Breakfast at Stephanie's

by Sue Margolis

  “I did. Several times, but you didn’t hear me because of the music.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I was practicing the Thirty-Seven Postures of Cheng. That last bit was Embrace Tiger, Return to Mountain. I’m still not very good, but it’s just so soothing and relaxing. I’m definitely becoming spiritualized. I can feel it. It’s sort of bubbling up inside me.”

  “Maybe you need to take some Pepto-Bismol.”

  “Now you’re teasing me. It is not indigestion. My entire body feels like it’s being bathed in a deep inner calm. I tell you, taking up tai chi is one of the best things I’ve ever done. And don’t you just love the music?”

  “To be honest, Gran, I’m not keen. What is it?”

  “Björk. Isn’t she wonderful? Bernard, our tai chi teacher, recommended her. He thinks her music really complements the movements. I just love it.”

  “Omigod, my seventy-nine-year-old grandmother is into Björk?”

  Lilly shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “No reason.” Stephanie smiled, thinking that since her grandmother was into moments of ecstasy and tai chi, there was no reason why she shouldn’t be into Björk.

  Lilly asked her what she thought of the pajamas. She’d bought them at a Chinese gift shop in Covent Garden. Stephanie said she thought they were fab and highly appropriate.

  “Maybe I ought to get changed. I don’t want to ruin them. You sit down. I won’t be a minute.”

  Lilly disappeared into the bedroom and Stephanie sank into an armchair. Her grandmother’s living room was roughly ten feet by twelve. Before she moved in, Estelle had spent weeks trying to convince her to get rid of the furniture from her old house around the corner, on the grounds that it was big and old-fashioned and would swamp the new flat. Lilly had refused to listen. Her furniture was part of her. To give it away would be like giving away her memories. “Plus, nobody makes quality like this anymore.” And that was that. Debate over. When Lilly moved, so did her furniture.

  As a result the living room contained a bulky three-piece suite (faded green Dralon, tassels round the bottom), two nests of tables (dark rosewood), a forties’ walnut sideboard (“Feel how solid it is. Go on, just feel”) and a matching cocktail cabinet. Then there were all her “bits and pieces”—the silver photograph trees, the cut-glass vases of silk flowers, the Venetian glass sweets dishes and ashtrays.

  Stephanie would never forget the day Lilly moved into her flat. She and Estelle came to help her unpack. One box contained seventy-five sherry schooners. “Mum,” Estelle had pleaded, “this kitchen is minute. Where did you think you were going to find room for seventy-five sherry schooners?” It seemed she was holding on to them “in case people come,” along with the nineteen tins of salmon and dozens of carrier bags and sachets of sugar and sweeteners. Nowadays the sherry schooners were collecting dust at the top of the airing cupboard and the sachets of sugar and sweeteners filled two kitchen drawers. Her shopping cart (a present from Estelle, which she never used because she said it made her feel like an old person) stood by the fire escape door and served as a receptacle for the carrier bags.

  Lilly came back into the living room, cordless phone pressed to her ear. “Estelle, why do you keep asking me this?” She beckoned Stephanie to follow her into the kitchen. “Look, I don’t know if I want to be buried or cremated,” Lilly continued. “Surprise me.”

  “You know,” Lilly said, putting the phone down on the counter, “your mother has been going through an odd phase since her menopause. She’s obsessed with my funeral arrangements. Sometimes I think she actually wants me dead. It’s like she’s sixteen all over again.” She shrugged and waved a hand in front of her. “Still, I’m sure she’ll grow out of it.”

  Stephanie said Estelle adored her and how could she even think she wanted her dead. She made the point, as tactfully as she could, that Lilly wasn’t getting any younger and Estelle simply wanted to get everything right when the time came.

  It occurred to Stephanie that this was only partly true. Estelle was probably finding it impossible to come up with fresh excuses to phone her mother in order to pump her for information about Maury Silverstone. Lilly began filling the kettle. “Your mother told me about this big audition,” she said. “I’ll be sitting here sending up a prayer.” Stephanie thanked her and said she needed all the help she could get.

  “So, Gran, how are things with the Matzo Ball Mogul?”

