Perfect Blend

by Sue Margolis

  Just after eleven, Bel popped into the café to drown her sorrows in a full-fat, half-caff latte. She hadn’t gotten the part of Ophelia, nor had the Dildo King paraphernalia done much to improve her sex life with Ulf. Not that she wasn’t grateful to Amy for going out of her way to get it. Much to Bel’s dismay, Ulf was stuck on the notion that nature had placed the human mouth at the head end rather than the “toilet” end for a very good reason.

  “Don’t let anybody try to convince you that Scandinavians are sexually liberated,” she said, shaking chocolate over her coffee. “It’s a myth.”

  “This Ulf reminds me of my Sidney,” Zelma chimed in. “Don’t get me wrong. He loved me to bits, but he was very repressed sexually. The moment I suggested doing something more adventurous in bed, he’d say he could hear his dead mother screaming: ‘Sidney, take that out of your mouth; you don’t know where it’s been.’”

  “So are you going to dump him?” Brian said, once they’d all stopped laughing. Amy wondered if she was the only one to pick up on the anticipation in his voice.

  Bel said she still liked Ulf and wasn’t prepared to throw in the clit stick just yet.

  Brian didn’t say anything.

  Just as everybody was commiserating with Amy about The Daily Post piece and having Victoria come to stay, she got a call on her mobile from Boadicea. “Look, Amy,” she said, sounding less like she was dragging on a joint than usual, “I’m really sorry about what happened. The editor wanted Jamie. There wasn’t a lot I could do.” Amy was about to have a moan at her for not having let her know what was going on when Boadicea added, “Of course there is a kill fee. Is eight-fifty okay?”

  “Excuse me? How much?”

  “All right, since we did treat you rather badly and you’re not going to be able to place the piece elsewhere since we’ve covered it, I’ll see if I can push it up to a grand. But don’t tell anybody. We’re supposed to be cutting back, you know—the recession and all that.”

  “No. No. A thousand’s fine. I’ll invoice you, shall I?”

  “Brill.”

  Still in shock, Amy flipped down the lid on her phone. She turned to Brian, Zelma, and Bel: “Okay, lemon drizzle cake all around. I’m buying.”

  JUST AFTER two, as usual, things went quiet in the café. Zelma popped out to do some shopping while Amy sat down at one of the window tables with a cup of tea, a smoked salmon bagel, and yesterday’s Sunday Times.

  She read a boring but important piece on why the prime minister’s cabinet reshuffle was a disaster. Afterward she grappled with an analysis of the recession written by an Oxford professor of economics but got lost after the first paragraph. As she turned the page, a headline caught her eye: “Moobs Men Shown to Have High Levels of Estrogen.” The article was based on a Harvard Medical School study. Doctors and scientists investigating why slim middle-class men were developing breasts had carried out more than five thousand blood tests. The results, which had just been published, showed that nearly all the men had higher than normal estrogen levels.

  Amy went into the kitchen and showed the piece to Brian. “It says tests have also been carried out on men in Britain and Europe. At first they thought it could be something to do with the water supply—you know, women on the pill peeing out estrogen—but it’s not. In every country, the estrogen levels in water turned out to be insignificant. They’re calling it a ‘moob pandemic,’ and nobody has any idea what’s causing it and why it only affects rich or middle-class men.”

  Brian read through the article. When he got to the bit about high levels of estrogen in men being linked to male breast cancer, he said he was making an appointment for a blood test. “This has to be what’s going on with me. Somehow I’m absorbing estrogen.”

  “Maybe its all that Crema Crema Crema you’ve been drinking,” Amy said with a chuckle. “Only rich people can afford to buy that.”

  “Don’t be daft. There’s no estrogen in coffee. Here, I’ll check it out.”

  He opened his laptop, which was sitting on the worktop next to him, and Googled “coffee estrogen.”

  “There you are,” he said, inviting her to look at the screen. “Top hit. Coffee reduces breast cancer risk.”

