by Sue Margolis
As she took her place on the tiny podium, the room darkened and she felt the adrenaline kick in. She was aware that people had stopped talking. She was starting off with “The Man I Love.” The band began its intro. It was slow, fluid, easy. She felt herself swaying gently.
“Someday he’ll come along, the man I love / And he’ll be big and strong …”
By the fourth number the applause got louder. The audience was really starting to warm up. As usual she ended her first set with “Fever.”
First that drumbeat. Then the bass kicked in. Her fingers clicked to the pacey rhythm.
“Never know how much I love you, never know how much I care …” Drum. Thrust. Wink from Ian.
The applause went on and on. She even had to do an encore.
When it was time for a break, she headed off to the bar to get some water. She’d taken a couple of sips, maybe, when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned round. It was Frank Waterman. She blinked.
“It’s me, Frank. You know, Nottingham Playhouse 1997, Debenhams last Saturday? I said I’d come and see you. Well, here I am.”
“Yes, yes, I know. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that I, er … You were the last person I’d expected to see. You know … people say these things …”
“Just to be polite. I know.” He was wearing jeans, trendy sneakers and a fabulously well-cut suede jacket. “Actually, we popped in on the off chance.” He gestured to a group of people sitting at a nearby table. She noticed it didn’t include Anoushka. “I wasn’t sure which night you were on. Anyway, I just wanted to come over and tell you how fantastic you were.”
Her face lit up.
“You know, when you sing ‘Fever’ you sound just like Peggy Lee.”
Now she was blushing. “Yeah, everybody says that. So you’re really into this kind of music, then?”
“Have been for years.” He told her he had a sizable collection of old recordings and that last week he’d picked up an original 1938 copy of Ella Fitzgerald singing “A-Tisket, A-Tasket.”
“No! God, I’d love to hear it.”
“Of course, her voice sounded almost childlike back then. By the midforties—you know, the Dizzy Gillespie years—she’d really come on.”
“Boy, you really know your stuff.”
He grinned and confessed he picked up most of his knowledge from the blurbs inside CDs. “Her real name was Norma Egstrom,” he said.
“Whose?” Oh, God, why did she say that? As if Ian hadn’t told her seventeen million times.
“Peggy Lee’s. Not many people know that.”
“To be precise,” she said, “it was Norma Deloris Egstrom.”
“Is that right?”
She nodded. “Strange, isn’t it,” she went on, “that two twentieth-century icons—Marilyn and Peggy—should both be called Norma.”
“Yes, I’ve often thought that.”
“So, er, how’s Anoushka? You guys all ready for the big day? When is it, again?”
“April. I guess we’re as ready as we’ll ever be.”
He explained that he had another canapé tasting on Saturday, which would be the seventh or possibly the eighth. The next day he was driving to Gloucestershire to meet up with a local estate agent.
“He’ll drag me round another load of quaint houses. Anoushka’s seen them once. She adores all that Aga and pine dresser stuff.”
“Gloucestershire’s dead posh, though.”
He grunted. “Bloody miles from the nearest kebab shop.”
This made her laugh. “You’ll have to get a flat in London as well. So, where’s Anoushka tonight?”
“In Düsseldorf, having her teeth-to-gum ratio balanced. She’s worried she’s going to look like Quick Draw McGraw in the wedding photographs. All nonsense, of course. Her teeth are perfectly fine.”
“Oh, well, it’s her big day. Every bride wants to look her best.”
“I guess. Anyway, it’s been great seeing you again. I really hope things start to pick up. If anybody deserves it, you do.”
She found herself blushing again. “I’ve decided to try and find a new agent. So you never know …”
“Great,” he said. “Fingers crossed.”
He explained he had to leave now because he was taking one of his companions to Heathrow. She felt a lurch of disappointment. She’d really enjoyed chatting with him. Yes, he was cute. OK, amazingly cute, but there was also this easy humor and laid-back charm about Frank Waterman, which she found particularly attractive. “That’s OK. Thanks for coming.”
“My pleasure,” he said.
