by Sue Margolis
“Don’t worry. You just have to go with it. You’ll soon get your strength back.”
Just then the doorbell went. They heard Grandma Faye answer it. “That’ll be Jonny,” Mal said. “He promised to take the afternoon off to help with the auditions. He’s late. Flick won’t be pleased.”
There was a thumping on the stairs and Jonny came in. He took one look at Mal’s swollen face and neck and announced, “Hey, it’s Puff Daddy.”
“Very funny,” Mal said. “By the way, I thought you were supposed to be here an hour ago.”
“Meeting with a client ran over. Don’t worry, I phoned Flick.”
Just then Grandma Faye appeared, breathless from the stairs. She was wearing a purple leotard, black Lycra pedal pushers and a purple headband. She looked like a senior citizen from Fame. “Wow, Gran, get you,” Cyn said.
Faye beamed at the compliment. “Laurent’s been getting me doing some gentle exercises to help my joints. I’m really getting into it. I even went out and bought a sports deodorant.” She turned to Mal. “So, how you doing?”
“How would you be if you were me? The district nurse comes every morning. In sixty-four years, my testicles have never received so much attention from a woman. The tragedy is I’m in too much pain to enjoy it.”
Everybody laughed. “I was just about to put the kettle on,” Faye said. “I wondered if you fancied another cuppa.” He thanked her and said he was fine. “I didn’t manage to finish the last one.” She went over to the bedside table and picked up his cup and saucer. Reminding him to just shout if he wanted anything, she went back downstairs.
“Actually, there is something I’d like,” Mal said. He was looking at Jonny. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”
“Sure.”
“I don’t think I’m going to be up to preparing Laurent’s case for the Home Office. Would you do it? You know the score; we have to convince them that if he returns to his country under its present regime, he would be likely to face summary imprisonment or execution for his political beliefs. It shouldn’t be difficult because his case was well documented by Amnesty International at the time of the coup there.”
Cyn watched Jonny hesitate. It wasn’t that her brother didn’t care about Laurent, he did. Jonny had been as distressed as everybody else the other night when Laurent talked about life under the military dictatorship in Tagine. It was just that he knew precious little about immigration law. Suburban conveyancing and divorce cases were his specialties. Taking on Laurent’s case meant going beyond what was familiar and predictable. Cyn knew this would make him feel anxious and insecure.
“OK, I’ll do it,” Jonny said, breezily. “No problem.”
Cyn could see the look of surprise and pleasure on her father’s face. Mal had never said as much, but he had often hinted to Cyn that he felt guilty about encouraging Jonny to join his law firm straight from university. “If he’d traveled a bit, seen some of the world, done some charity work . . . even smoked a bit of pot . . .” Then his voice would trail off, but Cyn knew what he was trying to say: if Jonny had done some of these things, maybe he might have developed a more adventurous spirit. Cyn could never bring herself to risk upsetting her dad and telling him what she knew: that Jonny’s need for security had begun when he was little, with Barbara’s illness. Maybe traveling and finding something more imaginative to do after university than joining his father’s legal practice would have helped, but probably only in the short term. Cyn suspected that her brother’s need to play it safe and not take risks were so deep-seated that whatever he had done, he would always have turned out the same.
“Good boy,” Mal said, smiling up at Jonny. “I started making some notes. I’ve got them all on disc.”
When Mal began to look tired again, they left him to sleep.
“You sure you don’t mind taking on Laurent’s case?” Cyn asked Jonny as they walked downstairs. “After all, it’s not really your thing.”
He gave a shrug. “I know, but getting to grips with immigration law will give me something to think about other than this blinkin’ wedding. Plus it’s for a good cause and it’s not as if it’s going to be more than a onetime thing. I just hope I don’t bugger it up.”
Jonny carried on into the living room while Cyn popped to the loo. She was just coming out when the music started. She found herself stopping to listen. After a few seconds she began giggling. Somebody, or rather a group of somebodies, was playing “Like a Virgin.” What was more, they appeared to be playing it on Peruvian pan pipes.