  “Okay,” Amy said. “I wasn’t really being serious.”

  For the rest of the day, Amy and Zelma did their best to calm Brian and assure him that somebody would come up with an answer, but they could see he was scared. “This isn’t just about my looks anymore,” he said at one point. “I could die from this.”

  Zelma got cross with Brian and insisted that nobody was going to die, but later on, when she and Amy discussed the issue in private, they couldn’t hide their fears.

  “God, Zelma, suppose they don’t discover what’s causing this rise in estrogen levels? It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  By the following day, all the newspapers, plus the radio and TV news, had the story. The tabloids in particular had gone to town printing beach photographs of male celebs and postulating whether their moobs were due to raised estrogen levels.

  Radio 5 even devoted its morning phone-in to the moob question. Brian had it on in the kitchen. It didn’t do much to reassure him. A breast cancer specialist was insisting that only long exposure to estrogen caused cancer. He urged men not to overreact and to keep calm. “The moment people in authority tell you to keep calm,” Brian said, “you can be certain there’s something to worry about.”

  It was only when Brian went to see his own private specialist, who was, according to Brian, “the best tit man in the country,” that he started to relax. Best Tit Man did a blood test, the results of which Brian was still waiting on, and reiterated what the doctor on the radio had said.

  If Brian was starting to lighten up, Victoria wasn’t. She would burst into tears at odd times, such as in the middle of Battlestar Galactica, and start raging and railing against Simon. Seeing her sister so miserable and vulnerable, Amy continued to take pity on her and let her sound off. She ran her baths, gave her foot massages, cooked, and got the boys off to bed each night.

  Amy wasn’t looking for thanks. On the other hand, she wasn’t looking for constant criticism, either.

  Victoria’s faultfinding and self-promotion rarely let up: Amy was feeding Charlie too much salt and sugar and not enough omega 3 and 6, which had been proved to boost brainpower in children. Why was she using soap on Charlie? Didn’t she know how bad all the antibacterial agents were for children’s skin? Of course she had been using Yucca Root soap substitute on Arthur since day one.

  Amy wasn’t sure how long she could keep her temper. She had held out until now only because she felt sorry for Victoria, plus Brian, Bel, and Sam all said that challenging her wasn’t worth it because she was incapable of handling criticism and would only fly into a rage.

  Then, on Friday, Amy returned home to discover that Victoria had been spring cleaning. The flat wasn’t merely spotless, it was sterile. It had been purged, pasteurized, bleached, and boraxed to within an inch of its life. A human appendix could have been removed on Amy’s kitchen table without fear of patient infection.

  The cooktop and oven had been degreased. The hard water buildup around the kitchen tap was gone, ditto the gunk that had collected under the range hood. She had even gotten rid of the goo from around the nozzle on the washing-up-liquid bottle. The food cupboards had been scrubbed and their contents meticulously rearranged. Jars and cans were on one shelf, packets of flour, sugar, and other dry products on another. Herbs and flavorings had their own shelf. The cutlery container, instead of overflowing with knives, forks, and spoons, had been put to its proper use. In the bathroom, the toilet, sink, and bathtub shone. The dirty laundry, clean laundry, and ironing piles had disappeared.

  Everywhere there was the smell of Pledge and condescension.

  Amy had just put the kettle on, when Victoria appeared with the boys. She had taken them to get low-fat frozen yogurt cones and was now shooing them into the garden because they were dripping on
the floor. “So, what do you think?” Victoria said, beaming at Amy. “I have to admit that I’m totally exhausted, but I think you’ll agree I’ve done a pretty good job.” Amy had no trouble picturing Victoria in her pinnie, singing “Whistle While You Work,” a bluebird perched on her shoulder.

  “It’s amazing. Thank you,” Amy said, her gratitude less than fulsome. “But it really wasn’t necessary.”

