by Sue Margolis
Chapter 7
“OKAY, MAYBE THIS works better,” Bel said. “‘Caution, terrain. Pull up. Pull up’—with no emphasis on any particular word. I figure that way the pilot stays calm and the passengers have the best chance of survival. On the other hand, this is a danger warning. Perhaps I should raise my voice and sound more forceful and animated. I’m thinking: ‘Caution!! Terrain!! Pull up!! Pull up!!’ But that could put the fear of God into the pilot. He could panic, crash the plane, and it will be all my fault.”
Bel had landed another electronic voice job, delivering warning messages to pilots. As usual, she couldn’t make up her mind about the appropriate tone and emphasis and was consulting Brian and Amy.
“I don’t understand why you always get so worked up about delivering these lines,” Brian said. “Each one is just a sentence.”
“I’m a method actor. I need to get it right. That means I have to know what my motivation is.”
“Your motivation is banking the check,” he said. “Now just stop obsessing.”
“That’s rich,” Bel shot back, “coming from the planet’s obsessor in chief.”
“Okay,” Amy said, spreading clotted cream over her scone, “stop bickering, you two, or I’ll have to separate you. Why don’t we talk about something else?” She bit into the scone and started chewing. “So what do you guys know about penis extensions?”
While Bel seemed amused, Brian winced. “Excuse me?”
Amy supposed he had every right to pull a face. The aspidistra and bone china elegance of the Kew Gardens tea shop didn’t exactly lend itself to talk of male genital enhancement.
“Why?” Bel said, “you thinking of getting one?”
“Fun-nee. No, I’m pretty sure my dad is.”
Brian’s wince morphed into a grimace. “Omigod! He told you that?”
“I don’t get it.” Bel said to Brian. “What’s your problem?” She reached in front of him and helped herself to the cut-glass bowl of strawberry jam.
“My problem is boundaries. It’s pretty obvious that when it comes to his daughter, Phil doesn’t have any.”
“Look,” Bel said, spooning jam onto her plate, “if Amy’s dad feels he can confide this kind of thing in Amy and she’s happy to hear it, then I don’t see why it needs to be an issue.”
“Of course it’s an issue.”
“Actually, Dad didn’t say a word,” Amy said. That shut them up. “I found this stuff he’d printed out from the Internet.”
“Aha.” Bel grinned. “So you were snooping.”
“I was not,” Amy protested. “The papers fell on the floor, and as I picked them up, I found myself reading them. I couldn’t help it. The words ‘penis extension’ were in inch-high red letters. You couldn’t miss them.” She paused. “So what is a penis extension? You get all that spam about them, but I always delete it.”
Bel said that as far as she knew, they were nothing more than rubber sleeves that fit over the end of the male member. “It must be odd, though,” she said, “discovering that your father has a small penis. I mean, girls in particular look up to their dads. Then you find out he’s not the great man you always thought he was.”
“Okay, let’s get one thing straight. My dad does not have a small penis.”
“Maybe you could repeat that,” Brian said. “A few people on the Isle of Wight didn’t hear.”
“So how do you know he hasn’t got a small penis?” Bel asked, her mouth full. “God, these scones are good.”
“I’ve seen it.”
“What, recently?”
“Duh. Of course not recently.”
Brian’s head was in his hands. “For the love of all that’s holy, please can we end this conversation?” Amy and Bel had invited Brian out for tea to cheer him up, but it clearly wasn’t having the desired effect.
“Oh, Brian, stop being such a wuss,” Amy said. “Surely your family went around naked when you were a kid. It’s perfectly normal to have seen your parents without clothes on.”
“If you remember, my parents died when I was thirteen, and those events have pretty much clouded what went on before.”
Amy put down her scone. “Oh, Brian, I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, offering her a smile.
“I’m convinced,” Amy said, “that this is all about Dad’s new girlfriend putting pressure on him.” She turned to Brian. “I didn’t tell you. My dad is seeing this erotic poetess called Joyce. Anyway, turns out—”
“Whoa, hang on,” Brian said. “Can we rewind for a second? An erotic poetess?”
