by Sue Margolis
Sam nodded and carried on eating his Coco Pops, which were floating disgustingly in orange juice. Rachel picked up a half slice of buttered toast and disappeared once more behind the Guardian, but she couldn’t concentrate because her mind kept going back to what had happened—or to be precise, not happened—when Adam came round the day before, to say good-bye.
When he arrived (an hour or so after Rachel had gotten back from dropping Sam at his best mate Charlie’s house, where he was going to spend the day), she had answered the door wearing nothing but a cook’s apron and a sexy smile. She had kissed him and led him into the kitchen where she was in the middle of preparing a scrambled egg and smoked salmon brunch.
“C’mon,” she’d purred, handing him a glass of champagne, “why don’t we take all this to bed?”
“Wonderful thought, Rache, but the thing is, my mum cooked me kippers before I left.”
“Oh right,” she said. “Stupid of me, really. I might have known she’d cook for you. I should have phoned and checked with you first.”
“Might have been an idea.”
He went on to say that tempting as it was, he didn’t have time for sex because he had to rush back and get started on his packing.
“Come on, Ad,” she said, putting her arms round him. “This is the last chance we’ll get.” She removed one of her arms from round his neck and began undoing his jeans belt.
“Rache, not now,” he’d said, clamping his hand over hers. “I really don’t have time. It’s not just my packing I’ve got to do, there’s a whole load of stuff I must get in the post before I leave, not to mention a pile of bills waiting to be settled.” He paused and lifted her chin, which had fallen almost to her chest. “Come on, Rachel,” he said softly, “what’s a month when we’ve got our whole lives to look forward to? Now then, why don’t you go and put something warm on. You must be freezing.”
* * * * *
Lying in bed on Sunday night, she’d worked out that it was now nearly six weeks since they’d had sex. She decided that going down on him the other night in the Rotherhithe Tunnel didn’t count because he hadn’t returned the gesture, not that he really could have at the time without creating a whole new driving offense. Adam seemed to be forever producing excuses for not making love to her. If it wasn’t that her parents were in the flat and Faye might be listening, it was that he had to dash back to Manchester. She put it down to him working too hard and did her best to pretend she didn’t mind, but she did. She minded a lot. What she couldn’t understand was why, when he was so desperate to marry her, he was so off sex. It just didn’t make sense. Then, just before it got light, Rachel’s emotional pendulum took a more generous-spirited swing. She decided she was being far too hard on him. Everyone knew the sex part of a relationship cooled after a year or so. Look at her and Joe. (For some reason she forgot that sex with her ex had cooled primarily because he was gay.) Adam might not be wildly demonstrative, she thought, but he showed his love in more practical ways.
* * * * *
“Sam,” she said eventually, putting down the newspaper. “You know, when Adam and I get married, he won’t try to take the place of your dad. You do understand that, don’t you?”
“He’d better not. ’Cause nobody could ever, ever take the place of Dad.”
“But you do like Adam, don’t you?”
“He’s OK,” Sam said with a shrug.
It was the same response she always got when she asked Sam how he felt about Adam. No matter how often or hard she pressed him, he would never say more than Adam was “OK” or “all right.”
“He buys you great presents,” Rachel persisted. “Those Pokémon cards cost him a fortune.”
Another shrug.
“And he spent ages the other day helping you with your math homework.”
“Yeah, except he tells me I shouldn’t subtract, I should deduct.”
She giggled. “Oh, don’t take any notice,” she said. “That’s just Adam’s idea of a joke.”
She went back to her newspaper.
“But Mum,” Sam said thoughtfully, “when you get married, could Barbra come?”
“Barbra who?” Rachel said vacantly, from inside the newspaper. “Bit of an old-fashioned name, for a kid.”
“No. You know,” Sam said impatiently, “Barbra.”
“Sorry, darling, my brain’s not quite got in gear yet. I’m not with you.”
“Oh Mum, come on. . . .”
Suddenly the penny dropped.
“What?” she said, lowering the newspaper. “You mean Barbra as in Streisand?”
