by Sue Margolis
“You, too,” she said.
As he turned to go, he was accosted by Joan Collins. “David! Dahling!”
He offered Ruby a final pleading look.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Ruby smiled, nodding good-bye to David.
Tingling and positively giddy with excitement, Ruby went to find Chanel and Bridget. “Omigod,” she cried, “I was asked out by David Schwimmer. Can you believe it?”
“You’re ’aving me on,” Chanel said.
“No. Honest. I think Saturn’s change of direction could be starting to affect me after all.”
“Are you sure he’s not that one from ER?” Bridget said, draining yet another glass of champagne. “Oooh, look, is that Madonna over there? Now, if anybody needs a good hiding, that brazen hussy does. I ask you, what decent Catholic girl flaunts herself in her corsets and brassiere? She’ll end up burning in the fires of hell, she will, but not before she’s developed a nasty chill on her kidneys. Has the woman never heard of vests? If you ask me, that Guy Bitchie needs to take her under control. Now then, where’sshe gone? Oh, there she is.” Before anybody could stopher, Bridget had disappeared into the crowd.
“Leave ’er,” Chanel said, smiling. “Why don’t we let ’er enjoy her moment in the spotlight.”
Ruby nodded.
Chanel picked up her champagne flute. She looked thoughtful. “You know, me and Craig would never ’ave got Alfie if it ’adn’t been for you. I’m not sure we’ll ever be able to thank you.”
Just then Fi appeared. She looked stunning in a pale blue silk Vivienne Westwood dress. Ruby gave a comedy wolf whistle. Fi responded with a giggly twirl. Then she sat down next to them at the bar and scooped up a handful of nuts. “I’ve just got to get something inside me to soak up all the champagne. If I don’t, I’m going to keel over.” She turned to Chanel. “I heard what you were saying just then. You’re right. Quite a few things wouldn’t have ended up as happily as they have if it weren’t for Ruby.”
“Oh, stoppit, both of you,” Ruby cried, turning scarlet.
But it was true. Frustrated and sad as she was that she couldn’t get Baby Organic off the ground, she would always be proud that she’d been responsible for Jill McNulty and Tom Hardacre receiving their just desserts.
Before she and Sam flew off to New York for Josh’s retrial, Ruby, Hannah, Sam and the two other foreign doctors who had been implicated in the surrogacy scam sent separate letters to the hospital’s chief executive. A couple of weeks ago they were invited to attend a meeting with the board of governors. This was followed by several more and eventually resulted in the hospital conducting a lengthy, but secret internal inquiry into the surrogacy affair.
Hardacre, who, as Ruby had suspected, was the only doctor involved in the surrogacy business, had the arrogance and effrontery to deny everything and threatened to sue the hospital for slander, but Jill and the two midwives involved were much more easily intimidated and cracked under interrogation from hospital bigwigs. Naturally they implicated Hardacre. He, Jill McNulty and the midwives were duly sacked for “gross misconduct.” None of them would ever work in the medical profession again.
Jill had left Hardacre. She had never been a particularly enthusiastic accomplice and had only taken part in the surrogacy affair because she was infatuated with him and he had bullied her into it. The last Ruby heard, Jill was atoning for her sins working on the checkout at Wal-mart.
Even though Tom Hardacre had been sacked, Ruby couldn’t help thinking that he had got off lightly. His medical career was over, but unlike Jill, he had his substantial “immoral earnings” to fall back on. Ruby was so outraged by this that she didn’t sleep properly for weeks. Then, one night as she lay tossing and turning she came up with an idea.
The following morning, after getting Hardacre’s phone number from one of the hospital governors, she phoned him. When Hardacre heard it was Ruby on the line, he tried to hang up.
“No, please don’t put the phone down. You see I’ve just had this brilliant idea.”
“Really,” Hardacre replied, his tone flat with disinterest.
“Yes. I think you should make a very large donation to the hospital. I’m sure they would accept.”
Hardacre roared with laughter. “Why on earth would I do that?”