“Yes, she writes erotic verse. Anyway, it turns out, as you might expect, that Joyce is pretty demanding in the bedroom department.”
“You mean she writes porn,” Brian said.
“No, I mean erotica.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I guess it’s less graphic than porn,” Amy said. “A bit more flowery.”
“Oh, Araminta,” Bel began, giggling, “lead my member to your soft moist center.”
Brian’s face was giving every impression that he was in physical pain.
“God, Bri,” Bel said, “I had no idea you were such a prude. You know, it’s really rather cute.” She ruffled his hair, which he didn’t seem to mind.
“Yeah, well, if you’d been brought up by my gran, you’d be a prude, too. Imagine what it’s like growing up in a house where it’s considered the height of indecency to refer to chicken breast.” He took a mouthful of tea and turned to Amy. “Having said that, your parents are a bit odd. I mean, there’s your mother with her shaman, and now your dad’s dating an erotic poetess. Don’t get me wrong, I think they’re brilliantly odd, but you have to admit they are slightly out there.”
“Again, I don’t get it,” Bel said. “Why does ‘different’ have to equal ‘odd’ in your book? Difference is something that should be celebrated, not ridiculed.”
“I agree, and that’s why I’m not ridiculing those sparkly red shoes you’re wearing.”
“Well, thank you. That makes a change.”
“You’re welcome.” He drained his teacup. “So, how you getting back to Kansas? I take it you’ve tried clicking your heels three times while repeating ‘There’s no place like home’?”
Bel threw up her hands. “See, you had to spoil it.”
“Or you could always follow the Yellow Brick Road.”
“Oh, get a haircut!”
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
“Oh, please, you two,” Amy groaned. “Just put a sock in it. Look, getting back to Dad for a moment. What worries me is that he might be overdoing it. I mean, he’s sixty-five, and if this Joyce, who I’ve met, by the way, has got him swinging from the chandeliers at his age, anything could happen.”
“Has it occurred to you,” Bel said, “that maybe Joyce isn’t putting the remotest pressure on him and they’re just having fun?”
“Maybe. She’s a lovely woman. You can’t help liking her. But at the same time, she’s really loud and overpowering. And she smelled of booze. I’m worried about what he might have gotten himself into.”
Bel shrugged. “Phil is a grown-up. It’s his life, and Joyce is his problem. I know it can’t be great discovering intimate details about a parent, but you cannot possibly interfere.”
Amy was aware these were almost the exact words she’d used to Victoria when they’d discussed their father’s new relationship. It seemed she was struggling to take her own advice.
“I agree,” Brian said.
Bel was blinking at him. “You do?”
“Absolutely.”
“I can’t remember the last time you agreed with something I said,” Bel said, giving the impression that she wasn’t so much surprised as flattered.
“Now, please, for the last time,” Brian said, “can we change the subject? I have news.”
“Please make it be the good kind,” Amy said.
It was. Brian had been
to a dinner party the previous evening and had met “a goddess” by the name of Rebecca. Such was her ethereal beauty that he hadn’t taken his eyes off her all night. As yet she hadn’t removed any items of clothing beyond her cashmere cardie. This had revealed several unraised arm moles, which Brian decided didn’t constitute a barrier to any future intimacy. Of course he couldn’t make a final decision about her suitability as a girlfriend until he had seen her naked, but he felt he had every reason to be optimistic that she didn’t possess any significant physical blemishes or imperfections.
“The only problem is me and these bloody moobs,” he said, clutching his right chest and wobbling it. “I have to get rid of them. I’ve decided to go back to the gym. Maybe that’ll help me firm up.”
“I’m sure it will,” Amy said.
Amy would have expected some kind of moob barb from Bel at that point, but none came, which was odd.
“So when are you seeing Rebecca again?” Amy said.
“Tonight. We’re going out for sushi. I tell you, I haven’t been this excited in ages. I haven’t thought about the business all day.”
“Wow,” Bel said, “so that’s all three of us on dates tonight with new people. Amy with Sam. Me with Ulf—”
“What?” Brian said. “Who’s Ulf? What happened to Jurassic Mark?”
