uses his tongue and because he’s slow and gentle, it gives me time to learn how to use mine. I can tell when I’m doing it right because Ben will sigh deeply, and I can feel his heartbeat; it moves hard and fast and I like that I’m the reason for it.
When I get home, Cam’s door is shut and she’s playing music. She rarely plays music. I tiptoe past and up the stairs but pause on the landing when I hear voices coming from Jo’s room, of which the door is not completely closed.
When I ascertain Jo’s “Oh, fuck, Sam … fuuuuck” isn’t her response to being murdered on a bed that isn’t structurally sound, I attribute the noises to her having sex with Casual Sam.
Jo’s moans make my ears burn, and I don’t know if I can move without being heard. Somehow if I’m discovered, the embarrassment will definitely be mine to bear.
I take another step and the landing creaks, but they don’t stop. I take the opportunity to run to my room and close the door behind me.
Great.
I need to use the toilet.
Chapter Thirteen
I’m nervously tapping my foot on Tuesday when, during our catch-up, I ask Kris, “How was last week’s Creative?”
“It was all right.” She shoves her hair back with a headband. “It was shit, actually.”
“What happened?”
“I think we’re all in a bit of a creative funk,” she says. “We don’t have any fresh ideas and all the new stuff we keep losing.”
“Ideas?” I repeat. “So the team can come up with ideas instead of waiting for agents to bring us their titles?”
“It’s something Penny started when we were really struggling,” Kris answers. “Instead of continuously trying to outbid other publishers, we’d focus on food writers already on our list and come up with exciting things for them to write about. For example, getting Carmen to write about her stay in Italy was Penny’s idea.”
Wow. Carmen Loremo’s Sardinia is one of OTP’s bestsellers.
“I didn’t know that was an option.” I write down: What do we want and which of our writers can do it? “It’s a good idea.”
“It’s a good idea when we have good ideas,” Kris says. “It’s not easy getting a book about foreign cuisine from our list of writers who are … well, limited in foreign experience.”
In other words, homogenous in culture.
I nod. “Of course.”
“It only worked for Carmen because her husband is from Sardinia so they travel there a lot. We’ll think of something.” She closes her notebook. “Did you manage to get that list of titles up on MDX?”
“Yes, but, actually, I’ve had an idea about something.” I pitch her my practiced paragraph on Cooking Combos, a book focused on classic and unique pairings, what you can do with them and why. It would discuss the science behind the flavor combination, as text-heavy, informative cookbooks are popular now, and how to cook classic or unexpected dishes with what you’ve got at home.
Kris listens patiently and at the end says she’ll think about it but well done me for bringing ideas to the table already.
I smile at this and, after, print out a list of our authors going back a decade. Like Kris hinted, we have a lot of white, middle-aged men writing about pies, potatoes, and bread. The majority of our female authors specialize in comfort cooking and family meals. I try not to pull a face.
On the train ride home, I think about that list. We need something different, a quiet, undiscussed cuisine; we need recipes we wouldn’t have thought to try or even search for, but no one on our list seems qualified.
I get home and, whilst my pasta boils, I google the rest of OTP’s food writers. On one man’s Instagram is a picture of a colorful food spread; nothing like the images of food found in his books. The caption thanks his wife Afra, whose page I click on. Her account is full of bright dishes: rice topped with seeds, breads bursting with add-ins, and platters of roasted meats. There aren’t any recipes written in the captions and I know not to judge a plate of food based on its appearance, but the titles of her dishes sound promising because I’ve not heard of most of them. I’m bookmarking her page when Jo rushes into the kitchen.
“Where’s Cam?”
“I’m here,” she says, emerging from her bedroom. “What’s up?”
“You two are going to love me,” she says. “Cam, I know your school will be on summer holidays, so, Maddie, can you take a week off work in August?”
“An entire week? I’m not sure—it’ll only be my second month.”
“Why, anyway?” Cam asks.
Jo removes her jacket and stands in the middle of the kitchen. “Picture this.” She stares into the distance. “The warm sun on your skin, afternoon cocktails, summer night barbecues. I’m talking pizza, pasta, gelato, holiday sex, and Italian culture—yes, in that order.” She waves a hand in the air. “Florence,” she breathes.
“Italy?”
“Yes, Maddie! Italy! For an entire week!” She takes a deep breath. “A friend of mine, Emma, her parents have a holiday home there and say she can have friends over to stay since they’ll be in Greece for the summer.” Jo holds a hand up. “I know. Yes, she is an incredibly spoilt friend, but that incredibly spoilt friend has said I can bring you both with me! We just have to pay for the flights.”
I’ve always wanted to go to Italy and travel is on my New Maddie list （I didn’t think I’d get to that one before brunch）。 Rome has been on my bucket list for years. The Colosseum, St. Peter’s Basilica, and the Pantheon. I imagine Florence will be just as incredible. But even with a free stay, I can’t technically afford it. Clothes shopping, takeaways, traveling to and from Zone 1 and going from ?450 rent to almost double means I’ve had nothing to save this month.
But can you really turn down your first partially free trip to Italy?
Cam narrows her eyes at Jo. “So you get to bring two people with you for a free stay in Italy and we were your first choice?”
Jo shrugs. “Em and I have mutual friends she’s already invited.”
“And?”
Jo sighs. “And my other friends already have summer holidays booked.”
“There it is.”
“But so what?” Jo says. “You weren’t my last choice, and it’s seven nights’ free stay in Florence! First of August to the eighth! I thought I’d get more excitement out of the two of you.”
“The first? The flight out is on my dad’s birthday,” I tell them. “I can’t miss it.”
“What about joining after?” Jo says. “Come a couple of days later, especially if you’re nervous about taking that much holiday from work so soon?”
I suppose I could use my savings—just a bit of it.
I mean, what else is it there for?