Coming Clean

by Sue Margolis

  “Wow. That’s put my mind at rest no end.”

  Just then Mum appeared. “Phil, what are you doing waiting outside? Let’s go in and show Sophie the bathroom.”

  “Shit, Phil,” I hissed. “We can’t go in. Dad’s still on the phone. Mum will hear everything. You have to think of something.”

  He did. “Mum … actually Sophie’s got to go,” he blurted. “Ben’s just been sick. Too many sweets. Why don’t you and I get back to the house?”

  The picture on my screen was all over the place now, but I saw Phil take Mum’s arm and start leading her away from the granny annex.

  “But Ben was fine a few minutes ago,” Mum protested. “And where’s your dad with the maple syrup?”

  “He’s coming. He’s coming.”

  The screen went black.

  Chapter 7

  “I can’t believe it,” Gail said, all winter white fun fur and Canary Islands tan. “Dad sees hookers?”

  “Well, so far it’s hooker, singular.”

  “Whatever. And he takes his buddies. Words fail me. It’s sick, perverted, obscene. Our father involved in this kind of debauchery? And at his age. How could he do this to Mum? Has he gone stark staring mad?” She paused. “I’ve got it. It’s Alzheimer’s. He’s losing his mind. It’s the only explanation.”

  I had to admit that the possibility had occurred to me and Phil. “On the other hand, when you speak to him he seems no different than usual. He’s not confused. His memory’s fine.”

  “Alzheimer’s can strike in odd ways,” Annie said. “Risk taking can be a symptom. One night my granddad wandered out of his care home and the police caught him playing chicken on the motorway.”

  • • •

  It was New Year’s Day and Gail, Annie and I were at Gino’s on Hampstead Heath, about to order brunch.

  Gail and I had a New Year’s Day tradition going back years, of taking a long walk on the heath and then going for brunch at Gino’s. We had a strict no-husbands-or-kids rule, but a girlfriend at loose ends was always welcome. Today Annie had come along. She’d called yesterday to wish me a happy new year. During our brief conversation—I was getting dolled up for Debbie-from-down-the-road’s New Year’s Eve bash and running late—it emerged that she was still feeling pretty troubled and hadn’t been sleeping. She said that as much as she wanted to go back to work—and there had been a development in that area, which she would tell me about when we had more time to talk—the idea of leaving the boys was tearing her apart. The upshot was that she felt in dire need of a shoulder for crying on and hoped that mine might be available. Since Annie and Gail had always gotten along and two shoulders had to be better than one, I suggested she join us on the heath.

  This New Year’s Day, though, the rain was falling like bullets, so we’d been forced to abandon our walk. Instead we’d headed straight to Gino’s.

  Annie looked tired and I was eager to move the conversation onto her troubles, but Gail—whose sensitivity to people’s emotional needs rarely extended beyond her own—was preoccupied with Dad, his buddies and Anita the hooker, and she refused to let the subject drop. She seemed to find it gruesome, but unputdownable.

  She managed to break off when the waitress came to take our order—three full English breakfasts, OJ and cappuccino—but the moment the waitress was gone, she was off again.

  “What about Mum? It would kill her if she found out.”

  “And suppose he gave her some kind of disease,” I said. “Greg reminded me that the statistics among the elderly have skyrocketed in the last few years.”

  Gail shook her head. “Christ, it doesn’t bear thinking about.” She paused. “So you discussed this with Greg?”

  “I couldn’t not. He saw the look on my face after I came off Skype. He knew something was up.”

  “Phil has to talk to Dad,” Gail said. “He’s a doctor. He’ll be able to work out whether it’s Alzheimer’s. Assuming it’s not, then he needs to read him the riot act.”

  We decided that the only way forward was to have a conference Skype with Phil and Betsy.

  By now the waitress had arrived with our plates of bacon, eggs, sausages, tomato and fried bread. As we downed our OJ, squirted brown sauce over our fry-ups and acknowledged that we could already feel our thighs thickening and our ventricles slamming shut, we asked the waitress if, when she brought us our coffee, she could also furnish us with white toast, butter and jam.