“Let’s put it this way: I’m not sure how much money you’ve made out of your surrogacy business, but I’m certain your services didn’t come cheap. It also wouldn’t surprise me to discover that you received all payments in cash.”
He was silent for a few moments. “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting you haven’t paid a penny in tax since you started up this business. I am also suggesting that if you don’t give St. Luke’s all the money, I fully intend to report you to the Inland Revenue.”
“I see.”
“I thought you might.”
A week later, a quarter of a million pounds was deposited anonymously into St. Luke’s bank account.
The governors decided to put the donation toward building an eating disorders unit at St. Luke’s, as well as spearheading a national campaign to educate women about the dangers of dieting during and right after pregnancy. Ruby couldn’t help thinking it was poetic justice for Hardacre’s money to end up helping to build an eating disorders unit.
It wasn’t long before all fifteen of the Hollywood stars who had used surrogates sent threatening letters to St. Luke’s via their attorneys, saying they would sue for libel if the story was leaked to the press and they were named in the affair. The hospital agreed on the understanding that they make a “voluntary” contribution to the eating disorders unit and paid any outstanding money owed to their surrogates. They all coughed up.
“WHO ARE YOU looking for now?” Fi said to Ruby, who was casting her eyes around the room again.
“Sam. He seems to have disappeared. I haven’t seen him for ages. I think I might go and look for him.”
Ruby stood up and straightened her skirt. “By the way, Fi, I couldn’t be more happy for you and Saul. He was brilliant tonight. Nobody deserves a break more than he does. He’s worked so hard for this.”
“I know. I’m so proud of him.”
Ruby gave her friend a kiss and a tight hug. “I won’t be long. If Sam shows up, tell him I’m looking for him.”
RUBY THOUGHT SAM might be outside on the terrace, but he wasn’t. In fact the terrace was practically empty. A light drizzle was starting to fall and people were wandering back inside.
The spitting rain didn’t bother her. She was happy to enjoy the silence for a few minutes. She sat down at one of the tables and breathed in the smell of fresh summer rain on London pavement. Having resisted it all evening, she reached into her bag and took out her phone. She wanted to check her voice mail. Maybe the venture capitalist chap she’d had a meeting with yesterday about investing in Baby Organic had changed his mind.
She dialed her voice mail. Nothing. No change there, then.
“Hey, what are you doing sitting all alone in the drizzle?” It was Sam. He was coming toward her, his face full of concern. “You OK?”
“I’m fine. Actually, I’ve been looking for you. When I couldn’t find you, I decided to check my voice mail.”
“No news from this financier you saw yesterday, I take it?”
She shook her head.
Still looking concerned, Sam pulled a chair out from under the table and sat down. “Sorry I disappeared. Buddy called. Irene has persuaded him to retire. He’s selling the pickle business.”
“You’re kidding. That business is his life.”
“I know, but he’s not getting any younger. I think he realizes deep down that the time has come to sell up.” He paused. “Ruby?”
“What?”
“Do you believe in miracles?”
She laughed. “I’m not sure. Of course, Chanel would probably say that miracles don’t happen to Capricorns.”
“Is that so?”
Sam took hi
s phone out of his pocket and tapped out a number. “Hey, Buddy, I’ve got Ruby here. Let me put her on.”
Ruby frowned. “Why does Buddy want to speak to me?”
Sam handed her the phone. “Why don’t you find out?”
“Hello, Buddy. How are you?”
“Lousy, thank you for asking. My wife has forced me to retire. Do you know how many years of my life I spent in the pickle business?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Fifty-seven! Fifty-seven years, man and boy.”
“Don’t lie,” Irene was squawking in the distance. “It was forty-two. You always have to exaggerate everything. Ever since I’ve known you, you have to exaggerate.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Anyway, Ruby, here’s the thing: I may be retired, but I’m still a businessman and I’m looking for a new project. Sam told me about this business venture you’re trying to get off the ground. Sounds like a great idea. How’s about I loan you the money you need?”
“You want to invest in Baby Organic?”
“Why not? Organics are the future. You’d have to be a schmuck not to see that.”
