by Sue Margolis
Fi said she’d better not because the alcohol would get into her milk and make Connor tipsy. “On the other hand a drop of vino might make him sleep better.” She said there was an open bottle of Chardy in the fridge. “I’m sorry I keep getting on my soapbox about this dieting thing, but it’s really got to me.”
“Don’t apologize. If I’d just had a baby and put on a few pounds, it would get to me, too.” Ruby opened the fridge door and took out the bottle of Chardonnay. Then she turned to Fi. “I assume you’ll be wanting a bucket of freshly mown grass with your wine?” she giggled.
“Ha, blinkin’ ha.”
Ruby only poured herself half a glass. She wasn’t planning to stay long. She was on her way to her parents’ for dinner—Aunty Sylvia was bringing her new chap. She’d stopped off at Fi’s to give her the new Les Sprogs catalogue. Fi was looking for a child’s bed for Ben, which Saul’s parents had offered to pay for.
“So, are you seeing Sam again?” Fi asked.
Ruby said she was. She explained that he’d phoned first thing to apologize for having to rush off and to ask if she was free on Friday. He’d also managed to ease her embarrassment over the CD fiasco by telling her how Irene had spent years placing lonely-hearts ads on his behalf in Jewish newspapers. Apparently, each time an ad appeared he would receive dozens of e-mails from ultra-Orthodox parents desperate to marry off their daughters to a nice Jewish doctor.
“So, you two must really be hitting it off.”
Ruby became thoughtful. “Well, we don’t stop talking. He makes me laugh. And I feel completely relaxed with him. It’s like I’ve known him forever…”
“And he is incredibly sexy.”
“There is that.” Ruby smiled. She described how she’d barely slept last night because she kept rerunning the tape of their first kiss. “It was so sublime, it actually took my breath away. It never felt like that when I kissed Matt—not even at the beginning.”
“That’s because Matt wasn’t a gynecologist. I’m telling you, gynecologists are great lovers. You wait. When you finally get to do the deed, it is going to be fabulous. You are so lucky.”
Just then a little voice called out from upstairs. It was Ben. “Mummee, my done a ukky pooh in va twoilet! Come and wipe my bottom!”
“Gawd, I thought he was asleep,” Fi said. She called out a “well done, poppet” to Ben and told him she would be up in a tick. “Hallelujah. First turd he’s deposited in the loo for weeks.” She pulled the plastic cone off her breast and examined the contents of the baby bottle. “If I add that to the lot I expressed earlier,” she said, buttoning up her shirt, “there might just be enough for one feed.” She took the bottle over to the fridge and poured the contents into a jug. “I think I’ve got some nuts somewhere,” she said to Ruby, “if you fancy something to go with the wine.” Then she disappeared upstairs to see to Ben.
Ruby had to admit she was feeling a bit hungry and began opening cupboards looking for the nuts. Courtesy of Bridget, the kitchen was still immaculate. Instead of a dozen coffee-stained mugs piled up on the draining board, there were now two perfectly straight rows of shiny, freshly bleached mugs in the crockery cupboard, handles all facing the same direction. Eventually she found a bag of peanuts stowed in a large clean Tupperware container alongside several packets of Monster Munch.
“Great, you’ve found them,” Fi said, coming back into the kitchen, having put Ben back to bed. “I haven’t been able to find anything since my mother started cleaning and reorganizing the kitchen. I wouldn’t mind—in fact I’m really grateful—but she does it with such bad grace and makes me feel so inadequate.”
Ruby offered her the open bag of nuts. Fi took a handful and sat down. “You know,” Ruby said, “exasperating as it is, maybe you should try to let Bridget’s comments wash over you. Just make use of her while she’s around.”
“I should,” Fi said, noisily munching nuts. “And I do try, but with my mother it’s easier said than done.” She drained her glass and allowed Ruby to refill it.
“God, just think,” Fi said. “If you married Sam, we’d be related.”
Ruby burst out laughing. “We hardly know each other and you’ve already got us married off. You know, you are rapidly turning into a Jewish mother.”
Just then, Saul appeared. “Saul,” Fi said, “what relation would I be to Ruby if she married your cousin Sam?”
“Hang on,” Saul said, frowning. “Have I missed something?”
