by Sue Margolis
“You mean KFC.”
“What did I say?”
“JFK.”
Mrs. B looked blank.
“JFK was the American president,” Amy said. “John Fitzgerald Kennedy.”
“Would that be right? And here’s me thinking that the K stood for ‘Kentucky.’ So it’s Kennedy Fried Chicken, then?”
Amy scratched her head, not knowing quite how to proceed.
“You see,” Mrs. B went on, apparently in no need of an answer to her question, “the kids like the junk food. It’s got some taste. You know, a bit of a kick.” She took a small, ladylike sip of sherry.
Amy made the point that the so-called taste was produced by high levels of fat, sugar, and chemicals.
“But kids are growing. They need energy. Fat and sugar give them that. Oh, yes. When I was a child, growing up in Dublin after the war, all we had was boiled vegetables. There was barely a scrap of flesh on our bones. And our spirits were crushed. We were dead behind the eyes. Walking corpses we were.”
“But these kids aren’t starving. Quite the opposite. They have plenty of choice. They choose to binge on food that makes them fat. We live in a country where nearly forty percent of the population is obese, and it’s only going to get worse.”
“You say obese. I say well covered. There’s no shame in a person having some meat on his bones.”
Amy noticed that Mrs. B’s eyes were filling with tears. “What is it, Dymphna?”
She took another sip of sherry. “You want to know?” she said, her tone verging on tart. “Right, I’ll tell you. I clean half a dozen houses locally. None of the women I work for eats a square meal. Turn them sideways and they disappear, but they all think they’re fat.”
Amy was forced to note the point that Dymphna was extremely slim. Did she diet?
“Heaven help us, no. I got the TB when I was a child. I never could put weight on after that … Look, it doesn’t bother me what these rich women do to themselves, but I can’t abide it when they starve their little ones … particularly the girls. Babies they are …”
It turned out that one of the women Dymphna worked for had put her four-year-old daughter on a diet and almost killed her. “No milk. No cheese. No butter. Just vegetables, nuts, and a bit of boiled chicken. The weight fell off the little mite, and all she wanted to do all day was sleep. I couldn’t stand by and do nothing, so I phoned the child protection people. The next day that child was in the hospital on a drip.”
“So you saved her life?”
“I did, but I got no gratitude from the parents. Not that I was expecting any. They were all for suing me until their lawyer told them they didn’t have a hope in hell.”
“And this was never reported?”
“Never. It all got hushed up. You asked me why I don’t hold with so-called healthy diets. That’s why. Oh, yes. Now, then, will you be having some more Hula Hoops?”
INSTEAD OF catching the bus, Amy decided to walk the mile or so home. She needed some time to think about how she was going to approach this piece.
She was in no doubt that she had uncovered a damned good story: A woman whose attitudes toward food were formed by poverty and the modern obsession with thinness fights back by feeding junk food to schoolkids.
Within the next day or so she needed to visit the school at lunchtime and speak to the kids. She had to find out what they thought of Dymphna and why they wouldn’t at least try the healthy meals provided by the school. There was only one problem: She worked in a café. She couldn’t possibly ask Brian to give her time off at the busiest time of day. Sometimes things got so hectic that the three of them found it hard to cope. What she needed was somebody to cover for her.
As soon as she’d put Charlie to bed, she phoned Bel.
“God, that is so weird,” Bel said. “I was about to call you. I need a favor.”
“You do? So do I. You go first.”
“Okay, I’ve got my first proper audition tomorrow—the Young Vic is putting on an improv version of Hamlet. I’m trying out for Ophelia. I don’t know when I’ll be finished, so I was wondering if you could pick me up some shopping.”
“No problem. Tell me what you need and I’ll make a list.”
“Don’t worry. Everything will be packed and ready for you to pick up.”
“Okay, which supermarket.”
“Dildo King.”
“Excuse me. Dildo King?”
“Yeah, it’s that new sex shop on Clapham High Street.”
“I know what it is. Bel, I am not going into a sex shop. They’re so bloody seedy. I’ll get leered at by all the dirty old men in raincoats. I can’t. Why don’t you order what you want online?”