  “Oh, I finished with him before Christmas,” Lilly announced, flicking the switch on the kettle.

  “What? Why? You were having such a great time.”

  Lilly shrugged. “I was for a bit, but then I realized he only wanted me for my body.”

  “I see,” Stephanie said, surveying her grandmother’s birdlike seventy-nine-year-old frame.

  “I need somebody who can appreciate me for my mind as well. Somebody I can talk to. Maury was nice enough, but he had no conversation. He would turn up, we’d have a couple of glasses of sweet sherry while I cooked him liver and onions. Then after dinner, we’d go to bed. Sometimes we didn’t bother with dinner. I realized he wasn’t so much a boyfriend as … what’s that modern expression? Fuck buddy? That’s it. Me and Maury were just fuck buddies.”

  Stephanie was having trouble working out if she was still sitting in her grandmother’s kitchen or whether she had somehow stepped into a special senior citizen episode of Sex and the City. She pulled out a kitchen stool. “Fair enough,” she said.

  “Anyway, I’ve found somebody else. I’ve been seeing him for a while.”

  “Blimey, you didn’t waste much time. Who?”

  “Bernard, my tai chi teacher.”

  “Omigod, my grandmother’s got a boy toy.”

  Lilly laughed and said he was about her age. “He thinks I’m such a natural that he’s been giving me some extra one-on-one lessons to help me get in touch with my p’eng and s’ung—if you know what I mean.” Then she dug Stephanie in the ribs and started cackling.

  Chapter 10

  The following night, before Stephanie left for the Blues Café, her parents, Cass and Lizzie all rang to wish her good luck. Albert said he was keeping everything crossed. She made some daft remark, prompted by nerves, about being careful or he could twist a testicle. For some reason this turned him on and he made her promise not to take off the blue dress until she got home, so that he could see how sexy she looked.

  After giving her a quick good-luck kiss, he went over to the kitchen table and took off his jacket. As he hung it on the back of a chair she couldn’t help noticing a postcard sticking out of the inside pocket.

  “Ooh, who’s been sending you postcards?” she said. He pulled out the card. It had a picture of the L.A. Kabbala Centre on the front. Was it possible that Albert corresponded with mystically inclined ultraorthodox rabbis?

  “It’s from Sunnie,” he said, without the faintest sign of guilt or embarrassment. “She’s into some more weird shit.” He laughed. There was a look of affection on his face, but nothing more. Despite Albert’s history with women, it didn’t really occur to her to be suspicious. Even though Albert was always attracted to flakes, Stephanie had thought from the beginning that Sunnie Ellaye was far too ditsy, even for Albert. He handed her the postcard. It was just a couple of lines to say hi, how you doing. She’d signed off “Love and hugs, Sunnie,” and over the i in her name, there was a tiny heart instead of a dot. It occurred to Stephanie that she probably signed letters to the IRS the same way.

  When she arrived at the Blues Café, her stomach was churning. Melody, the slightly dim manager with more curves than the Matterhorn ride at Disneyland, took one look at her and offered her a large brandy. When Stephanie declined because alcohol would only make her sleepy, Melody began rummaging around inside her trouser pocket. “Oooh, hang on. I think I’ve got a couple of Prozac left over from the other night when I went to see my mum.”

  “God, you need to take Prozac before you visit your mum?”

  “Yeah. That way she
can nag all she likes about why I’m not married and it just washes over me.”

  She brought out two white capsules and pressed them into Stephanie’s hand. “Melody, these are coconut Jelly Bellies.”

  “They are? Oh, thank God for that. Here was me thinking I needed to increase my dose.”

  A few minutes later, she was standing in front of the full-length mirror in her dressing cupboard, repositioning her shoulder straps for the umpteenth time. She had to admit the dress could have been made for her, but maybe the sequins were just a tad too Las Vegas. Perhaps she should lose the gloves. Her hand was in her bra cup, about to hoist up her bosom, when she heard a voice behind her.

  “Wow! You look sensational.”

  “Frank!” Her hand sprang from her bosom and she turned round to face him. She couldn’t believe how pleased she was to see him. “You know,” she said, grinning, “that’s the second time you’ve made me jump in two days. This has to stop.”