  “So,” Annie said, doing her best to sound chirpy. “How was everybody’s New Year’s Eve?” She dipped some sausage into creamy fried egg yolk. “Rob dragged me up to town to this new French place, which I have to admit was sensational, but the West End was mobbed. We couldn’t get parked and had to walk for miles. And when we came out, it was pouring, just like it is now. There were no cabs, so we were soaked by the time we got back to the car.”

  “Well, at least you got out,” Gail said. “Murray and I were in bed by nine.” It seemed that Murray had come back from the Canaries with a “chest.” “I suppose I could have left him, but you know what men are like. He managed to do such a good impression of a Victorian miner expiring from silicosis that I didn’t have the heart.”

  “Well, Debbie’s party was great,” I said, explaining that I’d been able to accept the invitation only because the kids were spending New Year’s with Greg and his mother at her place. “Debbie and her husband had managed to off-load her kids, too, so we all got pretty wasted. I think I must have rolled home some time after two. I remember not being able to get my key in the door and that I was singing ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.’”

  It suddenly struck me how insensitive and Gail-like I was being. The night before, Annie had phoned me almost in tears and I hadn’t even asked her how she was. I was about to tell her how worried I was about her and ask how she was doing when Gail broke in.

  “So, Soph, how was Christmas Day with Greg?”

  “Oh God—yes, how did it go?” Annie said, clearly eager to find out and giving no impression she felt I was neglecting her.

  “As usual, seeing him has left me feeling a bit discombobulated. It just felt so odd having him there as a guest in his own home. Oh, and we also managed to have a fight.”

  I explained that FHF wanted to take the kids up in a hot air balloon. The consensus was that I should have been consulted and had every right to feel put out that I hadn’t been.

  “Oh,” I said. “And FHF got me a Christmas present.”

  “No! You’re kidding,” Gail said.

  “According to Greg, she meant it as a peace offering.”

  “So what did she give you?” Annie asked.

  I bent down and reached into my bag. I wasn’t sure why I’d brought it with me—to give Gail and Annie a laugh, I suppose. “OK, you have to promise not to make me put it on.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Annie said. “It’s one of those Christmas sweaters covered in reindeer and holly.”

  “Far worse,” I said as I unpacked FHF’s Christmas peace offering and laid it on the table.

  “What on earth is that?” Gail said, peering at the thing as if it were some newly discovered animal species.

  “It’s a hand-knitted Peruvian earflap hat,” Annie obliged.

  Gail looked none the wiser.

  Then, before I could stop her, Annie shoved the earflap hat on my head. “Ooh, very vegan women’s cooperative, I’m sure.” She burst out laughing.

  “Gorgeous, isn’t it?” I said to Gail, turning my head to the left and then to the right so that she could get the full effect.

  My sister leaned forward, her fingers making tentative contact with the long-plaited tassel. “I say again. What is it?”

  Just then the waitress arrived with the toast and jam. “Oh—and, miss,” Annie said, “my friend would like a side order of mung beans with that, please.”

  I snatched off the hat, slapped Annie playfully on the arm and explained to the bewildered-looking waitress that my friend was joking.

/>   “Hang on,” Gail said. “There’s something I’m not getting. Does FHF genuinely think this thing is attractive or has she sent it to you because she knows it’s horrible and she’s just being a bitch?”

  I said that I couldn’t be certain, but judging by the pictures I’d seen of FHF, I suspected it was the kind of thing she wore herself. Annie agreed that earflap hats were the epitome of earthy feminist chic and said I had no choice but to give FHF the benefit of the doubt and send her a polite thank-you note. She picked up a piece of fried bread and wrapped it around some streaky bacon.

  “I can’t believe I’m eating this,” Annie said, bringing the bread to her mouth. “Usually when I’m stressed, I go right off food.”

  “Lucky you,” Gail said, making a start on the toast and jam. “I’m the complete opposite.”

  “She’s not wrong,” I said, watching my sister’s knife quarrying into thick Normandy butter. “When Carl, her hairdresser, threatened to move to New York, she gained thirty pounds.”

