Gucci Gucci Coo

by Sue Margolis

  “I told you. I’m expecting a baby.”

  There was a few seconds’ silence while Ruby and Aunty Sylvia waited for Ronnie to say: “Aha, gotcha. Had you going for a minute there, didn’t I?” But she didn’t. In fact she didn’t say anything. While Phil poured the champagne, she just sat smiling.

  “God, you’re not joking, are you?” Ruby said, her voice little more than a whisper. She swallowed hard. “You really are pregnant.” She and Aunty Sylvia exchanged bewildered glances. “Are you sure? I mean, can you even have a baby at fifty? OK, Cherie Blair did it at forty-five, but even that was pushing it.”

  At this point Sylvia got up and went to sit next to Ronnie. “Rhona, darling,” she said gently, putting an arm around her sister. Sylvia always called Ronnie by her proper name when she had something serious to say. “This is just the menopause. It’s your body playing tricks on you. And don’t forget you have blocked tubes. It’s highly unlikely that you really are pregnant.”

  “Well, I am,” Ronnie said. “Over four months. I’ve had two scans. I’ll show you the pictures in a moment. I hated waiting this long to tell you. It’s been awful, but we wanted to hang on until we got the results of the amnio. They’ve just come through and everything’s fine.”

  “But what about your tubes?”

  Ronnie shrugged. “My doctor says one of them may have spontaneously unblocked itself. It’s more likely that the original diagnosis was wrong.”

  Ruby felt herself sink back into the sofa. How many times in her life had she uttered the phrase “I don’t believe it” and not really meant it? Well, this time she meant it. She couldn’t take it in. She literally couldn’t believe it.

  By now Phil was handing round champagne glasses. “So, aren’t either of you going to congratulate us?” he said.

  Ruby put down her glass and leaped from the sofa. “Oh, God. Sorry. It was the last thing I’d imagined, that’s all, and I’m still in shock.” Despite this she managed to put an arm around each of her parents and kiss them in turn. “Wow, I’m going to have a baby brother or sister!”

  “Thirty-two years—it’s the perfect age gap,” Aunty Sylvia piped up.

  “OK,” Ruby said, giggling at the age gap remark, “here’s the deal.”

  “What?” Ronnie came back.

  “First, we don’t share a room. Second, we get the same amount of pocket money and third, as the eldest I get to go to bed when I like.”

  Ronnie burst out laughing. “Oh, I think we can manage that.”

  Instead of joining in with the levity, Aunty Sylvia was suddenly looking uneasy. “I don’t for a second want to rain on your parade, but are you two absolutely sure about this? I mean you’ll have a teenager in the house when you’re in your midsixties. It’s not going to be easy.”

  “We’ve thought it all through,” Phil said. “I think we have a fair idea of what we’re letting ourselves in for.”

  “And you know how much we’ve always wanted another child,” Ronnie went on. “I agree it might have been better if it had happened a decade or so ago, but we’re both healthy and fit. I’m sure we’ll manage.”

  “My God, you’ll be having labor pains and hot flashes at the same time,” Sylvia said, shaking her head. This made everybody laugh again.

  “Well, if you’re happy I’m happy,” she went on, her face finally breaking into a broad smile. She got up and hugged Ronnie and then Phil. “You are OK with this, aren’t you?” Ronnie said to her sister. “I mean, this is my second child and I know how much you always wanted children. I’ve been really nervous about telling you in case you felt uncomfortable with it.”

  “OK, I admit it. Even ten years ago I would have been as jealous as hell. But I’m fifty-four. I’ve started to grunt as I get out of an armchair. I can’t eat anything fried after six o’clock and the only pill I take these days is to control my cholesterol level. The last thing I need is a screaming baby, nappies and sleep deprivation. Believe me, you are welcome to it.”

  Ronnie turned to Ruby. “And what about you, darling? You might not realize it now, but when this baby arrives you may find yourself struggling with some pretty uncomfortable feelings. I don’t want you to feel that we are pushing you out of the family or that we won’t love you as much. You are our first baby and always will be.”

