Perfect Blend

by Sue Margolis

  To his credit, Duncan didn’t take offense. A smile hovered on his lips as he started to speak. He had barely uttered a syllable before Amy, cheeks burning, waded in. “Mum, I explained to you the other day that Duncan is a lecturer in electronics at Imperial College.”

  Val considered this for a moment. “Oh … right. So he doesn’t do wiring, then?”

  “No,” Amy said.

  “That’s a shame.” Her face, which had fallen a second before, suddenly brightened. She turned back to Duncan. “But surely you don’t get to be a lecturer in electronics without knowing the basics. And what with the credit crunch, maybe you’d appreciate a bit of freelance work. I’m happy to pay cash.” She tapped the side of her nose. “No questions asked.”

  Amy didn’t know where to put herself.

  “That’s very kind of you,” Duncan said to Val, “but to be honest, household electrics isn’t my field. You really need a skilled electrician.”

  “Well, if you’re absolutely sure you can’t do it. Such a pity. You seem so nice and trustworthy.” Val picked her handbag up from the coffee table. “And you don’t look anything like I’d imagine an electronics lecturer to look like. No horn-rimmed specs held together with Scotch tape. No ancient woolly full of holes.”

  Amy watched her mother as she finished taking in Duncan’s trendy suit with drainpipe trousers and skinny necktie. “Now, then, don’t worry, you two; Trevor and I won’t hang around. We’ll be out of your way in a tick.” She gave Amy a knowing wink. “Trevor and I had a lovely evening. We watched X Factor, and since then he’s been seeing to my prana.”

  Duncan seemed unsure where to look. Amy wanted the floor to swallow her and deposit her somewhere in the vicinity of the earth’s core.

  “Ooh, no, it’s nothing like that!” Val said, suddenly hooting with laughter. “Good Lord no. Prana is energy. Trevor has been working on my energy levels.”

  At that point, Trevor surfaced. He was apparently back from his astral travels. He took a moment or two to come to.

  “Hi, Trevor,” Amy said, brightly. “You with us?”

  He sprang to his feet. “I’m so sorry. You must think me terribly rude. It’s just that when you find yourself rising above body consciousness, it’s so hard to get back.”

  “Ooh, I know,” Val said, giggling. “Happens to me all the time.”

  Trevor laughed. “You may mock, but one day I will get you on that astral plane and you’ll see what I mean.”

  “Well, only if I get to go business class.” Val chuckled. “I’m not slumming it in coach.”

  At that point Amy broke in and introduced him to Duncan. For reasons that Amy suspected had more to do with politeness than with interest, Duncan seemed keen to engage Trevor in conversation about shamanism.

  “Ah, well, you see,” Trevor said, lowering himself onto the sofa and picking up a sock, “the principal function of a shamanic practitioner is to invite the healing process.” His tone was gently avuncular, but there was no mistaking his passion. “We call this sacred midwifery. Then, using voice, sound, rattle, or drum rhythm, archetypes arise from the universal unconscious, transforming the splintered psyche into a consistent whole. These tonal substances work their alchemy within the corporeal entity, anointing it with sound—”

  “Come on, now,” Val said, gently chiding Trevor, who was slipping his feet into leather sandals. “Fascinating as we find it, these two have got better things to do than listen to you going on about your sacred midwifery. I really think we should be off.”

  “Mum, you and Trevor don’t have to go. Not if you don’t have any light or hot water. You can sleep here on the sofa bed.”

  Amy caught Duncan’s look of alarm and then his instant relief as Val said she wanted to be at home in case her kitchen ceiling collapsed.

  “Right, then,” Val said, putting the drum and stick into her outsize patent tote. “We’ll be off.”

  Amy watched Trevor pick Val’s jacket up from the sofa and help her on with it. She couldn’t remember her father doing that for her mother. Phil was a lot of things, but gallant wasn’t one of them—at least not where Val was concerned.

  “What a gentleman,” Val said, touching Trevor’s face. Her expression was one of pure pleasure and delight.

  Their goodbyes and nice to have met yous said, Val and Trevor finally took their leave.