  “Sorry, but the door was open. I told the manager I was a friend.”

  “That’s OK. Come on in.” She noticed a slight tentativeness about him, as if he felt uneasy about coming into her private space. He leaned his body against the ancient Formica kitchen table, which was covered with her cosmetics.

  “So, the dress really looks OK?” she said anxiously. “Not too much? What about the gloves? Be honest. I won’t be offended.”

  He was holding her in his gaze, smiling. “They’re perfect. You look perfect. Listen, I don’t want to hold you up. I just popped in to wish you good luck. I thought I’d stay and see the show if that’s OK.”

  “OK? I’d love it. You know I can’t believe you remembered it was tonight I was doing the audition.”

  Just then Dennis popped his head round the door to say Ossie and Sidney had arrived and wanted to pop in and say hello. Frank said he should go. “I’ll be sitting out there rooting for you,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks. “Not that you’ll need it. I know you’ll be brilliant.”

  “God, I hope so.” As he walked toward the door, she heard herself saying, “So, no Anoushka tonight?”

  He looked taken aback. “I assumed you knew. It’s been all over the tabloids. We split up. A couple of weeks ago.”

  “No, I didn’t,” she said, placing her hand on his arm. “Frank, I am so sorry.” He said he was too, but it had worked out for the best. For a few seconds he seemed lost in his thoughts. Finally his face broke into a smile. “Do you fancy going for a drink after you finish tonight? After all the tension, I think you might need one. Unless of course you have other plans.”

  “No. No, I don’t,” she said. “I’d love to go for a drink.”

  She had imagined Sidney Doucette as sixty-something, short, with a camel coat draped over his shoulders Don Corleone style, a Rolex, and a paunch in a different time zone from the rest of him. When they were introduced, he wouldn’t say much, just chew on his cigar and look her up and down as if he were inspecting a heifer at a cattle auction. When she started singing, he would sit there, one eyebrow raised, challenging her to thrill and astonish him. If he didn’t like what he heard, he would simply get up and walk out.

  “Stephanie, you decent?” Ossie said, tapping on the dressing room door.

  “Yes, come on in.”

  “Not that I’d mind if you weren’t,” Ossie said, letting out a loud cackle. “Stephanie, may I present Mr. Sidney Doucette.” Standing behind Ossie (whose head was turned up, his eyes glued to Stephanie’s cleavage) was a tall, well-preserved chap in his midseventies, maybe, sporting a David Niven mustache and an exquisitely tailored gray suit. Underneath he was wearing a black silk-knit polo shirt.

  “Miss Glassman,” Sidney proclaimed joyously. With that he took her hand and planted an elegant kiss on the back of it. “Ah am enchanted. Truly enchanted.” She recognized the Southern accent immediately. “Why, ah do declare,” he went on, “aren’t you just a sight for sore eyes? If you don’t mind my saying, little lady, you are as perky as a ladybug’s ears at planting time.”

  Resisting the urge to ask him if he had come to London on a 747 or in a surrey with a fringe on top, she said how do you do and thanked him profusely for taking the trouble to hear her sing.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” he said, finally letting go of her hand. “Ah have heard so much about you, little lady. Ossie here tells me you have the voice of an angel. Ah know it is going to be a pleasure and dee-light to hear you sing. Why, ah am as excited by the prospect as a possum up a gum stump.”

  Then he said he could do with wetting his whistle and where could a man get a drink around here. “What’ll you have, Ossie? A short, I’ll be bound.” With that he roared with laughter. Hurt flashed across Ossie’s face. It was the first time Stephanie had seen him drop his guard. For a moment he seemed truly vulnerable. But it didn’t last. A moment later the smile had returned. “Actually, I’m a teetotaler,” he said.

  She couldn’t help finding that odd. She would have put money on Ossie being a pretty hard drinker.