  “Well, you may not think so, but we both know that you’ve been letting things slide houseworkwise. Now I’ve got you back up to speed, all you need to do is spend a few minutes each day cleaning and tidying, and that way you’ll stay on top of things. I’ve drawn you up a daily job roster, so that should help.” She handed Amy a densely typed sheet of A4. “Of course the place still isn’t quite up to my standard. The outsides of the windows still need cleaning and you’re hoarding way too much clutter, but I’ll sort through that tomorrow and have a good chuck-out.”

  “What?” Amy blurted. “No, you won’t. My clutter belongs to me. If anybody’s going to sort it out, I will.” By now the electric kettle was boiling. Amy watched it switch itself off but made no attempt to reach for mugs and tea bags. Instead she sat down at the kitchen table. She folded her arms. Then, realizing this looked too confrontational, she unfolded them.

  “Victoria, why have you done this? I mean, why have you really done it?”

  “What do you mean? I did it to help you. I know you don’t get much time for housework, and I thought the place could do with a thorough spring clean.”

  Amy thought carefully. She wasn’t sure whether to risk her sister’s wrath by saying what was on her mind.

  “The problem with you,” Victoria continued, “is that you’ve never been able to stick to a routine. You’re so scatty and all over the place.”

  Amy hesitated, but only for a second. “And the problem with you is that you are a control freak.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re a control freak. You cleaned my flat because it makes you feel superior and in control.”

  Victoria seemed genuinely aghast. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do.” Amy was fighting to remain composed. “You think everybody should live their lives to your standards. This spring cleaning is all about you proving how wonderful you are and how crap I am. And it’s not just me. You do it to everybody.”

  “You’re mad. I like to help, that’s all.”

  “You don’t help. You boss and scold.”

  “I do not!”

  “Yes, you do.” Amy paused to calm herself and gather her thoughts. “Victoria, has it occurred to you that Simon wants a soul mate?”

  “I am his soul mate.”

  “You may think you are, but you’re not. You’re his boss. You communicate with him by barking orders and issuing commands. You always think you know best.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Oh, Victoria. How can you say that? You’re always telling people how to run their lives. Me, Mum, Claire in the café the other day. You seem to take pleasure in making people feel small.”

  Victoria flinched. She went to the fridge, took out an open bottle of white wine, and poured herself a glass. She didn’t offer to pour one for Amy.

  “Why does queening it over everybody give you so much pleasure?”

  Victoria gave a thin laugh. “What’s this, you Freud, me Jane?” She tipped back her head and downed some wine.

  “You know, sooner or later you will have to confront this.”

  “Confront what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I don’t have to stay here listening to this,” Victoria said, but made no attempt to leave. Her eyes were glassy with tears. After a few moments she came and sat down opposite Amy. “Okay.” She cleared her throat. “Maybe it’s because deep down I feel small.” She downed some more wine.

  “But how could you possibly feel small after all you’ve achieved?”

  “I haven’t achieved that much. I went to Oxford, got a good job. So what?”

  “In most people’s books, that’s pretty amazing. Plus you were and are very beautiful. When we were young, I was so jealous of you.”

  Victoria shrugged. “Okay, I was pretty, but so were you. And you had all the charm. You had so many friends. I was never as popular as you. I suppose I compensated by becoming a smart-ass.”

  “But don’t you see that you hurt people when you put them down?”

  Victoria shrugged. “Part of me thinks they deserve it because they’re such fools.”

  “Do you think Simon’s a fool?”

  “No, of course not. He’s much smarter than me. I’ve always known that.”

  “So why do you put him down?”

  “I don’t know.” Victoria’s elbows were on the table, her head in her hands. “Actually, yes, I do … I have to compete with him. I daren’t let him win. I’m like that with everybody.”

  “And if you don’t win?”

  “I never let that happen.”

  “But just suppose for a moment that it did.”

  Victoria looked up, genuine fear and confusion on her face. She hesitated. “I think that if I didn’t win, people would see how inadequate I really am and I would disappear. Not my body, but the inner me. It would vanish into thin air … Poof … I’d be nothing. I wouldn’t exist … Amy, you have no idea how frightening that is.”