“Your wife’s getting a bit ahead of herself,” Ruby replied. “Sam and I have been on one date, that’s all.”
“He seems like a really nice bloke,” Saul said. “I hadn’t met him until the circumcision. Turns out he’s really into soccer.” He turned to Fi. “Spurs are at home to Man U on Saturday. Thought I might see if he wanted to come.”
“Great. Anything to keep you and my mother apart.”
“By the way, where is she? Popped out to put gas in her broomstick?”
Fi shushed him, but she couldn’t help laughing. “She’s taken Connor for a walk. He’s been crochety all day and she thought the fresh air might help him drop off.”
“Let’s hope so,” Saul said, “but whatever happens I’m doing the feeds tonight. You have to get some rest.” He took a swig of Fi’s wine and a handful of nuts from the bag. “Right, I’m off to see Tony the Fascist. He’s going to fit the car with a new exhaust. Shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours.” Tony the Fascist was Fi and Saul’s car mechanic. He had political views that were Neanderthal to say the least, but he worked from home and was cheap as chips.
Just then Bridget came bustling in. She was holding Connor in her arms. “Sure now, Fiona, will you look at him? Sleeping like a lamb. I swear you don’t give him enough fresh air. That’s why he doesn’t sleep through the night.” She noticed the bottle of Chardonnay. “You’re drinking wine.”
“Yes. Fancy a glass?” Fi said.
Bridget ignored the invitation. Instead she gave a loud, disapproving sniff. “But it’ll get into your milk and give Connor the runs,” she said. “Poor little mite. Hasn’t he been through enough?” She handed Connor to Fi and began unbuttoning her coat. “I’ll take him upstairs in a minute and check on his wound.” This last comment was directed specifically at Saul. Ruby and Fi saw the pulse going on the side of his head. “Let it go, just let it go,” Fi whispered to him. Saul shoved more nuts into his mouth.
“And will you look at that husband of yours,” Bridget went on. “With all that long hair.”
“Mum, he’s in Hamlet. He has to have long hair.”
“But he looks like a woman,” she said.
“Only when I stand beside you,” Saul muttered so that only Fi and Ruby could hear. Fi’s foot made violent contact with Saul’s shin.
He winced, offered a general “see ya” and left, grabbing another handful of nuts on his way.
Ruby asked Bridget if she would prefer a cup of tea or coffee.
“Coffee would be grand.” She asked Ruby how she was feeling.
“Oh, much better. Although in the end I decided not to drive home. Sam had to—”
“Lovely, dear. Lovely. Now then, what do you think of the way I’ve cleaned this kitchen? You can see your face in those taps. Encrusted with lime scale, they were. All they needed was a bit of elbow grease.” She looked pointedly at Fi. For the next five minutes she delivered a lecture on how the education system was failing girls by not teaching them domestic science. Fi responded by knocking back a third glass of wine.
“Well, I have to say,” Ruby said, placing a mug of coffee in front of Bridget, “that it all looks lovely.”
Fi shot her a look as if to say “traitor.” Ruby raised her look with a “what do you expect me to say” shrug.
“Of course the floor was particularly bad,” Bridget went on. “I don’t know the last time that saw a mop and soap. Four goes it took me to get it looking like this. Mind you, it wasn’t as bad as the stove. I used a whole bottle of scouring
cream on it. You know, Fiona, you need to get organized. You could get all your chores done if you got that baby into a routine. Do you think I picked you up every time you cried? Take it from me, young as he is, he’s got you wrapped around his little finger.”
She finished stirring sugar into her coffee and picked up the milk carton. “Empty,” she snorted. Her world-weary expression suggested that this was just another in the long line of domestic failures she had come to expect from her daughter.
Ruby offered to get some more milk from the fridge, but Bridget was already on her feet. For some reason Ruby found herself watching as Bridget opened the fridge door and reached inside. When she brought out the milk jug, Ruby patted Fi’s arm and jerked her head in Bridget’s direction. “Omigod,” Fi whispered, bringing her hand to her mouth. “She’s got my—”
“I know. Shouldn’t we stop her?” Ruby said.
“Stop her and I will never ever speak to you again. OK?”
“OK.”
