by Sue Margolis
“Hello, Rachel,” the woman said eventually. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Rachel recognized that haughty tone at once.
“Omigod. Xantia?” she said in amazement. “Is that you?”
“Yes, dahling,” she squealed, her voice suddenly brimming over with childish excitement, “it’s me. The new me. Or should I say . . . the real me.”
She did a twirl, followed it with another and then stood back to let Rachel in. Still blinking in stunned amazement, Rachel stepped into the hall.
“But I don’t get it. What on earth’s . . . ?”
But before she could finish her sentence, the two of them were suddenly surrounded by a small group of people. In her confused state, it took Rachel a few seconds to take in the cameras and lights and realize it was a TV crew.
“OK, people,” Xantia said, clapping her hands. “Take five, will you? There’s something important I simply must attend to.”
Somebody said “Cut” and the cameras and lights were switched off.
As Xantia led her into the kitchen, Rachel couldn’t help noticing she’d developed a sexy wiggle in her walk.
Xantia motioned Rachel to sit down. “Nescaff?” she said, brandishing the jar.
Rachel shook her head and said she was fine.
“Oh well, I think I will.”
“Xantia, please, you have to tell me. What’s happened? What’s going on?”
“Well . . .” She began spooning instant coffee granules into a mug. “Otto and I have decided to come out of the closet—well, out of our secret room, anyway. . . .” She paused for dramatic effect, staring at the jar of Coffee-mate she was now holding, as if it were Yorick’s head. “And tell the world that we are bourgeois vulgarians . . . and proud of it.”
A whispered “Blimey” was about all Rachel could muster.
“Otto’s even designed a lapel ribbon—black, covered with tiny gold sovereigns.” She poured boiling water into the mug. “You see, we know there are others like us out there—cutting-edge designers who in order to protect their reputations, not to mention their livelihoods, are forced to live in soulless art-installation surroundings like these, when secretly they are crying out for magnolia lounges, Laura Ashley chintz and fretwork radiator covers.”
She came and sat down opposite Rachel. “Our mission,” she continued, “is to help these poor souls stop denying their true selves. God gave us cocktail cabinets that play Nessun Dorma. What right do we have to throw them back in his face?”
“So what made you and Otto decide to come out?” Rachel asked.
“Ever since we built the secret room, Otto and I have lived in fear of it being discovered and the two of us being blackmailed.”
“But Xantia,” Rachel cut across her, “I would never have done anything like that.”
“Oh no, not you, dahling.” She laughed. “You’re far too principled. Once I’d thought about it, I knew you’d never have the stomach for it.”
“Oh thanks,” Rachel said peevishly.
“Anyway, when you and your friend discovered the room, we realized what a relief it was. The stress of keeping it secret—along with maintaining the pretense about Otto’s lineage—had been driving us both mad.”
“You mean he isn’t related to Karl Marx?”
“Good God, no. His family were in buttons.” She paused again. “So anyway, we’ve decided to sell up and move to Weybridge. Just yesterday Otto and I saw this truly amazing house. It used to be owned by some Page Three model or other. There’s a state-of-the-art gym, a wood-paneled snooker room with stags’ heads all over the walls and a bar done out like a country pub. It’s to die for, Rachel. Just to die for.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Rachel said.
Xantia was looking dreamily into the distance.
“And don’t tell me, the film crew is here to follow you and Otto on the road to damask?”
“Yes. In fact, there’s another crew out with Otto. He’s gone off to buy one of those huge American camper bus things. We thought we might take it down to Newquay in the spring.”
“And what about the business?” Rachel asked.
“Well, obviously we can’t carry on selling style we don’t believe in. Otto thinks we should diversify into commemorative chinaware.”
Rachel chuckled. Bonkers as they were, she couldn’t help rather admiring the Marxes.
They fell silent for a moment or two. Rachel wondered if this might be the time to bring up Pitsy.
“Xantia, I haven’t told you the reason I’m here.”
