by Sue Margolis
“There is one person who springs to mind,” said Louise in the daisy smock.
“Who?”
“What about Tommy Padstow?”
There were actual squeals of delight. These drowned out the groans from Tara and Charlotte.
“Oh, I a-dore Tommy Padstow,” Imogen said. “The man leaves me quite weak at the knees.”
There were cries of “me, too.” Everybody agreed it was because he bore more than a passing resemblance to Damian Lewis.
“I’ve never understood the whole Damian Lewis thing,” Tara said. “If you ask me, the man looks like a duck.”
There was loud indignation. Damian Lewis looked nothing like a duck. How could she possibly say such a thing? Imogen was forced to shush everybody.
“Anyway, I know for a fact that Tommy Padstow wouldn’t be able to do it,” Charlotte announced.
“Why not?”
“Our neighbors are friends with the Padstows and they’re all off to a villa in the Algarve for the summer.”
“Pooh,” said Imogen.
“I know,” Tara piped up. “What about Greg Myers?”
“Now you’re talking,” Charlotte said. “He’s really hot.”
People were oohing in agreement.
“Remind me who he is again,” Imogen said.
Tara rolled her eyes. “The Sleeper? It’s the biggest thing since Homeland?”
“Oh yes, of course. He is rather dashing. He was in Jane Eyre a few years back. I adored his Mr. Rochester… . But doesn’t he live in LA these days?”
Tara said she’d read that he was about to start a West End run in Death of a Salesman. “I’d say it’s definitely worth asking him. Apparently he was born round here, so he could well be up for opening the fair.”
“And it just so happens,” I heard myself say, “that I have a way of getting to Mr. Myers.”
What? No I didn’t. What the hell was I doing? Bigging myself up, that’s what. I’d had enough of Tara and Charlotte making me feel like a worm. First they’d informed me that my neighborhood was too ghetto for their brats. Then I’d had to listen to them bragging about their fashion and showbiz contacts.
“Goodness,” Imogen said. “This just gets better.”
Tara was looking distinctly sniffy. “You can get to Greg Myers? How?”
“My cousin Rupert was at Eton with him.”
Chapter 5
“So after the meeting, Tara collars me and she’s like, ‘Sarah, I had no idea your family was posh. I thought you told me your family were in the rag trade, and didn’t your father used to drive a cab?’”
Steve reached for the wine bottle and topped up my glass. “This woman sounds like a real piece of work.”
“You can say that again.”
“So what did you say?”
“I told her that Rupert’s dad was an international lawyer. I’m not sure if she bought it, though.”
“What does he actually do?”
“Uncle Bernie? He’s in buttons and trimmings.”
Steve laughed. “And I take it he doesn’t have a son called Rupert.”
“You take it correctly. I cannot tell you the extent to which no Jewish man is called Rupert. It was the first posh name I could think of. His real name’s Bradley.”
Steve had dropped by for a drink on his way to the Chartered Institute of Accountants’ Annual Professional Development Dinner. (The children had gone to Mum and Dad’s for Friday night dinner and were staying the weekend.) I’d offered to be his plus one, but he said it wasn’t a plus-one kind of do. He explained that Chartered Institute of Accountants’ Annual Professional Development Dinners involved five hundred accountants sitting down to eat rubber chicken and dessert topped in aerosol cream while they listened to long, dreary speeches on professional development.
“OK,” Steve was saying now. “I understand that these women made you feel like a worm and that’s why you made up the Rupert story, but you have to come clean. Carrying on with this charade is only going to end in tears.”
“So you’re saying that I have to admit that I lied? No way. Why would I humiliate myself like that?”
“You don’t need to go as far as admitting you lied. You just say that you e-mailed Greg Myers and discovered he’s going to be out of the country on the day of the fair.”
“I’d still look like a pathetic loser. Then Tara would call Marc Jacobs and save the day and people would be all over her.” I paused. “I know you think I’m making too much of this, but I can’t help it. Tara and Charlotte and the rest of their cronies are just so vile.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Great.”
I sat raking my fingers through my hair. “OK … what about starting with the obvious? I’ll e-mail Greg Myers’ agent and ask if by any chance he’s available.”
“Fine, but you won’t get anywhere.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Actually, I do,” he said.
“Has anybody ever told you that you can be really self-righteous and pompous?”
“Frequently,” he said, grinning.
“And if I don’t get anywhere with his agent, I’ll ambush him one night as he leaves the theater. Then I’ll cry and beg.”
“And end up with a restraining order. Good thinking.” He paused. “Sarah, please just do the sensible thing.”
“I’ve told you, that isn’t happening.”
“Your funeral,” he said.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I’m just being realistic. You need to approach this problem rationally and sensibly.”
“I do wish you’d stop underestimating me. I can’t wait to see your face when I pull this thing off.”
The corners of his lips were twitching. “You really are the most obstinate woman.”
“Only when it comes to Tara and Charlotte.”
“So,” he said. “What’s happening with the shop? Have you told the landlord you’re shutting it down?”
“No, but I will. It’s just that it feels so final.”
“Are you sure that isn’t guilt talking?”