Squirming in an attempt to suppress their hysterical laughter, they watched Bridget pour the milk into her mug.
She came back to her seat and took a mouthful of her coffee. This was followed in quick succession by another and then another.
“How’s the coffee, Mum?” Fi said.
“Actually, it’s not at all bad. And the milk’s not too creamy. Even semiskimmed is too creamy for me. I have a very sensitive palette, you know. What kind is it?”
“Oh, it’s a new organic one,” Fi said innocently. “It’s, erm…it’s imported from France.”
“Really? Whereabouts in France?”
“Brest, I think.” Fi had her hand clamped to her mouth in an effort to hold in her laughter. “They fly it over. That’s why it’s called Brest Express.”
“Right. When I get home I’ll be sure to ask for Brest Express milk.”
RUBY ARRIVED AT her parents’ just before eight. Ronnie was wearing a baggy sweatshirt with “Does My Bump Look Big in This?” written across it. She had an oven glove slung over her shoulder. Ruby admired the sweatshirt. “Great, isn’t it? Your Aunty Sylvia bought it for me.” She led Ruby into the kitchen. A half-roasted leg of lamb in its tin was sitting on the counter. “I’ll be with you in a minute. I just need to finish basting the roast. Your dad’s listening to music. He probably didn’t hear you come in.” Ronnie picked up a large basting spoon and began pouring meat juices over the lamb. “Help yourself to wine.” As Ruby poured Merlot into a glass, she breathed in the delectable aroma of roasting meat, rosemary and garlic.
One of Ronnie’s sketchbooks was lying on the table. Ruby sat down and began flicking through the pages. It was full of charcoal drawings of full-breasted heavily pregnant women. “Wow, these are lovely,” Ruby said, taking in the stark unadorned images and fluid lines. Ronnie said they were no more than doodles at the moment. “The Tavistock Gallery is planning a new exhibition. It’s going to be called ‘Birthright’ and they asked me to contribute some paintings or sketches. I thought it might be fun to have a go.”
Just then Phil came wandering in, his brand-new iPod Shuffle round his neck. He was singing along loudly to his music and managing to hit about one correct note in seven. “We gotta install microwave ovens…Gotta move these refrigerators. Gotta move these color TVs…”
At this point Ronnie decided to join in. She began jigging her hips and singing into her basting spoon. Taking his cue from his wife, Phil started playing air guitar. Soon both of them were giving it their all.
“My God,” Ruby said, shaking her head in amusement, “George and Gracie do Dire Straits.”
“Blinkin’ cheek,” Ronnie laughed, tapping Ruby on the head with the handle of her spoon.
Phil took out his earphones and bent down to kiss Ruby hello. “You know, this Shuffle is wonderful. You should get one. You install all your music and it plays it at random. You never know what’s coming up next. I love it. And look at it. The thing’s the size of a cigarette lighter and I’ve got a thousand songs on it. A thousand.” Still humming, Phil turned to Ronnie. “By the way, have you taken your passionflower and yellow dock root tincture? And I squeezed you that beet juice half an hour ago. Look, it’s still sitting there. It’s meant to be really good for you and you haven’t touched it.”
“Hey, Dr. Phil, have you ever tasted beet juice?” Ronnie said as she began taking cutlery from the kitchen drawer. “Ruby, tell your father to stop fussing. I’m fine.”
“She is at the moment,” Phil said to Ruby, “but geriatric multigravidas are more prone to health problems than younger women.”
“Oy! Less of the geriatric if you don’t mind. It makes me feel ninety.”
He said he was sorry and turned back to Ruby. “Anyway, I’ve been on the Internet and discovered there are all these natural supplements your mother can take to prevent anemia and high blood pressure—”
“And they all taste like rancid bark,” Ronnie piped up.
“Dad, stop panicking. St. Luke’s is one of the best maternity hospitals in the world. Mum’s being well looked after.”
“I know, but I worry. You can never be too careful.” He asked Ronnie if she’d shown Ruby the picture from the latest scan.
“I was going to after dinner,” Ronnie said, giving Phil a handful of cutlery. “Look, maybe you could lay the table. Sylvia and Nigel will be here any minute.”
Phil didn’t move. “You know,” he said to Ruby, “they use this amazing three-dimensional scanner now.”