“They take over a week to deliver, and I really want this stuff ASAP. I’m desperate to try it out on Ulf. I’ve ordered an edible thong—cherry-flavored—some chocolate body frosting, and handcuffs. What do you think?”
“I think that I’m not going.”
“Oh, please. Dildo King is on your way home. It’ll take you five minutes.”
“But what if somebody sees me?”
“Who’s going to see you?”
“The parents from Charlie’s school, for a start.” It wasn’t lost on her that she was starting to sound like her sister.
“Oh, please, Ames. I’ll do anything you want in return. Name it.”
“Oh, all right, then, but only ’cos I need a favor in return. Are you free Wednesday during the day?”
“No. But I’ve got a couple of hours free Thursday lunchtime.”
“That’ll do. I don’t suppose you could fill in for me at the café for a couple of hours. I’ve just done this amazing interview with Mrs. B, and now I need to speak to the schoolkids. I have to go at lunchtime, when she’s there delivering the food.”
“You want me to be a waitress?”
“Yes. Can you do it? I know you’ve got no experience …”
“Hello. I’ve done bar work, plus I’m an actress. Of course I can do it. What are we going for? I can do gutsy coffee shop waitress with five kids, on the run from her violent drunk of a husband. I can do sexy wannabe actress. I can do the whole TGI shtick. You name it.”
“Could you just take orders, give the right change, and maybe wipe down a few tables?”
“Yep. No problem. I can do that. Don’t worry, I can work out my own character and motivation.”
“Excellent.”
ON HER way home the following evening, Amy got off the bus at Clapham High Street and made her way to Dildo King. The moment she stepped inside the shop, she wished she hadn’t made such a fuss about picking up Bel’s “shopping.” The place exuded trashy, but it was a long way from the sordid pornmonger’s she’d been expecting. There were racks of red polyester basques and thongs embroidered with “enter here.” One wall was devoted to magazines and cheap plastic sex toys. Tame stuff.
The place was empty apart from the studenty-looking girl at the till wearing a “Peace in the Middle East” badge and reading Plutarch’s The Age of Alexander.
“You have a package for a friend of mine,” Amy said, feeling the need to dissociate herself from the purchase. “The name is Bel Flemming.”
“Oh, yes,” the girl said, offering Amy an easy smile. She reached under the counter and produced a brown paper bag. “It’s all paid for. Tell your friend that because she’s spent over twenty pounds, she qualifies for a free clit stick.” She opened the bag and popped in a gaudy box labeled “Dildo King Clit Stick Supreme … because she comes first!”
Amy thanked the girl and made her way to the door. It couldn’t have been simpler.
She stepped off the curb and was about to cross the road when she saw a motorbike speeding toward her. As she stepped back, she tripped on the pavement edge. She managed to right herself, but the brown paper bag fell to the ground close to the gutter, spilling out its contents. In front of her lay one clit stick, an edible thong (cherry-flavored), a can of chocolate-flavored body frosting, and a pair of handcuffs. The
re was also a copy of the latest Dildo King catalogue. A couple of teenagers, about to cross the road, hovered for a few seconds and sniggered. Amy bent down and reached for the catalogue.
“Can I help you?” Despite the traffic noise, she recognized the voice at once. Red-hot blush shot through her face like squid ink in water. The next moment Sam was squatting beside her, picking up the Dildo King clit stick.
She decided humor might be her best option. “Of all the porn shops in all the towns in all the world …”
“I had to stop outside yours.” He was looking at her, grinning that sexy grin of his.
“Actually, not mine. My friend Bel’s,” she said, relieving him of the clit stick, “I just came to collect this stuff for her.”
“Hey, whatever. It’s your life.”
“But it really isn’t mine. I don’t have a life. No, that came out wrong. Of course I have a life, just not that sort of life … you know, with cherry-flavored thongs and stuff.”
He looked almost disappointed. This made her feel she should clarify her position.
“I mean, that’s not to say I’m not liberated in the bedroom department. I am. I’m into stuff. Certain stuff. Not all stuff. I do draw a line.”
