A Catered Affair

by Sue Margolis

  “But she’s hardly had a boyfriend since Dad died. This is amazing. I can’t believe it.”

  “He’s not exactly what you’d call a looker, though,” Nana continued. “He’s the image of that actor.”

  “Which actor?”

  “Oh, you know, that one. That French one with the nose and the long hair. Gerald something.”

  “I’m trying to think,” I said. “A French actor, called Gerald …”

  “Gerald Departure. That’s it. He’s the image of Gerald Departure.”

  “Nana, do you mean Gérard Depardieu?”

  “That’s what I said. Gerald Departure.”

  Of course I had to find out from Mum exactly what was going on. I left it until the next time I went over for dinner.

  “So,” I said as we took our coffee to the sofa, “what about you and Gerald?”

  She laughed. “Your nana’s blabbed. I knew she would. So has she told Scarlett?”

  “No. I did.”

  “Of course.”

  “So is it serious?”

  “Who knows? It’s too early to say, but maybe. He’s just such a sweet, kind man, and he totally gets me and all my madness.”

  “So he’s divorced?”

  She nodded. “He has a couple of grown-up children … and guess what. He does amateur plays in his spare time. His group is about to put on The King and I and he’s roped me in. I don’t know why I’ve never thought of it before.”

  “Nor do I. You’ll love it.”

  “I’m starting to think I might.” She took a sip of coffee. “Changing the subject. You know, it just occurred to me that it’s been a month since Grace did the business with Ed. Shouldn’t be long before we find out if it worked. I can’t wait to find out if I’m about to become a grandma.”

  I wasn’t aware that I’d gone silent until Mum asked me if I was OK.

  I didn’t want to have a heavy conversation when she was so happy, but there was something on my mind. “I dunno,” I said. “Sometimes it upsets me that you still get so excited about the things Scarlett does. I try not to get jealous, and I know you love me, and I feel like a needy five-year-old just saying it, but …”

  Mum came and sat next to me on the sofa and put her arm around me. “Let me tell you something,” she said. “You were my first baby, and you will always be special. I will never, ever forget the joy of holding you for the first time and bringing you home and seeing everybody make such a fuss of you. It felt like you were my greatest achievement. You kept me up half the night every night for six months, but I don’t think I’d ever been happier. Then Scarlett came along, and everything was perfect. Your dad and I were still very happy then, but as we grew apart, something happened to our relationship with you girls.”

  “You each picked one of us.”

  She nodded. “We did. Looking back, I am so ashamed. You were more like your dad—smart, eager to learn, bookish, and he seemed to want to nurture you. Scarlett was more like me. I wanted to bring her on, help her with her acting, turn her into mini me. It was only after your father died that I realized what I had done. I’d let you go. You were my baby, my firstborn, and I never fought for you. And because you grew to be more and more like your father, I suppose I felt less connected to you. I hate him for taking you away from me and me for letting it happen. I am so sorry. I know things aren’t perfect between us, but I do try. I’ve been trying ever since your dad died.”

  “I know. Believe it or not, I have been aware. And maybe I’ve distanced myself, too. I try to keep Dad alive by living my life the way I think he would have wanted.”

  “I know, and I do understand, but I’m just not sure you’re always making the right decisions.”

  “You mean Josh?”

  She nodded.

  “Scarlett says it’s time I let go. But I’m just not sure that I can.”

  “I think she’s right,” Mum said. “But it’s not for me or your sister to tell you what to do, and it’s certainly not for us to tell you who you should date.”

  “It just feels so hard,” I said. “I’ve been listening to Dad’s voice for so long. And now, after what Kenny’s done, it makes me think that he was right all along.”

  “I know. I can see that. After this experience, changing the way you think is going to take time. Young children who lose one or both parents often have a complicated relationship with them. After your dad died, I did some reading on the subject. I found out, for example, that many of the children like Nana, who came here from Germany on the Kindertransports, ended up blaming themselves for not saving their parents from the Nazis. There they were, these helpless, powerless little mites in a strange land. What could they possibly have done? And yet—illogical as it may seem—many of them have never forgiven themselves.”