She walked into the living room and stood by the door so as not to interrupt the performance. Gathered at one end of the living room, in front of the smoked-glass wall unit-cum-cocktail cabinet, were six Peruvian pipers in traditional black hats and brightly colored ponchos. Sitting at the dining table, drinking tea, eating miniature Danishes and jigging about to the music were Barbara, Flick, Grandma Faye—still in her gym gear—and Jonny. Hugh was there, too, but he wasn’t eating or jigging. He was shooting Cyn a pained look that said: “This has absolutely nothing to do with me, OK?”
Nobody seemed to notice the look. Instead they were all merrily singing along: “Like a vir-ir-ir-ir-gin, touched for the very first time.” Hugh put his head in his hands.
Faye, meanwhile, tiptoed over to Cyn and pulled her into the living room. “Come on, darling, join in. Aren’t they wonderful? They’re called The Lima Dreamers.” She lifted her hands over her head and began stabbing the air with her forefingers. “Like a vir-ir-ir-ir-gin . . .”
Cyn surveyed the scene. With the exception of Hugh, who was now sipping his tea looking like the queen at a pub karaoke night, everybody was having a ball. High on all the clapping and singing along, The Lima Dreamers were seriously into the Madonna vibe. Flick was clapping wildly, although her claps bore little relation to the rhythm of the music. Barbara was tapping her foot and knocking back the Danish. Grandma Faye was boogying in her purple leotard. Even Jonny was getting into the groove.
This was not the real world, Cyn decided. Ponchoed Peruvians did not descend on ordinary suburban houses and start playing “Like a Virgin” on pan pipes, egged on by gyrating grannies in leotards. There was no doubt in her mind that they were trapped in a Magritte painting and were about to be joined by a puffing steam train and a group of little bowler-hatted men parachuting down on their umbrellas.
The Lima Dreamers were a hit with everybody. Even, as it turned out, with Hugh, but not for artistic reasons. He’d had his eye on one of them, a cute chap in a pink and orange poncho called Gustavo, but when he’d gone to ask for his phone number it turned out Gustavo’s English was virtually nonexistent and Hugh gave up. “I know the language of love is meant to be universal, but it gets pretty boring after a while.”
Cyn approved of the Lima Dreamers, too, and could see how in an ironic way they would liven things up during dinner. After they had gone, Hugh tried to argue the case for something a bit more upmarket and restrained, but Grandma Faye made the point that this was a wedding, not a wake.
“OK,” Hugh said, summing up. “We’re agreed, then, that The Lima Dreamers will play during dinner. Later on, they will hand over to the dance band.”
Everybody nodded. “Fine,” Hugh said in a tone that exuded resigned acceptance more than excitement. He looked worn-out, Cyn thought. It was pretty obvious that Barbara and Flick had reverted to type and were far less committed to “simple elegance” than they had been at the first meeting to discuss the wedding. They were clearly having second thoughts about Hugh’s muted, classy approach to the nuptials. He seemed to be happy to back down—fed up, no doubt, with fighting a losing battle, not to mention overseeing the tussles that were surely going on between her mother and Flick, her mother and Grandma Faye, and her mother and Mal. Looking at him now, he seemed pathetically grateful just to have everybody in agreement. Pen in hand, his eyes surveyed his to-do list. He added a couple of ticks. “Right, the ceremony and the tent are sorted, as are the flo
wers. Everybody’s agreed we’re going with bubbles instead of confetti. The invitations should be here in a day or so. This brings us to outfits . . .”
Flick took the floor and said she had abandoned the idea of having dresses made because nobody could do them in time.
“Well, I’m planning to get my outfit at My Daughter’s Wedding in Mill Hill,” Barbara said. “They have wonderful wedding and bridesmaids’ dresses. Why don’t we all go together?”
“Mill Hill?” Hugh said in a voice that suggested he had been thinking more Notting Hill.
“Yes.” She explained to Hugh that it was run by a woman named Bernice Greenspan whom she knew from the synagogue Ladies’ Guild. “I got my dress for Jonny’s bar mitzvah there.”
“In 1989,” Cyn added, not altogether helpfully.
“And I’m sure we bought you several bridesmaids’ dresses there,” Barbara added.
