by Sue Margolis
“So, join the club,” Stephanie said.
“Yeah, but you’re used to it.” Cass popped the champagne cork, which landed by the back door.
“Oh, thanks.”
“No, God, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. But you know what I’m like. I need regular sex. Without it I get all cross and irritable.”
“What happened to that Irish bloke you were seeing? Milo, wasn’t it?”
She shrugged. “He just lost interest. Stopped returning my calls. Then the other night he got back in touch. We made a date and an hour before he’s due to pick me up, he rings and says he has to cancel because he has a work emergency.”
“Maybe he did.”
“Steph,” Cass drew deeply on a Marlboro Light, “he’s a bloody poet.”
They both snorted.
“But what about all the others? That Will, for instance. He was tall, dark, handsome. Went with everything.”
“Wears corduroy.”
“Trousers? What’s wrong with that? Bit boring, maybe.”
“No, coat. Ankle length.” She flicked some ash into the ashtray.
“Christ. OK, what about Josh? You were seeing him for ages.”
“Total commitment-phobe. I made the mistake of asking him if it was OK to keep a toothbrush at his place. He virtually had a heart attack. Haven’t seen him for ages.”
Just then the bell went. “Lizzie,” Stephanie said.
“God, you look a bit green round the gills,” Cass said to Lizzie as she came into the kitchen.
Apparently one of Dom’s clients, an exceedingly grand fashion designer, had had a party last night. “I don’t know if I drank too much, or if it was the cod semen.”
“Cod semen?” Stephanie and Cass cried in unison.
“Yeah. Apparently it’s all the rage.”
“So, come on,” Cass said, giggling, “did you swallow?”
Lizzie couldn’t face champagne and said she’d just have orange juice. She took off her fleece, which she hung on the back of a chair, and handed Stephanie a posh silver carrier bag. “It’s just to say thank you for having the twins the other day.” Dom and Lizzie had been to a wedding, to which children weren’t invited.
“Oh, wow! Linen water.”
“I hope you like it. It’s sage and comfrey. I adore it.”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll love it. But what’s it actually for?”
“You know, your bed linen.”
“What, you spray it on?”
“Yes, when you iron it.”
Cass hooted. “Christ, Lizzie. Who bloody irons bed linen?”
“Loads of people,” Lizzie said brightly. “You should try it. It’s so soothing. You can’t beat a pile of ironing and Woman’s Hour.”
Stephanie gave Lizzie a thank-you kiss and said she’d get the sausages going.
“So,” Cass said to Stephanie, “Albert coming for Christmas?”
“Hope so, for Jake’s sake. Still waiting to hear for definite. Actually, I haven’t checked my e-mail today. There might be something.” She asked Lizzie to keep an eye on the sausages while she ran upstairs. “I’ll be two ticks.”
There was one e-mail waiting for her and it was from Albert. The contents didn’t even remotely surprise her.
Hey, principessa. Bad news. A job has come up at Universal. Won’t be able to get to you for the holidays. I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me? Will definitely make it after New Year’s. Say hi to Jakey for me. Tell him I love him. Will send his presents by courier to make sure they arrive in time. Have a great Christmas.
Ciao,
Albert.
“Huh,” Cass said when Stephanie had announced what was in the e-mail.
“What does ‘huh’ mean?”
“I don’t like the way he messes you about, that’s all.”
“What can I do? It drives me mad, too, but he doesn’t do it on purpose. He has a living to earn. Anyway, the first week of January is so dead, it’ll give me and Jake something to look forward to.”
“You have to stay positive,” Lizzie chipped in. “I mean, look at Dom. He’s working sixteen hours a day on this new Asia Pacific merger. He’ll get Christmas Day and New Year’s off, but that’ll be it. But I count my blessings. I have a beautiful house, two wonderful children. And Dom has promised we’ll get away together the moment—”
“—this big case is over,” Cass and Stephanie chanted. They’d heard it so many times before. Lizzie and Dom never got away because the “big case” was always followed immediately by an even bigger one. Stephanie immediately felt guilty for making fun and went over to put an arm round Lizzie.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Dom does his best, you know. It’s just that they work him so terribly hard.”