He nodded eagerly.
“You want Barbra Streisand to come to my wedding?”
“Yeah, can she?”
In an instant her doubts about Sam’s sexuality resurfaced. Not that they had ever really gone away. She still had no problem with him growing up to be gay, it was just that she worried about how he’d cope as a teenager. She knew for a fact that gay adolescents could become very isolated and lonely. Had it been a football hero he’d wanted to invite, she wouldn’t have turned a hair. She would have let him get on with it and simply said “I told you so” when all he received by way of a reply was the standard letter and signed photograph. But because of her feelings about his Barbra Streisand obsession she felt compelled to discourage him.
“Sam, don’t be daft,” Rachel said with an uneasy half-laugh. “She’s Barbra Streisand, mega-rich superstar, not Barbra Streisand, cheap nightclub turn, available for weddings and bar mitzvahs. I mean perhaps she’d sing for Michael Jackson or the president of the United States, but even then . . . and she’d charge hundreds of thousands of pounds—”
“No,” Sam cut across her, “I mean maybe she’d like to come—as a guest. She could sit with us on the top table.”
“Oh darling, that’s very sweet,” Rachel said, smiling, “but she doesn’t know our family. Why on earth would she want to come to a wedding where she doesn’t know a soul?”
“But I feel like I know her,” Sam said. “I can sing all of her songs. I’ve seen all her films stacks of times.”
“So have thousands of people, Sam. But you can’t expect her gratitude to extend to showing up at their weddings.”
“You never know,” he persisted. “She might come. I could write and ask her. . . .”
“Sam, stop being silly,” Rachel said, beginning to get exasperated. “You cannot possibly invite Barbra Streisand.”
“Why not?”
“Because apart from anything else we haven’t even set a date yet.”
“I could at least find out if she’d like to come.”
Rachel let out a long slow breath. “Look, if you’ve had enough to eat, go and put your lunch box in your schoolbag.”
“Can’t I at least . . . ?”
“No,” she said firmly. “That’s enough. Now off you go. Your dad’ll be here in a minute.”
Every so often Sam spent a week with Joe and Greg. They enjoyed having him stay. Sam adored going there because he got spoiled rotten, and it gave Rachel a chance to spend the evenings working on her comedy. Usually they would pick him up on a Monday after school, but today, as Rachel was due at Xantia’s half an hour earlier than usual, Joe had agreed to take Sam to school.
Clearly frustrated, Sam got down from the table and ran off toward the kitchen. A moment later the intercom buzzer went. Rachel stood up, went to the front door and lifted the handset.
“Oh hi, Joe. Come on up.”
She left the door ajar and went back to the table to gather up the breakfast things. Her mind returned to Joe and Greg and whether they really could be influencing Sam’s sexuality. As usual she did her best to convince herself that sexuality had far more to do with nature than nurture. What was more, she thought there was absolutely nothing stereotypically gay about Joe that could influence Sam—even if it were possible. He still went to see West Ham every Saturday. He was tall, broad-shouldered and with his dark curly hair and Semitic features he looked m
ore like an Israeli paratrooper than a caricature gay. Greg on the other hand was blond and gamine and just a tad too Liberace for her liking. But then again, what about Adam? The man covered his flat in Saran Wrap and kept an index file of all his clothes, for Chrissake. If that wasn’t stereotypical gay behavior she didn’t know what was. But because she knew Adam was straight, it had never occurred to her that his bizarre idiosyncrasies might have an adverse effect on Sam.
There was a tap on the door and Joe walked in.
“Wotcha,” he said with a tentative half-smile. Two years after their divorce, the hostility had gone, and in recent months, Rachel and Joe had been getting on better. But there was still a trace of awkwardness between them.
“Hello,” Rachel said, with an identical smile. “Greg not with you? I thought you said—”
“Yeah, he’s parking the car. He’ll be up in a minute.”