  “I did not,” Gail said, laughing. “It was only five and you know it. So come on, Annie—why are you so stressed? Soph has only put me partly in the picture. Why don’t you tell your Aunty Gail all about it.”

  Suddenly my sister had morphed into Dr. Ruth.

  Annie didn’t hold back. She told Gail how she’d finally admitted to herself that being a full-time mum was depressing the hell out of her. “Don’t get me wrong. I love the boys to bits, but I’m getting almost phobic about being around them. Before I had children, I had all these romantic notions about motherhood.”

  Gail burst out laughing. “Of course you did. We all did. Then reality sets in and you realize that kids are essentially noise covered in poo and puke and that they stretch your patience—not to mention your vagina—to unimaginable dimensions. Like you, I’d give my children my kidneys and both lungs if they needed them, but there are times—like when they use your Chanel lipsticks as face paint—that you wish you’d stayed a virgin.”

  I said that, for me, it was when Amy refused to sleep for months on end and I had to get up and go to work each morning. But I took her point.

  “It wouldn’t be so bad,” Annie said, “if Rob helped around the house. I know he works long hours and he’s permanently exhausted and I do try to make allowances, but so far this Christmas there hasn’t been a single occasion when he’s done something without being asked. And even then he wouldn’t get up off his behind until he’d finished reading the paper or messing about on his laptop.”

  “Where have I heard that before?” I said.

  Gail said that Murray was the same. “I think he genuinely believes that if he loads the dishwasher, his penis will drop off.”

  “I’ve tried explaining to Rob that I’m tired of being at everybody’s beck and call and that I feel like a glorified maid, but he just thinks that I’m run down and need a tonic.”

  Gail made the point that if Annie carried on like this, she’d need Prozac, not a bloody tonic. “Take my advice. Go back to work and get yourself a nanny-slash-housekeeper. That way, everybody’s needs are taken care of and you get to start exercising your brain again.”

  “Gail’s right,” I said. “There may not be any jobs at the BBC, but why don’t you at least put out some feelers?”

  “I have,” Annie said. “That’s the problem.”

  I asked what she meant.

  “One of my old contacts suggested I give the Today program a call. Long story short, one of the producers is going on maternity leave for six months and they can’t find a suitable replacement. So I went in and saw the editor and he offered me the job on the spot. It starts at the end of January.”

  “Annie, that’s amazing,” I said. “The way things are right now, have you any idea what a stroke of luck that is? So what did you say?”

  “I said I needed some time to think, which didn’t go down too well, bearing in mind I’d made the first approach. I think he thought I was a bit bonkers.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Gail said. “For your sanity’s sake, you must take it. What does Rob say?”

  Annie sat spooning cappuccino foam.

  “You haven’t told him, have you?” I said.

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “Because I know what he’ll say. He’ll tell me that we had an agreement and that if I go back to work, I’ll be letting down the boys.”

  “He’s bound to say that,” Gail said, waving a jammy knife to emphasize her point. “Emotional blackmail is the first weapon men reach for. What he’s actually worried about is who’s going to pick up his dirty underpants and book his haircuts. Here’s what you do: refuse to engage with those arguments. You can’t let Rob get even the faintest sniff that your mind isn’t made up. At the first sign of weakness he will launch an entire arsenal of guilt-seeking missiles and the battle will be lost.”

  “But I hate the idea of this becoming a battle. Surely I need to be reasonable and listen to what he has to say?”

  “Honey, reason will get you nowhere. It’s reason that’s kept you where you are for so long. Hit him with a fait accompli. But of course there can be no treaty unless you offer him something in return.”

  “The housekeeper,” Annie said.

  “The housekeeper. Trust me. Find the right one and she will save your marriage, your family, but most of all … your sanity.”

  “OK. I’ll do it. If I’m honest, I’m not sure I have much choice.”

  “Good girl,” Gail said. “You won’t regret this. I promise.”

  Just then my cell went off inside my bag. I reached down and began rummaging.

