Hadley Beckett's Next Dish, page 21
She crossed her arms. “Sure. We can talk about it. Here, on Renowned, whatever. As long as you talk about what happened on America’s Fiercest Chef.”
He threw his hands up in the air. “I’ve talked about it.”
“I mean why it happened. I’ve heard more explanation about why you had a breakdown from my grandmother than I’ve heard from you. Why is that?”
“You’ve never asked.”
“I’m asking now!”
“Why does it matter?” he shouted. “It’s ancient history—”
“But I deserve to know! Don’t you think, Max, that if anyone deserves to know, it’s me?”
“How long are you going to use that weapon?” he asked as he clenched his fist and released over and over.
“How long are you going to give me reason to use it!”
He put all the effort he could into breathing deeply. Steadily. But he no longer knew how to personalize the anger. What consequences did he have to worry about? He couldn’t imagine that he could possibly do more damage to Hadley than he already had. His career was over, it seemed. Between Hadley and Leo, his already limited friend resources were depleted. Buzz’s trick wasn’t going to work if there was absolutely nothing to lose.
But then he closed his eyes and felt a familiar rush course through his veins. He saw the dining room of his flagship restaurant in Lenox Hill. He recognized the well-known but never monotonous sensation he always felt when taking one final look around before opening the doors for the dinner crowd. Soon the room would be filled with wealthy diners—the New York City elite—whose names had been on a list for months. Years, in some cases. There would be politicians who came to be seen and celebrities who came simply because they could afford it. Celebrities who would be every bit as impressed by tuna noodle casserole if it cost $200 a plate and had Max’s name attached.
But somewhere in the room that night, as he liked to believe there was every night, there would be a twenty-three-year-old kid whose passion was food. That kid had scrimped and saved—maybe even sold their bed—in order to, just once, taste the food of a master. And after that meal, that kid would never be the same. After that meal, that kid’s course would be set and their dreams would be solidified. After that meal, that kid would become Max’s competition, coming up behind him, ready to change the industry, just as Max had.
In thirteen years he had gone from being that twenty-three-year-old kid to being a written-off man on the verge of losing it all. How had that happened?
In his mind he took one more look around. Each chair, each place setting, each light fixture cost more than that meal had cost him thirteen years prior, but that meal had made every single thing that had come since possible.
He opened his eyes and saw Hadley studying him in what appeared to be complete and utter bafflement.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Max released a steady breath. “I never meant to hurt you, Hadley. I hope you know that. I’ll see you in the morning.”
22. Render and drain.
HADLEY
From the time I started watching Renowned, twenty-five or so years prior, I’m pretty sure I’d never missed a single episode. Not until my episode, that is. I was already in Manhattan in preparation of filming, which would kick off there for the week the next day, and during the premiere that Sunday evening, I put the Do Not Disturb sign on my hotel room door, turned off my phone, and took a bubble bath so long I had to refill the tub twice. I knew I wouldn’t be able to stand seeing it.
As I thought back over the footage that had been filmed, I couldn’t think of a single moment I wanted to relive. Not the annoyance I felt with him as I prepared Bouille Hadley, not our awkward on-camera evening exploring Nashville after our much, much worse off-camera squabble at Bluebird Cafe, and definitely not the two days of filming following our hotel confrontation. I knew, more than anything, I wouldn’t be able to stand watching Max be . . . fine.
At least he seemed fine. Healthy. Mature, even. And overwhelmingly unaffected by our last off-camera exchange. He walked into my house, greeted the crew, smiled a subdued smile at me, cooked when he was told to, complimented my food on-camera, and willingly took on more of a supporting role when I was the focus of filming.
It was awful.
Early Monday morning, I got a taxi from my Upper East Side hotel to Leo’s offices in the Flatiron District. I hadn’t seen him in person since I’d thought he was a trained assassin, sent to either kill me or steal my biscuit recipe, and I was pretty nervous walking into the professional high-rise office suite. It definitely gave off a different vibe than meetings with Meemaw in her bedroom while she watched TV.
“Good morning,” I was greeted pleasantly by a very attractive woman in her fifties, if I had to guess. “Can I help you?”
I cleared my throat, a bit nervously. “Yes, I’m here to see Leo Landry.”
“And you have an appointment?”
“I do.”
She regarded me with patience, though I suspected it was waning. “And your name?”
“Oh, sorry. I’m Hadley Beckett.”
She nodded and smiled with recognition and pushed a button on the elaborate phone system in front of her. “Leo, Hadley Beckett is here.”
“Thanks, Candace. Send her back.”
Pointed in the right direction, I walked through the desks back to Leo’s office, where he stood waiting at the door, arms outstretched. “How’s my favorite client?”
I laughed as he hugged me. “How many times do you greet people that way in a day, Leo?”
“Well, you’re the first today! That’s what matters.” He chuckled and invited me to sit. “Thanks for making time to stop by. I know you have a busy schedule while you’re here.”
“It’s not too bad, actually. We’re filming interviews with Chef Simons at the studio on Foodie Row today, and then we’re in the kitchen tomor—”
“What’s happening with you and Max Cavanagh?”