“I know,” Stephanie said. “I know.”
Cass gave Lizzie’s hand an affectionate pat. “Tell you what we should do,” she said. “Bugger the blokes and take ourselves off somewhere hot for Christmas. God, I can’t remember the last time I felt the sand under my feet.”
“No money,” Stephanie said. “The nearest I could get to a hot sandy beach is turning up the radiator and sticking my feet in the cat’s tray.” As if on cue, Liberace sashayed in and leaped up onto the counter. He virtually had his snout in the bacon when Lizzie grabbed him and threw him out the back door. Stephanie told her to lock his cat flap or he’d be back in.
“You really need to think about earning some money,” Cass said. “Jimmy and Brian have split up half a dozen times. They always get back together. This time won’t be any different. Mark my words, pretty soon Jimmy’s going to want to move back in.”
“But he said he’d be away at least six months.”
“Don’t bank on it.”
Stephanie shook her head. “God, you know, a huge bit of me thinks I should give up the whole showbiz idea and take a course on teaching English as a foreign language.”
“No money in that,” Lizzie said. “Tell you what, though, I’m thinking of going into business selling homemade soaps and candles. Just part-time. I really need something to keep me occupied now that the boys are at school. Martha Stewart shows you exactly how to do it. I’ve been practicing. They’re dead easy.”
Lizzie virtually idolized Martha Stewart. Martha Stewart Living was her bible. She kept stacks of back issues piled up in the living room. “God,” Stephanie had remarked a few weeks ago, flicking through one of the mags, “how can you respect a woman who tells you that April is the time to dust your stuffed animal heads? Plus there’s this whole criminal investigation going on.” Lizzie got all huffy and defensive, snatched the magazine from her and said that the truth would come out about the criminal investigation and the whole thing was a despicable conspiracy hatched by jealous rivals.
Cass drained her glass, but didn’t say anything. They’d been through it all before—Cass telling Lizzie she had such a sharp mind and why didn’t she go back to work and start stretching it again. Then Lizzie would say that Cass hadn’t given birth and didn’t understand that after everything she’d been through to get the twins, she’d feel so guilty abandoning them. Stephanie tended to sympathize with Lizzie during these debates. On the other hand, although she did feel guilty leaving Jake, she wasn’t sure if she could give up all her ambition to sit at home making Play-Doh green eggs and ham. Anyway, for her, staying at home wasn’t even an option. Even with Albert’s help, she still had to work to pay the bills and that was that. She told them about her plan to find another agent.
“Thought I’d send out my demo CD to half a dozen West End agents.”
“Go for it,” Cass said.
“I agree,” Lizzie said. “What have you got to lose? Only blinkin’ Eileen.”
“You’re right,” Stephanie laughed, realizing the champagne had well and truly kicked in. “You’re absolutely right.”
“Right, then,” Cass said, and they drank a toast to the future.
By now the sausages were nut brown and the bacon was jus
t a couple of minutes from perfect crispness. Stephanie poured some of the hot fat into another pan and added triangles of bread. Lizzie offered to do the toast and Cass made more Bucks Fizz. On the back burner, the beans had just burst their skins.
Carefully, Stephanie tipped the eggs out of the bowl. The fat spattered as they hit the pan. She turned down the flame and began basting.
Lizzie asked after Cass’s love life. She repeated the story she’d told Stephanie.
“Corduroy?”
“Ankle length.”
“Blimey.”
Nobody said anything for a minute. In the background the eggs were spitting.
“Of course you know the best way to find a man,” Lizzie said. “Stop looking.”
“What, you mean if I give up looking for Mel Gibson, he’ll come and find me?”
“Well, maybe not Mel Gibson exactly, but somebody will.”
“You reckon?” Cass said.
“I do. And why does it always have to be about sex? Why don’t you just take time to get to know a bloke and see where it goes? Dating should lead to sex, not the other way round.”
“What I don’t understand,” Stephanie said, “is why, when you run a successful business and make stacks of dough, your whole sense of self-worth is tied up in attracting men.”
“You know,” Cass announced, “you’re right. I think the time may have come for me to do some work on myself.”
“I agree,” Stephanie said, dishing the bacon and eggs onto plates. “Therapy might be a good idea.”