  “God … does Nana feel like that?”

  “I suspect she might, but she’s never talked about it.” Mum paused. “You know, it’s a real shame Kenny turned out to be such a piece of work. I have to say that I had high hopes for the pair of you, and so did your nana. I can’t believe we all got him so wrong. I tell you, if I ever get hold of him …”

  I smiled. “Thanks, Mum.”

  “I do love you, Tally … with all my heart.”

  “I know. I love you, too.”

  Chapter 17

  One night as I was getting ready for bed, I got a call from Hugh.

  “Hey, Tally, I’m back. I’m standing at the luggage carousel at Heathrow. I couldn’t wait to speak to you.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were getting in tonight? I would have come and met you.”

  “Nah, it’s late. You’ve got work tomorrow. So, how are you?”

  “I’m good. And, Hugh, thanks again for the beautiful flowers.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “So how was Angola?”

  “Poor, deprived, depressed, but it was an amazing trip. I met so many wonderful people and learned so much. I’ve got so much to tell you. Listen, I’ve just had a thought. What are you doing this weekend? I’m going to be in Brighton at the annual development conference. I’m giving a speech to a load of government departments and charities based on the report I’ve just written on the humanitarian crisis in Angola. They’re putting the speakers up at the Imperial. Come with me.”

  “Hang on—you’re giving a speech on third world poverty and the organizers are putting you up at a five-star hotel?”

  “I think you’ll find it’s not quite five star these days, but it’s still nice. Say you’ll come. We’ll talk, we’ll walk, we’ll eat. You can help me with my speech.”

  “Wow, a weekend away helping you write a speech on the humanitarian crisis in Angola. You make it sound so tempting.”

  “Come on, we’ll do other stuff, too.”

  “What do you mean ‘other stuff’?” I giggled. “I thought we agreed to keep this casual.”

  “Look, if it’s sleeping arrangements you’re worried about, I’m sure I can arrange separate rooms. I’ll pretend you’re my researcher. Please say you’ll come.”

  “I’m not sure …”

  “Don’t you think that after everything you’ve been through these past months, you could do with a break? The sea air will do you good.”

  “You sound like my grandmother,” I said. “OK, you’re on. A couple of days by the sea would be great.”

  “Fantastic. Listen, why don’t we do something special on Saturday night? You choose.”

  I asked him what we were celebrating.

  “Nothing. I just feel in a rather jolly mood—that’s all.”

  I said in that case, maybe he fancied going to see Ricky Gervais. I’d happened to be going through the listings section in the paper that morning and noticed that he was doing a gig in Brighton on Saturday. “Probably sold out months ago,” I said, “but there could be some returns. You never know.”

  “Leave it to me,” he said.

  I managed to rearrange a couple of appointments so that I could leave w
ork early on Friday. Hugh picked me up from the office just after five, and we drove down to Brighton in another hire car. The traffic was bumper-to-bumper heading out of the city, but once we hit the motorway it eased and we reached the coast in just more than two hours.

  The Imperial was one of those grand Victorian seafront hotels that had once catered to the English gentry but hadn’t seen a heyday in decades. It hadn’t gone to seed exactly—the sweeping cast-iron staircase and crystal chandeliers were pretty impressive—but the blistering paintwork and ten-quid-a-head, cut-and-come-again carvery said it all. These days it made its money from conferences, hen parties and aircrew layovers from nearby Gatwick Airport.