“Picture it,” Ronnie interrupted. “There I am, lying on the table with this giant plastic penis inside me and your father’s chatting away to the radiologist, going: ‘So tell me, who makes this? Mitsubishi? Toshiba? And what kind of specification does it have?’”
Ruby started giggling. “What do you expect? He’s a man. He can’t help himself. And I’m sure he was interested in the baby, too.”
“Your mother knows full well that I was,” Phil said, depositing an affectionate kiss on Ronnie’s cheek. He turned to Ruby. “Did you know that it’s about ten and a half inches long now? It weighs nearly a pound and has eyebrows and eyelids. What’s worrying me is that it should have started kicking, but it hasn’t.”
Ronnie rubbed her forehead in frustration. “Phil, please give it a rest. I’m meant to be the neurotic one round here. Everything’s fine. The radiologist found a good strong heartbeat. Stop fussing. Now, please, will you go and lay the table?”
Giving another shrug, Phil disappeared into the dining room.
“You know,” Ronnie said to Ruby, “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Claudia Planchette and that poor little girl of hers.”
“I’m the same. It frightens me to think of the life she must have.”
“I’d like to think that Claudia just gets a bit hormonal when she’s pregnant, but I doubt it.” Ronnie began spreading whipped cream over a Pavlova base. “You know, now I think about it, she was really irritable during that prenatal class. It was odd. Afterward, we all got to talking about whether the shape of your bump could indicate whether you were having a boy or a girl. It was all silly stuff and we were all giggling. Anyway, just for a laugh, the teacher suggested we compare bumps. So there we all were, lifting up our tops—only Claudia refused to join in. She was the only one. I thought maybe she had issues about taking off her clothes in front of other women. I mean, the teacher was crossing a boundary, I suppose…”
“Ronnie. Please. Get to the point. I’m aging here.” It was Aunty Sylvia, looking stunning in a long rust-colored coat dress and matching wide pants. She had just walked in and seemed to have heard everything Ronnie had said. She went over to Ruby and pinched an inch of her niece’s cheek flesh. “And how’s my favorite niece?”
Ruby rubbed her smarting cheek and said she was fine.
“OK, the point is,” Ronnie went on, giving Sylvia a gentle slap on the wrist for helping herself to strawberries that were meant for the Pavlova, “when I looked at Claudia’s face, she seemed more t
han just embarrassed. I’d say she was terrified. I got the sense that there has been a time in her life when she’s experienced some kind of trauma while being undressed in front of women. Some kind of abuse, maybe. I think she could be suffering from some kind of posttraumatic stress.”
“Don’t be daft,” Sylvia said, stealing another strawberry and this time managing to dodge the slap. “You’re reading far too much into it. Claudia was simply petrified that somebody was about to produce a camera, which would have meant a picture of her bump—which she hasn’t been paid for—appearing in newspapers and magazines all over the world.”
“Of course, you’re right,” Ronnie said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
While the conversation had been going on between Ronnie and Sylvia, Ruby hadn’t said a word. Her mind had shot back to the changing room in Les Sprogs and the glimpse she’d caught of Claudia Planchette’s “bump.” Was it remotely possible that her first instinct had been correct and that Claudia wasn’t pregnant and had been wearing a prosthesis? But why would she want to make the world believe she was pregnant if she wasn’t?
“Earth to Ruby. Come in, Ruby,” Aunty Sylvia said, passing a hand in front of Ruby’s eyes. She came to with a start.
“Sorry.” Ruby blinked. “I was miles away.”
“I was just saying,” Aunty Sylvia said, “why don’t you two come and meet Nigel? He’s in the living room with your dad.” Ruby wanted to mention her prosthesis theory to Ronnie, but she was busy yakking to Aunty Sylvia.
“Have you told him how old you are?” Ronnie hissed.
“Not as such,” Aunty Sylvia said. “I haven’t been able to find the right moment, but I’ll do it as soon as I feel the time is right. I promise.”
NIGEL WAS A stocky, mild-mannered man in an immaculate gray business suit and nondescript tie. He was the exact opposite of the loud, hugely entertaining—but ultimately emotionally damaged—types Aunty Sylvia usually went out with. There was no getting away from it: Nigel was dull.