“But I know why you’re here. I said when you arrived that I’d been expecting you.”
Rachel looked at her, puzzled.
“A friend of yours—Lenny, the chap who emceed the comedy contest—was here a few minutes ago. He brought this with him.” She turned in her chair and picked a video cassette up off the counter.
“He’s a very persuasive young man, Lenny. Refused to go until I’d watched it. . . . It’s a recording of an Australian comic called Noeleen Piccolo. At first I hoped it was this Noeleen who had stolen material from Janeece, but deep down I knew it was the other way round. Although we never admitted it, we always suspected Janeece wasn’t particularly talented. I’m ashamed to say it, but the only reason she got any engagements at all was because Otto and I bribed the bookers.”
Rachel nodded. “I see,” she said.
“It was Otto’s idea. His sister leads a bit of dog’s life married to some ne’er-do-well in Killadingo and he just wanted to do something for her. She was so proud when she thought Vanessa, or Janeece, or whatever name she goes by now, was making it. But Rachel, you have to believe me when I say that before Lenny came to see me with the tape, I had no idea that my niece was stealing material. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am. Otto and I haven’t seen or spoken to Vanessa since the contest. We have no idea where she is. All I can say is that I hope she gets the punishment due her.”
She reached out and took Rachel’s hand in both of hers. “Just before you got here I spoke to Robin Metcalf at Channel 6 and explained everything.”
“You did? Oh my God, Xantia, that’s amazing. What did he say?”
“He said he’d seen you perform a few weeks ago and already knew how talented you are, assumed you got stage fright the other night and decided he couldn’t risk having you appear in any future live shows in case it happened again. I assured him you hadn’t been suffering from stage fright. He’s going to call you, either today or tomorrow.”
Rachel got up, walked round to Xantia and hugged her. “Thank you,” she said, kissing her on the cheek. “Thank you so much.”
Clearly not used to being the object of sudden, ostentatious displays of affection, Xantia’s face turned precisely the same color as her satin trousers.
Rachel danced down the garden path, into the street and straight into Lenny. “Omigod, Len,” she cried out in excitement, “I was just about to phone you. What are you doing here?”
He explained he’d seen her arrive at Xantia’s, assumed she was planning to talk to her about Pitsy and decided to hang around to find out the outcome.
“It’s sorted,” Rachel said. “Xantia’s fixed things with Channel 6, and it’s all because of you. Lenny, you saved my life. How am I ever going to thank you?” She flung her arms round him, almost knocking him off his feet.
“You can buy me a pie and chips,” he said, laughing.
“Done,” she replied, shoving her arm through his and forcing him to dance down the street with her.
* * * * *
They were sitting in the pub drinking pints of Guinness while they waited for their pies and chips, discussing all the offers of TV work that had come Lenny’s way since the comedy contest, when suddenly he broke off.
“Oh, by the way,” he said, his face breaking into a grin. “I was saving this. I’ve got something to show you.”
“God, Len,” she giggled, “I’m not sure I can cope with any more surprises today
.”
“Ooh, I think you’ll cope with this one.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded newspaper. He handed it to Rachel. “It’s the Sydney Morning Herald. Brilliant front page, eh?”
She read the headline. “ ‘Comic Gets Vegemited and Feathered.’ ”
Underneath was a large color picture of Pitsy being attacked by a furious, hysterical woman armed with a jar of Vegemite. She gazed at it for a few seconds in disbelief. Then she let out a loud, high-pitched squeal of delight.
“Kakking kangaroos, it’s Noeleen getting her revenge.”
She laughed so hard, people turned and stared. Lenny explained: “Seems like as soon as Pitsy got back to Sydney, she got up at some comedy club open mike night and did her Noeleen Piccolo material. And guess who just happened to be in the audience?”
“Ms. Piccolo, having read your warning e-mail . . . Lenny, what can I say? This is just amazing. Just amazing.” She threw her arms round him and planted a huge smacker on his forehead. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, sitting back in her chair, “there’s one thing I still don’t understand. The only way Pitsy was able to use my material on the night of the comedy contest was because she came before me in the running order. How on earth did she arrange it?”
