Perfect Blend

by Sue Margolis

  “Right.” Bel couldn’t have sounded less enthusiastic.

  “And pick up a few beers, too. I’d get them myself, but I benched a hundred and twenty K yesterday and the old back’s really crook.”

  “’Course it is,” Bel muttered.

  AS IT turned out, the van had room only for three passengers and there wouldn’t have been space for Mark. They decided that Bel should drive. Charlie sat in the middle with his headphones on, listening to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Amy sat beside him, her arm across his shoulders.

  “I’ve finally had it,” Bel said, attempting to pull away and stalling the engine. “I’m ending it.” She turned the ignition again. “The man is a misogynist jerk.” She rammed the gear shift into first. Despite the grinding sound, the van started to move.

  “Hang on. A few days ago you were adamant about how you loved doing things for Mark and that you couldn’t leave him because the sex was so fantastic. Then there was the bit about how you liked to be controlled by men. What happened?”

  “Okay, I know you’ll think I’m mad, but the other night I’d had a couple of glasses of wine and I ended up phoning that shrink on Capital Radio, Dr. Beverly.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. I said I thought I was addicted to controlling men and that when I was with them I had this total personality transplant and became subservient and compliant. She told me that if I didn’t give up on toxic guys, I could end up with one that beat me. That seriously scared me. She made me realize that I confuse love with control and that, like I thought, it has to do with the way my dad treated my mum.”

  “She’s totally spot on, but this is an addiction. It’s going to be hard to break.”

  “Tell me about it,” Bel said. “And that’s not taking the sex into account. Sleeping with Mark is like shooting up some class A drug. And it’s not like I can half dump him and gradually wean myself off him. If I finish with him, I have to go cold turkey.” She slowed down to negotiate a roundabout.

  “You know you’ve done brilliantly to get to this point. There were times when I thought the penny would never drop.”

  “You can stop fretting. I’m sorry I took so long, but it has dropped—well and truly.”

  “And I’m here if you need me …”

  “I know and thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll invest in a vibrator if it’s all the same to you.”

  They both laughed.

  “By the way, talking of sex, my father is seeing—get this—an erotic poetess.”

  “An erotic poetess? What does she do, make them have sex in iambic pentameter?”

  That made Amy giggle. “Victoria thinks she’s a hooker.”

  “Your dad and a hooker? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. She’ll just be some giddy middle-aged hippie.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  At that point Charlie took off his headphones and piped up, wanting to know if they were there yet.

  Amy said it was going to be at least another half hour. She produced a juice box and a packet of Hula Hoops from her bag. The Hula Hoops were a rare treat. His eyes lit up, and he started making a puppy dog panting sound.

  “You’d think I never fed him,” Amy said, watching him tear into the packet. A moment later he was chomping away, ear-buds back in place.

  “Once I’ve finished with Mark,” Bel said, “I will need to be very careful about the men I choose to go out with. I have to find blokes who aren’t sexist control freaks.”

  “There’s always Brian. He’s definitely not a sexist control freak.”

  “Going out with Brian would be a nightmare.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Come on, we been over this before. You know it would. Our relationship is based on mutual piss taking and competitiveness. We’re like brother and sister. Plus his obsessions would drive me mad.”

  Bel sounded pretty adamant. And she was right that this was old ground. Amy decided there wasn’t much point pursuing the subject.

  “Oh, I didn’t tell you what happened in the café yesterday,” Amy said. She told Bel about Arthur bullying Charlie and how this chap Sam Draper had come to his rescue. “He even had a go at Victoria for condoning Arthur’s behavior.”

  “No. God, not many people take on your sister and live to tell the tale.”

  “It was the first time in years I’d seen her completely lost for words.”

  Bel chuckled. “Wish I’d been there.”

  “Anyhow, then I got chatting with this Sam and managed to make a complete fool of myself.”

  “How?”

  She recounted their conversation. “I just assumed he worked for Bean Machine. You should have seen me. Talk about getting on my high horse. I was so unpleasant and aggressive. I don’t know what got into me.”

