by Sue Margolis
Beverley reached out and took the paper in a rubber-gloved hand.
Facing her was a picture of Naomi in an exquisite black off-the-shoulder cocktail dress. Standing next to her was a tall, thick-set man in his late thirties, she guessed, with collar-length wavy hair and an angular jaw that looked like it had been hewn from marble.
‘Gorgeous, isn’t he?’ Rochelle purred.
‘S’pose’, Beverley said, rubbing her nose, which had started to itch, with the back of her rubber-gloved hand. ‘Naomi did say he was a bit of a dish.’
‘A bit of a dish?’ Rochelle repeated in astonishment. ‘A bit of a dish? Left over lasagne’s a bit of a dish. Half a bowl of borscht is a bit of a dish. This man’s a full-on blinkin’ banquet. Look. Just look at him.’
Beverley looked. There was no getting away from it. Tom Jago was, indeed, a full-on blinkin’ banquet.
‘Thanks anyway,’ said Beverley. ‘I suppose it’s nice to have a photo of your child’s father.’ She put the cutting down on top of a pile of red bills.
***
Sitting at his desk in the tiny office at the back of the shop, Melvin picked up the phone. For what must have been the twentieth time that day, he punched out Vlad the Impala’s number.
‘Pick up, you ex-commie bastard,’ he muttered. ‘Pick the fuck up.’
Melvin was more desperate than ever to retrieve his five grand. He still had an overdraft to clear, and, with no guarantee that Beverley would conceive immediately, he could hardly offer Mr McGillicuddy a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of collateral on the understanding that it was based on a putative pregnancy.
But in addition, Melvin was still finding it hard to acknowledge his wife as their financial saviour. Having his inability to provide for his family effectively thrust down his throat was causing him profound torment. After meeting Naomi, he had begun to think he could live with it, but now, increasingly, he couldn’t. Despite Beverley’s protestations that helping her sister was her prime motivation, Melvin was convinced that the money must have played a huge part in her decision to become a surrogate for Naomi. Consequently, he had become fixated with the idea that if he could find some way to make their fortune quickly, even at this late stage, he might yet persuade Beverley to drop the whole ghastly surrogacy idea.
If by some miracle, he thought, Vlad the Impala was still in the country, still had his money and by an even greater miracle was willing to return it, he would put the whole lot on a horse. Mitchell had the occasional flutter. If he didn’t know how to find a dead cert, then he would know somebody who did. Of course Melvin knew he would probably lose the lot. Knowing his luck, the horse would develop a politically based aversion to competitive sport five minutes before the off and stage a protest by refusing to leave the box. But what the hell? he thought. His self-esteem, his manhood, his pride were all about to be ripped away from him anyway. Losing the five grand on a horse couldn’t possibly make him feel any worse.
The phone continued to ring. He was just about to give up when he heard Vladimir’s voice.
‘Vladimir - is that you? About bloody time. I’ve been trying to reach you for days.’
‘Ah, Myel-vin,’ Vladimir said warmly. ‘Good to hear from you, my friend. I was going to call you. I been away from office.’
‘I’d worked that much out,’ Melvin said sharply. ‘So, where have you been?’
‘Doing Norwich.’
‘I bet you were. The crap wigs scam moves on to East Anglia, then?’
‘Sorry, I am not understanding. I am doing Knowledge. Knowledge, Myel-vin. You know. To be cabbie. Every day I am driving round London on my moped - to learn routes. I think maybe I sell business. I make more money driving cab.’
Christ, why had he even bothered phoning? Vladimir had gone bust, hadn’t he?
‘Thing is, in your country it’s such bloody fucking big deal to become cabbie,’ Vlad was saying. ‘My cousin Viktor - brilliant man, research chemist, you know - he is now driving a cab in New York. Making thousands of dollars. There it’s no studying.’
‘Well, you see, Vlad, in this country we have this strange custom. We expect our cabbies to know the way. Bizarre, I know, but there you are. That’s Brits for you. Now about the toupees...’
‘But in America it’s simple,’ Vlad was continuing. ‘If you don’t know way, you ask passenger. On-the-job training, Myel-vin. On-the-job training. Much quicker. Much better...’