  A few moments later, Amy was flopping down on the sofa beside Duncan. “I am so sorry about all that.”

  “Forget it,” Duncan said, moving toward her.

  “Mum means well, but occasionally she is inclined to get hold of the wrong end of the stick.” She paused. “I really ought to go and check on Charlie.”

  “Hey, come on. What about me? Your mum said he’s fast asleep.” The next moment he was kissing her on the lips. Amy felt herself gearing up to a full-on make-out session when a little voice piped up.

  “Mum, why are you kissing vat man?”

  Charlie, eyes heavy with sleep, his two middle fingers in his mouth, his blankie trailing on the floor, was standing in front of them. He began scratching idly under his pajama top.

  “Charlie Walker,” Amy said, her tone half-scolding, half-soothing. “You should be fast asleep. You’ve got school tomorrow.”

  Charlie removed his fingers from his mouth. “I know, but why are you kissing vat man?”

  “Charlie, this is Duncan. He’s a friend of mine.”

  “Hi, Charlie,” Duncan, said, offering him a smile.

  Charlie said hello and turned back to his mother. “Ben at school is my friend, but I don’t kiss him.”

  “I know, but it’s different between men and women friends. Now, then, I think it’s time we got you back to bed … Say good night to Duncan.”

  “But I don’t want to go to bed.”

  “’Night-night, Charlie,” Duncan said, a slight edge to his voice.

  Amy scooped up her protesting son and carried him to his room. She lowered him onto the bed and brought the Spiderman duvet up to his chin. “Now shut those eyes. It’s time to sleep.”

  “My stomach hurts.”

  “Oh, Charlie, come on … this is just delaying tactics.”

  “It does hurt. Honest.”

  “Tell you what, give it five minutes. I’m sure it’s just a bit of gas.”

  He nodded. “I think I’ve godda fart. Yeah! Great big stinky fart.” She left him giggling and blowing raspberries under the duvet.

  Amy returned to the living room. “Sorry. The sound of Mum and Trevor leaving must have woken him.”

  “Hey, you don’t have to keep apologizing.” Duncan held out his hand and pulled her gently onto the sofa. “Now, where were we?” He pushed down the shoulder of her emerald satin dress and began planting kisses on the tops of her breasts. She let out a gasp of delight. Then his mouth went to hers. She parted her lips, felt his tongue probing hard in her mouth.

  “Mum.”

  Amy and Duncan sprang apart.

  “I’ve puked all over my Spiderman cover. I said my stomach hurt. You didn’t believe me. And now I’ve puked.”

  Amy saw Duncan take in Charlie’s vomit-spattered pajamas and grimace.

  By then she was kneeling in front of her son. “Oh, darling, I am so sorry. You were right and I was wrong.” She felt his forehead, but his temperature seemed normal. In a moment, she would double-check it by taking it with the thermometer. “Come on, let’s get you out of these sicky PJs.” She glanced at Duncan, who by then was standing at the bookcase, going through Amy’s CD collection. This was clearly taking his mind off the barfy PJs.

  It took the best part of half an hour to hose Charlie down, change his bed linen, load the washing machine, and get out of him that he had been sick not because he was ill but because earlier in the evening, while his grandmother and Trevor were watching TV, he had stolen a packet of sweets from the kitchen cupboard and gone back to his bedroom, where he had demolished the lot.

  Amy finally settled him down by readin
g to him from his Book of Nonsense Poems. His favorite was “The Dong with the Luminous Nose,” which he insisted on her reading three times. She tucked him in, and for the second time she returned to the living room. She sat down beside Duncan.

  “I’m sor—”

  “Hey, come on. This isn’t your fault.” He put an arm around Amy’s shoulders. “We just need to think about Charlie and work out some kind of a plan.”

  “Plan?”

  “Yes. I think when two people are at the beginning of a relationship, they need to focus on each other.” His fingers were trailing over her cleavage. “You know, like now … So why don’t you think about farming Charlie out on the weekends? Then I can stay here or you can come to my place, and we won’t be interrupted. You’ve got loads of friends, and then there’s your mum and Trevor the shaman. I’m sure you won’t be stuck for people willing to take him.”

