Breakfast at Stephanie's

by Sue Margolis

  She was pretty much convinced, but not quite. Maybe she was a wimp, but apart from the boob tube/ear-piercing incident when she was a teenager and taking the occasional dress back to Top Shop to get a refund after wearing it to a party, she’d never done anything dishonest in her life. It was bad enough that her bank account was permanently in the red. She knew perfectly well that the bank wasn’t suffering, that it had vast piles of cash and that it made money out of the interest she was paying, but she still felt guilty, as if she were taking something that didn’t belong to her.

  She realized she needed reassurance, somebody to tell her she was overanalyzing the whole thing and that taking this job was the right decision. She dialed Albert on her mobile, but all she got was his voice mail. Cass couldn’t talk because she was in Harvey Nicks, frantically searching for something to wear for her frugal lunch with Alex. “I’m due there in an hour and I’ve still got nothing.” Stephanie suggested she might have more luck finding something appropriate in the Gap or Oxfam, but Cass said Harvey Nicks had just gotten in this wonderful selection of “previously loved” jeans, which she thought would hit the right sartorial note.

  In the end she phoned Lizzie, but just to see how she was bearing up. She didn’t think it was fair to burden her with any more problems. Lizzie said she hadn’t slept and sounded pretty rough. When Stephanie asked if she’d heard from Dom, she said he’d phoned a couple of times, but she’d let the machine pick up. “I’m just not ready to speak to him.” Stephanie offered to go round and keep her company that night, but Lizzie said she didn’t feel up to it and would still rather be on her own.

  She finally got Albert during her break, but he said he couldn’t talk for long because it was his turn to be parent helper at Jake’s playgroup and he was in the middle of chopping up fruit for the children’s afternoon snack. “By the way, your mother called,” he said. “She’s desperate to see Jake. Is it OK if he sleeps over there tonight?”

  “Fine,” she said. “Listen, I saw Ossie this morning and found out about this project. It’s all a bit complicated and I could really do with some advice. Do you fancy coming to supper?”

  “Sure, but only if you wear the blue dress,” he said.

  She giggled and told him to behave. “Look, it’s been completely dead here the last few days. I’m going to see if I can get off early. Tell you what, I’ll cook. How do you fancy Thai curry?”

  She managed to get away just after six. By half past eight, having sprinted round the Muswell Hill Sainsbury’s picking up chicken breasts, curry paste, coconut milk, rice wine and all the other herby, spicy bits she needed, she was standing in front of a smoking wok, stir-frying strips of chicken. She took a glug of wine. Albert would be there any moment. Twenty minutes later, there was no sign of him. She wasn’t particularly bothered. Knowing Albert, he’d gotten caught up in something and misjudged the time. She decided to put the food in the oven to keep hot and check her e-mail. Among all the junk there was one from Jimmy, who owned the house. She assumed it was just to say hi and check how she was getting on. Only it wasn’t. Jimmy was coming home. Apparently Brian, his ex, had followed him to Thailand and they’d gotten back together—exactly as Cass had predicted. “We’re planning to travel around for another couple of months and then we’ll be coming back. Sorry, Steph, but I’m going to need the house back sooner than I thought.”

  She sat, eyes closed, rubbing her forehead. Even though the news hadn’t come as a complete shock, she’d been hoping Jimmy would stay away for a few more months at least. Since she didn’t have the money for the rental deposit on a new flat, she would have no choice but to move in with her parents. Oh, great. Unless, of course, she bit the bullet and accepted Sidney Doucette’s offer.

  Another half hour passed. Still no sign of Albert. She tried him on his mobile, but all she got was his voice mail. Ten o’clock came and went. First she was cross, then she started to worry. Just before eleven, as she was starting to really panic, the phone finally rang.

  “Albert, you OK? I thought you’d had an accident.”

