Breakfast at Stephanie's

by Sue Margolis

  “Big? Ossie Da Costa isn’t just big. He’s huge. Colossal. Albert, we are talking mega here.”

  Chapter 8

  “I’m really sorry, Mr. Da Costa’s not back from his morning run,” the girl in reception said. “He shouldn’t be long, though.”

  Noticing Stephanie’s puzzled expression, she added, “New Year’s resolution. He’s trying to lose a bit of weight, so now he goes out for a jog between meetings.”

  She suggested Stephanie wait in his office. “Cappuccino?” Stephanie said that would be lovely.

  Ossie Da Costa’s office was in a smart block just off Shaftesbury Avenue. It was pretty much as she’d expected: early nineties worn gray carpet, ditto the black leather sofa, walls covered in black-and-white photographs of his most famous clients. In front of a large picture window was an equally large, sleek desk, clearly designed to intimidate.

  She’d just taken a sip of her coffee when she heard the door open. She sprang to her feet. Ossie Da Costa came bounding in, full of apologies. He was still in his running gear, rubbing his forehead with a towel.

  OK, so how come she didn’t know? Over the years there must have been umpteen newspaper and magazine articles that had mentioned it. Had she really managed to miss all of them? And ages ago, when she first mentioned to people in the business she was thinking about changing agents, the name Ossie Da Costa must have come up a dozen times. Why had nobody pointed it out? Not one person had said, “Of course you know Ossie Da Costa is a midget.” Not that it mattered, of course. Stephanie wasn’t the kind of person to judge people by their size, any more than she would have judged them by their color or race.

  “It’s just that when you meet somebody for the first time,” she would say to Cass on the phone later, “it’s helpful to know that they are three foot nine.”

  “Didn’t you know?”

  “You knew?”

  “Oh, come on, sweetie. Le tout Londres knows Ossie Da Costa is fun size. He’s famous for it.”

  “Well,” he said as they shook hands, his head disconcertingly level with her midriff, “it’s great to finally put a face to the voice.” He was balding, fiftyish at a guess. There was a brief but broad smile. As he asked her to sit down, she detected a hint of a south London accent. With a pronounced rolling motion, he walked over to his desk and stretched to pick up the phone. “Sheila, hold all my calls; move Shania’s people back to midday … All right, if they have a plane to catch organize a conference call from Heathrow.” He was pacing up and down, still dabbing his face with the towel. “Oh, and Sheila, could you run out and get me a fried egg sandwich on white toast with extra ketchup? And when I say extra, I mean lots. Right?” He turned to Stephanie and asked if she would like something.

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “You know,” he said, letting out a long breath, “I do all this exercise, but afterward I’m bloody famished.” She nodded in agreement. He sniffed under one armpit. “You see, what I don’t understand is this,” he went on. “They say it’s healthy to lift weights, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “OK, well, here I am, carrying a few extra pounds,” he patted his fun-size paunch. “I mean, why isn’t that exercise? By rights, fat people should be the fittest people around.” He gave a loud laugh. She wasn’t sure what to make of him. Although he was clearly the polar opposite of laid-back, there was a warm openness about his face, not to mention this rather appealing self-deprecation, which made Stephanie think that underneath all the bluff and bluster, Ossie Da Costa might well be a bit of a pussycat.

  “I’m afraid you’ve got me there,” Stephanie said, her eyes suddenly fixed on the fun-size bulge in his Lycra shorts.

  “Sorry to go banging on. It’s a bit of a hobby of mine. So, moving on to you. In your letter you said you’ve had some experience in musicals?”

  Stephanie’s eyes remained on the bulge.

  “Yes, but no big roles, just small parts.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth, but Ossie didn’t seem to have noticed the faux pas. By now he had turned to face his giant swivel chair. She watched him lift his stumpy leg up onto the seat and then, with a certain amount of effort, draw up the other one so that he was kneeling on the seat. It reminded her of the way Jake climbed onto the sofa. In a second he had maneuvered himself back round to face her and was adjusting the cushions underneath him. “Well, I have to tell you, Stephanie,” he said, “you have an exceptional voice. And when I say exceptional, I mean exceptional. Exceptional with a capital E. I just can’t understand why you’re not bigger.”