  Hugh was as good as his word and did manage to get us separate rooms. After unpacking and freshening up, we met in the hotel’s piano bar, where apparently Noel Coward had once sung a duet with Gertrude Lawrence. We found a table by the window, next to a giant aspidistra, and ordered a couple of beers. Despite it being full of perfectly respectable third world development delegates, there was a louche, gin and moth-eaten-fur campiness about the place that I rather liked. A chap with unnaturally brown hair and a comb-over was playing “Maybe This Time.” A woman I took to be a higher-end, fifty-quid-an-hour hooker was sipping white wine and eyeing up possible punters from her barstool. Farther along the bar, a much older woman—in her seventies, maybe—with wobbly red lipstick and a tiny pillbox hat with a veil, was sitting alone, clearly waiting to be picked up and furnished with a champagne cocktail. I decided she had been a fifties starlet and was now living with her cat in reduced circumstances in some crusty bedsit off the seafront.

  “There’s something ever-so-slightly debauched about this place, don’t you think?” I said, turning to Hugh.

  “Really? In what way?”

  “You know … the seedy-looking pianist playing his torch song. The tarts touting for business.”

  “Where?”

  “There, for a start.” I nodded in the direction of the woman at the bar. I pointed out the big hair, the sky blue eye shadow that looked like it had been applied with a trowel, the interlocking gold Cs in her ears.

  “Huh. I hadn’t noticed,” Hugh said.

  I took another mouthful of beer and found myself thinking how Kenny wouldn’t have needed any prompting. He would have picked up on the atmosphere straightaway and by now we would be sitting here giggling and playing spot the pimp.

  “Anyway, I’ve printed a copy of my speech,” Hugh said. “I thought if you felt up to it, we could go over it later. I’d really appreciate your input.”

  “Sure.”

  We had dinner at a place on the beach that I’d found in one of the food guides.

  The beef was organic and locally reared. The wine was French and wondrously smooth. Hugh asked about Mum and Nana and if Scarlett and Grace were pregnant yet. I said that Grace and Ed had done the deed—albeit with Grace’s self-insemination kit—and we should find out any day.

  “So how are things at Dacre’s?”

  I found myself telling him about Henry Dixon.

  “It’s cruel to laugh at the poor man,” I said, “but you have to see the funny side.”

  “I’m not sure I do,” Hugh said. “I mean, he’s lost his job because he has a medical condition over which he has no control. Can you imagine how that feels?”

  He hadn’t meant to put me in my place. It was just Hugh being earnest.

  “So, come on,” I said. “Tell me all about Angola.”

  “It was absolutely fascinating, but at the same time, it was just so dispiriting. You’ve got domestic violence, rape, sexual abuse of children, child labor … And slavery is still a huge issue … It’s so hard to believe in the twenty-first century.”

  Hugh described Angola’s economic and social problems in great detail and with his customary intensity. I had to admit that I was grateful when the waiter arrived with the dessert menu.

  We shared what turned out to be a rather large pot of crème brûlée and I did my best to turn the conversation to less miserablist subjects. I told him about a couple of crazy pieces I’d read in the Sunday tabloids—how Aladdin’s lamp had been discovered and the Hubble telescope had photographed Heaven. “Oh, and this goat got killed in a drive-by shooting in LA.”

  “Huh.”

  We finished the last of the crème brûlée. “Completely changing the subject,” I said, “X Factor’s starting again next week. Over the last few years, I’ve become such an addict. A takeaway curry, Simon Cowell and a bunch of hopeless hopefuls is my idea of the perfect Saturday night.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Although I did just treat myself to a boxed set of the last season of 24. I might start watching that and recording X-Factor.”

  “I think I saw one or two episodes of 24. You really like that stuff?”

  “God yeah. One of the things I love about it is you never see Jack Bauer eating, going to the loo or having trouble with his phone battery.”

  We went back to his room to go over Hugh’s speech. He took two miniatures of Cognac from the fridge and poured it into tumblers. There was a small sofa in the window, facing the sea. The hard copy of Hugh’s speech was lying on the coffee table. Instead of reading it, we sat snuggled up, sipping our drinks and watching the waves crash onto the beach. At some point he put his drink down next to the papers and began planting kisses on my face. I felt him unbuttoning my blouse. “I thought we were going over your speech,” I said.

