by Sue Margolis
‘Oh, right. Sorry,’ he said, turning to go. She tugged gently on his shirt sleeve.
‘Mel, I just don’t understand why you’re getting yourself so worked up about this. I’m the one who got hurt. If I can forgive and forget, I think you should be able to do the same. Look, is there something else bothering you? Something I should know about? How are the toupees doing?’
‘Fine. Absolutely fine,’ he snapped back. ‘Why shouldn’t they be?’
‘No reason,’ she said, desperate not to offend him and ruin his confidence. ‘No, that’s brilliant. I couldn’t be more pleased.’
***
Beverley glanced out of the window yet again. Still no Naomi. She reached into her bag and took out her compact. As she looked into the mirror and dabbed her chin with powder, she couldn’t help thinking that despite the strain of being permanently broke, not to mention living with her mother and two adolescent children, she was probably looking the best she’d looked in ages. She’d blown the last seventy-five quid of her rainy-day money on a haircut - the first she’d had in months. Russell at Beyond the Fringe had persuaded her to let him put some auburn lowlights in her hair.
High on cash and four cups of Russell’s complimentary cappuccino, she’d then let him go all the way with her lank shoulder-length shambles and cut it into a geometric Mary Quant bob.
Her new hairstyle, combined with the black Kenzo suit Rochelle had let her borrow, was making her feel decidedly sexy. Rochelle Softness (breast implants, four-wheel drive, interchangeable soft tops) was Beverley’s best friend. She lived a few streets away. Natalie had teamed up with Allegra Softness during their first term at primary school, and the two mothers got to know each other through the girls. Although Natalie and Allegra were now at separate schools - Allegra at a private school in Hampstead - the girls remained friends.
As well as the 4x4 which her husband Mitchell always joked she needed to negotiate the treacherous terrain of Sainsbury’s car park, Rochelle also owned an entire spare bedroom full of Versace and Lacroix. The suit she’d lent Beverley was the only garment she owned which didn’t have gold buttons, some kind of embroidered insignia or sparkly bits on the lapels. This was because it was her funeral suit.
‘Look, Beverley, I don’t give a toss about this less-is-more thing they always go on about in magazines,’ Rochelle had declared one afternoon over cappuccino at the Café Rouge in Hampstead, when Beverley had tentatively suggested that having her manicurist glue tiny silver dolphins on to apple-green fingernails might be going a bit too far.
‘As far as I’m concerned, more is more. That’s me. Terence Conran can go and drown himself in a coulis of his own urine if he doesn’t like it.’
Beverley loved Rochelle; not simply because she possessed that rare ability to understand and accept herself and not give a toss what anybody else thought, but because she was, despite the flashy clothes, the house full of hideous murals and wallpaper borders illustrated with lines of pale pink bows, the most generous and least snobby person she knew. She also made no secret of having been brought up in a Peabody building in Bethnal Green.
‘The only difference between us,’ Rochelle had said on one occasion a couple of years ago as they sat drinking coffee in Rochelle’s kitchen, ‘is that this Cinderella finally got to go to the ball and you are still waiting.’
‘So, does that make Mitchell Prince Charming?’ Beverley asked.
‘I guess so... if your idea of Prince Charming is a short, balding Jewish man who can never find a parking space and for whom sex has never extended beyond elementary humping because every time he attempts anything slightly imaginative he can hear the voice of his dead mother yelling, “Take that out of your mouth, Mitchell dolly, you don’t know where it’s been!”’
Beverley laughed so hard she sprayed Rochelle with half-chewed biscotti.
‘So, come on,’ Rochelle said. ‘Your turn. What’s Melvin like in the sack, then?’
‘Oh, you know...’ Beverley sighed.
‘What do you expect after nearly twenty years? You have to work at these things. Take me and Mitchell. We always have at least two nights out a week. A romantic dinner - a little dancing. He goes Tuesdays. I go Thursdays.’
Beverley hooted.
‘No, it’s not that,’ she said when she’d stopped laughing. ‘It’s always been the same.’
Rochelle was the first person she’d ever told about having married Melvin not because she fancied him, but because she was desperate to be looked after.
‘The point is, I’ve come to love him almost like a sister loves a brother - except that we have sex once a month. He always seems to enjoy it, and he does his best to turn me on, he really does, but...’
