But all of that was mere detail in Troy’s quest to make himself indispensableto Sabrina. He wanted her to need him. But for all of her cheeriness and laughter, Sabrina remained mysteriously unlike any of the girls he’d known before. She was remarkably unperturbed if he failed to call on time, for example. Or he could spend an entire long weekend with her and then not get a reply to his “had a great time with you” email until Wednesday. It was maddening.
Of course, they’d had all the proper conversations in due course—just the nuts-and-bolts sexual history, no need for the hows and how-was-its—and Troy, so convinced of their particular and unique bond, hadn’t even been alarmed to learn that Sabrina had been engaged to more than one man in the preceding three years. It made perfect sense when she told Troy that those relationships just didn’t feel right and that she’d brokenthem off; perfect sense, of course, because clearly she’d been waiting for Troy.
So, to his way of thinking, he hadn’t had any warning on the day Sabrina called him from Gus’s house and said she would be taking the train back to the city and would he meet her at their favorite brunch spot? He remained confused when she told him she’d stopped off at her apartment to collect his toothbrush and his clothes. He felt numb as she handed over a paper Whole Foods bag with his shirts, neatly folded one atop the other, and his toothbrush,wrapped in tissues, sitting on top of the pile. The bag still had a faint scent of fruit. Then she said it.
“You’re a great guy, Troy. Let’s be friends.”
And she didn’t stop smiling the entire time.
After that, Troy was more than ready to say goodbye to the whole lot of Simpsons. He’d never, in all his thirty-four years, been dumped before. (Eleni Dicoupolous from eleventh grade did not actually count, in his opinion.) It’s not that Troy had been a player; he’d had a number of perfectly nice girlfriends with whom he’d had perfectly nice relationships. They all pretty much ran their course. But with Sabrina it had been completely, inspiringly different. Somehow all those stupidly popular song lyrics finally made some sense.
But there was a teeny little glitch in his quest to cut all ties with Sabrina. Because Gus Simpson believed a fresh fruit vending business—with machines in airports, in schools, in workplaces—was a thing of brilliance. And a few months before the breakup, back when he imagined Sabrina was going to become Mrs. Park soon enough, it hadn’t seemed unusual at all when Gus approached him to buy a stake. After all, she’d simply been investing in her daughter’s future, and what entrepreneur couldn’t use extra funding and the backing of a popular CookingChannel TV host?
Exactly.
Now he was stuck with regular inquiries from Gus—and she was on her way over for yet another visit. He’d never expected her to take such an interestin how things were going. And not merely with his company.
Troy opened his bottom left drawer and pulled out a yellow nerf ball, one of several nesting in his desk. With precision he tossed the ball high into the air, up and on its way across the room, waiting to see it swoosh through the small net. Once Sabrina had taken herself out of the picture, Troy went out the very next morning and put basketball hoops in every office and a pool table in the conference room. With a wooden board on the top it worked rather well for meetings, in fact.
He kept his eye on the yellow nerf ball as it began its descent . . . and landed right on Gus Simpson’s beautifully coiffed head.
“Oof!”
“Oh, Gus, I’m so sorry.” Then Troy grinned. “You make a great defense. Game of Twenty-one?”
She walked into his office and put down her handbag, took off her wintercoat and shook off a few snowflakes.
“No, thank you,” she said, looking him up and down. She continued to stand. “You seem a little thin.”
“Just been working on my six-pack abs.”
“Uh-huh. Well, the bags under your eyes don’t exactly send that ‘picture of health’ image.”
“Been working a lot.”
“You should come to dinner soon. Sunday?”
Troy stood up and walked around his desk, then pulled out a chair. Gus finally sat down.
“I’d come by, Gus, but I have a feeling that Sabrina might be invited, just like the last two times.”
“Oh, I told you that was a mistake.”
“Once is a mistake. Twice is stupid—on my part.”
“Well, a mother knows, Troy. The two of you had something special.”
The black-haired man crossed his arms and leaned in to Gus, his jaw clenched.
“I’m not in the mood, today, Gus. We’re bidding on a major contract and I don’t have time to listen to the wild and wacky tales of Sabrina Simpson’s romances.”