  “Mum, please, I’m thirty-two years old. I appreciate the thought, but I do have a life. I’m hardly going to get jealous of a little baby. And you know how I always wanted a brother or sister. Admittedly we would have had more in common when I was a bit younger…” She started to giggle.

  “So, do you want a boy or girl?” Aunty Sylvia asked Ronnie. Before Ronnie had a chance to say anything, Aunty Sylvia added, “Ooh, and have you thought about names? I picked up Tatler the other day and there was a picture of this little boy called Heathcliff. It’s such a romantic name. On the other hand, I’m not sure Heathcliff Silverman really works. I suppose you could always call him Cliffy for short. Now, then, if it’s a girl, what about Aida? Or Taittinger, that’s unusual.”

  Ruby was aware that her mother was looking as if she were under siege. She decided to get the subject off names. “So, where are you having the baby?”

  “The local hospital has been pretty good so far, although I think your dad would prefer me to be at St. Luke’s. Problem is it’s just so expensive.” The baby talk carried on for an hour or so. Finally Ronnie announced that dinner was ready. “Sylvia, why don’t you stay?” she said. “It’s your favorite—ricotta and spinach cannelloni, and Phil’s about to open another bottle of wine.” She didn’t need asking twice.

  “I have news, too,” Aunty Sylvia said later on, as Phil got up from the dinner table to top up her wineglass. “I’m seeing a new man.”

  “Hang on,” Ronnie said, “what happened to your last new man?”

  “Brian? He was still hung up on his ex. I tried to be patient. I listened. I held him when he cried, but in the end it did no good, so I ended it.”

  “What about the one before him—Max? He sounded nice.”

  “He was—except he had to touch everything ten times and smell it. I got him into cognitive behavioral therapy. He did it for a bit, then he gave up. Oh, and he sat down to pee.”

  Phil looked up from his cannelloni. “What’s so wrong with sitting down to pee?” he said mildly. “It’s the only way men of a certain age can empty their tank. These days, I sometimes have to…”

  “Dad, please,” Ruby broke in, grimacing, “too much information.”

  “I disagree,” Ronnie said. “Important health issues like this need to be discussed, not swept under the carpet. Society needs educating. People should understand that some men sit down to pee because they have reached middle age and are having problems with their waterworks. Others simply prefer to sit down. What right have women to deny them that choice? For so many men, choosing to pee sitting down is the truth that dare not speak its name and I think it’s about time we got rid of the stigma.”

  “You should write a letter to The Times,” Aunty Sylvia said. “You could spark off a national debate.”

  “I hate it when you mock me,” Ronnie came back. “All I’m saying is that—”

  Sensing the onset of sisterly friction, Ruby decided it was time to change the subject. “So, Aunty Sylvia,” Ruby said. “Who was that chap you went out with before Max? I seem to remember he was a biker.”

  “Harley David. God, he was gorgeous. I really fancied him until he took me out on the bike and I saw what was written on the back of his leather jacket. It said, and I quote: ‘If you can read this, the bitch fell off.’ Sexist didn’t begin to describe the man. I spent weeks debating the issue with him. I even bought him The Female Eunuch. He just laughed.”

  “Why is it every man you go out with turns out to be a project?” Ronnie said. “You know, I think it has something to do with our father. You couldn’t make him a better person. Then he died and you were forced to give up trying. But you continue the struggle w
ith other men.”

  “Maybe.” Sylvia shrugged.

  “So, tell us about this new chap,” Ronnie said.

  Sylvia put down her wineglass. “Well, his name is Nigel and he’s an independent financial adviser. Believe me, what this man doesn’t know about the best-rated mutual funds and tax efficient portfolio management isn’t worth knowing.”

  Ronnie remarked that he sounded unusually normal and grounded for Sylvia.

  “You’re right. Funny, I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “I think that subconsciously you have decided you’re tired of taking on projects.”

  “So, is he good looking?” Ruby interrupted.

  “I’ll say,” Aunty Sylvia grinned. “He’s tall and slim with these gorgeous gray-blue eyes.”

  “And it’s serious?” Ronnie said.

  “Getting that way.”

  Ronnie asked how old he was. Sylvia responded by taking a glug of wine, then another. “Oh, he’s about my age—a few years younger maybe.”

