by Sue Margolis
Her nights had been spent lying awake, willing Matt to come back to her.
But somehow she’d managed to come up with a brand-new five-minute set in forty-eight hours. And here she was, topping the bill, live on national TV. What was more, the audience—which included her parents, Shelley and Tractor—was loving every minute of her set. More important still, Robin Metcalf was loving it. For the last four minutes he’d been standing at the back laughing and cheering with the rest of the paying customers. As she waited for the applause to die down, Rachel felt about as high as it was possible to get without the aid of an illegal substance.
“Thing is, I don’t have much luck with boyfriends.”
“Aah,” the audience came back.
She giggled. “Yeah. I’ve had so many failed blind dates, my mates joined to buy me a guide dog.”
More laughter.
“Then when I do manage to start a relationship, it’s usually with a guy who can’t get in touch with his emotions. There was this bloke I went out with a few years back. I used to snuggle up beside him on the sofa and tell him I loved him. And all he’d say was ‘shut up, I can’t hear the game.’ After him there was the one who turned out to be a bank robber. God knows how I missed the signs. I thought his crowbar was something he was saving up for the third date. Apparently he’d spent his childhood in and out of detention centers. The only picture his parents had of him was a police mugshot in a gold frame.
“Then there was this last bloke I was seeing. He was . . . He was . . .”
The shock made her heart nearly skip a beat. How she had missed him for the best part of five minutes, she had no idea. But he was right there at the front, looking straight at her. He wasn’t laughing or clapping like the rest of them. He was just sitting there, taking the occasional sip from a bottle of Budvar. And watching. She carried on looking directly into the audience. If she turned toward him, made eye contact, it would throw her completely.
“Anyway . . . this bloke . . . he . . . er . . .”
She stood there swallowing hard and clearing her throat.
Why had he come? She could only assume it was to tell her it was over.
The audience was chuckling. They clearly thought her sudden uneasiness was part of the act. She looked at Robin Metcalf, who was smiling expectantly. Then, unable to stop herself, she turned toward Matt. In a second her eyes were locked onto his and all she could think was how much she loved him and ached for him and how the thought of losing him was unbearable. By now she was aware that the audience chuckles had turned to uncomfortable coughing. Somebody shouted, “Get on with it.” She strongly suspected that if she looked to the back of the audience she would see Robin Metcalf with his head in his hands.
She’d promised not to let him down, but she was doing precisely that. As the seconds went by and still she said nothing, she realized she could probably kiss good-bye to her career once and for all. In that case, she thought she had nothing to lose. She might as well come out and say what was on her mind.
“You see,” she said quietly, “this last bloke I was seeing, I loved him. I still do. But I did something stupid. I wasn’t straight with him—there were some important things about myself I held back—and now he doesn’t trust me.”
There were a few more awkward giggles from the audience.
“He went away last week and I’ve spent the whole time waiting for him to call me, but he hasn’t. I’ve tried phoning him, to tell him how much I love him and miss him, but he hasn’t been answering his mobile. Now I don’t know if he ever wants to see me again. I’m pretty sure I’ve blown it.”
She turned back to the audience.
“Pretty stupid, eh?” she said.
Once again she looked at Robin Metcalf. There was this pained, pleading expression on his face as if to say, “Please, please let this be going somewhere.”
She didn’t notice Matt slowly get up.
“Rachel,” he said, “you haven’t blown it. I love you.”
She stood stock-still, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. Then she turned to face him.
“You do?”
He nodded.
“I do.”
She swung round to face the audience.
“He does,” she squealed.
The next moment she’d dropped her mike and, oblivious to the TV cameras following her, she went charging into his arms.
The applause was deafening. By now people were standing up and cheering. Others were whistling and stamping their feet. A few of the women had tears in their eyes.
“Oh my God,” she said, laughing and crying at the same time, as he wrapped her in his arms, “you’ve just announced you love me on live television.”