“No, I didn’t mean that kind of work,” Cass came back. “I meant maybe I’m losing my sex appeal. Perhaps I need to have some cosmetic work done.”
“Cass,” Lizzie said, “you look stunning. Look at you with the hair, the figure, the BMW Z4, the Joseph wardrobe.”
“I agree,” Stephanie said, handing round plates of fry-up.
“I was thinking about maybe having my lips done.”
Stephanie and Lizzie leaned toward her and squinted at her lips.
“Your lips are great,” Lizzie said.
“Perfect,” said Stephanie.
“No, not those lips.” She stood up and pushed back her chair. “These lips.” She was pointing to her crotch. “I think they could do with plumping out a bit. You know, to give me a better contour.” She sat down and began cutting into a sausage.
“I’m not sure I know what ‘better contour’ means,” Stephanie said.
“I think she means she wants it to be more in your face,” Lizzie explained.
“That’s right,” Cass said, chewing on a lump of sausage. “What do you think? Apparently they inject them with fat from your bum.” She burst her egg yolk with a corner of fried bread and began mopping it up. “They can do your inner labia as well as the outer ones. God, Steph, this fried bread is fab. So come on, you two, why aren’t you tucking in?”
Chapter 4
The doorbell rang just before nine the next morning. Stephanie was tearing around looking for her lipstick. Jake was still in his pajamas.
“Leave the front door,” Estelle said, bustling in. “Your dad’s just unloading the car. We popped into the supermarket to get you a few bits.”
“What few bits?” Stephanie took her mother’s coat. “I don’t need bits. Honest, Mum, I’m fine for bits.”
“Well, I didn’t know what you had in for Jakey’s lunch.” As they walked into the kitchen, Stephanie explained there were plenty of eggs, cheese, pasta and jars of tomato sauce. “I thought, you know,” Estelle said, about to launch into I’m-not-trying-to-get-at-you-I’m-only-thinking-of-Jake mode, “I’d make him something fresh. So, I bought a nice haddock fillet. I thought I’d do a fish pie.”
“Gan’ma. Gan’ma,” Jake squealed from his digger.
“Hello, darling,” Estelle said, bending down to kiss him. “How are you?”
“Better.”
“He’s not dressed yet?” Estelle said. Of course what she really meant was: “Why isn’t he dressed yet?”
“No. He’s going through this phase where he just refuses to put proper clothes on.”
“Oh, Jakey will get dressed for his grandma, won’t you, Jakey?”
“Maybe. Look, about the fish. You see, Jake’s not a big fish eater.”
“That’s because you only give him fish fingers. He’ll eat my pie. Won’t you, sweetie?” This morning the balloon of Stephanie’s irritation had turned into a veritable zeppelin. Jake nodded.
“You look a bit pale, though,” Estelle said to Stephanie. “A bit of lipstick wouldn’t hurt.”
Stephanie took a deep yoga breath. Let it go, Steph. Let it go. “I know. I was looking for it just before you arrived.”
Stephanie hung her mother’s coat over the back of a kitchen chair while her mother began gathering up the letters and days-old newspapers that littered the table. “This it?” Estelle asked.
“Oh, yeah. Thanks,” Stephanie said. She stuffed the lipstick into her bag. “I’ll do it on the train.”
Just then Harry walked in carrying four supermarket bags. “Right, that’s the lot,” he puffed. “Hi, Steph.” While Harry said hello to Jake, Stephanie looked inside the bags. “Mum, this is really kind of you, but I don’t need any of this stuff.”
“So, I’ll put it in the freezer. Then you won’t have to worry.”
“But I wasn’t worried.”
“Gan’dad come read Fatapillow?” Jake piped up.
“In a moment, sweetheart,” Harry said. “Just let Granddad get his coat off.”
“You know,” Estelle said to Stephanie, her voice lowered so that Jake couldn’t hear, “this little boy needs a father. Darling, why don’t you marry Albert? He’s good-looking, charming. I’m sure, with a bit of persuasion, he’d move to London.”
“Mum, Albert and I have never even discussed marriage. You know it was only ever a physical thing between us.”