  The two men turned to go. “Good luck, little lady,” Sidney said with a wave. As she closed the door she could hear Sidney telling Ossie that he thought she looked as scared as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

  She walked toward the podium, her chest fit to burst because her heart was thumping so hard. Ossie and Sidney were sitting in the middle of the room. Sidney raised his glass to her. Ossie waved his cigar. Frank was sitting closer, just a few feet away. He was giving her a thumbs-up and mouthing something, which looked like: “You look great.” She smiled back and picked the mike up off its stand. A moment later, the lights went down and the place fell quiet. She could still feel the pounding in her chest, the dryness in her mouth. The dress shimmered and twinkled in the spotlight. She turned to the band and took a deep breath. “OK, boys, ‘I Enjoy Being a Girl.’ ” Ian, the drummer, gave her a matey wink. The intro began. She started moving to the upbeat tempo.

  “I’m a girl and by me that’s only great / I am proud that my silhouette is curvy …” She gave a Marilyn Monroe wiggle and ran her hand over her hips. What she couldn’t have hoped to see was Ossie gazing at her, lips slightly parted, beads of sweat breaking onto his forehead.

  Audience enthusiasm varied from night to night, and she was dreading a lukewarm crowd. But from the beginning she could feel they were with her. After that first song they clapped like mad. There were even a few whistles. Four numbers in, high on adrenaline and applause, she was having a ball. During her break Frank came up to tell her how brilliantly she was doing. Ossie and Sidney didn’t budge from their table. She couldn’t work out if this meant they were less than enthusiastic about her performance, or that they simply couldn’t be bothered to get up because they were too busy talking and eating. Frank said it was undoubtedly the latter. “I mean, just look at them.” Both men were plowing through the Blues Café’s spectacularly large pizzas, but Ossie especially was concentrating on eating the way most people concentrated on filling out their tax returns.

  She left singing “Fever” until the end. First came the gentle drumbeat. Then the bass kicked in. Her fingers clicked to the rhythm.

  By the time she got to the “you give me fever” bit, she found herself looking at Frank. The instant she realized what she was doing and how it must look, she turned her head.

  When she finished, the applause went on for ages. She even had to do an encore.

  “Well, Miss Glassman,” Sidney said afterward, as she stood at the bar sipping mineral water. “Ah think ah’ve heard all I need to.” Her heart sank to her peacock-blue slingbacks. It was the phrase theater directors used after an actor or performer had given a mediocre audition. She’d heard it dozens of times. The audience may have loved her, but satisfying the likes of Sidney Doucette was another matter. She looked at Ossie. His face was positively contorted. It was only when he pulled a tube of Tums from his pocket and tore into the foil that she realized it was probably indigestion, rather than
her singing, that had brought about the facial expression. She waited for Sidney to deliver the “not quite what I’m looking for” speech. Then she heard him say: “Ah do declare, Miss Glassman, that voice of yours sounds even better live than it does on your CD. Ah am in no doubt that we shall be meeting again very soon.” Once more he took her hand and planted another elegant kiss. “Meanwhile you must excuse me. Ah have an engagement in St. John’s Wood and ah am running late. Ossie, can you show me where ah can get a cab?”

  Ossie, chewing on a Tums now, nodded and turned to Stephanie. “OK, my office ten o’clock Monday morning and I’ll explain exactly what we have in mind for you.” Then he grinned and did this Groucho Marx thing with his eyebrows. It didn’t occur to her that this display was anything more than a joke on Ossie’s part. The idea that he could possibly fancy her didn’t even enter her mind.

  Before she had a chance to pick herself up from the shock of the way the audition had gone, Ossie and Sidney were walking away, Ossie stifling a belch as he went. As he weaved his way between tables, a few people turned to stare at Ossie. He greeted each one with a smile and a wave. “That is one very brave man,” she said to herself.

  “Steph, you were fantastic out there.” It was Frank. “No, you were more than fantastic, you were unbelievable. So, come on, what did he say?” In that instant the excitement kicked in. “He wants me,” she said, flinging her arms around him. “Sidney Doucette wants me. I can’t believe it.”

  Before she knew what was happening, Frank had picked her up and was swinging her round. “Wow! I knew it. I just knew it.”

  When he finally put her down she thanked him for coming. “You know, I really do appreciate it.”

  He told her he wouldn’t have missed it. She could feel his eyes dancing over her face and for a moment she thought he might kiss her. Then Melody came rushing over, desperate to find out how it had all gone, and he didn’t.