  “You, too. No, sorry … I mean, my mum and dad say that all the time too. Why aren’t you bigger? As in, you know, why aren’t I bigger? Not you. You already are. Which is why I’m here. As it were.”

  Ossie managed to ignore this pile-up of verbal car crashes.

  He asked a few more questions about her theatrical and musical experience. All the time she was desperate not to let him think she was remotely bothered by his size. The more she tried to forget about it, the more obsessed she became, and the more size dominated the conversation. She found herself using phrases she never normally used—the long and the short of it, broad as it is long. As she spoke, her mind became obsessed with height-related problems. If Ossie was in a tall building, there was no way he could reach the top buttons in a lift. What did he do if he wanted to go to the twentieth floor? Press ten or twelve, and walk the rest?

  Eventually Sheila—late forties, toffee-colored tanning bed tan—came in with his fried egg sandwich and a cup of coffee.

  “Perrr-fect,” he said as she put it in front of him. “Oh, and Sheila, I’ve run out of sweeteners. Could you pop out and get me some more? And my shirts need picking up from the dry cleaners. If you wouldn’t mind …”

  She rolled her eyes. He responded by grinning and blowing her a kiss. Then he turned to Stephanie: “She’s been with me for seven years. She loves me really.” By now Sheila had disappeared through the door. He called out to her: “Don’t you love me really, Sheila?”

  “No,” came the reply.

  “Don’t take any notice,” he laughed. “She worships me.” Then he asked Stephanie if she’d ever done any film work. She said she hadn’t.

  “Godfather,” he said, biting into his sandwich, so that a mixture of egg yolk and ketchup began dripping down his chin as if he’d just squeezed a giant zit. “Best film ever made.”

  “So they say,” she said.

  He wiped his chin with his towel and took another huge bite.

  “OK,” he said, mouth full, “what’s your favorite film?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure I have one.” Actually, she did. It was The Sound of Music. She must have watched the video twenty times, and the scene with Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer in the gazebo always made her cry. Since everybody she’d ever mentioned this to made fun of her, she wasn’t about to risk telling Ossie Da Costa.

  “Come on. Everybody has a favorite film.”

  Her mind was a complete blank. She could think of nothing intelligent to say. “OK,” she said eventually. “The Tall Guy.” She wanted the ground to swallow her up. “I love Jeff Goldblum,” she said in an attempt to rescue herself. Then she blew it. “But my son—he’s two and a half—he adores The Wizard of Oz. He knows all the words to ‘Welcome to Munchkin Land.’ ”

  “Really?”

  Shoot me. Just shoot me.

  He put down his sandwich. “Anyway, getting back to you. I think—correction, I know—you have a very bright future ahead of you. With your voice, that gorgeous face of yours.”

  She blushed at the “gorgeous face” bit. Judging by the grin on his face, he was clearly flirting with her. “OK,” he said, slapping his palm on the desk, “I’m not going to beat around the bush. I have no doubts about representing you. How would you feel about that?”

  She wanted to get up and hug him. “Great. Fantastic. Wow. God. Brilliant.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes, then.�
� He picked up a Cuban cigar—almost as long as him. Very slowly he put the end in his mouth and moistened it. Then he leaned back in his chair.

  “You know, when you do those Peggy Lee numbers, you sound exactly like her. Has anybody ever told you that?”

  “Yes,” she said, laughing. “Once or twice.”

  “Well, I have a project coming up that I think might be just perfect for you.”

  “You mean it involves singing Peggy Lee songs?”

  “I can’t say any more just now. It’s still at a very early stage of development. But I think this could be a major turning point for you.”

  Major turning point. Major turning point. The phrase wasn’t just music to her ears, it was a full-on bloody symphony. She could practically hear trumpets playing.

  He said he was in no doubt that she was right for the project. “But it’s not just me you have to convince. Does the name Sidney Doucette mean anything to you?”

  “What, the American theatrical impresario? Who hasn’t heard of him?”

  Ossie explained that “the project” was Sidney Doucette’s brainchild and that if Stephanie was to become involved, she would need to audition for him. Apparently Sidney was due in London the next day. Ossie suggested bringing him along to hear her at the Blues Café.

  “Great. My next gig’s on Thursday.”

  “Thursday it is, then. You know, I have high hopes for you, Ms. Glassman. High hopes.”

