A Catered Christmas. Isis Crawford

said. That was news to her.

      “And any friend of hers is a friend of mine, which is why I hope you don’t mind my giving you a teeny piece of advice.”

      Bernie could see her sister’s shoulders stiffening as she said, “Not at all.”

      “Good,” Hortense said. “I knew you wouldn’t. Bree told me you go for the rumpled look, but I hope you’re planning to change into something more flattering than what you’re wearing. What you have on makes you look a tad chunky, so I can’t imagine what it will do on TV. You do know the camera adds between ten and twenty pounds to your weight?”

      “I know,” Libby said, her complexion having gone to beet red.

      “Wonderful,” Hortense said. “Now I suggest you all adjourn to the green room. I have to finish with my hair and get into my Santa Claus outfit. I adore dressing up, and this outfit is so fun. I got it made especially for me by Auberge. Auberge the designer.”

      “I know who Auberge is,” Bernie told her.

      Hortense rewarded her with a perfunctory smile. “How clever of you. And by the way, in case any of you are interested, the list of ingredients for tomorrow’s dinner is with me.” She patted the breast pocket of what Bernie was sure was a one hundred percent silk robe. “And will continue to be, not that it would occur to any of you to try and riffle through my file cabinet to find it. However, I feel one can never be too careful in matters such as these. Isn’t that right, Consuela?”

      Consuela nodded.

      “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” Hortense told her.

      “That’s right,” Consuela said, looking down at the floor.

      Hortense nodded her approval.

      “Good. Eric will fill you in on the routine when everyone gets here. We thought it might be good if we did some team-building exercises before the show, right, Eric?”

      “Right,” Eric repeated.

      “Just checking,” Hortense said. “Sometimes I think I give you too much to do. I’ve been wondering lately if I haven’t been overburdening you. There’s so much involved. Perhaps it would be better if I split this job in two.”

      “I’m fine,” Eric muttered.

      Hortense absentmindedly touched one of the foils in her hair. “I’m glad to hear that. I was worried. You seem to be forgetting things, small things it’s true, like yesterday when you forgot to put out my eyelash curler; but still, once material starts to unravel, it’s hard to stop. Generally, one has to cut the material and resew it.”

      Was that a threat? Bernie wondered as she noted the expression of fear on Eric’s face.

      “Or perhaps,” Hortense continued, “you need a vacation. You haven’t had one in a while.”

      “I’m fine,” Eric insisted.

      Hortense looked Eric up and down. Then she finally said, “If you say so.”

      “I do.”

      “I work him terribly hard,” she confided to Libby. Then she turned back to Eric. “Listen,” she said. “Don’t forget about the Christmas tree ornaments.” At which point she turned and headed toward the door. When she got to it, she stopped and turned around. “Bernie,” she said.

      “Yes,” Bernie replied sweetly, wondering what un-nice thing Hortense was going to say to her.

      “I don’t mean to appear picky—”

      “But that’s why you’re famous,” Bernie interjected. She was gratified to see a slight flush forming on Hortense’s cheeks.

      “But those shoes,” Hortense continued.

      “I know. They’re Jimmy Choos. Aren’t they fabulous?” Bernie gushed. In her opinion, a good offense was always the best defense. Then, for good measure, she flashed Hortense her best smile. “Did I say anything?” she asked Eric, playing the innocence card as Hortense beat a retreat.

      “Huh? No. Yes. I mean no. I have to get her tea. She hates being interrupted before a show.”

      Bernie nodded. “You know that the sinks in the kitchen aren’t working properly,” Bernie informed him.

      “I’ll tell Joe.” Eric was doing a little dance with his feet. He looked at his watch. “He should be here soon to show everyone around the set and answer any questions that people have.”

      Now it was Bernie’s turn to look at her watch. They had a half hour to go before the meeting. “Maybe we should adjourn to the green room,” Bernie said brightly.

      “Yes, maybe you should,” Eric said. “If you’ll excuse me, Hortense is waiting.” And he bolted out the door.

      “Can you imagine working for her?” Libby asked Bernie as she slipped in beside her.

      “That would be my definition of hell,” Bernie replied.

      “Mine too,” Libby replied.

       Chapter 3

      Libby looked down at her watch. It was only five minutes after four. If someone had asked her, she would have sworn it was six o’clock. At the very least. To distract herself, she studied the buffet set out on a table alongside the far wall of the green room.

      She didn’t know what she’d been expecting in the way of food but it certainly wasn’t this. What you had here was breakfast food and bad breakfast food at that. And then there was the table. It was cliché city.

      The bright red tablecloth, the green paper plates, the red plastic knives, forks, and spoons, and the napkins with giggling Santas on them. And then there was the tired-looking poinsettia someone had plunked down in the middle of the table. At least someone should have taken the price tag off. From anyone else, this might have been acceptable but not from Hortense Calabash.

      Libby tapped the fingers of her right hand against her chin. What would she serve in this situation? Something filling but light. Something that could stay at room temperature. Something that would give people energy. Something they could nibble on if they were nervous.

      Perhaps bowls filled with different varieties of olives, a nice cheese platter, and a bowl of Marcona almonds. Then she’d add some good, sliced Italian semolina bread, as well as a basket filled with Cortland and Gala apples and some perfectly ripe pears.

      For those who wanted something sweet, she’d put out a platter of assorted, bite-sized cookies and another platter of mini cupcakes. Libby was thinking that she’d decorate the cupcakes with little icing wreaths when Bernie appeared at her side.

      “This food is awful,” Libby said to her.

      Bernie looked down at the table and shrugged her shoulders. “What can I say? It’s your standard green room buffet spread. You’ve got your classic bagels on steroids, your little containers of disgusting-tasting concord grape jelly, other slightly larger containers of cream cheese preserved with enough gum to turn it into a good substitute for paste, bad eight-hundred-calorie muffins, stale donuts, and brown-colored water in place of coffee.”

      “That’s a fairly accurate description,” Libby allowed.

      “It should be. I’ve seen enough of them. They probably have the prototype of this in the Smithsonian in an exhibit labeled ‘classic bad food of the late twentieth/early twenty-first century,'” Bernie mused. She gestured toward the table. “Have you ever noticed that the farther away you get from something the more faux it becomes—even in food. Take bagels, for instance.”

      “Must we?” Libby said, knowing a food rant was coming.

      Bernie ignored her. “From what I can gather,” she said, “bagels originated in southern Germany