She watched him walk back to his table and take some money out of his wallet.
“Hey, Steph … Dennis to Steph, come in, Steph.” Dennis was waving the back of his hand in front of her face. “Are you with us? Come on. We have a show to do.”
“Oh, right. Sorry. I was miles away.”
The moment she opened the front door the smell hit her. Fried onions. She went into the kitchen. Her mother was standing at the stove in her pink velour dressing gown, turning lamb chops in the frying pan.
“Fancied a snack,” she said. Estelle was trying to lose weight. She’d never been slim, but neither had she been a size eighteen until now. “When a woman’s bosom becomes singular rather than plural,” she’d said the other day, pulling her blouse tight over her bust, “you know something has to be done.” As a result she had gone on a protein-only diet.
“I knew you’d get hungry. Meat isn’t a complete food. At least have some bread with it.”
“No, the wheat’s bloating. I’ll have a couple of broccoli florets.”
“Bloody hell, Mum. Onions and broccoli—you’ll be farting half the night.”
“Stephanie, do you have to be so coarse?”
“OK, you’ll be F-A-R-T-I-N-G all night.”
Estelle said there was some fish pie left in the fridge if Stephanie fancied it.
“Jakey loved it. Even had seconds.”
“Brilliant,” Stephanie said, forcing a smile.
“And the moment you left, he got dressed. Not a moment’s trouble, bless him. You just need to be firm.”
Just then Harry appeared. He, too, was in his dressing gown (maroon, with gold crest on the breast). He had his mobile phone to his ear. “Look, I don’t want one. I don’t need one. How many more times do I have to tell you people?”
Stephanie shot her mother a what’s-going-on? look. “Your father’s talking to those people.”
“Which people?”
“You know, the penis extension people.” The words penis extension were mouthed. Apparently Harry had been e-mailing them nonstop, demanding they cease and desist harassing him, but it had done no good. The junk mail was still coming. Somehow he had managed to track down their phone number.
“But it’s half past one in the morning,” Stephanie said.
“It’s only half past five in California.” Estelle tipped the two chops onto a plate and piled on some onions. “I can’t be bothered with the broccoli.”
By now Harry was verging on irate. “Look, I don’t give a damn if they are curved for greater sensitivity. I don’t need another three inches. What is a G-spot, anyway? Is it like a liver spot?” Stephanie stood shaking her head. Her mother brought her plate to the table and sat down.
“These chops aren’t bad, for the supermarket. A bit tough maybe. But they’re a lot cheaper than the ones the butcher sold me last week.”
Stephanie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was half past one in the morning. Her father was on the phone discussing penis extensions and her mother was comparing the prices of lamb chops. These people made the Osbournes look sane.
Harry took the phone from his ear and stared at it. “He cut me off.”
“I’m not surprised. Dad, leave it. Just delete the e-mails like everybody else does.”
“Oh, no. I’m not letting this one go. Not on your life. I will not let these people win. Right, I’m off to bed. Estelle,
open the window when you come up. You’ll be farting all night after that lot.”
“Look, for your information I do not … that word.”
“No, my sweet,” Harry said, “you gently break wind and it smells of gardenias.”
Before she went to bed, Stephanie took down the list of six West End theatrical agents she’d printed out from the Internet the day before and pinned on her kitchen bulletin board. Then she went upstairs, typed out a cover letter and made copies. Finally she addressed the padded envelopes she’d bought on her lunch hour and placed a letter and a CD in each.
She fell asleep almost immediately and dreamed that Anoushka Holland caught distemper.
Chapter 5
The following Sunday, Stephanie, Cass and Lizzie got together for tea at Lizzie’s.
Stephanie came straight from the Royal Free hospital, where she and Jake had been to visit Mrs. M. Jake wore his Spiderman outfit, his sword tucked down his trousers. They took her a giant poinsettia, which she loved. It was clear from the expression on her face that she was in pain, but she was in great form and let Jake climb all over her.