‘He doesn’t quite baste your brisket.’
Beverley gave a weak chuckle and nodded.
***
Just as Beverley’s thoughts were about to become truly maudlin, she looked up. Through the restaurant window, she saw a taxi pull up and Naomi get out. She was wearing a beautifully cut scarlet suit with a pencil skirt. She watched her sister pay the driver. ‘Oh, God,’ Beverley sighed, feeling Rochelle’s size twelve skirt straining over her size fourteen hips. ‘She’s thinner than ever.’
Beverley suddenly felt about as sexy as Flipper. What she had failed to notice, however, was Naomi’s distinct tummy bulge. This had come about first because she’d spent the last three nights pigging out on giant tubs of Ben and Jerry’s, and second because Summer, her colonic irrigator, was on holiday.
***
A few moments later, Naomi was striding out towards the table, beaming. Beverley scraped back her chair, stood up, and gave a nervous wave of her fingers. ‘Bev-er-leee,’ Naomi trilled, throwing her arms round her sister and hugging her. This almost knocked Beverley off balance because she’d been expecting nothing more by way of affectionate greeting than one of Naomi’s customary double air kisses. ‘So sorry I’m late. Traffic was murder along the Bayswater Road. Plus I couldn’t get away because I had Loyd Grossman and an entire film crew at the flat doing a Through the Keyhole. They promised they’d be gone by twelve. At one o’clock they were still rearranging furniture. In the end I just left them to it. Bloody media intrusion.’
Beverley, inwardly chortling over the fact that it was clearly Naomi who had been intruding on the media by inviting them in the first place, hugged her back and said not to worry. As they pulled away and sat down, Naomi was quite obviously eyeing her sister’s new hairstyle and the Kenzo suit.
‘No more calf-length florals, then, Bev?’ she said, eyebrows raised. ‘One of the things I always admired about you was the way you never seemed to give a monkey’s about how you looked. Such a strength. It’d be a real shame to lose it.’
‘You reckon?’ Beverley said, smiling. She could hardly believe it. Naomi was actually jealous of the way she looked. It was the biggest compliment she’d had in years.
‘Oh, without a doubt... So,’ Naomi went on, ‘what do you think of this place? Isn’t it a hoot? I came for lunch last week with Donna Karan and they put on a death fashion show - all the models were prancing around in five-hundred-pound couture shrouds. I bought one for Mum... dunno why. Wishful thinking, I s’pose.’
Try as she might, Beverley couldn’t stop herself giggling.
‘You didn’t really, did you?’ she said.
‘Might have done,’ Naomi smiled. She stopped a passing Morgue attendant and without asking Beverley what she would like to drink, ordered kir royales for them both.
While they waited for their drinks, Naomi asked after the children.
‘Yeah, you know... fine,’ Beverley said, assuming Naomi was only asking out of politeness.
‘So how are they doing at school?’ Naomi pressed her. ‘Natalie must be, what, in the lower sixth now?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Beverley said.
‘Don’t look so surprised. She’s my niece. I haven’t forgotten how old she is.’
‘Sorry. I didn�
�t mean to be rude. It’s just that you never used to be interested in hearing about the kids.’
‘Well, I am now,’ Naomi said, smiling.
For the next few minutes, after the drinks arrived, Naomi listened intently while Beverley told her about Natalie wanting to do English at Manchester and how Benny had been predicted straight As in his GCSEs.
‘You must be so proud of them, Bev,’ she said gently and reached out to pat her sister’s hand.
‘Yeah, I am. Really proud. That’s not to say they don’t give me a hard time and there aren’t moments when I would happily trade in either one of them for a new washing machine.’
They laughed.
‘But you must be proud of yourself, too. I mean, it can’t have been easy bringing them up with so little money around.’
‘No, it wasn’t,’ Beverley said, looking down into her kir. ‘But you know me. I’ve always tried to stay positive... So, Nay, what’s happening with you, aside from the amazing career, the wealth, the fabulous new flat?’
‘Well, funny you should ask,’ Naomi laughed, ‘because I do have news.’ She bent down, picked up her handbag and opened it.
‘There,’ she said, ‘a present for you.’
‘What’s this?’ Beverley said, taking the squat glass jar Naomi was holding in front of her. It was full of what appeared to be tomato purée.