‘OK, fine. Whatever. Now, please, let’s talk about these bleeding toupees you flogged me.’
‘Toupees? You have problem with toupees?’
‘Come on, cut the crap, Vlad. They’re shedding. I’ve examined every one you sold me. You’ve only got to pick them up and the hair starts falling out.’
‘Funny,’ Vladimir said, ‘I had no other complaints, but because it’s you, my friend, I take your word. Listen, Myel-vin, it’s no problem. I return your money.’
‘You will?’ Melvin said, utterly gobsmacked.
‘Sure I will. I run my business like your Marks and Sparksers. You don’t like what you buy. I give you cash refund. Simple. I’ll be round in Impala in half an hour with your money.’
‘You will?’ Melvin said again.
‘Of course, my friend. Myel-vin, we’ve known each other since we were students. You think I would cheat you?’
‘No, no. Of course not, Vladimir,’ Melvin blustered. ‘Thought never crossed my mind.’
‘Right then. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.’ He paused for a couple of beats. ‘Unless of course you would like me to let you in on ground floor of amazing new deal.’
‘No thanks, Vlad, really. The money will be fine.’
‘But hear me out. Just hear me out.’
‘Vlad, honestly,’ Melvin said, ‘I just want the money back. I need it urgently, you see. Personal reasons.’
‘You got bad debts? Trouble with loan sharks, maybe? Listen, I get Russian Mafia to put on the scarers, yes?’
“That’s frighteners, Vlad. Thanks for the offer, but I’m OK really. It’s nothing like that.’
‘OK, if you’re sure. But listen, my friend, I have way you could turn five thousand into a hundred thousand in a matter of weeks.’
‘Oh God, Vlad, no more dodgy deals,’ Melvin said with a sigh. ‘Just let me have the money. Please.’
‘OK, if you’re sure.’
‘I’m sure,’ he said categorically.
‘You sure, you’re sure? ’Cos I got plenty of people who would kill to get in on this.’
‘OK, so what is it this time?’
‘Don’t mock, Myel-vin. I tell you. I have just pulled off tip-top secret deal.’ Vladimir lowered his voice.
‘OK, go on,’ Melvin said with weary suspicion. ‘Let me have it.’
‘Well, for Mir - you know, Russian space station - they have just developed this new anti-snoring device...’
‘Anti-snoring device,’ Melvin repeated, barely concealing his contempt. ‘For Mir?’
‘Ssh, don’t say too much. We don’t know who might be listening. The Americans are very interested in it. Snoring was big problem on space station. Three men sleeping in confined space. At night, they all keep each other awake. But not now. Now they have the cure.’
‘The cure,’ Melvin repeated, distinctly underwhelmed.
‘Myel-vin, believe me. According to my contact Professor Sergei Kalashnikov of Novosibirsk Sleep Research Institute, this incredible invention is about to become big news. And since many years ago we are in Party together, and we have a few little deals then, now I have the world exclusive rights to new device.’
‘So if you’ve got this amazing deal, how come you’re doing the Knowledge?’
‘Back-up plan, Myel-vin. In Red Army, we always taught must have back-up plan.’
‘So, how do they work, these things?’ Despite himself, Melvin was becoming interested.
‘Nobody knows. It’s tip-top secret. All Sergei would tell me is that they fit insid
e the ear. Sounds crazy, I know. But apparently they are the donkey’s bollocks, Myel-vin. Donkey’s bollocks.’
‘Dog’s bollocks.’
‘I’m sorry. My English. Anyway, I can do a special deal just for you to say sorry for the toupees and because I don’t like to let you down. What do you say?’
‘Thanks, Vlad, but I don’t think so,’ Melvin said, scratching under his chin.
‘Listen. You take out huge advertisements in all the top-notch classy papers. You know, the Economist, Newsweek, the Exchange and Mart. “End to snoring guaranteed,” you say. “Money back if old lady still kick you out of bed.” I tell you, every man in the country will buy one.’
Melvin thought for a minute. He could just feel himself caving in. The anti-snoring devices were, he thought, probably a wiser bet than putting the five grand on a horse. Though with Ylad the Impala’s track record of supplying duff merchandise, there couldn’t be much in it.