“It’s a sweet offer, Buddy, and don’t think I’m not grateful, but I’m determined not to borrow money from friends. If the business went belly up, you’d lose your investment and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”
“Ruby, listen up. One thing I’ve learned from fifty-seven years in the pickle business”
“I thought it was forty-two years.”
“Fifty-seven, forty-two. It was a lot of years and what I learned in that time is that in business you can’t make decisions based on what-ifs. Business is all about taking risks. I’m prepared to take a risk on you. The question isare you prepared to take a risk on borrowing from a friend?”
Ruby sat, processing, the phone pressed to her ear. “I’m not sure. You see, my last investor was a member of my family and she ended up wanting to control everything”
“I have no interest in controlling anything. After all, what does an old man like me know about babies?Take the money. You’d be doing me a favor. You’d be easing my conscience. I still feel guilty about the way I encouraged Sam to lie to you. And I know you’ll make a success of the new business.”
“Look, it really is very kind of you, but I’m still not”
“Please?C’mon, what do you say?”
She looked at Sam, who was frantically mouthing at her to accept Buddy’s offer.
“OKyou’ve got a deal, but if something goes wrong, I swear you’ll get back every penny you put in. That’s a promise.”
“And if, as I suspect, youcorrection, wemake a killing, I’m expecting a substantial share in the profits. Do we still have a deal?”
She hesitated. Then: “OK.”
“Good girl. You’ve made an old man very happy.”
“And an old woman,” Irene piped up in the background.
“Thanks, Buddy.”
“My pleasure, darling. My pleasure.”
Ruby handed Sam back his phone. “You set this up, didn’t you?” she said half smiling, half accusing.
“I admit I brought your problem to Buddy’s attention, but it was his idea to help you.”
She screwed up her face.
“What?” he said.
“Look, it’s not that I’m not grateful. I am, but I can’t have you stepping in to rescue me every time my life gets difficult. I need to be able to sort things out on my own. It means a lot to me.”
“Ruby, for crying out loud. Why are you so stubborn? You’ve spent the last few months sorting out everybody else’s lives. You uncovered the surrogacy scandal. You helped Hannah. Chanel wouldn’t have gotten to keep Alfie if it hadn’t been for you. St. Luke’s wouldn’t have gotten the quarter of a million if it hadn’t been for you”
“My mother wouldn’t have given birth in an airport if it hadn’t been for me.”
He laughed. “OK, there is thatCome on, Ruby, ease up on yourself. Please don’t change your mind about taking Buddy’s money. You deserve it.”
“OK,” she said eventually, “maybe you’re right.”
“I am right.”
“What can I say other than thank you and that I love you?” She reached up and kissed him on the lips.
“And I love you, too.”
Her face broke into a grin. Then she tilted her head heavenward. “So, Saturn finally gave me a break. Who’d have thought?”
“Saturn? I’m not with you. What are you talking about?”
“Oh, nothing,” she giggled. “Private jokeCome on, we ought see where Bridget’s got to. I’m meant to be keeping an eye on her.”
They didn’t have to look far. While Ruby had been on the phone to Buddy, a band had set up and started playing with Bridget as their vocalist. “Omigod,” Ruby gasped, “she must have insisted on doing a turn.” She stared at Bridget, who was standing on a table top, her bra outside her dress, singing atrociously out of key and gyrating for all she was worth. “Like a vir-ir-ir-ir-gin, touched for the very first time,” she squawked. Even more surprising was that everybody in the room had gathered round her and they were all clapping and singing along.
“Like a vir-ir-ir-ir-ginCome on Madge, you brazen hussy!” she yelled to Madonna. “Up you get and join me.”
And she did.
Also by Sue Margolis
Neurotica
Spin Cycle
Apocalipstick
Breakfast at Stephanie’s
Original Cyn
Don’t miss Sue Margolis’s other novels:
NEUROTICA
SPIN CYCLE
APOCALIPSTICK
BREAKFAST AT STEPHANIE’S
ORIGINAL CYN
Please turn the page for previews of:
BREAKFAST AT STEPHANIE’S
and
ORIGINAL CYN
Available now from Delta
BREAKFAST AT STEPHANIE’S
on sale now
“Elizabeth Arden?”