  He grinned at her again. Then he picked up a match with his chubby little fingers, lit it and began drawing on the cigar. Anybody watching would have seen that he could barely take his eyes off her, but Stephanie was far too excited to notice.

  She virtually floated down Shaftesbury Avenue. She’d done it. Not only had she found a new agent—not just any old agent, but the best in the business—he already had what sounded like some pretty major singing role in mind for her. God, this time next year she could be … but she was too superstitious to continue the thought. The only thing denting her elation was the thought of having to sack Eileen Griffin. To give the woman her due, she hadn’t been entirely useless. The gigs she’d found her may not have been the most prestigious or well paid, but she’d kept Stephanie in work, which in turn had meant she’d been able to keep the bank happy—just. She decided to play it safe and not do anything until after the audition. Assuming it went well, she would write Eileen a letter, thanking her profusely for all her effort and hard work and telling her as tactfully as she could that she now felt the time had come to move on.

  It was still only eleven. What she wanted to do was stay up in town and buy something really expensive and frivolous to celebrate. But since her credit cards were all maxed out, she decided to pop home, say hi to Jake and get changed before she headed off to the Park Royal.

  Because of her meeting with Ossie Da Costa, Albert had come over earlier than usual to look after Jake. When she got home, Albert was in the living room watching a video of the previous night’s Liverpool versus Juventus game.

  “Hiya,” she said. “Jake having a nap?”

  Albert didn’t look up. “Oh, come on,” he shouted at the screen, “that was totally offside. This ref’s a complete fucking tosser.”

  Stephanie burst out laughing.

  “By George, he’s got it.”

  “What? What have I got?”

  “British football-speak. You sound just like a native.”

  “I’ve been to so many games over the years. It just starts to rub off, I guess.”

  “Jake asleep?” she asked again.

  “What? Oh, yeah. Been a bit cranky, so I put him down for a nap.”

  She went into the hall to take off her coat, just as the halftime whistle blew. He pressed the remote onto fast forward.

  “So, I saw Ossie Da Costa.”

  He shot round to face her. “Oh, God. Shit. Sorry. How’d it go? Say, didn’t I read somewhere that he’s a midget or something?”

  “Now you tell me.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “Nope.”

  “I guess I should have mentioned it, but I just assumed you knew. So, has he agreed to take you on?”

  “Yep. Isn’t that brilliant? I’m so excited. My heart’s still racing. This is the biggest thing that has ever happened to me.”

  “That’s great, principessa, really great.”

  She told him about Sidney Doucette and the secret project.

  “Sidney Doucette? Wow. Could be interesting.” He was facing the TV screen again. “I wouldn’t get too worked up, though. Nine times out of ten, these things don’t come to anything. Happens to me all the time. It’s the nature of the business.”

  “You know, Albert, until now I never had you down as a glass-half-empty person.”

  He shrugged. “I just don’t want to see you get disappointed, that’s all … Oh, that should so have been a free kick. Did you see that, Steph? Is this ref watching the same game? Steph, could you turn down the oven? Jake’ll probably sleep for an hour or so and I don’t want his lunch to burn.”

  She went into the kitchen and turned down the oven control. There were lumps of Play-Doh all over the table and floor, a pile of dirty pans in the sink. Liberace was wandering around, making tiny mewing sounds. He was clearly desperate to be fed. She went back into the living room.

  “Look, Albert, I really don’t mean to nag, but—”

  “Oh, by the way,” he broke in. “Take a look on the kitchen counter. I did some drawing with Jake today. He did his first-ever person.”

  “He did?”

  Lying on the counter was a sheet of computer paper. In the middle, Jake had drawn a wobbly purple circle, from which there sprouted four stringy yellow limbs. Albert had added the face. Underneath, in neat lowercase letters, he had written mommy.

  “Goal! Yesss!” Albert cried out. “Sorry, what were you saying before? I missed it.”

  “No, it’s OK,” she said, still smiling at Jake’s picture. “Wasn’t important.”

  It was Monday, so she should have been singing at the Blues Café, but it was closed for a private party and she had the night off. Cass had phoned and said she’d been invited to a gallery opening in Shoreditch and did Stephanie fancy coming. Since Albert had nothing planned and seemed perfectly happy to babysit, she said yes.