‘I must be mad - totally stark staring bloody mad. OK, I’ll give you one chance to make amends. I’ll buy five grand’s worth - if you agree to split the advertising cost with me.’
‘Done. It’s deal, my friend,’ Vladimir shot back, sounding, Melvin thought, a tad too eager for comfort.
‘I’ll be round with a hundred gross in half an hour,’ Vladimir went on. ‘You won’t regret this, Myel-vin, I promise.’
***
The moment Rochelle left, Beverley stood by the front door, prodded her stomach and grimaced. So much for her sodding diet. Because she’d wanted to give it a chance to work, she’d resisted weighing herself for more than two weeks, but she could hold out no longer. The time had come.
She went to the deep freeze, took out the bathroom scales and put them on the floor. Using her big toe, she kicked the still frosty electronic mechanism underneath the front of the scales and waited for the row of brightly lit zeros to appear. As usual they came to life a little sluggishly, as the mechanism recovered from its polar storage conditions.
After a couple of seconds she took a deep breath and looked. Nine stone eleven. Nine stone bloody eleven.
Naked she’d be nearer nine eight. Yes! Joy shot through Beverley like squid ink through water. The diet, combined with Naomi having walked back into her life and promptly turned it upside down, was clearly causing the pounds to drop off. She patted her stomach. It seemed quite flat all of a sudden. What could have possessed her to think she’d put on weight?
Beverley picked up the scales and virtually skipped back to the deep freeze.
‘Beverley, what on earth are you doing?’
She swung round to see her mother coming into the kitchen.
‘Oh, hi, Mum. You startled me. I wasn’t expecting you back till this evening… What do you mean, what am I doing?’
‘The scales. Darling, you’re putting a pair of bathroom scales in the deep freeze.’
‘I am? Oh, God. So I am.’ She had to come up with an explanation fast. ‘I... er... I just made a cheesecake - that’s it - and I was about to freeze half of it. Must have picked up the scales by mistake.’
‘Beverley, tell me, how could you have thought the scales were cheesecake?’
‘I didn’t think they were cheesecake,’ Beverley said defensively. ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind just now and I made a mistake, that’s all.’
She came over to the breakfast bar with the scales and sat down.
‘So, Millie’s better, is she?’
‘Much. She’ll be back at the day centre next week.’
‘Great.’
‘That’s how mine started, you know, Bev - with bouts of confusion.’
Queenie checked there was water in the kettle and switched it on.
‘Sorry?’ Beverley said. ‘That’s how your what started?’
‘You know.’ Queenie paused and pointed to her lower abdomen.
‘The change of life.’ Rather than say the words aloud, Queenie mouthed them.
‘I tell you, Bev, you want to get to the doctor and get some hormones inside you fast. You’ll be shoplifting next, if you’re not careful.’
‘Mum,’ Beverley said, doing her best to stay calm, ‘I happen to know that the average age women start the menopause in this country is fifty-one. I am forty-two. That means I still have nine years to go. What is more, I still get through a pack of Tampax Super every month and I have yet to use a tube of KY jelly. And since we’re on the subject of my fertility, there’s something I have to tell you. Look, leave the tea and come and sit in the living room.’
Beverley got up from her stool.
‘Omigod, you’re not...?’ Queenie squealed.
‘No, not exactly.’ Beverley began walking to the door.
‘How do you mean, not exactly?’ Queenie said, trotting after her. ‘Either you are or you aren’t. A person can’t have a bit of pregnancy, like they have a bit of indigestion.’
Once Beverley had started to explain about the surrogacy, Queenie went silent. For the two or three minutes it took Beverley to tell the story and explain how the children and Melvin had taken it, her mother said not a word. Finally, Beverley sat back in her chair and waited.
‘I tell you, Bev,’ Queenie said, smiling and gripping her daughter’s hand, ‘Naomi doesn’t deserve to have you for a sister. Not after the way she’s treated you. Let’s hope you’re right and she has changed. I have to say that when I spoke to her the other day she sounded happier than I’d heard her in years. So, now my other daughter’s about to make me a grandma too. I can hardly believe it. Maybe now we can start being a family again.’