“Well, I hope he’s not going to be long,” Rachel said anxiously, as she continued to stack plates. “I don’t want Sam being late for school. Now look, I’ve packed his eczema cream. It’s quite bad behind his knees. Please, please make sure he puts it on before bed. And it occurred to me that maybe he should lay off dairy for a while. It seems to aggravate it.”
“Rache, will you stop being a Jewish mother for five minutes? Greg and I can cope, you know. He’ll be fine.”
“Sorry,” she said, allowing a smile to creep onto her face. “I worry about him when he’s away, that’s all.”
At that moment Sam ran in from his bedroom and threw himself into his father’s arms. Joe kissed him and held him in a tight bear hug.
“Hi. So how’s my boy?” he asked, letting Sam go and ruffling his hair.
“Brilliant,” he said. “Listen Dad, after school can we go to that old record shop we went to a few weeks ago—you know, the one in Finsbury Park? They might have some more Barbra LPs.”
“Yeah. Sure,” Joe said.
“Great. By the way, Mum says when she gets married to Adam I’m not allowed to invite Barbra Streisand to the wedding. She says she wouldn’t come, but I think I should at least be allowed to write and ask her. . . .”
“Whoa, Sam. Slow down.” Joe turned to Rachel. “What, you and Adam finally got round to naming the day . . . ?”
“No. Not quite,” Rachel said, shaking her head. “It’s just my mum getting ahead of herself and making announcements before there’s anything to announce. Sam’ll explain.”
“OK . . . So, Sam,” he said, ruffling his son’s hair again, “what makes you think Barbra Streisand would want to come to Mum’s wedding?”
Before Sam had a chance to reply, the living room door opened and Greg came in. God, she thought, the man minced so much, cattle must shudder when he passed.
“Hiya,” he said to Sam, giving him a playful punch on the shoulder.
He then air kissed Rachel and presented her with a House of Fraser carrier bag.
“Oooh,” she said excitedly. “What’s this?”
She looked inside. It was full of cosmetics samples.
“I always say beauty comes from within,” Greg twinkled. “From within jars, tubes and palettes.”
“Greg, thanks,” Rachel gushed. “These are wonderful. You are kind.”
“Yeah, well, when you work on a cosmetics counter you can’t move for freebies. I must confess I helped myself to the Gommage Polissant and the Lift Jour Anti Rides, but I left the rest for you.”
She thanked him again. “And, wow, Greg, that’s some, er, fuchsia cashmere polo neck you’ve got on.”
“Isn’t it?” he said proudly. “To be honest, it was a toss-up between the Valentino pink or the Yves Saint Laurent, but Joe persuaded me to go for the Valentino. I think he was right. It’s just a tad softer with my skin tone.”
“Mmm . . . So,” she went on with faux breeziness, “what else have you guys got planned for after school apart from going hunting for old Barbra LPs?”
“Greg and I thought we might pop into that new kitchen shop in Hampstead,” Joe told her. “We badly need a new set of frying pans.”
“And when we get back, Sam can help me season them,” Greg promised.
“Cool,” Sam piped up.
“Great. Marvelous,” Rachel said. “Couldn’t be better. And now you’d better get going—it’s almost half past. Sam’s stuff is in the hall.”
* * * * *
“Hi, it’s only me,” Rachel called from the hall as she closed the Marxes’ front door.
“Oh hello, Rachel,” Xantia shouted back. “Come into the living piazza. Otto and I are just finishing our meditation.”
Rachel hung her jacket in the clothes pod. As she made her way into the living piazza she could hear the soft, slow beating of a drum and Xantia and Otto chanting the same word over and over again. She couldn’t make it out, but it sounded a lot like Taramasalata.
By the time she reached the living piazza, their chanting had stopped and Xantia was sitting cross-legged on the floor, slowly rotating her head. Otto, who was on his feet, bent down to pick up the small African drum.
He shot Rachel a brief, distant smile before heading out of the living piazza. Rachel couldn’t make him out. On the one hand, Otto was this reserved, virtually silent artist who only became truly animated when other designers or journalists like Nettle di Lucca from the Sunday Tribune’s “Shitegeist” page came to the house to talk to him about his work. On the other hand, if she tried to imagine him without the purple clothes, what she saw was a very ordinary-looking, slightly overweight Jewish man in his mid-forties—not unlike a younger, balder version of her father. Like her father, too, Otto was an obsessive grazer and snacker.