“But, Troy, it’s just that she’s dating some Billy fellow who’s completely wrong for her—”
“Not my problem.”
“It is your problem. You’re perfect for Sabrina. And you
love
her!”
“I stopped loving your daughter the day she handed me my ass in a paper bag.”
Gus looked startled. Then she laughed.
“Troy,” she said quietly. “You are a terrible actor.” She gazed at him for a few moments in silence. “Now what about dinner?” she asked.
“No.”
Sighing, Gus held up her hands in defeat. “Okay, that’s enough for today,” she said. “I’m actually here for some help.”
“Gus!”
“
Not
about Sabrina.”
Troy moved around to take his seat behind the desk. “All right then, I’m at your service. What do you need?”
“For you to put on your adman’s brain and reinvent my show.”
Troy made a hooting sound. “I’m an entrepreneur now. And you’re an icon of food television, Mrs. Simpson.”
“And about to be booted off the air if I don’t make things fresh, accordingto my producer.”
“You’re kidding me.”
There was none of her daughter’s smiliness in Gus’s face as she stared directly at Troy. Just worry lines across her forehead. It was clear that the graceful woman in his office was very, very troubled.
He let out a sharp intake of air. Then he opened a drawer on the right side of his desk—mercifully free of nerf balls—and pulled out a yellow legal pad.
“Let’s brainstorm. Quick meals?”
“Been done before.”
“Rare ingredients?”
“
Iron Chef
.”
“Okay, okay, okay, maybe we don’t need to be completely original. Just a new take—a twist on what you’ve been doing,” puffed Troy. “What about a live show, Gus?”
“Emeril’s live.”
“True. And it’s worked for him. He’s a guy with a famous catchphrase: Shazam!”
“That was Captain Marvel. Emeril says ’Bam!’”
Troy nodded thoughtfully. “What’s your catchphrase?”
Gus appeared displeased.
“I don’t have one.”
“Methinks perhaps we’ve isolated our first problem.”
“So you think viewers will start tuning in because I’m live and say ‘Wham!’ instead of ’Bam’? ”
He shook his head. “Uh, no. Gus, you’ve gotta stop taking this all so personally.No one said there’s anything wrong with Gus Simpson the person. The issue is Gus Simpson the personality.”
Gus looked as if she was about to cry.
“I’m just myself!”
Troy smiled. “No, you’re not. You’re your best self. You’re too damn perfect.”
“I’m not understanding what you’re suggesting, Troy.”
“We need to up the risk. Put you on the spot. See a hair out of place. Add some novelty.”
“Novelty? I don’t like where this conversation is heading.”
“People get bored with the same-old. It happens with work, it happens with entertainment—think of the classic second-season sitcom drop-off— and, at the risk of seeming to mention your youngest, cruelest daughter, it happens with relationships. With boyfriends.”
“So . . .”
“So go back to your producer and tell him you want a show that airs live.”
“But I don’t want a live show!”
“And no more of these chef guests creating froufrou dishes. Not unless they’re on their own reality shows and have Q-ratings.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You want hot guests and cool food,” mused Troy. “Or maybe it’s cool guests, hot food. Yes ... that could be your tagline!
Cooking with Gusto!
: Hot food. Cool guests.” He began writing on his yellow pad, had trouble getting the ballpoint to run.
“This doesn’t sound like my show at all,” insisted Gus.
“Exactly.” Troy opened and closed desk drawers quickly, searching for a pen before his slogan fell out of his head. Without thinking he blindly reached into his bottom left-hand drawer and pulled out an orange nerf ball.
“Hey,” he said. “What do you think about basketball?”
6
Gus grabbed the remote control and settled herself in front of the TV in her large family room, joined by her cats Salt and Pepper. She had never watched a basketball game—nor heard of March Madness—before that afternoon in Troy’s office several weeks ago. Well, maybe she was aware of the college basketball championships, in the way she also knew the name of Kelly Clarkson even though she’d never watched
American Idol
. (She was much more of a Beatles fan, maybe with a little late disco thrown in.) The details—of sports, of pop music—floated about in the air somehow, headlineson her Web browser when she went to check her email or magazine covers at the newsstand that she glanced at.