Beverley nodded slowly.
‘But, sweetheart, have you thought it through? When the time comes, will you really be able to give up this child? After all, he or she will be your baby.’
‘Mum, I think about little else. But yes... I think I will.’
Queenie looked at Beverley and smiled.
‘She’s lucky, Naomi,’ she said with a sigh. ‘So lucky. She’ll have her career and her baby.’
‘I know. That’s the way most women do it these days. They want both.’
‘I always wanted both, you know,’ Queenie said with a trace of bitterness in her voice. ‘Before I met your father, I had dreams of running my own business - a gown shop, I thought. You know, something really posh. Then Daddy and I got married and he wouldn’t let me. My father even offered to lend me the money to set me up. But Lionel put his foot down. No wife of his was going out to work. And that was that. So I stayed at home and had babies.’
So she’d been right all along, Beverley thought. Queenie had been mad rather than bad, and her father was partly to blame.
‘Mum, you must have felt so trapped.’
Queenie shrugged.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she said, pulling a scrunched-up bit of tissue out of her cardigan pocket and wiping her eyes. ‘It wasn’t that I didn’t want you. I did. I loved you both, but I just wanted something for me as well. There was all this frustration and resentment burning inside me. After Naomi was born, I think I went a bit loopy with it all… People didn’t go to see psychiatrists back then either. I am sorry, you know. About how I neglected you. All these years I’ve tried not to think about it. Can’t face the guilt, I suppose. Bev, can you forgive me?’
By now there were tears streaming down Queenie’s face. Every time she mopped them up, more came.
Beverley never thought she’d hear her mother say those words. Whenever she’d tried to bring up the subject of her and Naomi’s childhood in the past, Queenie had always refused to discuss it. Realizing just how brave she was being now, and how much emotional pain confronting the past was causing her, Beverley got up, sat herself on the sofa next to her mother and hugged her.
‘Ssh, Mum, it’s OK,’ she said, blubbing too. ‘’Course I forgive you. Let it go now. It’s all in the past. You don’t need to say any more. I think I understand how it must have been. But will you do me one favour, Mum?’
‘What, darling?’ Queenie
sniffed.
‘Will you tell Naomi what you’ve told me? I think she needs to know.’
Queenie nodded.
While Beverley was in the kitchen making tea, Queenie remembered she’d invited Naomi and Tom for Christmas Day. She would speak to her then. And come to think of it, she must mention inviting them to Beverley. Some time.
Chapter 11
Having finished his regular early-morning Lettice-inspired wank, Benny lay on his back waiting to get his breath back. For no reason in particular, he turned his head towards the bedside table. Something had changed, but he couldn’t for the life of him work out what. His alarm clock was precisely where it had been ten minutes ago when it went off. His copy of Popcorn was lying open and face down, next to it. Then he realized that his glass of water, which had been on the table all night, had been replaced by his ancient Sonic the Hedgehog mug, full of hot steaming tea. Beside the mug lay a couple of digestive biscuits.
Humiliation didn’t come close to describing Benny Littlestone’s emotions as he heard his mother plodding down the stairs.
Beverley put her son’s empty glass in the sink, sat herself down at the breakfast bar and continued reading the wonkily printed instructions.
‘On a waxing moon place two acorns, an orris root, a tablespoon of goat’s rue and two tablespoons of hyssop oil in a cauldron and heat gently...’ Beverley snorted as she imagined going into Brent Cross Waitrose and asking where she would find the goat’s rue.
She had barely taken her eyes off the instructions since tearing them from their brown envelope a few minutes ago. They’d come through the letterbox just as she was passing the front door with Benny’s morning tea. (Until recently, she would make tea for the entire family, but Benny was the only one who drank it. Everybody else would let it go cold and leave it.)
For the second time in just over a fortnight, a letter had arrived which again was clearly not a bill. As before, she had been unable to resist opening it immediately. In the time it had taken Beverley to go up to Benny’s room, fail to notice him masturbating, put the mug of tea on his bedside table and go back downstairs to the living room, she had read two of the half-dozen printed sheets.