  Victoria was shaking and crying. Amy took her hand and held it tight.

  “Mum and Dad had so much invested in you,” Amy said. “All that pressure can’t have been easy. I was jealous of you, but I’m just starting to realize that I was the lucky one. I was let off the hook.” She paused. “You know you have to get some professional help—for your sake and for the sake of your marriage.”

  “What? See a shrink?”

  “I think it might help.”

  “You think I’m mad, don’t you?”

  “Don’t be daft. You’re not remotely mad. You’re just struggling with some very difficult issues, that’s all, and you need a bit of help to deal with them.”

  “There’s no way I’m discussing personal stuff with a stranger. I’ll talk to you.”

  “That won’t work. I’m your sister. I’m involved. I have my own agenda. Honestly, a therapist is the only answer.”

  Victoria bit her bottom lip. “Seeing a shrink feels so weak. All my life I’ve tried to be strong.”

  “Getting therapy isn’t weak. It takes great strength to reach out and admit you need some help. Think about it.”

  “Okay, but I’m not making any promises.”

  “Fine. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “Amy, I just want to say thank you.”

  “What for?”

  “For being so wise.”

  “I’m not sure I’m so wise, but I’m glad to have helped. And thank you, too, for everything you did today. The place looks fabulous.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I love you,” Amy said.

  “I love you, too.”

  They were still holding hands.

  “I was wondering,” Victoria said, gently pulling away, “if I could ask a favor. Sorry I seem to be asking so much of you lately.”

  “Not a problem. Ask away.”

  “Okay, well, you know it’s Arthur’s birthday on Sunday. Simon said we can have it at home as arranged, but I’ve been thinking maybe that’s not such a good idea. I’ve just had a new lawn put down in the back garden, and I’d rather not have kids tramping over it. So I was wondering if we could have it here. After all, your garden’s a complete mess; it wouldn’t make much difference.”

  “SO, WHAT did you say to her?” Sam asked Amy a few hours later over dinner at his place.

  “I agreed to having the party in the garden, but only because I thought I’d challenged her enough for one day and because it’s naive to think she’ll change overnight. It’ll take loads of therapy—that’
s if she’s willing to go.” Amy scooped up another forkful of Sam’s sublime Thai green curry. “God, this is good, but I wish you had let me take you out to dinner. I wanted to say thank you for all your hard work stripping the floorboards, which, by the way, even Victoria thinks look great.”

  “Praise indeed,” he said, topping up her glass. “And as far as cooking goes, I enjoy it. It helps me unwind, so stop feeling guilty. You brought champagne and that fantastic homemade Victoria sponge.”

  “I remembered you said it was your favorite. I had to make it after Charlie went to bed and then hide it. He’d have demolished the lot if I’d let him. But next time we’ll go out. My treat. Agreed?”

  “Okay, if you insist. Agreed.”

  They clinked glasses.

  “So did Victoria mind baby-sitting tonight?”

  Amy shook her head. “She’s got me on party food detail tomorrow. I’m doing the guacamole dip, the snapper and ginger wontons, and the tabbouleh.”

  “God, do kids actually eat that stuff? What happened to sausages on sticks and fondant fancies?”

  “Too much sugar, too much fat, too much gluten … Anyway, the quid pro quo is I have an overnight pass tonight if I want.”

  “And do you want?”

  “Oh, yes. I want very much.”

  “Good.”

  Sam’s flat above his office in Clapham wasn’t quite what she’d been expecting. He had led her not into a chic minimalist, high-tech space but a vast, paint-spattered artist’s studio. There were trestle tables covered in dirty rags, dried-up brushes, and palettes. Dozens of canvases—brightly colored abstracts, some half-finished—were propped up against the walls. One of the first things she’d noticed was the smell of oil paint and turpentine competing with the delicious Thai curry smell coming from the kitchen.