  “Listen, principessa, I can’t talk, I’ve got hardly any battery left.” In about ten seconds he explained that he’d completely forgotten she was expecting him for dinner and that he’d driven to Wandsworth to look at the Harley this poker pal of his was selling. “Then we went to the pub to seal the deal. I am so sorry. I know you wanted to talk. Can we do it tomorrow?”

  It seemed so childish to make a fuss. He hadn’t meant to upset her. He’d simply forgotten. It happens. OK, it happened to Albert more than most, but it was still no big deal. “Yeah, fine. No problem,” she said. “See you tomorrow.” But there was no reply. His battery had clearly given out. She put down the phone and sat at the kitchen table, raking her hair with her fingers. Yes, she could reheat the curry tomorrow night and they could talk then, but try as she might, she couldn’t help feeling hurt. The point was, tonight hadn’t been unusual. She’d done her best to ignore it, but as the weeks went by she was realizing that despite what Albert had said about really caring for her, his first concern in life—apart from Jake—was Albert. She’d had a glimpse of her future with him and it felt lonely.

  When the phone rang a second time she assumed it was Albert ringing from a call box to offer more apologies. When she answered, her tone was distinctly downbeat.

  “Stephanie, that you? Have I gotten you at a bad time?”

  It was Frank. Her spirits lifted immediately. “No, I was just watching some weepy chick flick on the telly.”

  “Oh, right. Listen,” he said. Then he paused. “God, is it really eleven? I had no idea it was this late. You sure I haven’t woken you?” She said she was positive. “OK, it’s just that I was wondering if you fancied going out for dinner on Saturday.”

  She hesitated, but only for a moment. “That would be great.” She was vaguely aware of some kind of mechanical noise in the background. “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Actually, I’m sitting in the launderette round the corner. My washing machine’s broken, and I just realized I’d run out of socks.”

  She started laughing. “Look, I don’t suppose you’re hungry, are you?”

  “Starving. I haven’t eaten since lunch. I was going to pick up fish-and-chips on the way home.”

  “OK, stay where you are. I’ll be there in five minutes. You do like Thai green curry, don’t you?”

  “Love it.”

  She wasn’t surprised when passersby gave her strange looks. After all, it was half past eleven at night and she must have looked a strange sight, walking down the street wearing oven gloves and carrying a large orange Le Creuset casserole. In addition, dangling from her wrist was a Sainsbury’s carrier bag containing two of Jake’s red plastic Bob the Builder beakers, a bottle of Jacob’s Creek and a corkscrew. Eagle-eyed pedestrians might also have observed the two forks sticking out of her coat pocket. She realized that any sensible person would have suggested they have dinner at her place, after he’d finished doing his laundry, but somehow the idea of the two of them sharing Thai curry in the launderette seemed like more fun.

  “Grub up,” she announced as she walked in, grateful that he was the only person in the place. She put the Le Creuset down on the long Formica table. Then she handed him the bottle of wine and a corkscrew.

  “You know, I’ve never met anyone like you before,” he said, smiling and kissing her on the cheek. He poured the wine into the Bob the Builder beakers. “I thought glass would break,” she said by way of explanation. He said she’d been very sensible. As they clunked beakers they both started to laugh.

  “Come on, dig in before it gets cold,” she said, producing the two forks from her pocket. They ate perched on the table, the Le Creuset between them.

  He declared the curry to be wonderful and said he hadn’t had this much fun in ages. The truth was the curry was a bit dried out from being in the oven so long, but she appreciated the compliment and thanked him.

  “It’s me who
should be thanking you,” he said. There was something about his smile, the way his eyes had met hers, that made her think he was referring to more than just the food. Maybe she was reading too much into it, but it was almost as if he were thanking her for having walked into his life. “So,” he went on, “did you see Ossie today?” She took a mouthful of wine and told him the tale. “Blimey, Sidney Doucette must be pretty sure this is going to work. His technical people must have really thought it through. So, what are you going to do?”

  She said she’d pretty much decided to do it. “Thing is, I just find it so hard to be even slightly dishonest. Does that sound really wimpy?”