‘Look at the label,’ Naomi said.
Beverley looked. A simple line portrait of Naomi smiled up at her from the side of the jar. Next to the portrait were the words Pure Gold.
‘Isn’t it wonderful, Bev?’ Naomi purred. ‘Aren’t you pleased for me? I’ve got my very own cook-in sauce.’
‘Wow,’ Beverley said with genuine enthusiasm. ‘That’s amazing.’
‘I knew you’d be over the moon. I mean, for somebody like you, I guess there’s nothing like a bit of vicarious success and glamour. I can hardly believe it, I’m the first woman on British TV with her own range of gourmet sauces. They go on the market in three weeks. So far there’s bolognese, stroganoff, bourguignonne, coq au vin and tomates aux fines herbes. I brought you the tomato because it’s kosher.’
‘Gosh, thanks, Nay, that’s really sweet of you.’
‘My pleasure,’ Naomi said. Then she leaned across the table and whispered, ‘I tell you, Bev, I stand to make a fortune from this. An absolute fortune. One day I’ll be richer than Anthea, Esther and that bloody Vanessa put together. Just you wait and see.’
‘But you’re loaded as it is,’ Beverley said. ‘Why do you need even more money?’
Naomi laughed and looked at her sister in mild astonishment.
‘Because, my darling,’ she explained, ‘you can never have too much of the stuff. Never.’ She took a huge glug of her drink.
For the next ten minutes Naomi gabbled on about how Maurice Saatchi had phoned her every day for a month, begging her to let him handle the advertising. This was followed by accounts of how Delia had got into a strop when she found out her proposed recipes for the cook-in sauces had been rejected in favour of those designed by the Two Fat Ladies, and how Diana Rigg had turned down an offer to play Cleopatra at the National in order to become the Pure Gold mum in the TV ads.
***
Although she fought to conceal it, after ten minutes Beverley’s fascination was starting to flag and she was grateful when Lance arrived to take their order. Naomi announced in a distinctly holier-than-thou tone that she wouldn’t bother with a starter because she was watching her weight. Feeling like some Hogarthian glutton for even considering ordering the spicy carrot, coconut and coriander soup, Beverley said she’d skip the first course too. She scanned the menu again for something vegetarian and low-fat, but there was nothing. Reluctantly she ordered plantain, chilli and polenta fritters. Naomi ordered achiote and honey-cured elk carpaccio with chorizo, pomegranates, green lentil horseradish mash and miso wasabi syrup, which made Beverley feel slightly less glutton-like until her sister added: ‘And I would like that without the mash, the chorizo - oh, yes - and the elk.’
For a few moments Lance stared at her, apparently lost for words. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand,’ he said, his biro poised over his pad. ‘You’d like the elk and chorizo without the elk or the chorizo.’
‘Or the mash,’ Naomi replied briskly. ‘Just bring me the pomegranates - al dente of course - in the sauce.’
Then, after making sure a bewildered Lance understood precisely what was meant by al dente, she dismissed him and drained her glass. She paused for a second or two.
‘So, how is Mum then?’ she said finally.
‘You really do care, don’t you?’ Beverley said.
Naomi said nothing. Instead she stared down, a look of mild embarrassment on her face, and began straightening her knife and fork, which were perfectly straight to start with.
Beverley decided not to push it, but she was in no doubt now. She’d been right all along. The important matter Naomi had brought her here to discuss was Queenie. Naomi wanted to make peace. It was simply pride that was making it hard for her to get the words out.
At that moment, Lance arrived at their table, pushing one of the Morgue’s hospital trolleys. They continued in silence while he placed their main courses in front of them.
‘All I know,’ Naomi said after Lance had trundled off to his next slab, ‘is that I’d be five hundred times better a mother than she ever was.’
‘Wouldn’t take a lot of doing, I’ll admit,’ Beverley said, putting a forkful of plantain, chilli and polenta fritter into her mouth.
All of a sudden, Naomi fell silent. She was clearly building up to something. Here it comes, Beverley thought. Here it comes. But Naomi said nothing.
‘C’mon, Nay,’ Beverley said kindly, ‘what is it? What was this amazingly important thing you wanted to discuss?’
Naomi took a deep breath.