“We did,” Cyn said, remembering all four polyester pastel creations.
“Anyway, I know for a fact that Bernice still carries a wonderful collection of dresses and wedding outfits.” She suggested that they all—and by that she meant herself, Flick, Cyn, Grandma Faye and Hugh—meet up at My Daughter’s Wedding on Saturday morning.
“Ooh, this is going to be so exciting,” Flick squealed, clapping her hands. She turned to Jonny. “You hear that, Pooh Bear? I’m going to get my wedding dress. And I’m sure there’ll be something utterly perfect for Cyn.”
“Excellent,” Jonny said with a thin smile. He didn’t look so much tired and frazzled as bored.
Cyn reached under the table and squeezed Hugh’s thigh as if to say “Please, please don’t let me down on this one.” Hugh turned to her and gave a quick wink. “OK,” he went on, addressing the whole group now, “that just leaves the catering to sort out.” He turned to Barbara. “We’ve had menus and sampled food from at least a dozen caterers. It really is make-your-mind-up time.”
The problem was that Flick still wanted something “a bit out of the ordinary and ethnic-y” and Barbara was standing her ground, insisting that ethnic didn’t work at big mixed-age-group parties. “We need to go for something undemanding that everybody will eat. I still think we should go for salmon. Or possibly halibut.”
Everybody was putting in their two penn’orth when Laurent appeared. He was wearing battered old trainers and shorts. Judging by his red face and damp hair, he had just been for a run. He eased his way into the room, raising a hand in apology, picked up a book from the coffee table and started to make his way out. He was just going out of the door when he turned back.
“Excuse me,” he said tentatively, “but I couldn’t help overhearing. I know eet ees none of my business, but I do not understand why you cannot have ze ethneec and ze undemanding.” Nobody remotely minded him interrupting, but they all agreed combining the two would be ridiculously complicated.
“Not necessarily,” Laurent said.
“Really?” Barbara said, indicating the spare chair next to her and inviting him to sit down.
“Absolutely. I could do eet. My mother—she was a wonderful cook and she taught me all she knew. Back in Tagine I often ’elp ’er to cook for beeg parties. Why don’t I prepare some traditional African food along wiz some more traditional dishes and we can ’ave a buffet, non?”
Silence fell. The words bush and meat suddenly hung in the air. It was only Cyn who noticed the expression on Laurent’s face and realized he had decided to play up to their fears.
“I can do wonderful theengs wiz leopard and, comment ça veut dire, monkey brains.”
Faces winced. Buttocks were clenched. Grandma Faye looked like she was about to keel over. The only people not participating in the wincing and clenching were Cyn, because she knew Laurent was only teasing, and Hugh—who was always up for a bizarre new taste sensation. His latest passions were Heston Blumenthal’s sardine ice cream and leather-flavored chocolates.
“Laurent,” Barbara said, clearing her throat and going in search of her most diplomatic tone of voice. “I’m sure you can do wonderful things with that kind of meat. The thing is it’s not actually kosher.”
“Or legal,” Jonny muttered.
“What about locusts? Zey are kosher, non?”
“Er, non.”
“Maybe you like caterpillars. Or white ants?”
“Good grief, no,” Flick cried out. “Definitely not.”
“So no grasshoppers, zen?”
“I don’t think so,” Barbara said, shooting Hugh a for-God’s-sake-help-me-out-here expression. Hugh was about to say something, but Laurent got in first. “Eet ees OK,” he said, his face breaking into a broad smile. “I just make joke wiz you.”
“Oh, thank the Lord,” Barbara said, slapping her hand to her chest.
“But I meant it when I said I am magnifique cook. ’Ow about I prepare some beef wiz pineapple and coconut wiz a vegetable rice? Zen we could ’ave chicken in peanut sauce, fried plantains, sweet potatoes. And maybe I do some poached salmon and salads for ze less adventurous guests.”
Cyn looked at Laurent’s chiseled face, the thick, muscular neck and biceps, the six-pack bulging under his T-shirt. These days so many men were great cooks, but she could no more imagine Laurent in the kitchen than she could imagine Rambo doing needlepoint.