“So no whips, no rubber, no threesomes?”
“Good God, no.”
“Not like me, then.”
Her eyes widened in alarm.
“I’ve got this rubber wet suit I love to wear in bed,” he said.
“You have?”
“Yeah. Women go really wild for the flippers.”
“What? … Oh, behave,” she said, her face breaking into a smile.
He was laughing now. “I’m sorry, that was mean, but you should have seen the look of terror on your face when you thought you were dating some weirdo.”
“Rotter,” she said, scooping up the rest of the items and putting them back in the paper bag. He stood up and helped her to her feet.
“So what are you doing in this neck of the woods?” she said.
“My office is in that house over the road. We rent the basement.” He pointed to a pretty white Regency house in the middle of a terrace of identical houses, “We’ve got clients coming in for a late meeting. I was on my way to do a tea and coffee run.”
Amy said she wouldn’t hold him up. “I’m in a bit of a rush myself. I’ve got to collect Charlie from the child minder.” She paused. “So I’ll see you on Saturday. I’m really looking forward to it.”
“Me, too.”
She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Oh, by the way, how did your interview go?”
“Great,” she said. “I’ll tell you all about it on Saturday.”
They agreed to meet at Amy’s flat at ten.
“You’ll recognize me,” he said. “I’ll be the one in the wet suit and flippers.”
FIRST THING the next morning, Amy had a chat with Brian and explained that having interviewed Mrs. B, she needed to go to the school one lunchtime to speak to the kids. “I know it’s the worst possible time of day, but I can’t see any way around it. If it helps, Bel said she’d cover for me.”
“Fine.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’m not going to let her loose on the espresso machine, but I’m assuming she can clear tables, slice cake, and stack the dishwasher.”
“She’s worked in pubs. Of course she can, and I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Bri, I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
“Amy, will you just stop fretting? We’ll manage”
“Thanks,” she said. “You’re a really good mate.”
On Thursday morning on the dot of half past eleven, Bel arrived. She was wearing a candy pink polyester waitress dress, very tight, very short, the top buttons undone to her cleavage. A dainty white apron completed her ensemble.
Amy rolled her eyes. “What, no frilly cap, no notepad, no pencil behind the ear?”
“Hi, y’all. My name is Bel”—she strung her name out to three syllables—“and I’ll be your waitress for today. Our specials include deep frah-ed chicken, turnip greens, black-eyed peas, fried catfish, and key lime pie.”
Zelma burst out laughing. “My God, Blanche DuBois has gone into catering.” She kissed and hugged Bel and told her off for being such a stranger … “and so thin.”
“So what do you think of the outfit?”
“All I can say,” Zelma replied, “is that most women wear more when they give birth.”
At that point Brian walked in. He’d been in the kitchen, on the phone to one of the suppliers. His eyes went from Bel’s cleavage to her legs and back again. Not that she noticed. Her eyes were elsewhere.
“Haircut, haircut,” she chanted.
Brian looked self-conscious. His hand darted to his head. “You hate it.”
“Hate it? Of course I don’t hate it. I think it’s great. Very sexy.” Bel had called Brian a lot of things in the past. As far as Amy could remember, “sexy” had never been one of them.
“Really?”
“Come on, you know me. When do I ever lie? So how do you like the outfit?” She did a twirl. “If you think it’s too much, I’ve brought ordinary clothes. I can change.”
Brian seemed unable to take his eyes off her. He didn’t speak.
“Bel to Brian—come in, Brian. I said if it’s all too much, I’ve brought civvies I can change into.”
“No,” he said. “You’re fine. Honest.”
Brian said he would take Bel into the kitchen to show her how to work the dishwasher.
“Oh, by the way,” Amy said to Bel, “the shopping you asked me to pick up is on the top shelf in the cloaks cupboard.”
“Thank you so much. You’re a doll.”
After Brian and Bel had disappeared into the kitchen, Zelma turned to Amy. “Is it my imagination,” she said, “or do I detect a spark between those two? In the past, all they’ve ever done is rub each other the wrong way.”
Amy shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. They’re both seeing new people, so if there is something between them, it’s all going to get very messy.”