“Shh. I don’t want Jake hearing us talk about the O-T-H-E-R.”
“Mum, why are you spelling the word other?”
“You know what children are like. They pick up on things.” Stephanie shook her head. “OK, well, I’m off to W-O-R-K,” she said. “I’m doing my gig at the Blues C-A-F-E afterward. You two still OK to sleep over?”
“OK? It’s a pleasure,” Estelle said.
She supposed it was the e-mail from Albert. Today, as she sat playing the piano in Debenhams, she kept noticing the fathers with their toddlers. Presumably they all had jobs, but had taken time off to bring their children up to town to see Father Christmas. She had to keep reminding herself that for Albert, being with Jake involved taking more than the day off work and hopping a 747 rather than the tube. But it was Christmas. Jake might just about remember this one when he was older. Just for once, Albert could have turned down a job and made the effort.
After she’d finished work she realized she was starving. She decided to walk up the road to Selfridges and treat herself to a couple of dishes at Yo Sushi. As she sat down she picked up a copy of Cosmo, which somebody had left on the seat next to her. She sat at the packed bar, wolfing down sashimi and teriyaki and reading up on the “ten spectacular ways to make his bells ring this Christmas.”
She took the tube to Islington and arrived at the Blues Café just after eight. It was a small, dimly lit basement restaurant just off Upper Street. People came to eat the vast cheapish pizzas, drink the OK Barolo and listen to the music. Most of the singers only performed one night a week. Because she was so popular, Stephanie did two: Mondays and Thursdays.
The jazz trio that accompanied the singers was the same every night. Mac, Ian and Dennis were three rather dog-eared Scottish blokes in shiny tuxes and bad comb-overs, who’d been together for forty years and had played everywhere from New Orleans to New Malden, stopping off on the way for the odd bar mitzvah and D-list crooner backing track. These days they were pretty much retired and worked at the Blues Café just to keep their hand in.
Next to the loos was a lar
ge walk-in store cupboard, which doubled as Stephanie’s dressing room. Among the catering packs of flour and the giant cans of tomato puree there was a full-length mirror and an old Formica table that doubled as a dressing table. Hanging on a wire coat hanger on the back of the door was the slinky black dress she wore onstage.
Each night she sang for an hour and a half. This was divided up into three thirty-minute sets. In between she sat sipping mineral water while Mac, Ian and Dennis knocked back the house McClaren and told their stories.
“Och, aye, we’ve met them all. Ella, Peggy, Satchmo. Go on, Ian, tell Stephanie about the night us, Peggy and the Satch sat up drinkin’ malt until dawn.”
And Ian would begin.
“Of course, you know Peggy Lee wasn’t her real name.”
“I think you did happen to mention it once or twice, Ian,” Stephanie would say.
“Did ah? Did ah really?” Then he’d carry on as if he were imparting his sacred piece of information for the first time. “Not many people know this, but her real name was Norma Deloris Egstrom. Aye. There’s a name to go to bed wi’. Strange, isn’t it, that two twentieth-century icons, Peggy and Marilyn, were both called Norma?”
“Very strange.”
From time to time she changed her repertoire, but usually she kicked off with some Cole Porter or Gershwin—“The Man I Love” was one of her favorites. Then she would ease into “Summertime,” “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love,” “I Get a Kick Out of You.” Occasionally her mum and dad would pop in. Her dad in particular always ended up reaching for his handkerchief.
“That’s my daughter, you know,” he’d say to anybody who would listen.
Sometimes Cass and Lizzie would come by. Stephanie and the band would join them in their breaks and the night would turn into a party. But no matter how drunk Mac, Ian and Dennis got, their playing remained faultless.
Occasionally they got a rowdy crowd in off the street, but mostly they were smart thirty-somethings who sat quietly and listened.
When she sang “Fever” there was always a complete hush. She loved that. Whenever she had moments of self-doubt she thought about how people reacted to her singing that song. Singing “Fever” made her feel sexy, and she and Ian, who played drums, flirted like crazy while she performed: him winking, her thrusting her hips to the beat. The audience picked up on it and it brought the house down—inasmuch as fifty people eating Quattro Staggione pizzas were capable of bringing the house down.