by Sue Margolis
“God,” Shelley squealed, “suppose you win and get your own show on Channel 6?”
“I know. Sometimes I reckon I stand about as much chance of winning the Joke for Europe contest as a one-legged man at an arse-kicking contest. Then at other times I think, what if . . . ?”
Shelley took Rachel’s hand and squeezed it. “You are going to do brilliantly,” she said. “I just know it.”
As Rachel thanked her, she was aware that Shelley wasn’t listening. Instead she was staring into the distance.
“What?” Rachel said, stopping in midchew and frowning. “What is it?”
“Right,” Shelley whispered, leaning across the table. “I’m about to tell you something and after I’ve told you, I don’t want you to move. OK?”
“Why?”
“Because she’ll see you.”
“Who?”
“Your mother. She’s sitting at a table by the exit. And she’s with a bloke.”
Despite her best efforts to play down her mother’s flirting on the phone with Simon the upholsterer, Rachel couldn’t help having her doubts about it being nothing more than a bit of harmless fun. She’d mentioned it to Shelley last night. Her view had been that although it was impossible to rule out the possibility of an affair, it was highly unlikely, bearing in mind Faye was in her sixties and, as far as anybody knew, happily married.
It had put Rachel’s mind to rest, but only temporarily. This morning when her father phoned to ask her if Sam would like a camera for Christmas, she hadn’t been able to resist dropping Tiggy Bristol into the conversation.
“Who?” Jack had said, chortling at the daft-sounding name. “Never heard of her.”
By the time she got off the phone, Rachel had been feeling distinctly troubled.
* * * * *
“You absolutely sure it’s my mum?” she said, now twisting round in her seat.
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Where is she? I can’t see her.” By now Rachel was almost on her feet. “God, is she with Simon the upholsterer?”
“Well, he’s not actually tacking chintz to his chair, but I suppose it could be him. Rache, for heaven’s sake sit down or she’ll see you.”
Rachel sat down and turned back toward Shelley. “What day is it?” she asked.
“Friday. Why?”
“That’s the day they arranged to meet. Friday, at five thirty.” She looked at her watch. It was a few minutes after.
“OK,” Shelley said, “just take it easy. Now then, let’s try again. She’s at the table to the left of the exit sign. On my signal turn round very, very slowly. . . . Right, go.”
Rachel turned. “Oh my God,” she said, in a whispered screech, “he can’t be more than thirty. Christ, you were right. My mum’s got a boy toy.”
“You don’t know that for certain. This could be completely innocent.” Shelley paused. “Mind you,” she continued dreamily, “he is gorgeous. If that’s Simon, he can strip off my upholstery any night of the week.”
“Shelley,” Rachel said, starting to get worked up now, “this is no laughing matter. That is the man my mother could be about to leave my father for. I mean just look at her. I swear that coat’s brand new. And see the way he’s gazing at her? Christ, you could pour that sickly sweet look on a waffle.”
Rachel swung back round to face Shelley. “OK, what’s he doing now?” she demanded.
“He’s not doing anything. They’re just talking. I have to say though, he looks nothing like an upholsterer to me. For a start his clothes are far too trendy.”
“What do you expect?” Rachel said. “A brocade suit with fringes and tassels?”
“Not exactly. He just looks a bit too—I dunno—Soho House, I suppose. Look at that black rubbery mac thing he’s wearing. . . . Ooh, and that’s a Paul Smith shoulder bag he’s opening. I got the same one for my dad last Christmas.”
“What? You bought your dad a Paul Smith shoulder bag? But he’s even older than my dad.”
“Yeah, well, I got my mum a Vivienne Westwood bustier top and I didn’t want him to feel left out. . . .”
“Jeez, no wonder you’re always hard up. So what do you think he is, if he isn’t an upholsterer?”
“Something media-ish, I’d say. Probably TV.”
“Maybe he’s a TV upholsterer,” Rachel said, giggling despite herself, “with his own show. ‘. . . and tonight, on Loose Covers, Simon the shagging sofa supremo stuffs Faye Katz from Chingford.’ ”
Laughing, Shelley started pouring more Evian into her cup, but stopped. “They seem to be leaving.”