  Amy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I’m sure I won’t,” she said with a faux brightness that was lost on him.

  “Brilliant. We could put them all on a rotation.”

  “Good idea. Then everybody would know where they were.”

  “Precisely. So on the weekends we put him in Kiddie Kennels, and in the school holidays there are all these camps he can go to.”

  “Gosh, how utterly fabulous. I need hardly ever see him, and you get it on whenever you want.”

  Duncan seemed genuinely nonplussed. “What? No. You’ve got it wrong. I’m talking about us, not just me.”

  “I don’t think so.” Amy removed Duncan’s hand from her cleavage and edged away from him. “Look, I agree with you that when a couple are at the beginning of a relationship, they do need to make time to get to know each other. That can take some organizing when one of them has a young child, but the point you seemed to have missed or maybe I haven’t made sufficiently clear is that Charlie is my first priority. You need to understand that he and I come as a package. Anybody who wants me has to want Charlie, too. Yes, I have a baby-sitter and my mum is happy to have him for the odd weekend, but he will never ever be farmed out. There will be no kennels and no camps.”

  Duncan responded to her speech with a shrug. “Okay, it’s your choice, but if you ask me, you’re in danger of turning him into a spoiled brat.”

  “I wasn’t asking you. And while we’re on the subject of brats, it takes one to know one. Now I think you should leave.” She paused. “For good.”

  “You’re finishing with me? But I really thought we had something going.”

  “So did I.”

  “Okay, if that’s how you want it.” He headed for the door. After a few paces, he turned around. “Look, it really seems a shame to let this go. I really like you. Maybe we could meet up for the odd shag.”

  “What? I don’t believe I’m hearing this. Duncan, just go.”

  “Why don’t you just think about it? I mean, it could suit you, too. You can’t get that many offers with a kid in tow.”

  “Bloody hell! Will you please leave?”

  Another shrug. He turned to go. A moment later she heard the front door close.

  AMY WAS too angry to get upset. She was furious with Duncan for being such a jerk, but she was even more furious with herself. She couldn’t believe that she’d gotten him so wrong, that her asshole antennae had failed her so completely. On the other hand, maybe she had ignored what they had been telling her. Maybe she had been so bowled over by this charming, handsome, sexy guy that she had chosen to overlook things she didn’t want to see—like how on the odd occasion when she mentioned Charlie in conversation, he always changed the subject.

  She wandered into Charlie’s room and looked down at her sleeping child. His middle two fingers were back in his mouth. He had come into the world sucking those fingers.

  Bel and her mother had been with her throughout the ten-hour labor, holding her hand, feeding her crushed ice cubes, urging her like a Greek chorus to breathe and push and then to stop pushing and start panting instead. Her dad had preferred to pace outside. Finally, the midwife placed Charlie in her arms. Her mother and Bel both started to blubber. Her dad called him a “smashing little chap” and a “real bruiser.” Amy just gazed at her perfect son. As the process of falling in love with him began, she wondered, as she had during her pregnancy, if it was an act of supreme selfishness to bring a child into the world with only an anonymous sperm donor for a father.

  Months turned into years, and he never complained that he had to play soccer in the park with his sissy mum—or occasionally his granddad, who tended to get a bit puffed these days—while the other boys were kicking around with their dads. Even the boys in Charlie’s class whose parents were divorced had fathers on the scene who one day would teach their sons about hard drives and electric drills and how to oil a cricket bat.

  Back when she was planning to get pregnant, Amy had convinced herself that she could be both mother and father to her child. After all, millions of women brought up children alone and did a great job of it. But as Charlie grew from toddler to boy, she found herself wishing he had a dad.

  Of course Amy didn’t date men purely to find a father for her son. She wanted somebody for herself. In her twenties, she’d fallen in love twice—with men who had loved her back but weren’t ready to commit. The others—the ones who were ready to commit—she hadn’t wanted.

  Since having Charlie, she’d been on plenty of dates. Once or twice it had even looked as if she was on the brink of a relationship, but even the most decent guys struggled with the thought of taking on a child that wasn’t theirs. On the other hand, not one of them had suggested farming him out or putting him in kennels.