“Well,” he grinned, “now I’m going to snog you on live television too.”
* * * * *
For the next few minutes as the credits rolled on the nation’s television screens, the couple stood there in front of the stage hugging and kissing, unaware of all the people coming up to them, slapping them both on the back and wishing them good luck.
It was only Robin Metcalf laying his hand heavily on Rachel’s shoulder that brought her back to earth with a jolt.
“Oh God, Robin. I’m so terribly sorry. I saw Matt sitting there and I just lost it.”
“It’s OK, love. You were brilliant tonight and the audience loved you. And I think you’re going to find the publicity launches you into the stratosphere within a few hours. I just want to tell you your future is absolutely assured with us. But I would be grateful—and so would my nerves—if any subsequent reconciliations between the pair of you took place in private.”
With that he kissed her on both cheeks and told her she would be topping the bill for the whole ten-week series. Then he headed off to the bar.
“Omigod,” Rachel said quietly, utterly stunned. “I’ve got it. The whole ten-week series—I’ve got it.”
Matt pulled her to him. “I am so proud of you,” he said softly, looking into her eyes. Then he kissed her again.
* * * * *
In the end the only place they could find to talk without being mobbed by well-wishers was the tiny, two-cubicle ladies’ room.
Matt stood with his back to the door and every few seconds, as women tried to get in, Rachel would call out that it was occupied.
“You see, when you went off to Nottingham without leaving your number,” Rachel said, leaning against a wash basin, “I assumed you were really angry and never wanted to see me again.”
“The irony is, I did leave a number. I left it on Tractor’s mobile.”
“I never got it.”
“I know that now. Tractor only just told me he doesn’t know how to access his messages. And he’s never read the instruction book because it’s propping up the broken leg of his bed. I know I should have phoned you with my number, instead of relying on Tractor, but I was scared.”
“Scared? Of what?”
He paused. “That I’d find out you were planning to go back to Adam.” He explained that it wasn’t until he’d got home a few hours earlier to meet the Burkina Faso trade delegation that Tractor told him she’d finished with Adam. “I love you,” he said again, stroking her cheek. “And I’m sorry if I overreacted to the whole Adam thing. It was just that I could see history repeating itself, that’s all.”
“I know. Tractor told me all about this married woman you went out with. I’m really, really sorry I wasn’t up-front with you right from the beginning. So tell me. What did they say, the Burkina Faso people?”
“Oh,” he said casually, “only that they loved the Donkulator. And with the help of a grant from the World Health Organization, they’re planning to buy a thousand of them at $500 apiece. And apparently other Third World countries have seen the design and are showing an interest too. Tractor reckons we could be making them full time before very long. We’ll need staff and a factory and everything.”
“Matt,” she gasped, throwing her arms round him again, “
you’re going to be famous. You really will get the Nobel Prize for Laundry.”
By now there was a queue of desperate, full-bladdered women outside the loo, bashing on the door demanding to be let in. But rising above the irate female voices was one male voice.
“Er, excuse me, we’re press, come to interview Ms. Katz. Mind your backs. Daily Mail coming through.”
“It’s Tractor pretending to be the press,” Rachel giggled.
Matt opened the door a few inches and Tractor and Shelley squeezed in. More hugs, back slapping and whoops of congratulation followed.
“Far be it for me to rain on your parade, my friends, but I too have news,” Tractor said eventually.
Tractor was wearing what appeared to be a brand-new, secondhand seventies velvet suit. He and Shelley exchanged knowing glances.
“I thought you might be interested to know I’ve just had an e-mail from the Kellogg’s people. They love the Imperial Cereal idea. In fact they adore it. They said it was just what they were looking for—described my designs as pure genius. They’re going to start test marketing it in a few months. We’re talking hundreds of thousands here.”
Rachel and Matt looked at each other, not sure if this was a joke.