Rachel swung round again. “OK. So am I,” she said, scraping her chair back and getting up. “I’m going to follow them. My mother is either having an affair or is about to and I’m not going to sit back and let her chuck away forty years of marriage.” She began putting on her coat.
“Right, I’m coming too,” Shelley announced. “But I’m telling you, Rache, this could all be perfectly innocent. If you’ve got it wrong, you’re going to look like such a twonk.”
“Believe me,” Rachel declared, “I have not got it wrong.”
* * * * *
It was getting close to six o’clock and the crowds of shoppers had thinned considerably. Although this made it easy for the two women to follow their quarry through Selfridges, it also meant they stood a greater chance of being spotted.
They’d gone no more than a few yards when Faye and Simon stopped.
“Oh no,” Rachel squealed in panic. “They’re coming back this way. Quick. Freeze.”
“What d’you mean, freeze?”
“Pretend to be a mannequin.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Shelley hissed. “Your mother’ll recognize us. Duck behind one of the garment rails.”
“No, look. Even better. The wig counter over there. We can make out we’re trying on wigs.”
Rachel made a dash for the counter. Shelley trotted slowly behind her, supporting the underside of her bump with her hands. They each grabbed a wig, pulled it on and stood facing the mirror with their backs to the main thoroughfare.
Faye and Simon passed within feet of them.
“That was close,” Rachel whispered, aware that her heart was thumping.
“Tell me about it,” Shelley said breathlessly.
“You OK?”
“Rachel, stop fussing. I’m fine.”
As Shelley pulled off the bubble-cut wig she’d been wearing, she eyed Rachel’s blond bob, which she’d managed to put on backward so that her face was completely obscured.
“Oh my God,” Shelley hooted, “it’s Cousin Itt. Not many people could carry off that look. But, you know, Rache, I think it’s very you.” She parted the hair hanging down over Rachel’s face and pushed it behind her ears.
“Funnee,” Rachel said, looking round urgently. “Oh God, we’ve lost them.”
“No we haven’t,” Shelley said calmly. “There they are, heading toward lingerie.”
“Why does that not amaze me?” Rachel said, shaking her head slowly.
They watched from behind a seven-foot-high Christmas tree decorated in scarlet and green sequined bras and suspender belts, as Simon and Faye wandered leisurely around the stands. Occasionally one of them would stop to finger a pair of lace panties or a bra. At one point Simon held up a black lace G-string and grinned at Faye. Then Faye picked up a red Wonderbra. Simon grinned again and Faye burst into fits of giggles.
“Well,” Rachel muttered sarcastically, “I’d say this all looks perfectly innocent, wouldn’t you?”
Shelley looked at her a bit shamefaced and said nothing.
In the end Faye and Simon appeared to decide on a La Perla bra and panty set in cream satin and lace. The two women watched as Simon took out his credit card and paid while Faye looked on, all coquettish smiles.
They followed the pair down to the ground floor, out through the revolving doors and into the freezing, damp evening. A second later Simon was hailing a cab.
> “Oh no,” Rachel cried. “We’re going to lose them.”
She ran to the edge of the pavement, praying for a yellow light. Three or four taxis passed in quick succession, each with its lights off. By now Shelley had caught up with her.
“They’ve gone, Rache,” she said softly. “Look.”
Rachel watched as the cab carrying Simon and her mother did a U-turn and sped westward toward Marble Arch.
Rachel had just finished slamming her foot into a large puddle when she turned round to see a woman in a trench coat and too much foundation standing next to her. Ramrod straight, she towered over Rachel.
“Excuse me, madam,” the woman said, adjusting her tan leather shoulder bag. “Would you mind accompanying me back into the store?”
She reached out and took Rachel’s arm.
“Sorry?” Rachel stammered, utterly taken aback. She turned to Shelley as if to say “Do you mind telling me what’s going on?”
