Too Many Cooks by Dana Bate Read Free Book Online Page A

House takes up the entire block on this stretch of Weymouth Street, in a section of London called Marylebone, a neighborhood whose name I’m still not entirely sure how to pronounce (Maree-le-bone? Mar-le-bone? Marill-bone? I have no idea). Across the street, a cherry-red wine shop called Nicolas advertises a special on cabernet sauvignon, the deal scrawled in swooping cursive on a big black chalkboard. On the street perpendicular to Weymouth, smartly dressed people bustle in and out of a chic grocery-cum-restaurant named Villandry, whose sage-colored awnings stretch across the sidewalk. On this crisp May morning, a few men and women sit at small tables outside, sipping coffee and nibbling on croissants and toast.
    â€œHello?” says a man’s voice through the intercom.
    â€œHi, this is Kelly Madigan. Poppy Tricklebank sent me?”
    â€œAh, yes. Just a moment.”
    He hangs up as the driver wheels my suitcases up behind me, and, a second later, a stocky man with wild brown hair and stubbly jowls opens the front gate.
    â€œHello,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand. “I’m Tom, the building manager.”
    â€œNice to meet you.”
    â€œYour flat was serviced this morning. The keys are in my office, so if you’ll follow me . . .”
    I reach for my suitcases and notice the driver standing behind them. Crap—a tip. I forgot to get money from the ATM and have nothing to give him.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” I say, fumbling for my wallet. “I only have dollars.”
    The driver raises his hand. “Miss Tricklebank has taken care of everything. Have a lovely stay.”
    He heads back to his car, and I follow Tom into Hampden House, whose foyer is lined with thick ruby carpeting, the walls stark white. Tom grabs one of my suitcases and leads me into his office on the ground floor. The small room is stuffed with books, magazines, and, as far as I can tell, junk—empty boxes, candy wrappers, torn sheets of bubble wrap, a bicycle wheel. A scuffed desk sits in the back corner, crammed between the wall and a bookcase, the surface covered with papers, a desktop computer, and a clunky black telephone.
    He grabs a small key ring off his desk. “Right. This is the key to the front gate, which locks automatically behind you. If you forget your key, you can call my office between the hours of eight and five during the week, and I will let you in. On Saturdays, you can reach me between nine and noon. Outside those hours . . . well, you’re buggered, I’m afraid. But sometimes if you ring one of the other flats, someone will let you in.”
    His words come at me fast and furious, with a husky English accent, many of the terms—“serviced,” “buggered”—foreign to my American ears.
    He holds up the second key on the key ring. “This is the key to your flat, which is just down the hall. If you lose either of these keys, the replacement fee is forty-five pounds and a bottle of wine.” He smirks. “Kidding about the wine.” Then he winks and cups his hand to his mouth conspiratorially. “But not really.”
    He hands me the set of keys. “I have an extra key, if you plan to have visitors. A boyfriend, perhaps? Or a family member?”
    â€œNope. Just me.”
    â€œIn that case, one will do. Please don’t make copies. For security reasons, anything to do with keys must go through me.”
    â€œGot it.”
    He wheels one of my suitcases toward the door. “Right. Off we go.”
    I follow Tom down the hallway, passing a wooden console lined with unopened mail, above which hangs a large gilded mirror. Tom slows his step as we reach the door to Flat #2.
    â€œHere we are,” he says. He sticks the key in the lock and jiggles it back and forth. “The lock can be a bit sticky. Ah. There we go.” He gestures inside. “After you.”
    I walk through the doorway into a small, carpeted