by Sue Margolis
“Good idea,” Trevor said, rubbing his hands together. His relief was palpable. Until now, he’d given every impression of not knowing quite where to put himself.
For some reason, Arthur chose that moment to take his face out of the cushion and announce that he was prepared to perform, after all. He stood on the sofa and proceeded to recite—word perfect—the first two verses of “The Owl and the Pussycat.” Val managed to focus on Arthur, smiling and urging him on while at the same time cuddling Charlie on her lap. After everybody had applauded Arthur, Val asked Charlie if he had a poem he would like to recite.
Amy knew this was her mother’s way of making sure Charlie was included, but he wasn’t used to performing in front of people and she suspected he might get shy and embarrassed.
“Mum, best leave it. Charlie’s never—”
“Wass recite?” Charlie broke in.
“Say aloud, dummy.” It was Lila. She was sitting in an armchair, legs draped over one arm like a truculent teenager.
“Lila!” Simon was glaring at his daughter. “How dare you speak to Charlie like that? Apologize at once.”
“You don’t have to shout at her,” Victoria came at him.
“Sorree,” Lila said to Charlie, rolling her eyes. “Look, if you’ve got nothing to recite, then do your elbow thing. You haven’t done it in ages, and it scares Grandma.”
“Don’t you dare!” Val said to Charlie. “You know I can’t bear to look.”
“Akshully, I do have something,” Charlie announced, not without pride. “It’s a song.”
“You have?” Amy said, assuming it was something he’d learned at school.
Charlie nodded.
“Okay, darling, off you go,” Val said, lifting him off her lap and onto the floor. “Deep breath …”
Charlie puffed out his chest. There was a long pause, followed by a little voice: “Like a vir-ir-ir-irgin, touched for the very first time. Like a vir-ir-ir-irgin …”
Amy slapped her hand to her mouth. The other adults immediately got the giggles—all except Victoria, who looked like she was sucking on a lemon.
“Charlie, darling,” Victoria said through a rictus smile, “I think that’s enough.” She turned on Amy. “Do you really think that is the kind of music a six-year-old should be exposed to?”
“It comes right at the end of the Shrek movie,” Amy said. “It’s his favorite film. I’m not going to stop him from watching it because of one song.”
“I know what a virgin is,” Lila piped up.
Victoria winced.
“Omigod,” Simon groaned.
“It’s when you don’t have a boyfriend … like Auntie Amy.”
“Lila!” It was Simon again.
Amy reached out and touched her brother-in-law’s arm. “Leave it,” she whispered. “Let’s just go and eat.”
VICTORIA DISHED up while Amy served. Val took charge of the children, mopping up juice spillages and urging them to “eat up” and “sit nicely.” Meanwhile, Simon asked Trevor about shamanism and listened far too intently in that patronizing, “you are the most important person in the room” kind of way so typical of posh Oxbridge types. Trevor seemed wise to the tactic, though, and niftily turned the conversation to cricket—England was about to beat Australia in the Ashes.
At one point Arthur started pinching Charlie, and Val told him to “stop that at once or you won’t get any pudding.” Despite Arthur having turned red with guilt, Victoria turned on her mother, accusing her of not investigating what had gone on and insisting that Arthur wouldn’t have pinched Charlie without provocation. Val was by no means a shrinking violet, but she found her daughter’s bossy domineering manner hard to deal with and like most people rarely stood up to her. Today was no exception. She made no attempt to come back at Victoria. Trevor looked at Val. Seeing her distress, he put down his knife and fork and opened his mouth to speak. Val instantly grabbed his arm and shook her head at him. Amy watched as Trevor stood down. He was a gentle soul, but it was clear that he wasn’t finding it easy to watch Val being attacked and undermined.
Meanwhile, Simon turned on Victoria. “Actually, I was watching the boys, and Charlie did nothing to provoke Arthur. You had no right to attack Val. She was only trying to help.”
Victoria had the decency to say sorry to her mother, but her tone was less than heartfelt. “I just don’t see why Arthur always gets the blame for everything.”