  “You were just angry on Brian’s behalf and you told this guy what you thought of him.”

  “Yeah, but when I found out he didn’t work directly for Bean Machine, I had a go at him for having anything to do with unethical companies that exploit Third World workers. Then we got into this whole debate about buying goods from countries with dodgy human rights records.”

  “I don’t get it,” Bel said. “Why are you so bothered about your behavior? You were upset. You lost your temper. It happens.”

  Amy shrugged. “I dunno. I just hate giving people the wrong impression. Now he’s gone away thinking I’m this bad-tempered, argumentative bitch.”

  “So what? Who cares? Unless, of course, you fancy him.”

  “Don’t be daft.”

  “I’m not being daft. A fight can be a bit like dancing—you know, a vertical expression of a horizontal desire.”

  Amy became thoughtful. “You could be right. He did have rather nice eyes. Sort of midgray verging on charcoal, with these golden highlights.”

  “Hello. If you can describe his eyes in this much detail after one meeting, you are definitely smitten.”

  Amy felt herself blush. “Look, finding somebody attractive doesn’t amount to being smitten. I don’t even know the man.”

  “Maybe not, but you’re smitten.”

  “Stop it. I’m not smitten.”

  “Oh, yes, you are,” Bel singsonged.

  “I am not.”

  “Are, are, are, and are.”

  “Behave,” Amy said, giggling. “So how do you intend to wean yourself off sex with Mark?”

  Bel shrugged. “Dunno. I’m going to have to find some other activity to take its place.”

  “Like what? Crochet?”

  They both laughed.

  “Don’t worry,” Bel said. “Something will turn up.”

  IKEA WAS mobbed as usual. As the three of them worked their way past the room settings and frazzled couples doing battle with their irritable, noncompliant offspring, Bel wondered if the company ever ran out of Swedish names for the furniture. “And how do they decide on the names in the first place? Do they have meetings? Take votes? Or does somebody just look at a shelving unit and decide it looks like a Knut or an Ingvar?”

  Amy chose a chest of drawers called Toborg and a desk called Stig, both of which met with Charlie’s approval because they were painted blue and red, his favorite colors.

  Bel found two beds that she liked but couldn’t choose between them. After half an hour of bouncing, hemming and hawing, and Charlie demanding to be fed, she gave up and said she would come back another time. Amy said this was daft because they’d laid out for the van, but Bel said there was no point making a decision if she wasn’t sure.

  Once they’d loaded the van with the chest of drawers and desk, they went to the restaurant and devoured Swedish meatballs and fries. Before they left, Amy bought a jumbo bag of chocolate Dime bars, most of which they demolished on the way home.

  Back home, the women carted Stig and Toborg out of the van and into Charlie’s room. Amy hated building IKEA flat packs because she could never understand the instructions, but Bel, who had ne
ver done it before and kept asking “How hard could it be?” insisted on having a try. “Maybe this is just the kind of activity I need to take my mind off sex with Mark.”

  Amy put the kettle on and set Charlie up at the kitchen table with his poster paints. Afterward she went to check on Michelangelo. Still no change. She was wondering whether to take him to the vet in the morning so that he could be put out of his misery when she heard swearing coming from Charlie’s room. It was Bel, fulminating about the inadequacy of the building instructions.

  “I told you so,” Amy said as she handed Bel a mug of tea. Bel was sitting cross-legged on the floor in a sea of nuts, screws, and drawer knobs. The instruction sheet was spread out in front of her.

  Bel sipped some tea and carried on studying the sheet. “Hang on,” she said eventually. “These instructions aren’t for a Toborg, they’re for a shelving unit called Ingmar.”

  “You’re kidding,” Amy said, running her fingers through her hair. “God, now we’re going to have to pack it all up and go back.”

  “Unless …” Bel said, grinning in a way that suggested she’d had a brain wave to end all brain waves.

  “What?”

  “Okay, I’ve got this Swedish neighbor called Margit. Anyway, we got chatting the other day, and she happened to mention that one of her friends has moved in a few streets from you.”

  “So?”

  “Duh, he’s Swedish. What if I go around there and ask if he would mind helping us build Charlie’s desk and chest of drawers?”