“I think you may have some merchandise you haven’t paid for,” the woman said.
“Omigod, Rache,” Shelley exclaimed, “the Cousin Itt wig. You forgot to take it off.”
* * * * *
The store detective stood leaning against her desk, arms folded, listening patiently to the women’s breathless, disjointed and rambling story about Faye’s bush waxing, her lunches with the nonexistent Tiggy Bristol, her affair with Simon the maybe TV upholsterer and the chase through the lingerie department that had called for urgent disguises. Five minutes in, her eyebrows were arched so high in disbelief, they looked like they were about to disappear under her hairline.
“Please . . . you have to believe me,” Rachel pleaded. “I’m not a thief. I’m a stand-up comic. I can prove it.”
She told her the gag about the morning-after pill for men, but the store detective’s foundation didn’t crack. Rachel was pretty certain she hadn’t even been listening. Clearly all was lost.
The woman unfolded her arms. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, placing her hands on the desk, either side of her, “if twenty-five years in the police force taught me one thing, it’s that genuine shoplifters make at least some attempt to conceal the merchandise they are about to steal. At the very least they remove the price tag. You did neither. You are either a highly incompetent thief or the stress of Christmas shopping got too much—you became confused and made a genuine mistake.”
“Oh, I did,” Rachel gushed excitedly, sensing a reprieve could be on the way. “I got so confused. Very, very confused. Didn’t I, Shelley?”
Her friend nodded eagerly.
“Well, seeing as it’s Christmas,” the store detective said, allowing her face to break into a smile. “I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“You are?”
The woman nodded.
“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much,” Rachel said breathlessly, adrenaline still pumping through her. “You see, I have this tendency to confusion. It runs in the family. Goes back generations. My grandmother was the worst. When she heard ninety percent of crime happens in the home, she moved house.”
At this point Shelley, smiling awkwardly at the store detective, took Rachel gently by the arm and began leading her to the door.
“Oh, and for years,” Rachel said, twisting round as she and Shelley reached the door, “she thought a gargoyle was olive-flavored mouthwash.”
CHAPTER 12
When Rachel arrived to do her usual weekly gig at the Gas Station in Islington, where the Joke for Europe contest was going to be held, she was still reeling from the day’s events. Seeing Faye with Simon had knocked her for a loop. As a result her timing was off and the audience had turned against her—big time. When she described diaphragms as being a pain in the arse, some woman had yelled out, “You’re putting it in the wrong place.” Everybody roared. She struggled on until finally some bloke’s mobile phone went off.
“It’s my mate,” he announced, leaping to his feet, “with some decent jokes for you.” There was a loud burst of applause at this and Rachel brought her set to a close as quickly as possible.
She trotted offstage, wiping the sweat from her forehead, and virtually collided with Lenny. He usually emceed at the Anarchist Bathmat, but tonight had been performing a ten-minute set along with all the other stand-ups.
“Hey, Rache,” he said, looking concerned. “What went wrong? You OK? I thought maybe you weren’t feeling well or something?”
“No, I’m OK,” she said with a smile. “Been one of those days, that’s all—put me off my stride.”
“Oh, what, this bloke of yours giving you a hard time?”
“No, as it goes,” she said, “my mum and dad.”
“Bugger,” he grinned. “I thought I was in with a chance, at last.”
She knew he was joking. He’d been living with his girlfriend for years. What was more, there had never been any sexual chemistry between them.
“That’s better,” he said cheerfully. “Come on, I’ll buy you a beer. I have news.”
As they walked over to the bar, Lenny told her that the Channel 6 people had phoned him that morning to tell him he had been chosen to emcee the Joke for Europe contest.
“Lenny, that’s amazing, well done,” Rachel exclaimed.
Lenny, who had been on the circuit far longer than Rachel, had taken her under his wing right from the moment she’d started out and she thought the world of him. She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and he blushed.
At the bar, the small gang of comics who’d been on in the first half—all of whom Rachel had known for ages—were standing around bitching about who did or didn’t stand a chance in the comedy competition.
