I remember it like it was yesterday. But then, that’s how certain days stand out in our minds, isn’t it? Most of them pass like a gentle breeze, pleasant enough, then forgotten. But there are other days–those other days–that are etched in our brains. Have I tried to forget the details? You bet! So far, it’s not working.
I woke up early as usual because Meghan Cohan (yes, that Megan Cohan, the Hollywood megastar) wanted to take an early morning run and as her personal chef, I was responsible for providing the fuel.
Almond milk, Greek yogurt, bananas, flax seed and of course, kale. It was a powershake recipe I’d developed over the months I’d worked for Meghan and one of the first I planned to showcase on the TV cooking show she was helping me develop. Me? A TV celebrity? Let me tell you, for a woman who’d grown up in the foster system and learned to cook at the greasy foods diner where the one and only foster parent who never gave up on her worked, it was a dream come true.
Yeah, a dream. But some dreams turn into nightmares, don’t they? And that’s what happened that day when Meghan ran down the drive of her Malibu mansion and found every paparazzi in LA there waiting for her. The news was out--her teenage son was going into drug rehab, and for a star who’d always publicized herself as Mother of the Year, the results were devastating.
For Meghan, and for me.
See, taking responsibility isn’t one of Meghan’s strong suits, and she wasn’t about to start with all that negative publicity staring her in the face. She blamed me for leaking the story (not true, by the way) and before I could say, “protein powder and flax seed,” I was out on my keister.
It should come as no surprise, Meghan’s got clout. There wasn’t another star who would touch me, even the ones who’d always said they couldn’t wait until I was looking for a job so they could scoop me up. The same goes for writers, directors, producers, and the owner of every restaurant on both the East and West coasts worth their salt.
I was used to Malibu, the beach house in Maui, the villa in Tuscany. And now . . .
I just got a call from Sophie Charnowski, the sister of my former foster mother. Sophie owns an elegant linen-tableclothes-and-candlelight kind of place in Ohio, and she’s having knee replacement soon. I’m heading out. At least choosing fine wine and overseeing a staff that makes Caesar salad at patrons’ tables will keep me busy until I can figure out what I’m going to do next.
Hopping in the car! See you in Ohio!