I snacked on fruit and cheese while the muffins were baking, but my stomach tells me it’s going to want more food sometime soon. Even if the men are in the zone, they’ll need to eat, too, so I return to the kitchen to consider my options.
As I’m looking through drawers in the refrigerator, a man I’ve never seen before walks in like he owns the place. He’s in his 50s, with dark blond hair graying at the temples and a hardened expression. He fixes me with a flat stare. “You must be Hazel.”
My stomach tenses. “Yes. Who are you?”
He picks up an apple from the bowl on the counter, looks at it for a second, then puts it back. “Roddy Filmore. The Pythons’ manager.”
“Oh.” I’d better be polite to him, even if he is giving me a bad feeling. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He looks me up and down and grunts something that might be a reciprocal sentiment. When hewidens his focus to take in the entire kitchen, I say, “I’m just about to make dinner. Will you be eating with us?”
This earns me a longer look, paired with a curiously blank expression. “What are you making?” he says at last.
Good question. “Do you know if the band has any favorite foods?” I ask on a whim. “They’ve been in the studio all day, and I don’t want to bother them.”
After a brief hesitation, Roddy says, “They eat a lot of crap. I’m sure whatever you make will be an improvement.”
There’s a strange pang in my heart at the thought of my men(My men! Listen to me!)not eating right. I have a sudden strong urge to take care of them, even though I know they’re grown men who know how to look after themselves.
“What about you?” I ask Roddy. “Any requests?”
With a half-laugh, he says, “I eat a lot of crap, too.” After a pause, he adds, “Nothing too heavy, yeah? Maybe just some sandwiches.”
When I smile and say, “Okay,” he shoots me another odd look and leaves the kitchen.
Sandwiches are actually a great idea, since I have no idea how many people will be eating with us or whateveryone likes. Rather than making individual sandwiches, I arrange a big platter with all of the meats and cheeses I can find, along with other fixings. I fill another platter with various breads, and gather condiments together in the front of the refrigerator so I can bring them out when we’re ready to eat.
I fill bowls with chips and pretzels, toss a big salad, and set out stacks of plates, bowls, and silverware so everyone can help themselves.
When everything’s ready, I slip into the studio, where I find the men talking to Roddy. Rafe spots me first and alerts his brothers, who turn my way.
“Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to let you know that dinner’s ready, if you’re hungry.” With a wave, I slip back out and return to the kitchen, where I don’t have long to wait and wonder when they might come in to eat.
Thank goodness I set out a lot of food, because more people show up than I even realized were here. I recognize a couple of the security staff, and see familiar faces that were in the studio.
Conal, Rafe, and Bron help get drinks for everyone, and they don’t take food until everyone else has filled a plate. Some people wander out of the kitchen with their food—god knows there are plenty of places around this house to sit—but thelarge dining table that adjoins the kitchen is nearly full when the brothers lead me there to eat with them.
“Thanks for doing this, babe,” Conal says, not for the first time.
“Everything’s really good, and those muffins were amazing,” Bron says.
Everyone at the table is contentedly munching, and even though this is just simple food that I didn’t even cook, it gives me a warm feeling knowing I put it together and everyone’s enjoying it.
I decide on the spot that I’ll try to cook at least one meal a day while we’re here, and bake as many goodies as the men want.
After Roddy puts away two sandwiches like he hasn’t eaten in days, he talks to the guys about upcoming tour plans. He mostly ignores me, and when he does look my way, he seems disapproving. I can’t tell if that’s his general personality, or if there’s something about me in particular that he’s unhappy about.
As we’re finishing up, a middle-aged woman comes into the kitchen with grocery bags in both hands. She goes about putting away her purchases without paying any attention to us. With the men still engaged in discussion with Roddy, I go over andintroduce myself, and find out she’s the housekeeper.
I want to make sure I’m not stepping on any toes in her extremely-orderly kitchen, but her general outlook is the same as Conal’s: I can do whatever I want here.
What she won’t let me do, however, is clean up. In fact, she shoos me away when I try to help, and the men have already returned to the studio, so I’m left to wander the house, looking for a diversion.
It’s dark out now, and everything looks different and beautiful in new ways inside the house. The palm trees I photographed earlier through the windows are now cast in dramatic lighting, so I take more pictures.
I roam around the back yard, where the white noise of the pool’s waterfall lulls me into sleepiness. I wonder how late the men will be working?
They’re still in the studio when I go back inside, so I go upstairs and sit out on the balcony for a while, where the view of the Strip is much more colorful than it was earlier today.
