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Diana’s heart dropped into her stomach. She smashed her fist on her leg. Why had she thought a text would do the trick? When she was twenty-three, she never would have listened to advice from an older woman. At that age, you had to listen to your heart and let it guide you. You had to make mistakes. It was the only way.
Diana felt tremendously old, out of touch, and tired. She wanted to fall into bed and sleep for a thousand years. But tomorrow morning would come all too soon—and the viewers were eager to see what happened next at The Clam Factory. Diana had to meet their demands.
Chapter Fourteen
Summer 2006
They’d had a string of rainy days in Tokyo. The air was humid, thick as a milkshake, and Diana sweated beneath her raincoat, walking alone in a massive city, looking for something delicious to eat.
It was her first day off from filming in what felt like ages. She felt sallow and weak from underfeeding herself, and she itched to laugh and have a drink to open herself up to the joys of being anonymous again.
When the rain escalated, Diana stumbled into a hole-in-the-wall noodle shop. Japanese men and women dined alone, using chopsticks to heave noodles into their mouths at incredible speeds. Diana ordered a dish with what she hoped was fish and stood at the counter, glancing left and right nervously. When the steaming noodle bowl was set before her, she leaped upon it, imitating the other diners and trying to match their eating patterns. But before long, she’d spackled her raincoat with broth, and it drizzled down her chin.
One of the restaurant workers handed her a wad of napkins and smiled. “It’s okay,” he said, his English heavily accented.
“Thank you. I mean, Arigato.” Diana smiled and cleaned herself up.
The worker seemed curious about her. Perhaps Diana had wandered into an area of the city where tourists often didn’t come. She hoped so. She was always on a quest to find the most authentic restaurants, the places that echoed decades of culinary mastery.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“It’s delicious,” Diana said. “The broth is sensational.”
She wanted to tell him that she was a chef, too. That she knew a thing or two about deliciousness. But she was tired of bragging about herself for personal gain. That was more Ryan’s thing, anyway.
“You are in Tokyo alone?” the worker asked as he slid a rag across one of the counters.
Diana thought for a moment. She remembered Ryan back at the hotel, drinking sake with one of the producers as they discussed his and Diana’s upcoming television series. She remembered Ryan speaking over her during a radio interview they’d conducted with a Japanese news show yesterday. She remembered.
And she said, “I’m alone, yes.”
It was a harmless lie. But for once, she adored seeing herself as only herself rather than a part of the married duo, Ryan and Diana March. The famous chef couple, whose faces were plastered across billboards in NYC, Los Angeles, and even London.
“Very pretty,” the Japanese man said.
Perhaps Diana should have been frightened at a strange man calling her pretty. But a tenderness in his gaze told her he was harmless. The restaurant swarmed with other diners, and she felt protected and safe.
“Thank you. Arigato.” She blinked away tears. When she wasn’t looking, the worker slid some Japanese dumplings, called gyoza, on a plate and set them to the left of her bowl. The simple act of kindness nearly made her sob.
It was hard to believe it had only been two years since Ryan and Diana had returned to the city from Rome. Very quickly, they’d had a screen test with the Cooking Channel, a very successful one that had the producers calling them “America’s next favorite couple.” Still accustomed to being alone (and thinking Ryan was too good for her), Diana had welcomed the chaos with open arms. Because of another show’s cancellation, they’d begun filming almost immediately, with their new show premiering in mid-October 2004. The turnaround time gave her whiplash. Within a few weeks, she and Ryan were recognized everywhere, with women giving Diana sidelong glances (usually of confusion) and openly flirting with Ryan while Diana waited beside him. Men flirted with Diana, too, but usually only as a compliment to Ryan, whom they respected and adored.
With money flowing through her life for the first time ever, Diana had shopped for apartments for herself. She imagined living in the trendiest boroughs of Manhattan, eating out at the best restaurants, and making friends with other chefs. But rather quickly, the producers explained that they needed Ryan and Diana to go out on the road. By December, they were in Paris, filming in exquisite restaurants in the Marais and staying in a beautiful apartment near the Eiffel Tower.
“Can you believe this?” Ryan had said as he’d hovered out on their iron balcony and gazed at the Eiffel Tower. “Ever since we got to Rome, it’s like our life has been a dream.”
Diana agreed that Rome was a dream. But the other stuff after that—the TV work, the makeup she was forced to wear, the diet she was forced to go on—wasn’t entirely dreamlike for her. She had a terrible hunch that Ryan was only with her, still, because they’d formed a brand together. Producers relied on their love, as did Ryan’s bank account. No matter how much she tried to talk herself out of that thought, it lingered.
It was here in Paris that Ryan suggested they get married. “We should get engaged on TV!” he said.
Apparently, he’d already pitched the idea to the producers. They were all in. Someone in Los Angeles was already planning an elaborate wedding for them the following late summer. Diana felt swept up in a tornado of changes. She felt her lips curve into a smile.
Of course, her parents were over the moon for her, as were her friends from home. The other graduates at the New York City culinary school Ryan and Diana had both attended were mystified, and one of them had written a blog accusing Diana and Ryan of “teaming up to con America into their love.” The blog had been read by thousands of people, including Diana. Ryan never mentioned if he’d seen it.
After Diana’s feast at the hole-in-the-wall restaurant, she thanked the worker with her most genuine smile and resumed her walk. It was early evening, and the city had begun to illuminate its tremendous, wild colors. She wondered if Ryan was looking for her, but when she checked her flip phone for news, there was nothing. Maybe he’d gotten drunk with the producers again. Maybe he’d met a flirty woman who was giving him enough attention for now.
Diana wasn’t entirely sure if Ryan was faithful. Sometimes it kept her awake at night, sweating buckets and thrashing beneath the sheets. But most of the time, she was able to shove the idea deep into the back closets of her mind and focus on the beautiful life she’d been given. Everyone dreamed of being a celebrity. And she was a celebrity for doing what she loved the most—cooking.
Diana returned to the hotel a little after eight to find Ryan and the producer still at the hotel bar. There wasn’t another woman in sight, but they were red-faced and laughing as though they’d just gotten away with something heinous. Diana decided not to ask.