“Please let me do zees,” Laurent went on. “It would be my way of sanking you.”
Barbara told him he had done so much already. “You help around the house. You’re working out with my mother.”
“But I would like to do zees, too.”
Barbara was trying desperately not to show it, but Cyn could tell she still wasn’t convinced that Laurent was up to it. Sensing this, he suggested cooking them a special dinner the following week, to prove he really could cook.
“Why not?” Hugh said. He looked round the group and everybody seemed to be in agreement.
Grandma Faye turned to Laurent. “If you end up doing the catering, can we still have the chocolate fountain and fish balls?”
Laurent’s brow furrowed. “Fish balls. I see. Tell me, Faye, do your people eat any other part of ze fish?”
Only Cyn was able to stay for dinner. Flick and Jonny couldn’t because they were eating out with friends—although Jonny made time to sit down with Laurent and explain that Mal had asked him to take over Laurent’s asylum case. Hugh said he was meeting people, too, but confessed to Cyn that he wasn’t really. “The truth is, I’m starting to wilt under the pressure of this wedding. If I don’t spend the next three hours soaking in a Jo Malone lime-basil and mandarin bath, I think I shall probably die.” Cyn suspected there was another reason he wanted to get going—although he was far too polite to say anything. Hugh was the only one of her family and friends who hadn’t had mumps and she was pretty sure he didn’t want to hang around chez Fishbein more than was strictly necessary.
He had said good-bye to Barbara and was putting on his coat in the hall, when Cyn came running out of the living room. “God, I nearly forgot,” she said excitedly. “Joe’s taken your screenplay away to read. He loved the outline and the first few pages. He’s talking about showing it to one of his movie contacts.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Would I kid about something like that?”
“Bloody hell.”
“Fantastic, isn’t it?”
“So have you heard from him? Has he said what he thinks? Does he like it? I mean, what did he say?”
“Huge, calm down. He only took it on Saturday.”
“God, I don’t know what to say. Maybe I should phone him—you know, to explain some of the more complicated metaphors and talk him through my philosophical thrust. On the other hand maybe I shouldn’t hassle him. He might think I’m insulting his intelligence. What do you think?” He was gabbling and running his hand over his head. Cyn had seen Hugh miserable and depressed a thousand times, but the twitchy neurotic artiste was a whole new look.
“What I think is that now that he seems to like you
r screenplay . . .” She lowered her voice in case Barbara was within earshot and might hear what she was about to say, “you have suddenly changed your mind about the madman I am going out with and had the most fantastic sex ever with on Saturday night.”
“OK, you win. Maybe I did misjudge him. So, should I phone him or what?”
“Look,” Cyn said evenly, “I’m sure Joe wouldn’t mind you ringing, but he’s not the type to mess you around. As soon as he’s read it, he’ll be in touch.”
“OK, and you’re sure he’s got my phone number.”
“Absolutely.”
“And my mobile.”
“Yes.”
“What about my e-mail?”
“I gave him that, too. Look, Hugh, try not to get carried away. Joe is reading the screenplay, that’s all. He can’t commission it. He might possibly pass it on to somebody who might possibly know somebody who might, that’s all.”
“I know, but at least it’s something.” He was staring off into space. “God, Cyn, have you ever felt like your life is about to change—that it’s your time?” Grandma Faye, who happened to be walking past, stopped and said, “Yes, it happens to every woman when she hits fifty.”
Hugh laughed, waved good-bye to Faye and turned back to Cyn. “It’s going to work out, gorgeous,” he said, gripping her hand. “I just know it.”
Cyn was starting to panic and wish desperately that she hadn’t said anything.
Faye and Laurent weren’t staying for dinner either. Faye was playing bridge and Laurent had another date with Harmony.
“I like your brozzer,” Laurent said to Cyn as they sat alone in the kitchen waiting for Harmony to arrive. “ ’E ’as a generous spirit, like your parents.”
She felt flattered on Jonny’s behalf. “And what about Harmony? Do you like her?”
“Of course. ’Armony ees a very special person.”
“She is. Harms and Hugh are my best friends.”
He nodded. “She told me ’ow much she loves you.”