  The gallery—a converted shoe shop—was tiny. The vast, brightly colored oil paintings made it look even smaller. There were eight, maybe ten, all produced by an artist named Ed Blackwell, who was making quite a name for himself painting pictures of food. The ones hanging here were part of a series called “BritNosh.” There was a plate of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, egg and chips, beans on toast and one Stephanie particularly liked: a six-by-four-foot fry-up, complete with black pudding and a giant dollop of ketchup.

  Not only was the gallery tiny, it was packed. It felt like being on the tube in rush hour, before they banned smoking. Stephanie couldn’t help feeling sorry for the waiters who were finding it virtually impossible to fight through the crush with their trays of drinks and nibbles. The two women arrived late because Cass had been to a cocktail do earlier. By the time they got to the gallery, she was already a bit tipsy and desperate for a pee. As she went off to find the loo, a waiter appeared with a tray of champagne. Stephanie helped herself to a glass. Just as she was bringing it to her lips, she felt herself being jostled heavily from behind. The champagne shot out of the glass and down her shirtfront. She swung round and came face-to-face with Frank Waterman.

  “Steph! Hi.” Then he saw what he’d done. “Oh, God, I am so sorry. Don’t worry, I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.” As she gave the wet patch a few futile flicks with her fingers, she smiled and explained that since she’d had Jake, she didn’t buy anything that wasn’t machine washable.

  “I didn’t know you had a child,” he said.

  “Yep, he’s two and a half.” She stepped back to let a woman squeeze past, treading on somebody’s toe as she did so.

  “Ah, the te
rrible twos,” he said. “My nephew used to refuse to get dressed in the mornings. Once my sister actually carted him off to playgroup in his pajamas.” Stephanie said she knew the feeling.

  “So, you’re married. I didn’t realize. Funny, I just assumed …”

  “No, his dad and I aren’t together, but he’s very much on the scene as far as Jake’s concerned.”

  He gave an approving nod. She was just thinking that Frank Waterman really did have the sexiest of smiles. Not only that, but judging by his eye line, he appeared to be admiring her breasts. She instinctively glanced down at them. The champagne had spilled mainly onto the right side of her shirtfront. Since she was wearing only the flimsiest of bras, it had soaked through to the skin and her now cold, erect nipple was sticking out like a coat hook. She instantly slapped her hand across her left shoulder, so that her arm obscured the nipple. “So,” she said, clearing her throat. She was about to ask him how all the wedding plans were coming along, when a bloke in a kilt and Yoko Ono windscreen shades pushed his way between them. After he’d gone they both started laughing and Stephanie forgot what she’d been about to say.

  “Don’t you think the paintings are brilliant?” Frank said. He explained that Ed Blackwell was a friend of his. “I’m probably biased, but I think he’s really talented.”

  She agreed. “I like the fry-up best.” She confessed her own talent for cooking fry-ups. “Of course, the secret’s in the beans,” she said. She must have gone on for a solid minute expounding her overcooked bean theory and its role in the quintessential English breakfast.

  “You know,” he said, when she finally finished, “you’ve given me an entirely new perspective on baked beans.”

  She realized she’d been rambling. “Sorry. I do tend to go on a bit.”

  “You weren’t at all,” he said. “I’d really like to try them.” He was looking at her in a way that made her think it wasn’t just her baked beans he wanted to try. She looked down at her feet, not quite sure what to say next. Once again she decided to change the subject. “By the way, I’ve found an agent who’s interested in taking me on.” She’d just finished explaining about Ossie Da Costa, the secret project and Thursday night’s audition, when Cass emerged from the crowd. She was holding a half-empty champagne glass. Stephanie could tell by her rather glazed expression that she was more than a bit tipsy now. Stephanie did the introductions. Cass took one look at Frank and went into full-on vamp mode, licking her lips and running her fingers over her cleavage and neck as she spoke. “And can I say how much I enjoyed your Hamlet,” she said, her voice dropping at least twenty octaves. “I was spellbound. Utterly spellbound. I love a man in a codpiece.” Even though she knew Cass couldn’t help herself and always flirted outrageously when she’d had a few drinks, Stephanie couldn’t help going purple with embarrassment. Frank simply grinned and said he’d never actually played Hamlet.