The funny thing was, she’d been fully prepared for Porter to nix Troy’s idea when she brought it to him, imagined his response: “You? And NBA stars making party food on live TV as you get ready to watch college ball together? That’s insane!”
Instead, Porter formed a tent with his hands and began tapping his fingertipstogether.
“Would you wear a cheerleader costume?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.
“Good God, no!” Gus was horrified.
“Just trying.” Porter winked.
“I’ll tell Ellie you asked me that,” Gus said in a fake threatening way. Porter had been happily married for thirty years and had nothing more than a healthy, mostly professional, appreciation of Gus’s figure. “Seriously, though ...”
Porter spoke slowly, turning his thoughts in his mind. “What I like is that your approach is fairly off-the-wall. A complete departure for Gus Simpson, which should get us some media buzz. We might alienate a few longtime viewers, but we’re definitely going to attract a younger crowd, maybe even some men in the eighteen-to-twenty-four range.” Porter began nodding vigorously.
“And what appeals to advertisers will appeal to Alan Holt,” finished Gus. “Thank you, Mr. Watson.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Simpson.”
They were hopeful but aware of the urgency. Both of them needed this episode to succeed; there were no plans in the works to tape any more episodesof
Cooking with Gusto!
until this program aired live and the ratings were in.
And the show was going to air on her birthday, no less. Gus couldn’t have come up with a more perfect excuse not to throw a party—she simply didn’t have room in her schedule to plan, did she? Because all she had time for now was the upcoming live show. Troy had proved invaluable, fielding her calls about free throws and three-pointers. The private surprise of it all was that getting ready for the shoot felt much more like fun than work.
It was energizing to have a new challenge. Tantalizing.
Sure, Gus Simpson had never shied away from difficulty. She didn’t crumple (for long) when Christopher passed, and she didn’t let a few early hiccups derail The Luncheonette, and she stood by Sabrina’s centerpiece when Alan Holt came to dinner in 1994. Although she never would have guessed that Alan would become so cutthroat, with seemingly no regard for loyalty. For example, he could have given her another season to boost ratings. Right? But no: it was the one live episode to prove her worth to the CookingChannel. After twelve years! And the network president wasn’t the only person who wouldn’t stick with Gus: her culinary producer, Maggie Dennis, had up and quit when she heard the show was having problems.
Even though Porter handled the big picture as exec producer, a top cookingshow could not exist without a culinary producer. It was the culinary producer’s role to make sure the pantry was well stocked, the kitchen was ready, and to generally be Gus’s right hand. Not that she could blame Maggie,a talented chef with bills and a family of her own. Still, thanks to her years on
Gusto!
the woman had lined up another job almost immediately for a cooking-with-kids show. And it would have been no easy task to hire a replacement when all she had to offer was work on one—and possibly the final—episode of
Cooking with Gusto!
But she didn’t even have to try: Portertold her the show had been assigned a culinary producer. Just like that. Some guy named Oliver Cooper, who’d graduated a few years earlier from the Institute of Culinary Education in New York and had been working as a sous chef at Eleven Madison Park.
“But I’ve always chosen who works in the kitchen with me,” Gus protested.
“This came down from Alan Holt himself,” replied Porter. “And with the budget cuts, he’s got to juggle being a combination sous chef, culinary producer, and all-around guy Friday.”
And so there it was: a new format, a new culinary producer who lacked television experience, and a new level of pressure.
Hardly surprising, then, that Gus hadn’t been able to sleep much lately. But it wasn’t just fear that was keeping her awake. Every night she lay on her smooth crimson sateen sheets, her hair brushed out and fanned around her, and stared at the ceiling as she cooked through all the upcoming dishes in her mind. She racked her brain for quirky slogans and cutesy tag-lines.Even the hours spent in front of the television watching sports were exciting, getting caught up in the energy of it all. It made sense, too, because suddenly everything around her was about winning and losing. And make no mistake—Gus Simpson was a competitor at heart. Fifty or not.