  “Nah,” he said, stabbing another piece of chicken. “It’s a girly thing.” She felt herself feeling defensive and turned on at the same time. “So, you’ve got a criminal record as long as your arm, I suppose.”

  “Not exactly, but I came pretty close to getting one.” He explained that when he was in high school, he and some of his mates broke into their school one night and painted “HM Prison” in twelve-foot-high letters on the roof. “We had this appallingly sadistic headmaster, and by the time we were seventeen we decided we’d had enough. The police never got involved, but the story made the local paper and we were expelled.”

  “Wow, I’m impressed,” she said. “But you were doing it for a good cause. All I’d be doing it for is the money.”

  “Is that such a bad thing?” he asked. “I mean, how much do you need it?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve got to get out of my house in a couple of months because the bloke who owns it is coming back. I don’t have enough money to pay the deposit on a flat and no prospect of raising it in time. I suppose I could borrow it from my mum and dad, but rents have gone up since Christmas and I’m not sure I’d even be able to earn enough to cover the rent on a new place. On top of that my car’s knackered and I haven’t had a holiday in years. If I took the Doucette job, I could actually start thinking about buying somewhere.”

  Frank told her he thought she was making the right decision. He made the same points she had about the audience not really being shortchanged, since she had a fabulous voice and that reputation-wise it was Sidney Doucette and Katherine Martinez who were taking all the risk. She drained her beaker. “It’s what I needed to hear,” she said. “Thanks.”

  The next thing she knew her fork was sliding off her plate. She and Frank both made a grab for it, but she got there first and his hand ended up on top of hers. Instead of taking it away, he let it rest there for several seconds. It felt strong and warm and she wondered what it would be like to be wrapped in his arms.

  For the next twenty minutes, while Frank’s underwear went round in the tumble dryer, they sat chatting about his weekend in Manchester, his rehearsals for Twelfth Night. When the dryer stopped he went to empty it. He came back with a load of hot dry underwear and socks, which he put on the Formica table. They carried on chatting while she helped him bundle his Paul Smith socks into pairs. It seemed a bit forward to start folding his underwear, but she noted they were boxers—mainly black and gray. A faint smile must have crossed her lips because he said, “They meet with your approval, then.”

  “Oh, God. No, sorry. I didn’t mean …” But he told her he was only teasing. “You know,” he said, “I can’t believe I’ve had such an entertaining evening at the launderette.”

  “Neither can I,” she replied.

  “And thanks for the curry. It was wonderful.”

  It began as a hug. But all the time Stephanie stood there wrapped in his arms, patting him gently on the back, she was aware of his body next to hers, her breasts pressing against him. He moved his head to look at her. She felt his eyes scanning her face. He ran his finger down over her nose to her mouth and she smiled up at him. As he cupped her face in his hands and brushed her lips lightly with his, she breathed in his warm heavenly smell. She felt his lips part. Hers followed suit. She closed her eyes, melted into him as his tongue—hard, pressing, urgent—found hers. He tasted of wine and smelled of Snuggle.

  Chapter 13

  As she lay curled up in bed, eyes closed, Stephanie must have relived Frank Waterman’s head-swimmingly glorious kiss twenty times. Again and again she felt his arms tight around her, his skin against hers. She could smell him, taste him. More than anything, she realized she would have happily ripped off her clothes in the middle of the launderette and let Frank take her on the Formica table among the abandoned odd socks and tea towels.

  Of course, there was no knowing where their relationship would lead, but she was certain she needed to find out. She also knew she owed it to Albert to be straight with him, to explain that she’d been having serious doubts about their future and that there was somebody else. There was no way she was prepared to see Frank behind his back. Telling him would be one of the hardest things she’d ever done.

  She fell asleep just as it was getting light. The next thing she knew she could hear Albert calling up from the hall. Barely awake, she reached out from under the duvet and groped for the alarm clock. It was half past eight. “Hang on. Won’t be a minute.” Her eyes red and puffy from lack of sleep, her hair looking like a family of starlings had been nesting in it, she pulled on her dressing gown. She shuffled into the kitchen, still doing up the belt. Albert was standing by the kitchen table, looking frantically under old newspapers and letters.