‘OK, here goes. Look, I know we’ve had our silly squabbles and disagreements, but I’d like to think that’s all in the past now…’
While Naomi continued to beat round the bush, Beverley listened and took the occasional bite of food. As she chewed on the second or third of these, she suddenly sat bolt upright in her chair. She shook her head and started to frown. Naomi was far too wrapped up in what she wasn’t saying to notice her sister’s troubled expression. By now Beverley had stopped chewing. She glanced round to see if anybody was watching, then discreetly transferred the mouthful of food into her napkin. She was in no doubt. The polenta definitely contained something meaty. Meaty verging on porky.
‘You see, Bev,’ Naomi continued, still utterly unaware that her sister wasn’t listening, ‘there’s something I would like you to do for me.’ She paused for a few moments. Beverley didn’t look up. By now she had spread the napkin open on her lap and was busy poking her finger around in the glistening mulch of half-chewed-up food.
‘Jeez, this is hard,’ Naomi went on, sounding nervous and unsure of herself for the first time in her life. ‘I’ve been rehearsing in front of the mirror for days. Right, I’m just going to come out and say it. You see,’ she went on, her voice dropping, ‘I need to ask you something - something big, well, huge, actually... Oh God... Beverley, look, do you think there’s any possibility... I mean... will you have my gravy?’
‘Christ, how many calories do you think there are in a puddle of gravy?’ Beverley said, finally looking up from the mulch and holding her flattened palm out towards Naomi. ‘Does that look like a piece of crispy bacon to you? For God’s sake eat the gravy. You know I can’t. It’ll be made from meat juices. It’s not kosher.’
‘No, Beverley... you didn’t hear me... God, the bloody racket in here... that’s not what I said.’ She paused and took a very deep breath.
‘Beverley, I don’t want you to have my gravy, I want you to have my baby.’
Chapter 6
‘What?’ Beverley had said, wiping the last bit of suspect pork off her hand and at the same time doing her best, but failing,
to pick her jaw up off the table. ‘You want me to be a surrogate mother?’
‘That’s pretty much the size of it,’ Naomi said, running her finger round the rim of her empty champagne flute.
Neither of them spoke for a couple of seconds. ‘Listen,’ Naomi said eventually, ‘do you want me to complain about the bacon...?’
‘No, really,’ Beverley said: The food was the last thing on her mind. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’d nearly finished anyway... But I don’t understand. What’s wrong? Why can’t you have your own baby?’
Naomi swallowed hard, as if she were fighting back tears. She looked up at Beverley.
‘I’m infertile. According to my gynaecologist, my eggs are next to useless, my tubes are blocked like the Bakerloo Line in the rush hour and my cervix is so weak that if I could get pregnant, I wouldn’t be able to carry a foetus beyond the third or fourth month.’
‘Oh, God, Nay,’ Beverley said, reaching out and squeezing her sister’s hand, ‘that’s awful. What can I say? I’m so, so sorry.’
‘I found out a few months ago.’ By now the tears were beginning to roll down her face. At that moment Lance passed by. Beverley caught his eye and ordered two more kirs.
‘At first I was in shock,’ Naomi went on. ‘I couldn’t believe it. You know... everything had been going great till then. I had it all. Brilliant job, stacks of money in the bank. I’d even managed to find a wonderful bloke I wanted to make babies with. We started trying - and when nothing happened after six months or so, I went to the doctor, and then...’
Her voice trailed off.
‘So... so, how would it work - this surrogacy thing?’ Beverley asked, her head still spinning with shock at her sister’s mind-boggling request. ‘I mean, what about the actual getting pregnant bit?’
‘Oh, right. Well, for a start there’s no actual sex involved. You’d have to be -I mean, if you agreed, that is - artificially inseminated. Tom - he’s my chap - and I agreed we shouldn’t involve fertility clinics just in case somebody blabbed to the press. But according to all the books and articles I’ve read, do-it-yourself artificial insemination is dead easy. Apparently when lesbians want to get pregnant, they put the bloke who’s agreed to father the child in another room with a few dirty mags and get him to come into a jar. His sperm is then transferred into a turkey baster which is a bit like a huge eye dropper. The woman then sticks this up inside her and simply squeezes the rubber top to release the sperm. It’s easy.’