  “What’s the betting it’s Huck the Fuck?” Gail said. By now she was fully up to speed with my supermarket encounter with Huckleberry. Like Annie, she was convinced that he fancied me. “You know, I vaguely remember him,” Gail was saying to Annie. “I think Soph brought him home once or twice. He was gorgeous. You could see why all the girls called him Huck the Fuck.” She laughed. “Huck the Fuck. What a great name.”

  Finally I found my cell. Gail was right. It was Huck. I pressed “answer.”

  “Hey, Fuck. How are you?”

  Chapter 8

  “Hello? Sophie, is that you?” Huck’s voice was barely audible through the static. It didn’t help that Annie and Gail were roaring with laughter at my “Hey, Fuck” remark. Never had I been so grateful for a bad connection. Huck tried calling back a couple of times, but the line was still impossible. In the end I said I would phone him from my landline when I got home.

  Gail and I hugged Annie good-bye in the car park. She was still anxious about telling Rob that she was planning to go back to work, but promised she wouldn’t put it off any longer. “I’ll let you know how it goes,” she said, then turned to leave.

  After Annie had driven off, Gail and I went first to her car and then to mine and exchanged belated Chanu-mas gifts for our kids. As usual, I had gotten Spencer and Alexa iTunes gift cards—the same as I’d gotten for Phil’s kids. Judging by the feel of the exquisitely gift-wrapped parcels my sister handed me, she had, as usual, gone to one of those exclusive kids’ boutiques in North West London and bought my two kids dry-clean-only Italian knitwear.

  “By the way,” I said, slipping the parcels into my bag, “have you found a new bar mitzvah teacher for Spencer?”

  “What? You must be joking. Nobody’s prepared to take on my little Prince of Darkness. They all say the same thing—that he’s not mature enough to be bar mitzvahed. They think we should postpone it.”

  “How on earth are you supposed to do that?”

  “That’s what I said. Everything’s booked for April—the tent, the caterers, the band. I’ve ordered the flowers, the disposable cameras, not to mention two hundred mini iridescent favor bags and the SPENCER’S BAR MITZVAH key rings to go in them.”

  It turned out that it wasn’t just Spencer who was giving my sister sleepless nights. Alexa was still insisting on giving up mainstream
school and going to a performing arts academy to learn how to be Beyoncé.

  “Anyway, the good news is, my clitoris is pretty much back to normal, thanks to the hormone patch the doctor gave me. Apparently it contains testosterone, so I’m playing this joke on Murray. I’ve started watching TV shows like What’s My Car Worth? and Ultimate Factories. You should see his face.”

  I gave my sister a hug. “You’re so funny, do you know that? It’s one of the reasons I love you.”

  “You know one of the reasons I love you?” Gail said. “You’re strong. Stronger than I could ever be. I don’t know how you’ve coped on your own these last months.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you. You know, I’m not sure I’ve ever said thank you for everything you’ve done.”

  “I won’t say it was a pleasure, but you’re welcome.”

  “Happy new year, Gail.”

  “You too, hon. And may this year bring you only good stuff.”

  I laughed. “Even some good stuff would be nice.”

  We exchanged final farewell kisses and thanked each other again for the kids’ gifts.

  “Oh, and let me know what happens with Huck,” Gail said.

  “How many more times? Nothing is going to happen. He’s just looking for somebody to hang out with.”

  “Oh, behave. Annie’s right. He is so into you. Now go and have some fun. It’s time.”

  • • •

  I knew that if I put off writing a thank-you note to FHF, I would forget to do it. So the moment I got home I grabbed some writing paper and a pen. I thanked her for the “fabulous” hat, adding that I was sure it would come in really useful once the serious winter weather set in. I signed off by wishing her all the best for the new year. As I sealed the envelope and added a stamp, I allowed myself to think that her peace offering and my profuse thanks might signal a fresh start between us.

  The note out of the way, I called Huck. He seemed really glad to hear from me and asked if I was free on Saturday night. I told him that Saturday was great. The kids would still be with Greg—they were off school until the following Monday—which meant I didn’t even have to find a babysitter.