  “Wow, you look like you’ve been up all night. Are you OK?” Albert said, looking up briefly. Stephanie yawned and ran her fingers through her hair. “I didn’t sleep very well. Things on my mind. Listen, Albert—”

  “Principessa,” he said, interrupting her, “you seen my wallet? I think I’ve lost it.” She shook her head. While Albert carried on rummaging, she opened the fridge door and took out a carton of orange juice. “But you must have had it last night when you paid for the bike.” He said he and his poker friend had agreed on a price, but he hadn’t actually paid for it. “I need to get to the bank to get some cash.” He went over to the counter and began hunting among the jars and dirty dishes. “And get it to him before twelve. He’s going out of town.”

  Just then Albert’s mobile started vibrating. Irritated, he flipped open the top. It was Lois, his agent in L.A. “God, Lois, what’s so urgent? It must be one in the morning there … No, I already told you. I can’t do it. I’m looking after my little boy for a few weeks. And I’m not a model. I do stunt work, for chrissake. Look, I’m sorry they can’t find anybody else, but that’s really not my problem … OK, speak to you soon. Bye.”

  Stephanie asked him what she wanted. “Some director just called her. Apparently Michael Douglas is filming in Berlin. He’s doing these nude sex scenes and he needs a butt double.”

  Stephanie burst out laughing. “Michael Douglas needs a butt double?”

  “Yeah. Apparently his buns have gotten real crepey and they need somebody toned, but not too young. Lois and I got drunk one New Year’s and slept together, so she knows I have a great butt.”

  Stephanie stood there shaking her head and smiling. “Do it,” she said.

  “I can’t,” he said. “Who’ll look after Jake?”

  “I’ll sort something out. Come on, it’ll be paying a fortune and you haven’t had a break for weeks. Phone Lois back and say you’ve changed your mind.”

  “You mean that?” She nodded. “I love you, principessa. I really love you.” He began punching out Lois’s number. “Lois, it’s Albert …”

  It turned out he had to be at Heathrow by three at the latest. “I’ll just make it,” he said to Stephanie, “if I can find my damn wallet.” In sheer desperation he went over to the fridge and started moving containers around.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, it’s not in there,” Stephanie said, laughing. “Think. Where did you last have it?”

  He decided it might be in the living room. She followed him. She knew she couldn’t have picked a worse moment, but she couldn’t help it. She just had to tell him about Frank. To let him go to Berlin
still assuming they had a future just wasn’t fair.

  “Albert,” she said, swallowing hard, “I’ve been thinking about stuff—you-and-me stuff—and I think we really need to talk.”

  He picked up a cushion, swore and threw it back down on the sofa. “Principessa, please. Now is not a good time. Shit. Where is it? Where did I leave it?” His face was starting to turn pink. “Maybe it’s upstairs.” He darted into the hall. She followed him. “You see, the thing is,” she said, trotting up the stairs behind him, “I’m just not sure you and I …” He disappeared onto the landing.

  “Got it!” By now he was standing in the loo, waving his wallet victoriously over his head.

  She stood there, watching him. “Do you mind telling me, who takes their wallet to the loo?”

  “I was on my cell booking tickets for a soccer game.”

  “While you were on the loo?”

  He shrugged. “I multitask.” Then he kissed her on the cheek.

  She asked him if he had time for a quick coffee.

  “OK, so long as it’s real quick.”

  As she stood spooning coffee into the cafetière, he came and put his arms round her waist. “Listen, I just wanted to say I’m sorry about last night. Do you know what else I love about you, principessa?” She shook her head. “That you are so totally un-needy. I mean, practically every other woman I know would have been pissed with me when I didn’t show up.” Then he gave her another kiss. “So, I forgot to ask. How did it go with Ossie?” He took an apple out of the bowl and bit into it. She told him the tale.