“Oh, um . . . well, nothing, really. Why?”
Leo leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “The climate. The climate in this industry can change as quickly as . . . well, as quickly as a pie you’re making if you accidentally stir in salt instead of sugar.”
“Okay . . .”
“Hadley, the network seems to think it’s time to boost Max’s profile again. They’re preparing to revive To the Max. They were impressed with him on last night’s episode, and based on early viewer reaction, he seemed to rise above a lot of the history and the assumptions people had made. In light of all that, there are probably going to be some tweaks made to the anticipated Renowned format for the season.”
I hadn’t even set my purse down yet.
“But Renowned is on a different network. What’s that have to do with To the Max coming back to the Culinary Channel?”
He stretched his arms over his head and yawned. “Well, it’s a small world, this food entertainment world of ours. It’s all interconnected. Producers, crews, hosts.” He leaned forward over his desk. “Look, I’m just going to give it to you straight. Your biggest asset is how much your viewers love you. You’re immensely likable. The problem is that suddenly, as of last night, Max Cavanagh is likable too. No one could have seen that coming. But when he comes across as new and improved, and you suddenly come across as cold and distant for the first time ever . . . well, it’s just not giving your viewers what they want.”
I was adept enough at holding my own in a roomful of men, but I was really only used to doing it with men who cooked. This was very different. It may have only been one man, but we sure weren’t speaking the language of food.
“I was cold and distant?”
“We always knew it was risky, putting the two of you together. Live and learn. But the network loves At Home with Hadley. Nothing to worry about there, hon. You’re gold. Renowned just isn’t going the way everyone hoped it would. You haven’t really found a rhythm—”
“It’s been a week, Leo. Seriously. A week.” And in that week, Max and I had changed our rhythm more often than a jazz trio. “I’m sure it will get better. We’re both professionals. We’ll do what needs to be done.”
“Of course. Of course! I don’t want you thinking this is anything to worry about.”
“Then what do you want me thinking?” I asked.
“I just want you to be prepared that Max may be thrown into a little more of a lead role on Renowned. For now. That’s all. Really. Nothing to worry about.” He picked his cell phone up from his desk and pushed a few buttons. “All right?” he asked, never looking up from his phone.
All right? I had no idea if anything was all right.
“Okay. Sure,” I replied. What other options were there?
He set his phone down and stood from his chair. “Seriously, kid, thanks for coming in. I wish you had more time. I’d show you New York.”
I followed his cues and stood. “I’ve seen New York. Um, so we’ll talk again, right? Soon?”
He ushered me out the door as he said, “You know, I’ve got a pretty busy few weeks ahead of me, but I’ll definitely have Candace keep you in the loop. Take care.”
And then I was standing among a roomful of people at desks, none of whom seemed to know or care in the slightest who I was. I walked back the way I had come in, and waved to Candace as I passed her desk.
“You have a good day, Hadley. Thanks for coming in.”
It wasn’t until I stepped into the elevator that I remembered.
“Your manager has a pretty high voice, does he?”
“Sorry. No. His assistant, Candace, does. She’s pretty much the only one I actually get to talk to anymore.”
The doors closed while Candace’s high-pitched voice was still echoing in my ears.
23. While that rests, prepare dry ingredients.
MAX
“Max!” Marshall Simons called out from the classy but comfortable Renowned living room.
Max rushed over to greet him. “Good morning, Marshall,” he said as he shook his hand. In spite of his lifelong daydreams of being best friends with Simons, and going on wild fishing expeditions in Wyoming, Max found himself just happy to be acknowledged. He took it as a good sign that maybe the second week of filming would go better than the first.
“Are you ready for this?” Marshall asked.
“I think so,” Max replied with a casual smile. “Just the normal sit-down?”
He nodded. “Assuredly.”
“Sounds good. And Hadley? Are we going to film together today?”
“No. Not today. But we’ll get you in the kitchen together tomorrow. Which reminds me. Your risotto ingredients list—”
“Already turned in.”
Marshall nodded, satisfied, while Max pushed away the disappointment of knowing he wouldn’t get to film with Hadley for another day and headed to the couch. He needed to talk to her, but texting wasn’t going to cut it.
Since that horrible night in Nashville, a week ago, Max had had time to reflect on all of it. Top to bottom. He now knew the drive from Tennessee to New York like he knew his risotto recipe, so there was plenty of time to process all the stupid things he’d said and done at any given point.
Once he was on the couch, he was instantly surrounded by makeup artists applying powder to his face and hair stylists who always seemed to leave his hair alone but obsessed meticulously over his beard. Within minutes, lighting was set up, Marshall had run through his gargling vocal exercises, and Lowell was calling action.
“Chef Maxwell,” Marshall began. “One of the greatest unexpected occurrences ever on Renowned has been, in my opinion, the thawing we have all witnessed between Chef Hadley and yourself. Talk about that, if you will.”
Talk about that? Talk about the thawing? Should he admit that they’d messed up a good thaw by not handling things properly, and what had once been thawed was now spoiled?