  “What? That’s outrageous. You cannot possibly knock on some strange person’s door and ask if they’d mind dropping everything to come and help us build flat pack furniture. Plus you’re assuming that because this bloke is Swedish, he will automatically know how to do it.”

  “But he will.” Bel had started laughing. “Swedes are practically born in flat packs. Plus Margit says he’s totally gorgeous. This would be an excuse to get a good look at him. I’m going to phone her and get his address.”

  “Don’t you dare!” She tried to grab Bel’s phone, but she was too late. Bel was already on her feet, dialing her neighbor’s number. She listened as Bel told Margit her plan. A few moments later Bel had the address. “Margit says he’s all on his own today and would probably love to come over. I’m going around there.”

  “But what will you say? How will you put it? I’m going red just thinking about it. It’s such cheek.”

  “Stop being a wuss. Leave it to me.” Bel headed for the door.

  “Whatever you do,” Amy called out after her, “please don’t mention the bit about all Swedes being born in flat packs. He might not take it very well.”

  “Ooh, you think?”

  Twenty minutes later, Bel was back. Accompanying her was a six-foot-six, blond-haired, blue-eyed Viking hunk.

  “Amy, I’d like you to meet Ulf.” Bel was looking up at him, her false eyelashes fluttering nineteen to the dozen. Amy couldn’t help thinking that any minute now drool would start running down her chin. “Ulf has very kindly agreed to help us build Charlie’s furniture.”

  Amy got up off the floor, where she had been gathering up screws and nuts. “Hello, Ulf,” she said, extending her hand toward him. “This is so kind of you. But surely you’ve got better things to do on a Sunday afternoon than build furniture for strange women.”

  “Oh, no. It is not a problem. I am more than happy to help.” Like most Scandinavians, he spoke perfect, albeit rather formal, English in a constantly changing tone that suggested melody rather than speech. “I have just finished my shift at the hospital. It will be soothing to do some practical activity.”

  “Ulf’s a neurosurgeon,” Bel announced. “That means he operates on people’s brains. Isn’t that just awesome?”

  Amy agreed that it was truly awesome.

  “He actually drills into skulls.” She turned to Ulf again. “How do you do that?”

  Cue matinee idol smile: “With a very steady hand.”

  “And that’s not all. He even finds time to work at a homeless shelter.”

  Amy let out an inadequate “Wow.” Under normal circumstances she would have been more than eager to show an interest in Ulf’s work, but right now it felt like Bel was showing enough interest for both of them.

  Ulf colored. “It’s not much, only twice a month. So far I have only been once.”

  “You’re too modest,” Bel said. “It’s wonderful what you’re doing. Most people don’t give a stuff about the poor and needy.”

  “Now, then,” Bel said to Ulf, “what can we get you? Some herrings, maybe? Sourdough? Gravlax? Lingonberry jam? Brill?”

  “Yes, I have a fridge full of herrings and brill,” Amy chirruped, shooting Bel a “what planet are you on” look.

  “Coffee would be great,” Ulf said.

  “Coming up,” Amy said. “Bel, maybe you’d like to help me?”

  Bel followed Amy into the kitchen. “I have found it,” she squealed. “I have found it.”

  “Found what?” Amy said.

  “The activity I was looking for. I’m going to get over Mark by getting under Ulf. He’s sensitive and caring … I’ve found the new type of man I was looking for.” She started to giggle. “You could say that I’ve finally turned over a new Ulf.”

  “My God, Bel, you only decided to dump Mark five minutes ago. What about taking some time to lick your wounds?”

  “I’ve licked them already … God, I am so in lust.” She slapped her hand to her chest.

  “Great. So what are you planning to tell Mark? I seem to remember you’re due over there later with pizza and beer.”

  “Bugger. Okay, I’ll phone him. I’ll tell him I’m ill. I’ll say I’ve got some kind of sudden-onset skin fungus. That’ll put him off for a bit and give me time to think about how I’m going to dump him. Now let’s make that coffee. I want to get back to King Canuty.”

