The Chicken Sisters(11)
But it was hard to stay calm when other people were so frustrating. Throughout that entire meeting, she’d wanted to shake Christine out of her ridiculous shoes. Mae had come home and composed an e-mail with all the things she hadn’t been able to say—a gracious acceptance that of course they’d audition others, a list of all the reasons she was perfect for this job, and a promise to change in all the ways they needed her to change—and then she’d added that her hiatus from Sparkling was perfectly timed, because she’d been asked to do a few episodes of Food Wars. Smoke that, Christine. She had other opportunities, so Sparkling better snap her back up.
No need to mention that Food Wars had nothing to do with her and everything to do with her mother’s chicken restaurant, which no one in New York even knew existed. Barbara would want as little camera time as possible, and that suited Mae, who was happy to be the face of Mimi’s revival. She’d be on set, sharing with her five hundred thousand current followers and capturing Food Wars followers, which would make her even more attractive to Sparkling and her book publisher. Amanda’s stupid idea was going to save her.
If the Food Wars episodes were popular enough, they could push Mae beyond Sparkling entirely. She could leap straight to a show of her own. One Food Wars restaurant had been given its own show—the one that made the crazy wedding cakes in Vegas. It could happen, and it was even more likely to happen to someone like Mae, who was already on the edge of viral. Gazing at the Food Wars website (and avoiding the headline story of the barbecue chef whose highly falsified culinary résumé had come to light during a recent taping), Mae had contemplated the crossover between home organization and food and come up with the perfect solution, and one that solved the dilemma of her next book as well. She could help people organize and simplify their kitchens, shopping lists, and family cooking habits. It was perfect: Less Is Moore in the Kitchen.
Mae was almost convinced that this was better than the Sparkling plan, except that Sparkling was a done deal, and this would require connecting a whole lot of dots. She had her foot in the door, though, and that was what mattered. She would make it happen, and once she had a television-size fan base, one that wanted her specifically, she’d be set.
She placed her laptop on the counter and started typing before she forgot any of her great ideas, but just as she’d started playing around with an actual pitch, she heard the clink of the gate outside their stoop. Quickly, she stowed her laptop away. This was not the day to be working when Jay came home.
The door swung open, and Jay burst in with his usual vigor, one arm behind his back. He hugged her with the other and produced, with a flourish, a bottle of champagne. “I’m so sorry,” he said, and then, as he caught sight of the look on her face—Champagne? She knew he hated her job at Sparkling, but champagne?—quickly went on. “Not to celebrate. But my mom always says bubbles aren’t just for when you’re already feeling bubbly.”
If Mae had hated Jay’s mom before, she really hated her now. That was exactly the kind of empty pronouncement she would make, probably just before ignoring her grandchildren and leaving on a yearlong cruise around the world. Mae shrugged, and Jay leaned down and hugged her again around the bottle, his tall form making her feel even smaller than usual. “You’ll come up with something great to do next. I know you will.”
He meant this nicely, he really did, and it was sweet, especially after all the arguments they’d had over Sparkling in the first place. She hugged him back. She needed him to be on board with her plans, and while she knew that wasn’t likely to be his first reaction, she also knew he could get there, if he just understood how perfectly this could all work out and what it could mean for her. That meant she needed to give him calm, collected Mae. Mae who knew what she was doing. Mae who took setbacks gracefully and was always moving upward.
“I already have an idea,” she said. “But sit. Eat. Come on, I made us dinner.”
Jay looked at the table set for two—nothing in front of the high chair and the booster seat. “Where are Madison and Ryder?”
“I sent them with Jessa to the diner, just for an hour.”
“Which means you have a plan.” He set down his workbag on the counter and started up the stairs as Mae picked up the bag to hang it in the hallway. “I’m changing first,” he said. “I can’t handle a plan in my work clothes.”
When he came back, now in yoga pants, black hair mussed from where he’d pulled on his favorite 76ers T-shirt, he sat down and looked at the table appreciatively while Mae handed him his plate. “This is service,” he said. “Very Mad Men.”
Mae took a champagne glass from the shelf and began to pour as she had learned from watching him, glass tilted, but not too carefully, because those who were used to champagne handled it with a certain insouciance. Inside, she was calculating. Champagne meant an extra hundred calories, which meant she wouldn’t eat the rice she had put on her plate to go with the stew, but she’d have to make it look like she did, because her avoidance of rice—and white bread, and pasta, and all of their many high-glycemic friends—annoyed Jay endlessly.
He took his glass, then held it out. “I know. We’re not toasting. This sucks. But, Mae, it’s also your chance. Our chance. You’re always talking about seizing opportunities, and we could grab this one. Take my mom up on her plan, go to India, meet her family. Take a break from New York.”