“Probably … But surely my decision to close it down should be based on hard financial facts?”
“What are you talking about? Your decision is based on hard financial facts. The shop is practically bankrupt.”
“But I don’t know that for certain. I haven’t had anybody go over the books.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “Sarah, I know how upset you are about having to let the shop go, but if there was even the remotest hint that the business was anything other than on the skids, don’t you think your aunty Shirley would have told you?”
“I guess.”
“OK, tell you what. Why don’t I take a look at the accounts? Would that make you feel better?”
“Yes, but you’ve done enough pro bono work for me. I can’t let you do more.”
“Sarah, I’m seriously not counting. The most important thing is that you get it into your head once and for all that the shop has no future and move on.”
I told him that I was planning to go to the shop the following afternoon. I wanted to look around, just for old times’ sake. “Aunty Shirley kept all her files and documents there, in the safe—you fancy coming with me?”
“Absolutely. The sooner we get this done, the better.”
“You know, even if the shop is a no go, I’ve realized I’m in dire need of a new challenge. I can’t stay at the nonemergency helpline any longer. I’m bored out of my brain.”
“What would you do?”
“Well, it has to be something arty and creative. You know, it wasn’t until I gave up the dressmaking business that I realized how happy I’d been.”
“Well, trying to start your own business in a recession would be madness. And what would you do for capital? I could lend you a bit, but …”
“Steve, that’s really kind, but there’s no way I’d take mone
y from you. Or Mum and Dad. There are all these government grants available for people trying to start new businesses. I’ve been reading about them.”
“Yes, but if you’re not gay, disabled or an ethnic minority, you don’t stand a hope of getting one. Take it from me, you need to abandon these daft notions of running a business and get a job that will stand you in good stead until retirement—something with a good pension. What about the civil service or local government? I know for a fact that your local health department has a couple of junior vacancies—I saw the ad in the Standard. Apparently they train you on the job.”
“Steve, have you met me? I have a degree in fashion design. I ran my own business selling rockabilly dresses.”
“Fine. Do it as a hobby. Tell you what, I’ll see if I can dig out the health department ad and send you the link.”
“Steve … look at me. There is no way I am ever going to work in local government. I would rather be pecked to death by a flock of starlings.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I will.”
“You know your problem, Sarah—you’re absurdly unrealistic. You need to get yourself grounded, make contact with planet earth before it’s too late. I’d have thought that after everything you’d been through, that would have been obvious.”
“So because I’m a struggling widow, I have to give up on all my hopes and dreams?”
“Hopes and dreams are for romantics. In the end they get you nowhere. It’s why so many creative types go bust. No grip on reality. I see it time and again. If life has taught me one thing, it’s that in order to survive, you have to make safe, sensible choices. Only the wealthy can afford to take risks.”
“So the rest of us have to live our lives bored to death.”
“I’d rather be bored than bankrupt.”
He looked at his watch. “Jeez … I need to get going… . You sure I look OK and not too much like a dork?” He got up from the sofa and presented himself for inspection.
I gave his black bow tie a tiny tweak. “You don’t look remotely like a dork. You look great.”
I kissed him on the lips and he kissed me back. Afterwards we stood there, eyes fixed on each other. My cue to suggest that after the professional development do, he come back here for the night.
“See you tomorrow, then,” I heard myself say.
I could see the hurt and disappointment on his face. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll pick you up around half three.”
He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and was gone.
I should have invited him back. It was time. I felt bad about being so mean, but Mike and the mess of feelings I had for him were still getting in the way. In my head I knew that he was gone, that he wasn’t coming back and that I needed to get on and live my life. But my heart wouldn’t let go.
I shoved a frozen lasagna in the oven and went back to the sofa. I lay there mulling. Steve was good for me. He was grounded, trustworthy, dependable. OK, he could be a bit pompous and he was cautious to the point of irritation. On the other hand, I’d seen where Mike’s contempt for caution had got him. Steve was what I needed. Plus he looked seriously sexy in a tux. He was doing his best to pull back and not pressure me into sleeping with him, but he wasn’t going to wait forever. If I carried on pushing him away, I would lose him. I needed to lay Mike to rest, learn to live alongside my feelings for him—the loving ones and the not so loving—instead of letting them dominate my life.
The oven pinged.
The supermarket lasagna was runny and tasteless. I washed it down with another glass of wine. When I’d finished, I filled the sink with soapy water and washed up my plate along with the glasses and cereal bowls left over from breakfast. I could have put them in the dishwasher, but that would have meant unloading it first and putting everything away. I couldn’t be bothered. As I placed the last bowl on the drying rack, I made a decision. Tomorrow, after Steve and I had been to the shop, I would invite him back for dinner. Then, while we were on the sofa watching a movie and making out, I would suggest he stay over.
I took the plug out of the sink and pulled off my rubber gloves. The greasy water refused to drain. It was thick with this morning’s Coco Pops, which had risen to the surface. Fabulous. The sink was blocked again. It was my fault. Whenever I washed up by hand, my plate scraping was never more than cursory. Sometimes I didn’t bother at all. This meant that I always ended up massaging bits of food down the plughole. When the waste pipe could take no more, it went on strike. It had been the same at the old house. It used to drive Mike mad.