“Yeah, the same thought occurred to me, so I phoned this mate of mine who’s a floor manager at Channel 6 and got him to do some asking around. Turns out after she went for her original audition one of the assistant producers asked her out. It’s over now, but apparently they were seeing each other for several weeks.”
Rachel shook her head slowly, taking in what he’d told her. “And during that time Pitsy got to him.”
Lenny nodded.
They’d just finished eating when Rachel’s mobile started ringing. It was Shelley calling from the film studio.
“I’ve only got a second because I’m due on set,” she said, breathless with excitement, “but you must get down here. Now. There’s something you have to see.”
“What? What is it?”
“Your mum and dad. They’re here.”
“Mum and Dad? Don’t be daft. What would they be doing at a film studio?”
“Rachel, they’re here. I promise.”
“But why? I don’t understand.”
“You soon will. I haven’t got time to explain. Just get in your car and come.”
She gave Rachel the address in Archway.
Looking extremely puzzled, Rachel made her excuses to Lenny, promising to take him out for a posh dinner very soon, to say thank you properly for everything he’d done. Then she quickly gathered up her coat and bag and headed for the door.
CHAPTER 26
“At seventy-two,” Jack said with a wicked smile, “I still feel like a twenty-year-old. The thing is, there’s never one around.”
Faye laughed too loud and bashed him playfully on the shoulder. “Oh, take no notice,” she said. “He doesn’t mean that. I think what my husband is trying to say is that just because there’s snow on the roof, it doesn’t mean there’s no fire in the house. We may be getting on a bit, but Jack and I are still just as much in love and attracted to one another as we were on our wedding day. I adore him.”
Rachel and Shelley were standing at the back of the soundstage, watching Faye and Jack sitting on a chintz sofa being interviewed on camera.
“Look,” Rachel hissed to Shelley, “do you mind telling me what the hell’s going on. Why are my parents being filmed?”
Shelley said nothing. She simply gave a knowing smile.
“There’s still no man who can give me goose pimples the way Jack can,” Faye continued.
Faye turned to look at him. They gazed into each other’s eyes, then Jack took her in his arms and kissed her passionately on the lips.
“And cut.” It was the director’s voice. Although Rachel could hear him, she couldn’t see him because he had his back to her.
“Faye, Jack,” he continued, “that was fabulous. Simply fabulous. That OK for you, Tom?”
The cameraman nodded.
Faye and Jack got up from the sofa.
“You really think we were all right, Simon?” Faye said, blushing. “I mean, you can cut the bit about him fancying twenty-year-olds, can’t you?”
Rachel looked at Shelley and blinked. “What? That’s Simon. The Simon. Simon the pervy TV upholsterer?”
“Well, his name is certainly Simon,” Shelley said, laughing.
At that moment Faye noticed Rachel.
“Oh good Gawd,” she exclaimed. “Jack, it’s Rachel.”
She came running across, nearly tripping over a cable as she went. Shelley beat a tactful retreat to the back of the soundstage where Satchmo was asleep in his car seat, being guarded by one of the floor managers.
“Rachel,” Faye said, smiling anxiously. “Whatever are you doing here?”
“Er, I could ask you the same thing. Mum, why are you and Dad giving interviews about your sex life?”
Faye and Jack exchanged a glance.
“Look, sweetie,” Jack began, “your mother and I were going to tell you, but we thought you’d try to stop us doing it.”
“Doing what?” Rachel said. “I don’t understand.”
“We replied to an advertisement in the Guardian. Simon over there makes TV documentaries. We’re taking part in a six-part series—advising older couples on sex. It’s called Love in the Time of Rheumatism. It’s all very respectable and aboveboard. We even managed to persuade Coral and Ivan Finkel to take part.”
Suddenly her father’s exercising, the diet, not to mention what she’d seen going on in her parents’ bedroom, made sense. Realizing her parents weren’t swingers, Rachel felt relief shoot through her.