  Ruby could practically see her mother’s antennae flapping. “So, what are we talking?” Ronnie said. “A couple of years?”

  “A bit more than that, maybe.”

  “How many more?”

  “Ten. Fifteen, maybe. I’m not sure.”

  “Come on—is it ten or is it fifteen?” Ronnie asked, shooting an anxious glance at Phil.

  “Actually, it’s seventeen.”

  “He’s seventeen years younger than you?” Ronnie repeated, her voice rising with disapproval.

  “Coo coo ca choo, Mrs. Lieberman!” Ruby cried. “Wow, good for you. God, my Aunty Sylvia’s got herself a boy toy.”

  “Does he know how old you are?” Ronnie said.

  “Yes. No. Well, sort of. I’ve told him I’m forty-two.”

  “But you’re fifty-four. When are you planning to tell him the truth?”

  Phil tapped his wife’s arm and reminded her this really was Sylvia’s business, but she ignored him.

  “Ronnie, this is so unlike you,” Sylvia said. “You usually see the positive side of everything. I thought you’d be happy for me. For the first time in ages I’m having fun.”

  “I’m sorry. I just don’t want to see you get hurt, that’s all.”

  Sylvia reached out across the table and patted her sister’s hand. “I know I have to tell him my real age,” she said. “And I will when I feel the time is right. Now, please, can we just leave it?” Clearly eager to change the subject, she turned to Ruby. “So, maybe it won’t be long before you have a baby. Of course it would help if you found a man. If you leave it much longer I’ll be coming to your wedding in an urn.”

  Aunty Sylvia positively relished her role as surrogate Jewish mother, and unlike Ronnie, she made no apologies for it.

  “Sylvia, please,” Ronnie came back. “Right now, Ruby’s busy building her career. A man will come along when the time is right. The universe never gets these things wrong.”

  Ruby couldn’t quite make out what this statement meant. She decided there were two possibilities: either her mother and Clive had finally made a breakthrough in her therapy, and from now on Ronnie was going to stop making barbed comments about Ruby’s single status, or it was an indication that Ronnie found it easier to get impatient with her sister’s Jewish mothering than she did with her own.

  It turned out to be the latter. A couple of hours later, as Ruby and Aunty Sylvia were leaving, Ronnie tugged her daughter’s sleeve.

  “Don’t worry, darling,” she whispered. “Every night, without fail, I chant for a man for you.”

  She then slipped a slim square package into Ruby’s bag. “Open it when you get home,” she said.

  Chapter 5

  Ruby lay in bed, gazing up at the shadows on her bedroom ceiling. So, at the age of thirty-two, she was going to have a baby brother or sister. How weird was that? The news still hadn’t quite sunk in. Would he or she look like her? What sort of a relationship would they have? She decided that since the age difference ruled out the traditional sibling relationship, she would take on the role of fun aunty figure—a bit like Aunty Sylvia, only more cool.

  If it was a girl, Ruby would take her out for “princess days.” When she became a teenager, the two of them would meet for lunch and gossip about their parents, who by then would be getting old and eccentric. Ruby would listen to all her boyfriend problems. From time to time she might even babysit for Ruby’s own children. If of course Ruby had any. That involved finding a man. Suppose she didn’t? Suppose it never happened? No, she absolutely mustn’t think like that.

  “I am ready to accept positive change in my life right now,” she whispered. “I am beautiful and vibrant in my uniqueness. I am a child of the universe who deserves to love and be loved. I am capable of finding love.”

  Ronnie’s package had contained a CD called Discovering Love Through Inner Empowerment. It consisted of daily affirmations delivered by a softly spoken, impossibly sincere Texan woman whose directives were accompanied by warbling, atonal New Age music. According to the blurb on the cover, she had been “a sex worker for twenty years, until she pulled herself back from the brink and turned her life around.”

  Ruby had been about to throw the thing in a drawer and forget about it, but curiosity—fueled by there being nothing on TV—got the better of her. She found herself sliding the CD into the player.

  She listened for a couple of minutes before turning it off, snorting with cynicism and unable to believe that Ronnie, even with her mystical tendencies, could have fallen for this kind of claptrap.