“He gets the blame,” Simon retorted, “because nine times out of ten he’s in the bloody wrong.” Simon looked at his son. “Now say sorry to Charlie or you will go to your room.” Arthur mumbled an apology. Only Amy heard Lila call her brother a wuss.
Val said the baguette and butter pudding should be ready. “Why don’t I get it out of the oven.”
Trevor said he would help her dish up. As they left the room, Amy heard her mother thanking Trevor for being prepared to take on Victoria. “Phil would never have spoken up for me,” she said. It was true. Phil’s confidence and sharp wit meant he never had any trouble telling his daughter to get back in her box and stop being such a madam. He couldn’t understand why Val found it hard to challenge her older daughter and had little sympathy for her.
“I held my tongue once because you asked me to,” Trevor said. “Don’t expect me to do it again.”
Amy looked on as her mother gave Trevor’s arm a squeeze.
SIMON OPENED “A rather special dessert wine.” As the adults knocked it back along with Victoria’s sumptuous baguette and butter pudding, the atmosphere lifted.
After lunch Simon and Trevor watched the children while the women went upstairs so that Victoria could show off her much ballyhooed en suite bathroom.
Amy sat on the dark mahogany toilet lid, desperate to undo the top button of her jeans. She’d eaten far too much.
“I have to admit that I did hover over the bidet,” Victoria said, nodding toward the piece of newly installed reproduction nineteenth-century sanitaryware. “I know they’re terribly petit bourgeois, but I was won over by this article I read in The Times, which said the French have the lowest rate of yeast infection in the world.”
Val said she was suddenly picturing Nicolas Sarkozy striding to a bidet and tending to his undercarriage. Amy started laughing. Victoria stiffened. A moment later she was pointing out the hand-painted rosebuds decorating the rim of the bidet. Val said she thought they were ever so sweet. Soon she was turning her attention to the lavatory with its overhead cistern and long chain. “Ooh, look. There are tiny rosebuds on the chain handle, too.”
“And around the inside of the bath.” Victoria beamed. She went over to the rolltop iron bath with its claw feet. This had been positioned bang in the middle of the steeple-ceilinged bathroom. “The suite is a limited edition reproduction of one they had installed at Sandringham for Edward VII.”
“Must have cost a fortune,” Val said, stroking one of the chunky brass bath taps.
Victoria gave a self-conscious flick of her impossibly shiny auburn hair. “Well, Simon is a senior partner now.”
Val seemed to be summoning up the courage to speak. “Darling,” she said eventually, “I don’t want to interfere, and feel free to tell me to mind my own business, but is everything all right between you and Simon?”
“Of course,” Victoria retorted. “Why on earth shouldn’t it be?”
“C’mon, take it easy,” Amy said to her sister, careful to keep her voice steady and soothing. “Mum was only asking.” Then she heard herself say, “Why can’t you ever give her a break?”
Victoria turned on her. “Amy, do not start. I said I was sorry for the way I overreacted downstairs.”
“I’m not starting. All I said was—”
“Come on, your sister has apologized,” Val said to Amy. “I know she didn’t mean what she said. Now, let that be an end to it.”
“Fine,” Amy said, cross with her sister for snapping at Val and frustrated with Val for always wanting to keep the peace. Amy turned bac
k to her sister. “So you and Simon really are okay?”
“I admit we’ve been a bit tetchy lately, but it doesn’t mean anything.”
Amy wasn’t convinced. “I’d say you were a bit more than tetchy. You both seemed pretty rattled down there.”
“God, will the two of you get off my case? Simon’s been working all hours these past few months. I’ve had builders crawling all over the place ever since we moved in, and it’s finally gotten to me. We need a break, that’s all, and then we’ll be fine.”
“Of course you will,” Val said. Whether she meant it or was merely eager to placate her daughter, Amy couldn’t tell.
“By the way,” Val said to both daughters, “I bit the bullet and phoned your father.” Emotions had been so fraught since the split that they hadn’t spoken other than to discuss finances and whether they should formalize the separation by getting divorced. So far they hadn’t come to a decision on the matter. “We actually managed to have a reasonably civilized conversation.”