BY TWELVE o’clock, Amy was standing outside the gates of Nelson Mandela High School. Mrs. B was there, too. Beside her was a shopping basket on wheels, filled to the brim with KFC and McDonald’s bags. The flat pizza boxes were stacked neatly on top to stop them from getting squashed. Amy didn’t dare say anything, but she was forced to admit that the aroma was sublime.
Three or four teachers now hovered in the background. A few minutes earlier they had been only too eager to speak to Amy, saying how they feared for the health of their charges and how the law had to be changed to give schools the power to ban the likes of Dymphna Brannigan. Of course Dymphna had been listening to all this, but being the mild-mannered soul she was, she didn’t retaliate. She didn’t need to. For the time being at least, she had the law on her side.
A gang of thirteen- or fourteen-year-olds was climbing the school railings, excited young primates yelping for their grub. Mrs. B stood her ground and refused to hand out any food until they had all calmed down. She started with the pizza orders. “Wayne Pyke—one stuffed crust with extra bacon, chicken, ham, and cheese … Shelby Lacy—thin ’n crispy pizza, chicken wings, large Coke.” She passed the cardboard flat packs sideways through the bars. The kids took their food and handed her the cash. More than once Mrs. B scolded them for not having the exact change. The teachers looked on, angry and helpless. All they could do was keep reminding their pupils not to drop litter.
“So,” Amy said, having introduced herself to the kids and explained why she was there, “what do you lot make of Dymphna?”
“Hero!”
“Genius!”
“Legend!”
“But why won’t you eat the healthy meals the school provides?”
“Don’t taste of nuffink.”
“They want us to eat salad an’ that. It is disgusting.”
“All those vegetables give you ass gravy. Know
what I mean?”
“Yeah, really messes wiv yer Donald Trumps. That can’t be healthy, can it?”
“But don’t you worry about getting fat?”
One of the girls jumped in. “My mum says if I get too big, I can always have one of them gastric band things fitted, so I don’t need to worry.”
“Oy, Dymph, where’s my Coke?”
“Oh, here you are, Wayne, darlin’. It was the two-liter, wasn’t it?”
WHILE AMY was on the bus heading back to Café Mozart, she phoned the news desk at The Daily Post. There was no doubt in her mind that this was a perfect tabloid story. She chose the Post for no other reason than she had something approaching a relationship with the news editor, Boadicea Asquith. Amy had pitched two or three possible pieces to her in the last few months. She had turned them down but had encouraged Amy to call with other ideas.
“Oh, hi, Amy,” came the languid, upper-class drawl. “Look, sweetie, I’m just about to go into conference.”
“I won’t keep you,” Amy persisted. “It’s just that I’ve got this amazing story.” She pitched it in thirty seconds flat.
“Right. Okay. Yah. Actually, that does sound interesting. I’ll put it up in conference and get back to you in an hour or so.”
Amy spent the afternoon on what Zelma kept referring to as shpilkes. This was Yiddish for “tenterhooks.” Bel—who decided to “hang out” at the café for the rest of the day because a meeting she was meant to have with her agent had been canceled—went around practicing the word. “So, how are your shpiel keys, Ames? Still on them?”
“It’s not shpiel keys,” Zelma corrected, laughing. “It’s shpilkes. And you can see she’s still on them. Just look at her. That’s the third time she’s given a customer the wrong change.”
It was after six, and Amy was at home, stirring Bolognese sauce, when the phone rang.
“Hi, Amy, it’s Boadicea. The editor loves the story. We’re running it in the morning. Can you e-mail me a thousand words? And we’ll need the woman’s details to sort out a picture. I’ll be in the office until seven.”
Bloody hell. A thousand words? In an hour? “Okay, fine. No problem,” Amy said.
She dished up Charlie’s spag bol and left a portion of chocolate ice cream on the kitchen counter to thaw. As he started on his supper, she did something she swore she would never do: She bribed her child. “Charlie, if you can amuse yourself and not disturb me for the next hour, I will give you some money to spend this weekend when you go to stay with Grandma.”