“O ye of little faith,” he said, seeing their expressions. He reached into his pocket, produced a printout of the e-mail and handed it to Matt. “Look,” he said, leaning over Matt’s shoulder and pointing to the last paragraph. “They’re offering me a two-cereal deal.”
Outside, the full-bladdered women were getting crosser and more mutinous. In between their thumping and threats to bash down the door, they seemed to be having an argument with a woman who was trying to push to the front.
“No, no, you don’t understand,” the woman was saying indignantly. “I can’t wait my turn and nor can my husband. This is urgent. You see, that’s my daughter in there. She’s locked in with some strange man.” She started banging on the door. “Darling, it’s me. Come out, please. You have to tell us what’s going on. What’s happened to Adam? I mean, should I be telling Hylda Klompus to forget the heart-shaped salmon mousses?”
Rachel turned to Matt and smiled a strained smile. “Matt,” she said, “this isn’t quite the setting I had in mind, but I think maybe the time has come for you to meet my mum and dad.”
As she opened the door, the queue of women burst in like Titanic escapees heading for the lifeboats, leaving a terror-stricken Faye and Jack outside, pinned to the wall.
* * * * *
“You know, Rachel,” Matt said as they drove back to her flat in Van Morrison, “I really like your parents—particularly your mum.”
“What, even when she said that bit about when the light catches you at a certain angle you could be Jewish?”
“Even then,” he grinned.
CHAPTER 28
It was a sweltering July day and Hampstead Register Office was filling up with wedding guests.
Faye and Jack had been in their seats for twenty minutes. Faye had spent most of that time on the mobile to Hylda Klompus.
“So everything’s under control, Hylda? Nothing’s been left out to sweat in this heat . . . the hollandaise sauce for the salmon is still in the fridge? God forbid we should have an outbreak of salmonella. No I’m fine—my ankles have swollen up like tree trunks, but apart from that, I’m OK.”
“Faye,” Jack hissed. “Come off that bloody phone. They’ll be starting in a few minutes.”
“How will they be starting? The bride and groom are still standing outside. Doesn’t Rachel look lovely? I’m so glad she went for the ivory. The pure white did nothing for her complexion.” She dug Jack in the ribs. “I knew I was right about that watch I found in Rachel’s bathroom. There was definitely something going on. And then when Adam didn’t show up at the comedy contest . . .”
She turned round to see Shelley walking in with Tractor, who had Satchmo strapped to his front in a baby harness.
“Lord, I hope Shelley keeps that baby quiet. She’ll be the next one to get married. They’re like that—her and this Tractor. According to Rachel he’s a very substantial fella now. She’s giving up acting and he’s financing this health food chain she’s opening.”
At that moment Joe and Greg came in with Sam. Following close behind were Adam and a visibly pregnant Yootha.
“Ach, will you look at her with that schmo, Adam. She looks like a stick insect with a beer gut. But doesn’t Sam look lovely in that navy suit I got him. I’d have preferred the kilt and frilly shirt, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”
“How can you blame the kid? What are we, the bloody Clan McKatz?”
“Jack?” Faye lowered her voice as she sat contemplating Joe and Greg. “I wonder which one of them is the woman.”
“Oh Faye, for crying out loud.”
“All right. I was just curious, that’s all.”
“What’s keeping them?” Jack said irritably, running his finger round the inside of his collar.
Faye turned round and craned her neck. “There’s something going on outside. I think that might be them coming in . . . oh, no. I’m wrong. It’s somebody else.”
She paused. “Oh my God,” she squealed. “Oh my God. It’s her.”
“Who?”
“Jack, turn round.”
He turned. “I can’t see without my glasses,” he said.
She opened her bag and handed him hers. He put them on.
“I just know it’s her. Jack. I just know it.”
“Who?” he said, sounding exasperated.
“Her. It’s Barbra Streisand. She came. She actually came.”
“Faye, calm down. It’ll be a look-alike. Rachel and Matt will have hired her to keep Sam happy.”