“Good for you, Mum,” Amy said. “One of you had to make the first move. So are you two planning on being friends now?”
“I think things might be heading that way.” Val smiled. “By the way, has he told you about his floozy?” She was chuckling.
“I wasn’t sure if you knew,” Victoria said.
Amy was frowning. “His floozy?”
“Calls herself an ‘erotic poetess,’ if you please. Now I’ve heard everything. Still, if she floats his boat, who am I to object?” Just then they heard a child crying, and Val said she would go downstairs to check on how Simon and Trevor were managing.
“What on earth is an erotic poetess?” Amy said after her mother had gone.
“It’s bloody disgusting, that’s what it is,” Victoria hissed. “The woman writes rhyming porn and reads it out in public. People actually pay to hear her.”
“Porn poetry evenings?” Amy laughed. “Gawd, I wonder what sort of stuff she writes.” She paused, waiting for the muse to strike her: “Okay, I’ve got it. ‘Oh, Jemima, your vagina is like an ocean liner/Let me anchor my tanker between your thighs in Sri Lanka.’”
“How can a vagina be like an ocean liner?” Victoria was actually giggling. They were sharing a moment, their first in months, years even.
“I dunno. It was the best I could come up with at short notice.”
“Anyway, I’m not happy.”
“Maybe not, but this is Dad’s business, and it has nothing to do with you or any of us. If Mum isn’t bothered, why should you be?”
“I’ll tell you why—because our father has turned into a middle-aged pervert. What sort of example is he setting for Arthur, Lila, and Charlie? Their grandfather is dating a prostitute.”
“Oh, come on. The woman might be a bit strange, but you know Dad as well as I do. It’s preposterous to even suggest that Dad is dating a hooker.”
“Fine,” Victoria retorted. “Have it your own way, but has it occurred to you, even for a second, that we might not know Dad as well as we think we do?”
“No, it hasn’t.”
Victoria looked like she might be about to burst into tears. “Do you mind telling me why we can’t just be a normal family?”
Amy put her arm around her, and to her surprise, Victoria didn’t resist. “What’s normal?” Amy said.
“Not this—our mother dating some weirdo healer. Our father seeing this … this porn peddler. What will people think?”
“Who cares what people think?”
“I do. People’s opinions matter to me. We have to put a stop to this relationship. If we let it continue, Dad will become a laughingstock.”
“No,” Amy said. “This is Dad’s life. No matter how much you disapprove, you cannot possibly interfere.”
“What about Mum’s life? What will her friends say?”
“Mum has the kind of friends who won’t give two hoots. You’ve got this thing totally out of proportion. There is no way that our father is involved in anything sleazy. And even if he were, Mum is separated from him. How could his behavior reflect on her?”
Victoria shrugged. “Okay, you might be right about Mum, but it is still going to reflect on me and my children.” She pulled away from Amy and began rubbing a fingernail over some imagined imperfection on the bath surface.
“Victoria, are you all right?” Amy said tenderly. “You sure there’s nothing else you want to talk about?”
Victoria looked up, clearly irritated. “I’ve told you. I’m fine. Now please let it drop.”
AS SOON as they got home, Amy went to check on Michelangelo. He was curled up in a corner of his cage, barely breathing. The next morning, to her astonishment, he was still hanging on. His impending demise reminded Amy of how her parents had dealt with her grandfather’s death. She must have been seven or eight when one day they announced that Grandpa Ted had unexpectedly and in his sleep moved to Eastbourne. She accepted it without question. A few weeks later Victoria took enormous delight in telling her sister the truth. For months Amy had nightmares about her parents dying.
Just before ten, Victoria was on the phone to say that she and Simon were meeting some friends for lunch and would love Charlie to join them. Victoria was making a real effort to be friends, Amy thought. It occurred to her that the sadness and distress they’d both felt when their parents separated might in some strange way end up uniting them.
“We’re going to Soho House,” Victoria said, pausing for effect. Amy’s heart sank. This wasn’t entirely a hand-of-friendship call. It was also about Victoria needing to impress. Amy didn’t say anything. She wanted to let her sister know that she could take Soho House in her stride. “Simon joined a few months ago,” she persisted. “Last time we went, Jude Law was at the next table.”