“I dumped him.”
“But he treated you like crap. I thought you loved that.”
“Not anymore. Meet the new me. Ulf is a Swedish brain surgeon. He’s thoughtful, intelligent, and he respects women.”
“A brain surgeon?” Brian said. “You’re going out with a brain surgeon?”
“Yes, why? Do you have a problem with that?”
“Me? No. Why would I?”
“Just think,” Bel was saying, “these people could turn out to be the ones we decide to spend the rest of our lives with. Hey, we could have a triple wedding.”
“Brilliant idea,” Amy said, laughing. “You and Ulf can wear your comedy horns.”
Brian wasn’t listening. He had a teaspoon in his hand and was prodding at a dollop of strawberry jam on his plate.
Amy looked at her watch. She needed to get going. Charlie was being dropped home from a friend’s birthday party in just over an hour. Before she went out tonight, she needed to give him supper—not that he would be remotely hungry after having OD’d on party food—and get him bathed and wound down for the baby-sitter. She also had to phone Mrs. B and have a chat with her about her junk food school lunches.
“I’m sorry to break up the party,” she said to the others, “but I need to be heading back.”
Brian asked her why the hurry, and she explained about Charlie and her possible news story involving Mrs. B. Bel and Brian both agreed it had great potential.
“I just need one decent story to get me noticed. Then I might start getting commissions and I’ll be away. I can’t tell you how much I want this. It’s what I’ve been building up to for so long.”
“Well, if you ask me,” Bel said, “it’s a cracking good story. I could see all the papers picking it up, plus the TV news running with it.”
“I agree,” Brian said.
“My God,” Bel said, “that’s the second time you’ve agreed with me in almost as many minutes. This is starting to feel weird.”
“You know, I haven’t said this before,” Brian said to Amy, “but I’ll really miss you when you finally hit the big time and decide to leave the coffee shop. It’s been great having you around.”
“Aw, I’ve loved it, too, but for heaven’s sake, don’t start planning my leaving party yet. My track record’s not exactly brilliant. Remember that so far I haven’t had a single thing accepted.”
“You will,” he said. “You’re a great writer. It’s just a matter of time and coming up with the right story.”
“Absolutely,” Bel chipped in. “I’ve got all my body parts crossed.”
Amy felt her cheeks turning pink. “Thanks, guys. I really appreciate you having so much faith in me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She looked at her watch again. “God, I really do have to go. Apart from everything else, I’ve got my prep to do.”
Bel frowned. “Prep?”
“Date prep.”
“Come again?”
“Sam’s an architect. I know nothing about architecture. Tonight, when we’re out, I don’t want to come across like some kind of ignorant klutz. When he asks me my opinion on the Taj Mahal, I don’t want to hear myself say, ‘Oh, it’s brilliant. They do a mean chicken tikka masala.’”
Yet again Bel and Brian were united in their opinion. They both agreed that prepping for a date seemed more than a tad over the top. “It’s meant to be fun,” Bel said, “a chance to get to know each other, not a bloody exam.”
“I know,” Amy said, “but I just feel it’s good manners to have some idea about the other person’s world. In my experience, it makes conversation that much easier.”
Brian and Bel shrugged and let the subject drop. Then Brian offered Amy a lift home, which she was only too glad to accept.
“I don’t get it. What’s supposed to be wrong with my hair?” Brian said, easing the VW out of its parking space. He looked in the rearview mirror and began running his fingers through his shaggy locks. “I quite like it the way it is.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your hair. Bel was just cross. You’d been teasing her. Why do you two do that? It’s so childish. And it’s so wearing listening to it all the time.”
He shrugged. “I dunno. It’s just how we are. It’s not serious. I mean, we don’t hate each other or anything.”
Amy smiled. “I know that.”
Neither of them spoke for a few moments. It was Amy who broke the silence. “You didn’t seem particularly thrilled when you found out about Bel and this brain surgeon.”
“How d’you mean?”
“I dunno. You seemed a bit subdued.”
“Maybe I was thinking about the problems with the business.”
