“No, I just mean . . . I’m simple.”
That sly grin overtook his face again. “I beg to differ.”
“I mean my cooking is simple.” Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Lowell near the stage, gesturing for me to adjust my position slightly. I did—first my chair and then my body, just a little more in Max’s direction. “I’m not like you or Wolfgang Puck or Jacques Pépin. I’m certainly not like Julia.” I sighed. “I don’t know . . . I just kind of fell into the whole thing. What I do seems to work—”
“But don’t you wonder what else is out there? Don’t you want to push yourself? Expand your horizons?”
“I do that. I’m trying new things all the time.”
I resisted the temptation to bring up my Southern/Indian fusion dish from America’s Fiercest Chef, and the way it had trounced all over his expanded horizons.
“And that’s good,” he continued. “I don’t doubt that you do. I’m just saying—”
“Hadley!” Lowell called out, and I turned to face him. “We’re getting ready to roll, and I had you just where I wanted you, hon. I need you to quit scooting away from Max.”
“Sorry,” I replied with a wave and a readjustment.
“Look,” I said to Max as I shifted back in. “I’m just different than you.” I raised my eyes to look at his—I just hadn’t really realized they would be so close. But they weren’t on me right then. The other table had at least momentarily claimed his attention. I cleared my throat and looked back down at my lap. “You just don’t need to talk to me like I’m one of those college girls back there, making googly eyes at you. Okay? I’m doing pretty well. I’m not doing it like you, but I’m doing pretty well.”
“I’d say.” He shifted in his seat.
“Hey, what’s your problem?”
“My problem?”
“Yes, Max. Your problem. You’re talking to me like I’m your new apprentice, fresh out of culinary school. Believe me, I fully recognize that you’re further along and have had more success than I have, but—”
“I’m just making conversation.”
“No, you’re not. You’re talking down to me, just like you always have.”
He leaned in closer to me and spoke through his teeth, with great emphasis. “What is happening right now?”
I jumped up from my seat and shouted, “You tell me!”
I saw Chef Simons peek from behind the curtain and then issue a command to Lowell, who promptly ran over to us.
“Everything okay, you two?”
Fillet knife. Grapefruit knife. Herb knife. Ice pick.
“It’s fine, Lowell. Sorry. We’re just . . .” How could I possibly explain it? “Sorry,” I concluded with a resigned sigh. I looked down at Max, who appeared to be extremely focused on taking and releasing deep breaths.
Lowell was as focused on Max as I was. “Are you going to be able to pull it together, Max?” he asked. “Filming will begin the moment Marshall steps out on that stage, which is going to be about thirty seconds after I walk away. So I need you to cool down. Got it?”
My eyes flashed to Max and I saw it. For the first time, I understood, at least somewhat, what his life had become. The stigma and assumptions and rash judgments that had become his constant companions.
I quickly swiped the moisture away from the corners of my eyes and cleared my throat. “It’s fine, Lowell.” I sat back down in my seat, hoping to catch Max’s attention, but his eyes were still closed, and his shoulders were still rising and falling with regulated breathing. “That . . . I mean . . . Max didn’t do anything. That was my fault. We’ll be ready. About thirty seconds, you say?”
He looked at Max again, skeptically, and then turned to me. “You’re a saint, hon.” He smiled and rubbed my upper arm before saying, “Okay, so Marshall is going to get up there, get the crowd involved a bit, explain that they shouldn’t ham for the camera. That sort of thing. We’ll be filming through all of that, but for all intents and purposes we’ll really get going as soon as he steps off. At that point, just dive into some conversation. If you can’t come up with anything to say to each other, we’ll have someone nearby, prepared to hold up some conversation cues.”
“Got it,” I said to Lowell with a smile.
“Thirty seconds!” he shouted as he walked away.
I quickly leaned in toward Max and placed my hand on his arm. Under my fingers I could practically feel the frustration and tension coursing through his veins.
“Max, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
His head snapped around toward me and his entire body quickly followed in his chair. “You’re so hypocritical. If I call you doll, it’s harassment and discrimination. And I’m not saying it was right that I ever did that. It wasn’t. But you just kill me, because if Marshall Simons calls you darling and kisses you on the cheek, or Lowell calls you hon and rubs your arm, you enjoy every minute of it. You don’t even realize that they’re being so much more demeaning than I ever was. All you care about is whether or not it’s a win in the Hadley column.”
“Hadley and Max, please face front. Five seconds!” Lowell called out.
We resumed our choreographed positions as he concluded his attack. “You can be whatever kind of fraud you want to be. I just wish you’d be consistent.”
Suddenly Chef Simons was on the stage, thanking the crowd for being there and assuring them they would not be deprived of the up-and-coming country music act they had come to see, despite the chefs and cameras in their midst. He introduced Max and me—Max waved, I smiled, I think—and the crowd cheered. I was doing an okay job—I mean, not really, but sort of—not letting it all break through the surface. I kept it all at arm’s length until Max squeezed my hand. His touch surprised me but not nearly as much as the emotion I saw in his eyes once I dared to look.
He mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”
I pulled my hand from his—for too many reasons to count.
All too soon, Chef Simons was off the stage, and it was time for chitchat. It was time for all the brilliant conversation that we’d been urged to save for the cameras.
“So . . .” I began, simultaneously crossing my arms and legs and looking toward the stage. “Have you ever been to the Bluebird?”
21. Heat to a scald.
MAX
Well, that had been a disaster.
After another thirty minutes at the Bluebird, during which they’d mostly just listened to some awful country music and managed to say approximately nineteen words to each other—none of which were remotely interesting—Hadley and Max had been whisked away for drinks and tapas at some hot spot. The only problem with that was that Hadley never drank alcohol, and Max didn’t anymore. And neither of them had much of an appetite after all that had occurred.
Filming was cut mercifully short for the night, since it was easy for everyone to see there was really no point to any of it. They had enough shots of the two of them sitting across from each other in awkward silence to last through multiple seasons of Renowned.