Occasionally, Otto and Xantia spent the mornings at home working on interior design projects or sketching clothes for the new OP8 of the People range that was going to be launched in the new year. It was quieter there than at their office in South Kensington—particularly with Rachel around to answer the phone and shield them from everything but the most dire of design emergencies.
Although Xantia would pop into the kitchen midmorning to grab a yogurt or a couple of Ryvitas, Otto seemed to be forever rooting through the cupboards and fridge for snacks. After a few minutes he would go back upstairs with a box of Jaffa cakes, a packet of salt and vinegar crisps, or a couple of cheese and Marmite bagels and a glass of milk. An hour or so later, he would be back again with his snout in the fridge.
What Rachel found odd about Otto’s snacking—apart from the amount—was that when she went upstairs to tidy the work piazza after the Marxes finally left for the office, she could never see any empty wrappers or debris. Even odder was that although the Marxes were working on the first floor of an open-plan house where the slightest sound carried and could be picked up yards away, she never heard a peep from them. There was no chatter, no sound of them moving around; just silence. What was more, whenever she went upstairs to clean or put something away, they were never at their desks. At first she assumed one of them was in the loo and the other had popped out for a few minutes. But she never once heard the front door open, or the loo flush.
Funny, that.
* * * * *
“Now then,” Xantia said, as usual eyeing what Rachel was wearing (tight Lycra T-shirt, baggy drawstring trousers with dried-up baked bean down them) and wincing, “the reason I asked you to come early today is that we’re having guests tonight for dinner and I thought that to save me time, on top of the cleaning you could do some shopping and a bit of the food preparation. Naturally, I’ll pay you extra.”
“Great,” Rachel said happily. “I can always do with the money and I haven’t got to dash home today to do the school run.”
“Excellent. You see, I always make it a rule to cook myself. I think catered dinner parties are so impersonal, don’t you?”
“Oh absolutely,” Rachel said, nodding. Of course she didn’t have the remotest idea what she was talking about—never having been to anything catered that wasn’t a wedding or a
bar mitzvah; or once, in the case of her rich uncle Sid who’d made it big in expandable document folders, a funeral.
“So,” Rachel continued, “who’s coming?”
“Oh, just the Blairs, the Prescotts and Joely . . . Richardson, that is,” Xantia said casually, sliding the feng shui coffee table book to the other side of the coffee table.
“Wow.”
“Yes, it is a bit. Security were here all day yesterday.”
“So what are you cooking?” Rachel asked.
“Well,” Xantia enthused, “I had this brilliant idea. I thought that since the Prescotts are northerners they would feel more at home if I served fish-and-chips.” She leaned over the coffee table again and moved the feng shui book a fraction to the left. “What do you think?”
“I thought it looked fine where it was to start with,” Rachel said.
“No, no,” Xantia said testily. “Not the book. My idea. What do you think?”
“Well, it’s certainly plain,” Rachel said diplomatically. “You can’t go wrong really.”
“Precisely. Now then, the fish is being delivered later on, but I thought you could pop to Waitrose and get the potatoes, gherkins and guacamole.”
“Guacamole?” Rachel said, perplexed.
“Yes, you know, the green stuff. They always serve it with fish-and-chips.”
“Xantia, that’s not guacamole, it’s mushy peas.”
“Really? Goodness. Oh well, whatever. Get those then—and some sponge cakes, a drum of Bird’s Custard and a bottle of Emva cream to make a sherry trifle. And I thought you could peel and chip the potatoes this morning and leave them in water in the fridge.”
“Fine. No problem,” Rachel said.
“Otto and I are going to work on some sketches up in the work piazza for the next couple of hours and then we’ll be off. I’ll come and see how you’re getting on before we go. . . . Oh, I’ve left some money in the kitchen.”