  She bent down, picked up Charlie’s blankie, which had fallen on the floor, and tucked it under the duvet beside him.

  Chapter 2

  “WEBBED FEET?” AMY raised her voice, partly to be heard over the whiz-rattle of the industrial coffee grinder and partly to register her astonishment. “You’re planning to end it with Maddy because she has ever so slightly webbed feet?”

  “And hands,” Brian said. “Don’t forget the hands. I can’t believe you haven’t noticed. We went out to eat last night, and each time she reached into the bread basket, all I could see was this opaque webbing at the base of her fingers. It was like having dinner with a duck-billed platypus.”

  Brian Potter, runner-up Barista of the Year, 2009, and owner-manager of Café Mozart, which brackets London and the South East, turned off the coffee grinder, opened the lid, and inhaled. “Whoa! … Get a load of that aroma.” He took out a scoop of coffee and held it under Amy’s nose. “You should be getting a smoky top note with just a hint of caramel.”

  “Um, very nice.” She had been working for Brian and receiving his expert tutelage for almost a year but still didn’t know her Indonesian Kopi Luwak from her Jamaica Blue Mountain. If she was honest, she drank coffee out of habit or to be sociable and could pretty much take it or leave it.

  “Nice? That’s it? That’s the best you can come up with? Amy, this new roast is magnificent. It is the Bentley of beans, the Cristal of coffees.”

  She decided to stop him before he got to the Saint Laurent of stimulants.

  “I cannot believe you dumped Maddy,” she said, pulling the cellophane sleeve off a newly delivered tray of croissants and pastries that were still warm from the oven. “She’s pretty. She’s bright, and judging from the couple of times I’ve spoken to her, she seems to be crazy about you.”

  Brian shrugged. “I know. You don’t have to tell me.” He began spooning the dark roast into what Amy now knew to refer to as the portafilter and not “the metal basket thingy.” “But I can’t get beyond the webbing. Last night I stayed over at her place for the first time, and in the middle of things she asked me to suck her toes. I totally freaked out.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I didn’t know what to do,” he said. “I just lay there, frozen. In the end I told her I thought she had a plantar wart.”

/>   “Good thinking, Batman. That must have gone down well.”

  “Actually, she didn’t take it too badly.”

  The portafilter was now full. Meticulously, Brian leveled off the ground coffee with his index finger. First north to south. Then east to west. This was called “grooming the dose.”

  The “dose” was made from a bean called Crema Crema Crema, a newly created Arabica grown high in the mountains of Indonesia (“The higher the growth, the harder the bean, the better the roast” was Brian’s mantra). It had been developed to produce the ultimate crema, one that contained the perfect balance of vegetable oils, proteins, and sugars and that trapped the coffee aroma better than the crema of any other bean. Recent articles in the trade magazines had been steeped in superlatives. In the United States and Europe, newspaper lifestyle pages had eventually picked up on the “Crème de la Crema” story. There was now a two-month waiting list on both sides of the pond. That included Hollywood A-listers, many of whom, according to the tabloids, were furious at having to line up along with everybody else willing to pay eighty bucks for a pound of coffee. Even at that price, it was selling by the ton.

  Brian’s order for Crema Crema Crema finally had arrived a few weeks earlier, but he refused to sell it in Café Mozart until he had “fully familiarized” himself with the bean. This meant that each day after closing time he would stay on at the café for a few hours, determined to turn the coffee into the best possible espresso. The following morning he would furnish Amy with a comprehensive update on his progress. Sometimes he reported that the grind was a bit off and it was a slow pour. Occasionally he got the brew pressure wrong. Amy listened and tried to show interest but didn’t pretend to understand the technical details. Finally, this morning, Brian announced that no more experimentation was required. Crema Crema Crema espresso was ready for its debut at Café Mozart. At seven quid a cup, not everybody was going to order it. Brian was relying on his small band of coffee aficionados, the dozen or so customers who shared his passion for the bean and had encouraged him to order it.