It was the third Saturday before Christmas and Stephanie Glassman, resident pianist at the Oxford Street branch of Debenhams, was sitting at a white baby grand on the ground floor, playing “Winter Wonderland.” She couldn’t have looked less Elizabeth Ardenlike if she’d tried. Unless, of course, Miss Arden used to celebrate the festive season by dressing up in a tacky Mrs. Claus Christmas outfit, which included a fur-trimmed thigh-high skirt and Teutonic blonde wig with plaited Alpine shepherdess-style earphones.
As she carried on playing, Stephanie looked up from the keyboard and saw a bulky, tweedy woman standing at her side. She was weighed down with carrier bags, and her face exuded faint desperation and the urgent need of a large gin. Stephanie had been at Debenhams for two weeks now and the haunted, get-me-out-of-here Christmas shopper look was one she had come to recognize only too well.
“I’m looking for her Perpetual Moisture,” the woman panted, desperation rising. “It’s for my sister-in-law in Stoke Poges. She swears by it. Lord knows why she bothers. Got a face like a fossilized custard skin. Harrods and Selfridges have both run out. Of course, if I had my way the poisonous old boot would get a box of Newberry Fruits and a Jamie Oliver video and be done with it.”
While the woman paused for breath, Stephanie gave her a warm, sympathetic smile.
“The Elizabeth Arden counter is just over there.” She nodded. “Behind Dior.”
“Right, well, if they haven’t got it I think I’ll plump for a foot spa. That way I can always live in hope she might electrocute herself.” Stephanie thought it best to remain noncommittalat least regarding the electrocution bit. “A foot spa’s always useful,” she said. “Or gardening gloves and a pair of pruning shears, maybe.”
With that the woman huffed off toward the Elizabeth Arden counter and Stephanie segued into “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”
Being Jewish, Stephanie’s family didn’t do Christmassomething for which she knew her mother, Estelle, had always been eternally grateful. T
he spring cleaning, shopping, baking and fish frying frenzy of Passover was enough to send her racing for the Valiumwithout having to cope with Christmas as well. Stephanie, on the other hand, had always rather resented the family’s lack of Christmas celebrations.
Traditional as they may have been where Passover was concerned, her parents weren’t particularly observant. For a start, they ate nonkosher food. When she was a kid they went out for Chinese dinner nearly every Sunday night. Her father was a ferocious advocate of cha siu pork, believing its medicinal qualities to be infinitely greater than those of chicken soup. Her grandmother, who usually accompanied them on these jaunts, refused to touch the pork. On top of this she always insisted on going through what Stephanie called her preening ritual, whereby she painstakingly picked out all the pork and prawns from her yung chow rice and piled them up in her napkin.
Christmas was like pork. You could “have it out”like the turkey lunch at the Finchley Post House, even the midnight carol service at The Blessed Virgin down the road (her mum loved the tunes)but on no account was it to be brought into the house.
As a child, Stephanie ached to take part in all the Christmas excitement and always felt jealous of her non-Jewish friends. Each year at junior school, just before they broke up for the holidays, all the kids in her class (except her, David Solomons and the Qureshi twins) would stand around in groups, busy competing about what they were getting for Christmas and having impassioned debates about whether Father Christmas really existed or whether the fat old bloke who delivered presents was just your dad dressed up.
She could still remember walking home from school on those dank December afternoons. It was teatime and in all the non-Jewish houses, the tree lights were being switched on. Every so often she would stop and stare at the twinkling windows, feeling she was peering into a never-never land. Ordinary houses, with their boring tarmac drives and UPVC window frames, became enchanted fairy grottoes. Her eight-year-old heart quite literally ached not just for Santa and the pillowcase of presents, but for the tinsel, the Christmas tree baubles, the crackers, the ritual of leaving mince pies outside for the reindeerthe sheer wondrous, sparkling magic of it all.
Of course she had Hanukkah, which happened around the same time as Christmas, but it wasn’t the same, lighting a few pathetic candles and getting a fiver pressed into your hand by some whiskery old aunt.