“It’s not a look-alike. Look at the nose, the eyes.”
Before Jack could stop her, Faye had leaped out of her seat.
The woman she thought was Barbra Streisand was sitting down at the back of the room.
Faye tapped her gingerly on the shoulder.
“Er, hello,” she said, virtually curtseying. The woman turned and smiled. “I’m Faye Katz, the bride’s mother. Can I just say what an honor and a pleasure it is to meet you and that I saw Yentl six times.”
The woman carried on smiling a cryptic smile.
“It is you, isn’t it? You are Barbra? My husband thinks you’re a look-alike, but I’m convinced you’re you.”
The woman winked, tapped the side of her nose with her finger and continued fanning herself with a Concorde ticket.
DON’T MISS
Sue Margolis’s
Other Hysterical Novels
NEUROTICA
APOCALIPSTICK
BREAKFAST AT STEPHANIE’S
All available as Delta paperbacks
NEUROTICA
If He Always Has the Headache,
Why Should You Suffer?
Tabloid reporter Anna Shapiro can pinpoint the day, three years ago, when she and her husband, Dan, last had great sex. Anna would be grateful if something as ordinary as a mere headache were her husband’s excuse; Dan’s hypochondriacal terrors include brain tumors, tropical diseases, and spontaneous combustion. But now an assignment for a racy tabloid expose inspires Anna to go where no journalist has gone before, to answer some questions that suddenly seem very important: What is the perfect outfit for committing adultery in? Is it beyond the pale to pick up a man—no matter how sexy—at a funeral? Yet the most crucial question is one Anna never expected: Is she willing to give up her marriage and children for the biggest gamble of her life?
“Taking up where Bridget Jones’s Diary took off, this saucy, sexy British adventure redefines the lusty woman’s search for erotic satisfaction....Witty and sure....A taut and rambunctious tale exploring the perils and raptures of the pursuit of passion.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Screamingly funny sex comedy...the perfect novel to take on a holiday.”
—USA Today
APOCALIPSTICK
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br /> A Wickedly Funny Novel About Sex, Romance, Wrinkles . . . And Other Natural Disasters.
When it comes to men, beauty columnist Rebecca Fine always seems to be on the scruffy end of the mascara wand. But all that changes the morning she meets Max Stoddart, her new colleague at the Daily Vanguard. With his upscale suit, Hugh Grant hair, and obscenely good looks, he’s a single woman’s dream come true. But is Max the catch of the decade—or just a major babe magnet?
Meanwhile, Rebecca’s old high school nemesis has resurfaced, a former blond bombshell called Lipstick who is now engaged to Rebecca’s widowed dad. And it’s goodbye to articles on toe cleavage when a hot tip sweeps Rebecca to the center of the Paris cosmetics world, where a miracle antiwrinkle cream is about to be launched. That is, until she blows the whistle on a scandal that could set the beauty business—and the future of world peace—reeling. Will Rebecca win the recognition—not to mention the Pulitzer—she yearns for . . . and get the man of her dreams? Stay tuned.
“Sexy British romp . . . Margolis’s characters have a candor and self-deprecation that lead to furiously funny moments. . . . A riotous, ribald escapade sure to leave readers chuckling to the very end of this saucy adventure.”
—USA Today
“[An] irreverent, sharp-witted look at love and dating.”
—Houston Chronicle
BREAKFAST AT STEPHANIE’S
One Woman. Two Hot Men To Choose From. Let The Games Begin. . . .
Playing “Winter Wonderland” for last-minute Christmas shoppers has got to be the all-time low point of Stephanie Glassman’s career. The aspiring jazz soloist and single mother has no singing prospects, no man in her life since her hot fling with a movie stuntman, and a social life that consists of having her two best friends over for high-calorie Sunday brunches. Even her grandmother’s having more sex than she is. That is, until toddler Jake’s irresistible father hurtles back into her life.