“You said you hadn’t thought about Café Mozart all day.”
“Okay, maybe I was thinking about something else. I can’t remember.”
“It occurred to me that you might be jealous.”
“What? Why on earth would I be jealous? That’s absurd. I’ve got no interest in Bel. You know that. And I’ve just met Rebecca, who I am absolutely crazy about. How could you think for one minute that I have feelings for Bel?”
“Just something I thought I’d picked up on, that’s all … Okay, I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
Another silence.
“So,” Brian said eventually, “do you think I should do something about my hair?”
“You like your hair the way it is.”
“Yeah, but Bel thinks it needs cutting.”
“Brian, why do you care what Bel thinks? It’s never mattered to you before.”
“I know, but she’s got a certain style, and I respect her opinion, and I’ve just met this new woman … So what do you think? Do I need a change?”
“Honestly?”
“Why else would I be asking?”
“Okay … Well, if you really want my opinion, I think a sharp, trendy cut would do wonders for you. Your mop’s lovely, but it makes you look about seventeen.”
He nodded. “Say no more.”
“Look, don’t take any notice of me or Bel. Do what makes you happy.”
“I am,” he said. “I’m getting it cut.”
CHARLIE CAME home from his classmate’s party high on sugar. He spent ten minutes charging around the flat yelling the Spiderman theme song before Amy shooed him into the garden with his football to cool off. Each time she looked out the kitchen window, he would be dribbling the ball and singing: “Spiderman, Spiderman, does whatever a spider can, spins a web, any size. Catches thieves, just like flies … Goal!!!”
These days, children’s birthday teas tended to consist of healthy dips and crudités and coarse wholemeal bread sandwiches filled with
hummus, or pâté made from brain-boosting oily fish. Judging by Charlie’s behavior, this had been an old-fashioned, more traditional affair.
Once Charlie had calmed down, he started planning his evening with Lilly, the baby-sitter. Lilly was Ruby’s university student niece. Amy used her a fair amount because she felt guilty always asking Val to baby-sit.
Lilly was gorgeous. She had golden waist-length hair and eyes the color of the Caribbean. What was more, she adored Charlie and would read to him for as long as he could stay awake. For his part, Charlie behaved like the perfect child when he was with her. She seemed to cast a spell on him. Amy suspected that her son was ever so slightly in love with Lilly.
While Charlie sat in front of his new shelving unit, grabbing puzzles, games, and DVDs, Amy phoned Mrs. B, whose surname she had managed to remember.
“Mrs. Brannigan, it’s Amy here, Phil Walker’s daughter. We met a couple of times at my dad’s house, if you remember.”
“Oh, yes.”
Amy recognized the smoker’s voice and Irish accent.
“Dad happened to mention that you’ve started fetching pizza and KFC for the local schoolkids at lunchtime.”
“Oh, yes.”
“And you’re happy to carry on doing this for the kids?”
“Oh, yes.”
It was all coming back to her now, how Mrs. B (a short, inordinately thin woman who, if the need arose, could have sought refuge behind a bread stick) possessed few words and little emotion. She remembered that Phil, who had just finished reading Angela’s Ashes when Mrs. B started working for him, suspected she’d experienced extreme poverty and drunken male brutality growing up in the Dublin slums in the years just after the war. This experience, he concluded, had left huge emotional scars. Amy tended to think she was just one of those people who didn’t waste words.
If Phil was around when Mrs. B arrived on a Thursday morning, she would greet him with some pithy reference to the weather like “Blowy again, then.” If the weather was looking really grim, she might be moved to comment: “Reminds me of the winter of forty-seven. All thirteen of us children were snowed in for near on a fortnight. Oh, yes.” Having gotten that initial bit of chitchat out of the way, she would take off her coat, hang it over one of the kitchen chairs, put on her apron, and start filling her bucket. Phil would offer her a cup of tea, which she would accept, along with a chocolate digestive, but conversationwise that was pretty much it until she had finished work. Her traditional parting message to Phil was a downbeat “I’ve left yer smalls in the linen cupboard to air.”