Amy called out to Charlie, who was sprawled on the living room floor doing a jigsaw and eating toasted crumpets, and asked him if he would like to go out to lunch with his cousins. He demanded to know what was on offer if he didn’t go out with Lila and Arthur. Amy couldn’t help being mildly irritated that her son saw her as the entertainment committee. She told him that they were going to IKEA to buy a desk and a chest of drawers for his room. For Charlie it was a no-brainer. He was adamant that he wanted to help choose his furniture.
Victoria said she was sure that Charlie would prefer Soho House to traipsing around IKEA. At that point Amy could hear Lila shrieking in the background.
“Yay, Charlie’s going to IKEA. Can Arthur and me go, too, and have Swedish meatballs and fries in the restaurant?” She could hear Victoria singing the praises of Soho House fish cakes, but judging by the commotion, the children had made up their minds. In the end Victoria insisted that her two come to Soho House. Amy could hear them sobbing and calling her a big fat poo.
Amy had arranged to go to IKEA with Bel, who wanted to buy a new bed. The two of them had agreed to split the cost of hiring a van.
Bel arrived half an hour late with Jurassic Mark in tow. He was thickset and muscle-bound and smelled overpoweringly of Fahrenheit. His green-and-white-striped rugby shirt, collar turned up, was set off by a surf necklace made of carved wooden beads. On his feet he wore Ugg duck boots. “Sorry we’re late,” he said, ending the sentence as if it were a question, the way all Aussies did and more Brits were starting to. He stopped to fingerfluff his hair in Amy’s hall mirror. “Still, you have to admit I’m worth waiting for. I got up today and thought God gave and He just kept on giving.” He leered at Amy’s cleavage for a few beats before placing his hand on Bel’s right buttock and squeezing. “Right, babe?”
“Right,” Bel said, removing Mark’s hand and shooting Amy an apologetic look. “Actually, the reason we’re late is that I’ve just started this biog of Coco Chanel and I’m totally hooked.”
“Yeah, and I was updating my Facebook status.” Mark piped up. “Came up with something really witty, though.” Another audible question mark and then; “‘Congratulations. If you’re reading this, you survived my cull.�
�”
Usually this would have been Bel’s cue to offer up girlie giggles and extol Mark’s comic genius. Instead her face formed a pained expression. “Very funny,” she said in a deadpan voice.
Mark winked at Amy and cocked his head toward Bel. “The little lady’s just pissed off that she didn’t come up with it.”
“Yeah, that’d be it,” Bel said.
“You know, babe, I don’t find uppity Sheilas much of a turn-on.”
“Is that right?”
Amy blinked. Bel never ever spoke to Mark like this. Was it possible she had finally woken up and smelled the slime?
Before Amy had a chance to give her verdict on Mark’s Facebook update, he was off again. “So, Amy, any chance of a glass of the amber fluid?”
“Yeah, I think I’ve got a carton of apple juice somewhere.”
Mark turned to Bel. “You know, she’s quite witty—for a Sheila.”
“Why, thank you,” Amy simpered.
“My pleasure.” He was gazing at her cleavage again.
“Mark, if you’ve got something to say, please address it to my face and not my breasts.”
“Mark, for Chrissake,” Bel hissed.
“Aw, come on—fair go. A bloke can look, can’t he? I mean, by anybody’s standards that is a bit of a bloomin’ rack Amy’s got there.”
Amy decided that nothing she could say would make an impression on Mark. Bel just looked weary and fed up.
Mark seemed to sense that he was making himself unpopular. “You know what?” he said to Bel, “I think I’ll go and sit in the pub and have a few cold ones. Then this afternoon I might go to the football game.”
“But what about IKEA?” Bel said. “You promised you’d help us load all the stuff into the van.”
“You’re big girls, particularly our Amy here. You can manage. I’ll see to you later, babe. And don’t forget to pick up some pizza on your way through. I’ll have a quattro stagioni with extra olives, anchovies, cheese. And get them to drizzle some of that chili oil on top. You always forget that.”