“Truthfully, that was pretty unexpected to me too.” You have no idea. “I’m really grateful that Hadley and I were able to get to know each other and find some common ground.”
Wow. That’s sexy stuff there, Max.
“How would you classify the current relationship between the two of you?”
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “She’s someone I care about a great deal, and I value her role in my life.”
“Chef Hadley having any role at all in your life is quite a feat indeed. Wouldn’t you agree? Considering you’ve put down her food, her cooking style, the way she handles herself in the kitchen . . . You even, as our viewers will see in an upcoming episode, called her a fraud.”
Max shot Marshall Simons a look of warning. Yes, the man was his hero, but he was skating very close to the line.
“That was off-camera. That was a private conversation.”
“Is there a distinction in your mind, Chef Maxwell, between what is acceptable on-camera versus what is acceptable when the cameras are not rolling?”
Max scoffed and looked toward where he knew Lowell to be standing, near the cameras. He was searching for answers, but he couldn’t see anyone in the bright studio lights so he turned back to Marshall.
“What is this? Why am I under attack here?”
Marshall looked briefly down at the index cards in his hands and then carried on. “No one is under attack, and I apologize if you have been made to feel as if you are.”
Max was overreacting. He knew he was. There was no doubt Simons had crossed a line by asking about something that had happened off-camera—although they had been miked at the time, Max realized right then, far too late. But Marshall was just asking the questions on his cards. He’d seen chefs take tough questions from him for years. Reputations had been ruined and reputations had been saved on the Renowned couch. The last thing Max needed was another breakdown for the highlight reel.
“No, I apologize,” he stated, with his best attempt at a humble, contrite smile. “I admit, you did take me off guard, asking me about what I had thought was a private conversation. But, no. There is no difference in what is acceptable when the cameras are rolling. It’s just that Hadley and I both said some things we regretted that evening. We have since made amends.”
Good save. Even if “amends” stretched the truth a little too far.
“Let’s go back a bit further,” Marshall continued with a nod, looking up from his cards. “To a conversation that was very public. Take me back to that infamous night on the set of America’s Fiercest Chef.”
Max should have known, he supposed. He should have known it had to come up sometime. It was relatively miraculous that he hadn’t been forced to talk about it until the second week. But now it was time, and they were no doubt in pursuit of the juicy sound bite that would be used to promo the show throughout the season. Proceed with caution, Max.
“I’m pretty sure there isn’t much that’s left to say on the topic.”
“I’d like to know—I think we’d all like to know—what was going through your mind?”
Max ran his hand through his hair and shuffled again in his seat. “The truth is, Chef Simons, I don’t fully remember. I had admittedly and very clearly had far too much to drink.”
“Do you remember interacting with Chef Hadley?”
He’d tried. He really had tried to remember. Oh, he remembered the first day of filming, and part of the second, but he knew Marshall was asking if he remembered the moments when he threw his career into the toilet.
“I don’t.” He shook his head slowly and deliberately. “To be honest, I do remember cooking. I remember them calling out her name instead of mine as the winner, but my reaction . . .” He shrugged and then instantly regretted it. A shrug probably came across as flippant, so he leaned forward, lowered his head, and rested his elbows on his knees. “Trust me . . . I deeply regret everything that happened.”
“I think what everyone really wants to know, Chef Maxwell, is what caused the destructive cycle that finally reached the point of no return on that horrible day?”
Max clenched his hands in front of him and raised his eyes to look at Marshall. “Is that what everyone wants to know, Chef Simons, or is that what you want to know? See, I think that you want to know, because you think talking about it will lead to ratings.”
“And it wouldn’t lead to ratings, Chef, unless people were out there, watching and wondering.”
He smiled at his prey in that same iconic way Max had been watching him smile at chefs for years. Funny how, until that moment, he’d never realized what a jerk his hero actually was.
He really should have known. Through the years he’d seen chefs he respected cry to Marshall Simons about the children they’d neglected and the drugs they’d abused; the parents who hadn’t loved them. How naïve Max had been to believe they’d all just felt like they could finally be open and honest, because Renowned had created a safe environment for them.
Well, it wasn’t going to happen this time. If he came across as evasive and withdrawn, that was a million times better than unnecessarily digging up the pain of the past.
“The fact is, Chef Simons, that I’ve worked very hard to become a better version of myself—”
“Yes, you spent a month in a rehabilitation facility, correct?”
Max sat up straight as heat rushed to his head. “I did go away to work on my anger issues, yes. I know I’ve done some damage, but I’m really doing all I can to put that all in the past. So, Chef Simons, while completely understanding why there is an interest in all of the drama, I’m afraid that at this time, I’m going to need to respectfully ask you to mind your own business.”
“I heard the sit-down was brutal,” Leo said to Max as he made his way through the parking lot. He was leaning up against Max’s Range Rover, parked in its temporarily designated parking space at the studio.
Max shooed him away as he approached, and Leo snickered as he removed his hands from the sparkling vehicle.