  ULF FINISHED the desk and chest of drawers in a couple of hours. It would have been sooner, but Charlie running in and out demanding to help slowed him down.

  Everybody agreed—especially Charlie, who was thrilled to bits with his new desk—that Ulf had done a perfect job building Stig and Toborg. Amy wanted to say thank you and suggested she buy everybody Chinese. Ulf seemed up for it, but it was clear that Bel had other plans. “Ulf,” she purred, “why don’t you and I go back to your place? And if you’re very good, I’ll let you explore my cerebral cortex.”

  In the end they stayed for Chinese and left together just after eight.

  After they’d gone, Amy went to run Charlie’s bath. While it was filling up, she went to check on Michelangelo. She found him rigid and lifeless. She broke the news to Charlie as gently as she could but wasn’t really surprised when he showed a complete lack of interest. “We’ll bury his body in the ground,” she persisted, “and that will help fertilize the soil and nourish new life.”

  “Mum, please, please can we get a snake?”

  “Charlie, for the last time, we are not getting a snake. Now, are you going to come into the garden after your bath and help me bury Michelangelo?”

  He gave a vigorous shake of his head.

  Apart from a paper towel holder, Amy couldn’t find anything to bury the poor animal in. She didn’t possess a shoe box, and anyway, that would have been too big. She had loads of takeout containers, but they were the plastic kind that would delay Michelangelo’s decomposition. He needed to be buried in cardboard. She looked in the recycling container, which lived just outside the kitchen door. It was empty save for a jumbo-sized Tampax box. She grimaced. She couldn’t even contemplate burying Michelangelo in a tampon box. He might be only a hamster, but he was still one of God’s creatures. How did that song go? “All God’s critters got a place in the choir …” No, Michelangelo deserved some respect. On the other hand, she was bereft of ideas. It would be unthinkable to put him out with the rubbish. That left her with the Tampax option. Would it really be so terrible? After all, he was a dead rode
nt. He was hardly going to know the difference.

  She hemmed and hawed a bit longer, before wrapping the furry corpse in several sheets of Bounty and placing it in the Tampax box. Afterward she dug a hole under the greengage tree in the garden and committed Michelangelo’s body to the ground. As she covered his Tampax coffin with soil, she found herself humming “All Things Bright and Beautiful” and wondering if Charlie could be a psychopath, after all.

  Chapter 6

  THE NEXT MORNING, Charlie hardly spoke as he sat eating his Coco Pops.

  Amy asked him if he was okay.

  “Has Michelangelo arrived at heaven yet?” he asked by way of reply.

  “Oh, I would think so,” Amy said. “By now the hamster angels will probably be showing him around. I bet you anything they’ve got this amazing hamster wheel and some great tunnels for him to explore.” She took an apple and a small bunch of grapes from the fruit bowl and placed them in Charlie’s Incredibles lunch box, alongside the tuna sandwich and organic low-fat, no-salt potato chips. Charlie was less than keen on the healthy potato chips, and most mornings he pleaded for Hula Hoops or Quavers. Amy saw no reason not to give him the occasional treat, but since his school had a policy of confiscating junk food, it was the approved option or nothing.

  “So, how did he get there?” Charlie persisted.

  “To heaven? I’m not sure. What do you think?”

  Charlie became thoughtful. “I think he went by plane or maybe in a space rocket.”

  With that, Charlie ran to get his crayons and some paper. Soon he was drawing a smiley Michelangelo looking out of the window of a rocket. Brilliant red, orange, and yellow flames were bursting from the engine. A boy and a woman were waving him goodbye from the ground. “That’s me and you,” Charlie explained. “We’re happy that he’s not ill anymore, but we’re sad, too, ’cos we won’t see him again.”

  Amy felt her eyes filling up. If she was honest, she had had no real doubts last night as she buried Michelangelo that Charlie was anything other than a regular kid, in possession of all the normal human emotions. Nevertheless, it was comforting to have it confirmed. “Come here and give me a hug,” she said. Charlie jumped down from his chair and ran over to his mother. “Love you,” she said, squeezing and kissing him.