“Oh, I’ve missed you, little man,” she said, giving him a cuddle. “I really have and no mistake. But I’ve got a surprise for you. Stephanie, darlin’, open my locker, would you?”
Stephanie opened it and took out the surprise—a pack of Fondant Fancies.
“Oh, Mrs. M., you shouldn’t.”
“I asked Audrey to bring them in.” She leaned across and took the cakes from Stephanie. “Now, Jake, what color is it to be?”
“Lellow.”
“Excellent choice.” He sat eating the Fancie, getting crumbs all over the bed.
Stephanie asked her if she had any idea when the hospital was going to let her out.
“Hopefully before Christmas. My kids have come over from Ireland, but Geraldine—she’s the eldest—has said she’ll stay on over Christmas to look after me.” Stephanie and Jake got up to leave when a group of Mrs. M.’s children arrived.
“But you’ll come again soon?” Mrs. M. said, giving Jake another squeeze.
“Promise,” Stephanie replied.
Lizzie and Dom owned a five-bedroom Edwardian in Highgate, done in various shades of beige. When Stephanie arrived, Cass was already there. She and Lizzie were sitting in the kitchen. (Taupe Shaker units, tofu tiles.) On the kitchen table sat a dried turkey carcass. Lizzie was holding a can of spray paint. Cass had the end of a raw zucchini sticking out of her mouth.
Stephanie stood there for a moment, trying to decide if she was more interested in finding out about the turkey carcass or the zucchini. The zucchini won hands down.
“OK,” Stephanie said to Lizzie. “What’s she doing?”
Lizzie cleared her throat and turned to Jake. “Er, Jake, Dougal and Archie are playing in the living room. Why don’t you go and show them your Spiderman costume?”
He’d known Archie and Dougal all his life and was happy to trot off. Cass took the zucchini out of her mouth. “I gave up on the lips idea and decided to get my teeth done instead. See?” She was wearing a clear, almost invisible brace over her two slightly crooked front teeth.
“OK, but where does the zucchini come in?”
“Nobody told me it would be totally impossible to give a blow job with these things on my teeth.” She held up the zucchini. Along the sides, a significant amount of green skin was missing. “See, I’ll never get it right.”
Stephanie laughed. Lizzie picked up a can of spray paint, shook it hard, rattling the ball bearing, and pressed the nozzle. A fine mist of gold paint shot out and landed on the turkey carcass. “I’m guessing this is one of Martha’s bright ideas,” Stephanie said, sitting down and starting to cough. “Could we at least let some air in?”
“Oh, God, yes. Sorry.” Lizzie leaped up and opened the back door, letting in a gust of icy wind. They all decided they’d rather get high than freeze. Lizzie closed it again and opened the window over the sink a crack. “Don’t you think it’s sweet?” she said, coming back to the table. “I got the carcass from some American friends down the road, after Thanksgiving. I picked off all the bits of dried meat. Then I blanched it. Who’d have thought that turned upside down it would look just like a sleigh? I found a lovely little Santa and some reindeer in that little knickknack shop up the road. I thought I’d fill it with nuts.”
“I’m sure it’s going to look lovely,” Stephanie said.
Just then Dom walked in—tall, Teutonic, as square jawed as ever. He was wearing a smart navy jacket and chinos. Over his shoulder was a brown leather suit carrier.
“Hi, everybody,” he said, waving and smiling at Stephanie and Cass. “Look, I really don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to dash. My taxi’s here.”
“But you are being rude,” Lizzie chided gently. “You’ve been upstairs for ages. You could have come down and said hello.”
“Sorry. I’ve been on the phone to the boys in Tokyo for the last hour. Look, I’ve got to go.” He gave Lizzie a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.
“OK, darling. Safe journey.”
“Christ, what on earth is that?” he asked, gesturing at the half-spray-painted turkey carcass.
“It’s going to be Santa’s sleigh. I thought I’d put nuts in it.”
“Lizzie, couldn’t you go out and buy a sleigh, like a normal person?” He picked up his wallet and passport off the breakfast bar. “Right, bye, everybody.”