While Lenny queued for their drinks, Rachel joined the others. It was clear to her that tension was beginning to mount and that people were working their bollocks off on new material. When somebody turned to her and asked her how her writing was coming along, and she told them she hadn’t started yet, they all looked at her as if she was either mad or lying.
“There you go,” Lenny said, handing her a bottle of Grolsch.
“Thanks, Len.”
He motioned her to a table. “Rache, whatever you do, don’t let this lot get to you. Panic is catching. Just keep your cool and you’ll be fine. You know, secretly, everybody thinks you stand a good chance of winning this thing, don’t you?”
“You reckon?” she said, looking down at her drink and sighing.
“I don’t just reckon. I know,” he said.
* * * * *
They carried on chatting in the bar while everybody disappeared to watch the second half. Then, after a couple of minutes, Rachel became aware of tumultuous laughter coming from the audience.
“Jeez,” she said, “somebody’s going down well. Who is it?”
“Well, believe it or not—it’s Pitsy.”
“Pitsy? When did she suddenly get funny? Mind if I go over to the door and listen?”
“Be my guest.”
Rachel stood up and went across to the double doors that led into the Gas Station’s sizable auditorium (it had once been a theater). Lenny followed. Pitsy was in full flood.
“. . . Of course me and my boyfriend are totally incompatible. I’m a Virgo. He’s an arsehole. I mean we’re lying in bed the other day and he announces he wants to do it. I tell him we’ve run out of condoms. To which he says, ‘Oh come on, I’ll only put it in for a minute,’ and I go: ‘What do you think I am, a bloody microwave?’ ”
There was another burst of uproarious laughter.
“He also kept going on about what a gentleman he is. I said, ‘Why, because you get out of the bath to piss in the sink?’ ”
More laughter.
Rachel looked perplexed. “I don’t get it, Lenny. What on earth’s going on? She almost sounds like a proper comic.”
He grunted. “I have two words to say to you,” he said, picking a hair off his tartan trousers with a precise, pincerlike action.
“What?” she said.
“Noeleen Piccolo.”
“Come again.”
“Noeleen Piccolo—Australia’s most popular female comic. It would seem that our Ms. Carter has been nicking all her material.”
Rachel was aghast. “You have to be kidding.”
“I’m not,” Lenny said. “I was over at my mate Gary’s house the other night—he’s just got back from Oz. We’d sat down to eat our takeaway and I’d just put on this amazing three-hour video of the Kobe earthquake made by the Japanese Seismological Society, when he said did I fancy watching this tape he’d brought back of this stand-up called Noeleen Piccolo. I was a bit pissed off, but, anyway, we watched it, and she was top. Then the next night, I’m emceeing here and Pitsy goes on and does the same act—word for bloody word.”
“No. I don’t believe it.”
“Honest. Gaz lent me the video. You can see it anytime you like.”
“She’s got some nerve,” Rachel said, slowly shaking her head.
There was a final burst of laughter and applause and Pitsy came offstage.
“Bloody hell, she’s coming this way,” Rachel said. “Right, I’m off. Thanks for the drink, Len. I’ll see you at the Bathmat tomorrow.” She turned to go, but was a fraction of a second too late.
“Hi, Rache. Hi, Lenny,” Pitsy beamed, still speeding and breathless on adrenaline. As she lifted her hand to adjust one of her pigtails, Rachel couldn’t help noticing her glistening armpit hair, which was flecked with deodorant dandruff.
“Listen, Rache, I’m so sorry about the way your set went tonight. I mean your material wasn’t too bad, it was just your timing. Maybe we could get together sometime. I’d be happy to offer you a few pointers. . . .”
Rachel had heard enough.
She shot Pitsy a filthy look and turned toward Lenny. “Thanks again for the beer, Len. See ya.” She gave him another peck on the cheek and stomped off.
As Rachel got into the car, she decided that before heading home, she would phone Adam on her mobile. She couldn’t wait to tell him about her plan for them to get married on Valentine’s Day. But when she got through to Durban he seemed distant and preoccupied.