I opened the cupboard under the sink and went in search of a bottle of Drano—I bought them six at a time. I used to own a plunger, but I’d managed to lose it in the move.
I looked at the kitchen clock. It was a quarter to nine. If I was going to start knocking on neighbors’ doors asking to borrow sink plungers, I needed to get on with it. Nine was definitely the cutoff for unsolicited house calls. Then again, the only neighbors I’d met so far were Betty from across the street, who had to be in her seventies and probably didn’t answer the door after dark, and the students from several doors down. They seemed a jolly enough bunch and, since they probably hadn’t got up until midafternoon, weren’t going to have a problem with me calling on them. On the other hand, being students, they probably lived in a pit. It was unlikely they owned a broom, let alone a plunger.
I had no next-door neighbors. The house on one side was empty and for sale. The place on the other side was also unoccupied, but since the mailman was delivering letters, I assumed the owner’s absence was temporary. Betty, who despite her advanced years appeared to have no trouble keeping track of all the comings and goings in the street, confirmed this. She told me that the woman who lived there had recently had a baby and gone to stay with her sister. “No husband from what I can make out,” she’d said, lowering her voice. “Her at number forty—she’s the worst. Men coming and going in the middle of the night. Not that I’m spying, you understand. I’m not one of those curtain twitchers. I just happen to see them sometimes when I get up in the early hours to make myself a cup of hot milk. She’s got three kiddies, that one—all by different men. Of course these days there’s no shame in being a single mother. In my day you kept both legs in one stocking. You young women—you’re so brazen.” I assumed this was a dig at me.
“Actually, Betty, my husband died.”
“Oh, I know! Terrible thing. Your mum and I had a lovely chat the other day and she told me all about your poor, tragic husband. Believe me, I know what you’re going through. My poor Donald dropped dead of a stroke at forty-three. My life ended that day. Take it from me, you never recover from something like that. It might have been easier if we’d had children. It wasn’t for the want of trying, mind you, but it wasn’t to be. Sad … I was always good with kiddies. They seemed to take to me. Heaven alone knows why.”
I picked up my keys and went outside to see if by any chance there was a light on in Betty’s house. There wasn’t. It was then that I noticed that my absentee next-door neighbor appeared to be back. The venetian blinds were open. I could see tea lights flickering on the coffee table. I climbed over the low hedge that separated our garden paths and rang the bell. Nothing. I waited a few seconds and rang again. Finally—the sound of footsteps. “Hang on… . Coming.”
The woman who answered the door had her cell wedged between her chin and her shoulder. Her T-shirt was rolled up on one side, exposing a plentiful breast to which a newborn baby was clamped. “With you in a tick,” she mouthed, holding up an index finger. “Of course I’m still here, big boy,” she purred into the phone.
Big boy? She clearly wasn’t on the phone to the gas company.
She smiled and beckoned me inside, which I thought was odd since it was after dark and she had no idea who I was.
She led me down the hallway. “Oh … I am so hot and wet for you, big boy… . Are you hard for me?” The baby carried on sucking. “I want to hear you say you’re hard. Go on … say
it.”
OK, this was beyond awkward.
“You know what?” I said, following her into the living room. “I think I should go. I can see this isn’t a good time. It isn’t urgent. I’ll come back… .”
But she was shaking her head. “Literally one minute,” she whispered. “Ooh, that’s it. Now I can feel how hard you are. Come on, fuck me. That’s it. Let me feel you inside me.”
Oh, God.
“No, really. I shouldn’t stay. Another time, maybe.”
“Oh, oh! That’s it. Harder. Faster. That feels so good.” I watched as she eased the now sleeping baby off her nipple.
I turned to go.
“No, please stay,” she whispered, pulling down her T-shirt. “I’m almost done.”
“But it really isn’t important. I was just wondering if you had a sink plunger I could borrow.”
“Oh … Yess … yess … I can feel you coming. That’s it. Do it for me, baby.”
She nodded and gave me the thumbs-up. I wasn’t sure if this was because the guy on the end of the phone was coming or because she had a plunger I could borrow.
“I’ve just moved in next door and my sink’s blocked.”
“Wow … Yess … Oh. Oh. I really felt that.”
“My fault. I’m terrible. I’m really bad about scraping plates.”
“Oh, that was so good. How was it for you, big boy?”
She pointed to the phone and rolled her eyes. It was then that I noticed how striking she was. There weren’t too many women who could carry off the baggy-sweats, slept-in hair and nude-face look, but this woman was one of them. Her gorgeousness shone through the grunge. She had it all: the height, the figure, the pouty lips, the green eyes that made Angelina Jolie’s look meh. And she had big tits. Fair enough, most breast-feeding mothers did, but unlike those of most of the other breast-feeding mothers I had known (myself included), hers were firm and perky and definitely not careening towards her knicker elastic. Whereas my boobs had moved independently—and still did—just as my mother had predicted, giving me the nipple equivalent of a lazy eye, hers were round and plump and perfect. She was one of those women that other women either loathed on sight or joked about turning gay for.