He turned to go.
“Bye, Dom,” Stephanie and Cass chanted.
“Say bye-bye to the boys,” Lizzie shouted into the hall.
“Already have. By the way, they’ve piled sofa cushions all over the living room floor. You’d better sort it out.”
She ignored the last remark. “Ring me when you get in,” she called out. The front door slammed.
“God,” Cass said, “he seems a bit stressed.”
“It’s all the hours he puts in. I really worry about him. On top of that, I don’t think he’s been home for more than ten days this month.”
Cass sat shaking her head. “It would drive me mad if I were married to him.”
“Oh, it won’t be forever,” Lizzie said brightly. “They’re bound to offer him a partnership in a year or so. In fact they’ve said as much. When that happens, he’ll be almost entirely London based and able to dictate his hours more. Now then, who’s for another cuppa?”
“That’d be nice,” Cass said.
“Steph?”
She nodded.
“Ooh, I’ve got some homemade stollen in the cupboard,” Lizzie said. “I made one for the playgroup Christmas bazaar. Then I thought, well, it’s as easy to make two as it is to make one.”
Stephanie and Cass exchanged glances. “You know,” Cass said, “I’d never do another line of cocaine again, if I could have some of what you’re on.”
“Oh, you can always find the energy for the things you enjoy.” Lizzie put the stollen on the table and started cutting it into slices. “So, Steph, how’s it going with your mum looking after Jake?”
“Oh, God,” Cass said, laughing. “Don’t get her started. How long have you got?”
Stephanie explained that the house was cleaner and tidier than it had ever been and her fridge was permanently full.
“I know I should be grateful, but I feel like a guest in my own house. It can’t go on. God knows how you sack your own mother. Did I tell you she’s started potty training Jake?” She explained that Estelle had started a few days ago—using the method advocated by the psychologist in the Daily Mail. Each night when she came home, Jake would come running up to her.
“ ‘My got a surprise. My got a surprise,’ he goes. Then he takes my hand and drags me into the downstairs loo. Sitting in the corner is his potty covered in paper towels.”
“Oh my God,” Cass said, anticipating the next bit of the story.
“So every night I take off the paper and squeal, ‘Ooh, another big-boy poo. Oh, Jake, you are clever. We
ll done.’ ”
“Poor you,” Lizzie said. “Can’t be much fun coming home and being greeted by a day-old turd.”
“Apparently,” Stephanie went on, “this bloody shrink says the ‘secondary carer’ should keep the poo for the ‘absent’ parent—note the provocative use of the word absent—so that both the child and the parent remain bonded.”
“Well, I can see the point,” Lizzie said.
“Yes, so can I. It’s just that I wanted to be the one to potty train Jake, that’s all.”
“But you can’t,” Lizzie said. “If it hadn’t been Estelle doing it, it would have been Mrs. M.”
“Mrs. M. doesn’t believe in potty training,” Stephanie said. “She reckons kids do it naturally, in their own time. I brought it up a couple of times and she told me to leave it. ‘Ach, Stephanie,’ she’d say, ‘you’re worrying about nothing. Now then, when was the last time you saw one of those punk rockers still in nappies?’ ”
Just then Dougal and Archie charged in, noisily demanding food. Jake was standing behind them, keeping his own counsel, but clearly in awe of the two big boys.
Stephanie offered to cut them some stollen.
“It’s absolutely scrummy.”
“Best not,” Lizzie said. “My two have had their sugar ration for today.” She went to the fridge and took out a large plastic container of ready-prepared celery and carrot sticks. She put a handful into three small bowls.
“These are poo,” Dougal declared. “We want Hula Hoops.”
“You know you’re not allowed junk food, Dougal. All those additives make you and your brother hyper.”
“We want Hula Hoops,” Archie shouted. “Give us Hula Hoops.” Then Jake, clearly getting into the spirit of things, threw his celery and carrot sticks onto the floor.
“Hey, look what Jake’s done,” Archie shouted. Then he hit him hard, on the head.
Jake started bawling.