  “I know, but I’m more interested in this.” He was kissing the tops of my breasts now. “Oh, and by the way,” he said, “I’ve sorted out something really special for tomorrow night. In the end I didn’t try for Ricky Gervais. Something much better came up and I knew you wouldn’t want to miss it. I think we’re really in for a treat. The Theatre Royal is doing Bertolt Brecht’s Fear and Misery of the Third Reich.”

  “It is? Wow.”

  Hugh must have picked up from my expression that I was less than enthused. “You don’t seem pleased,” he said.

  “No. I am. It’s just a bit heavy—that’s all. On the other hand, it will do me good to stretch my mind for a change. I can always get a DVD of Ricky Gervais.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  His lips were on mine now, but I wasn’t kissing him back. “Hugh, do you mind if we don’t? I’m really sorry, but I think this is still a bit too soon for me.”

  “No problem. There’s no rush. I should probably get some sleep anyway. I’ve got to be up early. I’m giving my speech at nine.”

  Back in my room, I kicked off my shoes and lay on the bed. I’d just lied to Hugh. I hadn’t rejected him because it was “too soon.” I had rejected him because tonight everything had felt wrong. Hugh hadn’t changed. He was still the same earnest, intense soul he’d always been—the kind of chap who failed to notice or remark upon a bar full of tarts, cranks and eccentrics, who discussed slavery and child abuse over dinner and genuinely thought that a girl would rather see Brecht’s Fear and Misery of the Third Reich than Ricky Gervais.

  It was me who’d changed. I’d finally done it. I had found the courage to ignore Dad’s voice and listen to my own. It had started that last night with Kenny. Correction. It had actually started the day Rosie came over to help me move back into my flat. Before saying our good-byes, we’d discussed Kenny. She accused me of looking down on him and said I was a snob. For a few brief moments I’d allowed myself to believe she could be right. Tonight, though, with Hugh, my voice had been coming in loud and clear, and I wasn’t about to ignore it. I had started to let go, not of my father’s memory—that would never happen—but of his influence. He had stopped controlling me. All I could think was how pathetic I’d been, taking so long to reach this point, but like Mum said, a child’s relationship with a dead parent is often complicated.

  I found myself thinking about Kenny. God knows he’d hurt me, and I certainly wasn’t about to take the blame for what he’d done or let him off the hook, but I hadn’t tre
ated him well. He and Rosie were right. I had behaved—to my shame—like a terrible snob. The horrible truth was that I had looked down on Kenny because he wasn’t a high-flying medic or lawyer. What was more, despite everything, I was still missing him. I missed lying in bed late at night, yakking to him on the phone. I missed us cooking together. I found myself remembering the time he’d laughed and called me a wuss because I couldn’t face gutting a fish.

  “I have issues with trout anus, OK?”

  This had only made him laugh harder. Then he’d chased me around his kitchen, dangling fish entrails from his knife. I missed our mutual mocking of pretentious, art-house movies. In short, I just missed him being around.

  I lay awake fretting about how I was going to tell Hugh that I didn’t think we were right for each other.

  I must have dozed off at some stage, because the next thing I knew it was light. I looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was just before eight. I’d just pulled on my dressing gown and was thinking that it would be unkind to finish with Hugh before he gave his speech, when there was a knock at the door. “Tally, it’s me, Hugh.”

  I got up and opened the door. “Morning,” he singsonged, giving me a quick peck. Behind him there was a waiter carrying a tray of coffee and croissants.

  “I ordered us some breakfast,” he said, holding open the door for the waiter. He came in and set the tray down on the coffee table. Hugh produced a couple of pound coins from his pocket. The waiter thanked him and left.

  “Oh, Hugh, this is lovely. Thank you so much.” He was making it so hard for me to end things.

  Hugh started pouring coffee. I helped myself to a warm croissant. “Tally, there’s something on my mind. I think we need to talk about us.”

  Oh God, he was going to tell me he was in love with me and I was going to have to reject him right before he gave his speech, which he was already nervous about.