“So it’s a kind of self-help thing?”
“Yes,” Faye said timidly. “You mean you don’t mind?”
“Mind? Why should I mind? ‘Mind’ is when you discover your parents are . . . I dunno, senile swingers or something. This is . . . wonderful. Gross, but wonderful.”
“The thing is,” Faye carried on, “there’s some film of us in bed together and we’re not wearing very much. Of course nothing happens—it’s all very tasteful. I get to wear some really sexy underwear. Simon took me to Selfridges to choose it.”
“Good for you, Mum. Good for you both. I am so relieved . . . no, I mean I am so, er, proud. Really, really proud.”
* * * * *
“What?” Rachel said to Sam, as she came into the kitchen to start his tea. “You told Robin Metcalf I was on the loo?”
He nodded.
She made a soft snorting sound.
“Well, you were. I didn’t tell him—you know—what you were doing or anything.”
She supposed she should be grateful for small mercies.
“I just said ‘she’s on the loo and she’ll phone you back.’ What’s wrong with that? I even remembered to get his number, just like you always tell me to.”
He handed her a scrap of paper.
“OK, well done,” she said, ruffling his hair. “You did fine. It’s just that Robin Metcalf’s a pretty big cheese and it might have been better to say I’d popped out, that’s all.”
Sam shrugged, took a packet of salt and vinegar crisps out of the kitchen cupboard and headed back to his bedroom.
Rachel took several deep breaths, went into the hall and dialed Robin Metcalf’s direct line.
He greeted her warmly, spent a minute or so telling her how sorry he was about what had happened at the comedy contest, and then revealed that since speaking to Xantia he had spent a couple of hours with his head of Light Entertainment and several producers discussing how the channel might make some kind of amends.
They had decided there was no question of Pitsy being given her own show or appearing at the Eurovision Comedy Contest in Helsinki. Instead they would tell the press she had come down with some chronic debilitating illness and award her prizes to the runner-up.
Rachel immediately saw the fairness
in this. Even though it was her material that had won the contest, she hadn’t actually appeared on the night and had no right to usurp the runner-up.
“But meanwhile,” Robin Metcalf continued, “there is a new live comedy show featuring all our best stand-ups, beginning on Channel 6 this Saturday. But we have a problem. Our top of the bill has come down with the flu and has been forced to pull out, so we were wondering if you would be able to fill her place?”
What? Come up with new material in two days? She couldn’t. It was impossible, ridiculous, madness. Was this guy touched or something?
“OK, you’re on,” she said eagerly. “And thank you so much for this opportunity. I won’t let you down.”
* * * * *
An hour later her excitement was beginning to subside. How she was going to come up with a brand-new five-minute set in forty-eight hours, she hadn’t the foggiest idea. As she felt the panic rising inside her, she wanted Matt more than ever. She wanted him to wrap her in his arms and tell her not to be scared because he loved her and he knew she could do it. She wanted him to come round with curries to keep her going while she wrote. But more than anything, she wanted to tell him she’d ended it with Adam and that she loved him to the moon and back.
She picked up the receiver again and dialed his number. All she got was the answer machine.
CHAPTER 27
“So yeah, anyway—I’m thirty-four and my mother is desperate for me to get married. She thinks settling down is what you should be doing at thirty-four. How would she like it if I turned to her the day she hits eighty and said: ‘Hey, Mum—when are you going to break your hip? All your friends are breaking theirs’?”
Once again the audience roared, whooped and banged their beer bottles on the tables. Rachel stood in front of them, beaming. In her industrial Levi’s hipsters and psychedelic halter-neck top, tiny diamante clips in her hair, she was unrecognizable as the panic-stricken, grubby-pajamaed woman who had spent the last two days praying for inspiration as she sat at her computer, comfort-eating pumpernickel and marshmallow fluff and glugging bottles of Rescue Remedy like they were vodka miniatures.