  Now, here she was, half an hour later, lying in bed reciting the affirmations she’d just been sniggering at. She justified it in the same way she justified keeping a four-leaf clover in her purse or listening to Chanel’s astrological predictions. It was all harmless fun so long as you didn’t take it too seriously. And maybe, just maybe, affirmations weren’t so stupid. Perhaps, by repeatedly telling herself how great she was, she might improve her chances of meeting the man of her dreams.

  THE NEXT MORNING, she called in at Fi’s, bearing croissants and pains au chocolat. She had an appointment at eleven with Jill McNulty, the hospital administrator in charge of St. Luke’s prenatal department, and Fi’s was on the way.

  She couldn’t wait to tell Fi that Ronnie was pregnant. More than that, she needed to talk about it. Last night, as she was falling asleep, she’d been convinced she was OK with the news. This morning, having dreamt that she’d gone to visit her parents, who didn’t recognize her, she wasn’t so sure.

  Fi lived in the tiny terraced cottage in Hammersmith that she and Saul had managed to buy with the bit she had saved and his “yogurt money.” Like most struggling actors he leapt at any commercial that came his way. For a start there was always the possibility—however slim—that playing an animated yogurt pot or pizza could lead to the offer of a proper acting role. More important, commercials were financial lifesavers. They tended to pay megabucks for a couple of weeks’ work. The downside was that since he never knew when the next job would appear, he had to make the money last—often for a year or more.

  For the last couple of months he’d been working at the National. He had a bit part in Hamlet—a role he described as “third codpiece.” During that time he’d also recorded a couple of advertising jingles. Saul had a great singing voice. He’d had a few minor singing roles in West End musicals, but family and friends who had seen him perform were surprised he’d never landed a leading part. He made no secret that this was a major ambition.

  With Fi now a full-time mother, they needed every penny he earned to pay the bills. When Ben was born three years ago, Ruby had insisted on making them a present of a crib and a buggy, for which Fi in particular was immensely grateful. Ruby got the feeling that Saul on the other hand, although he made all the right noises, was a bit uneasy with the gift. It occurred to her that his pride had been dented and that he might feel she was treating them like a charity case.

  As far as
Ruby was concerned, the gift had been generous but not particularly lavish, since with her business contacts she’d ended up paying even less than the wholesale price. Nevertheless, she was perturbed by Saul’s reaction and mentioned her fears to Fi. Fi was adamant that Ruby should take no notice. “The hunter-gatherer hasn’t had any work for a few months and it’s starting to get to him.”

  But Ruby had taken notice. She had a huge soft spot for Saul and she knew how serious he was about proving to Fi’s mother that even a heathen actor could provide for his family. Ruby didn’t want to upset him. When Connor was born she gave Fi a couple of gorgeous baby outfits and left it at that. The pirate costume she’d bought Ben for his birthday had cost fifteen quid from the Early Learning Centre.

  THIS MORNING, FI opened the door pale and puffy-eyed from lack of sleep. Her long blonde hair, which looked like it hadn’t been brushed or washed for a couple of days, was pulled back into a scrunchy. She was wearing an ancient Juicy Couture tracksuit offset by a sick-encrusted cloth slung over one shoulder. Cradled in her arms was a beatific, slumbering Connor. Ruby gazed at him with his mop of black hair—just like Saul’s—sucking two fingers in his sleep.

  “OK, I know he looks positively edible right now,” Fi jumped in without even giving Ruby a chance to say hi, “but don’t be fooled. The little so-and-so has been screaming his head off nearly all night.”

  Ruby kissed her friend hello. “God, you look knackered.” Fi led the way down the hall to the kitchen. Ruby asked her if Saul could give her a break this morning so that she could catch up on her sleep. Fi shook her head. “He’s got an audition for a commercial. Don’t worry. I’m fine. I slept back in July.”

  “God only knows how my mum’s going to cope,” Ruby said, sitting down at the kitchen table. She couldn’t help noticing that the kitchen was a mess. The surfaces were littered with piles of unwashed plates and pans, plus an assortment of bibs, pacifiers and half-empty feeding bottles. A heap of dirty laundry sat on the floor in front of the washing machine.