A Catered Affair

by Sue Margolis

  “I read law books all day. At night, I like trashy. It relaxes me. OK, so where has the sand come from?”

  “The father has collected it from beaches all over the world and stored it in tiny glass bottles, which the daughter finds.”

  “So what’s the plot?”

  “There isn’t one, really. I’d say the book focuses mainly on style, psychological depth and character.”

  “O-K, but by the time you reach the end, something has to have changed.”

  “The changes happen internally. The daughter finds out stuff about her father and her feelings towards him change.”

  “Huh.”

  “OK, I know it’s not your thing, but what do you think?”

  At high school, I’d always found literary fiction hard. In my final year we did William Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury. I would read three pages and then put on The Cosby Show for some light relief.

  “Well, it sounds like the kind of thing I might struggle with,” I said, “so I’m thinking it might have real possibilities.”

  “You do?”

  “Absolutely. But, Rosie, I’m no expert. You might as well ask Joey from Friends.”

  “Oh, behave. I remember you saying that in your final exams at high school, you got an A in English lit.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Look, I’ve written the first chapter. I haven’t let anybody read it—not even my tutor. How would you feel about me e-mailing it to you? I’d really appreciate some feedback.”

  “Well, if you trust my judgment, I’d love to read it.”

  “I’m thinking I should write three or four chapters and then send them off to an agent.”

  “Great idea,” I said.

  The oven pinged and I went to dish up the risotto. Rosie wolfed it down—and the tiramisu. She followed this with cheese and biscuits and half a packet of Jammie Dodgers. “The thing about breastfeeding is it makes you so hungry,” she said, getting up and saying she was sure she had a bar of Dairy Milk in the fridge.

  No sooner had we finished coffee than Izzy woke again, screaming. Rosie breastfed her. I could tell from Rosie’s face how painful it was, but afterwards, she said the swelling had eased. Of course it took another hour to calm the baby and get her settled again. I was tired, but Rosie was utterly exhausted, and I couldn’t leave her to do it alone.

  It was after midnight when I got back to my flat. I got undressed, put on my bathrobe and went to check my phone messages and e-mail. There was nothing—just an e-mail from Rosie with an attachment entitled “Novel.” Even though it was late and I was knackered, I was also curious. I couldn’t resist taking a quick peek.

  The Sand Collector’s Daughter—A Novel

  Prologue

  Common sand is made up mostly of quartz. Quartz. Hard, weather-resistant quartz. Kw-or-tz. Had he liked the sound it made? In Czech it was “kremen.” In Hungarian it was “kvarc,” like the cheese. Some of his rarer sands contained coral and tiny fragments of shell. They stood, samples from all over the world, in jars. Little parts of Khao Lak, White Bay and Coney Island. They were his memories: shards of things confined to cold glass casings.

  My father was made on Cornish, calcareous sand. His mother, my grandmother, lay down, before the Great War, skirts billowing in the keen, salty westerly. While cumulus and nimbus raced overhead, her mariner weighed anchor between her thighs …

  Blimey. I carried on to the end of the chapter, looking for some sign that this was a joke or parody. But it wasn’t. There was no pastiche intended. This was supposed to be serious literary fiction. It reminded me of the pretentious, grandiose stuff Cod used to write when we were at university.

  This was the first example I’d seen of Rosie’s writing. I’d always assumed that because she had such a passion and feel for literature, writing would come naturally. Wrong.

  I was starting to panic. When Rosie asked me what I thought, what on earth was I going to say? I could hardly tell her it stank. On the other hand, we were so close. Rosie was like a second sister. I couldn’t be dishonest. On the third hand, her husband had left her, she’d just had a baby and she was in postpartum hell. There was no way I was about to destroy the one hope that was keeping her going.

  The following morning, Rosie called me just as I was heading out to go shopping. “I just wanted to say thanks again for last night. The cabbage really helped. My boobs are feeling a lot more comfortable.”

  “Thank heavens for that, but you must still go to the doctor. And don’t forget to put in an order at the supermarket.”

  “Has anybody ever told you that one of these days, you are going to make a wonderful Jewish mother?”

  “Hey, Rosie, I read your prologue,” I blurted. I had to say something—offer an opinion—but I could hardly tell her what I really thought.

  “But I only just sent it.”

  “I couldn’t wait. I read it when I got in.”

  “So what do you think? I’ve never been one to toot my own horn, but after what Mary, my tutor, said about my other stuff, I’m starting to think I could become a professional writer. I mean, suppose I had a bestseller on my hands and I made enough money so that I could stay at home with Ben and Izzy instead of going back to work?”

  “That would be amazing,” I said. “So, this tutor of yours—is she published?”

  “Not yet, but she’s been working on her novel for years, and it sounds terrific.”

  “What genre?”

  “Fiction in verse. She’s writing this crime thriller, which is all in blank verse. Apparently there’s a real gap in the market.”

  “Who’d have thought? … Well, getting back to The Sand Collector’s Daughter, you’ve definitely got something. I was blown away.”

  “You were? Omigod. You don’t know what it means to me to hear you say that.”

  Josh’s plane got into Heathrow just after eight that evening. He came towards me, pushing his trolley. His shirt was crumpled and half out of his jeans. His hair was flat on one side from having his pillow pressed against the cabin window. I couldn’t help thinking how boyishly cute and sexy he looked.

  “I know it’s only been five days,” he said as we kissed and hugged hello, “but I’ve really missed you.” He smelled of airplane interior. Before I knew it, he was giving me this full-on snog, making me feel horny right in the middle of the Terminal 3 arrivals lounge.

  “I’ve missed this,” I said as we pulled away.

  “Me, too,” he said. “But I tell you what I want at this moment, even more than sex—breakfast.”

  “At eight in the evening?”

  He nodded. His stomach was still on Aussie time.

  We stopped off at the Blue Tomato in Chiswick. I ordered a spag bol, while Josh requested the all-day English breakfast: bacon, sausage, eggs, beans, black pudding, white toast, jam, OJ and coffee.

  “So, come on,” Josh said, prodding his cappuccino foam, “how did your mum react when you told her we were getting married?”

  “Well, she’s offered to pay for the wedding.”

  His face broke into an astonished smile. “You’re kidding.”

  “Uh-uh. She’s really trying, Josh, honest. I’ve said it before. Her problem isn’t with you. It’s all about the issues she had with my dad. I think it’s what shrinks call transference. She’ll come around. And if you could meet her halfway—you know, maybe make a bit more of an effort with her … Show an interest when she shares bits of showbiz gossip.”

  “What? Like Frank Sinatra’s toupee is being secretly auctioned?”

  “Josh, it’s a bit of fun, and it’s her world.”

  “You’re right. I can be a bit distant, but it’s only because I’ve always got my mind on work. I promise to try harder.”

  “Thank you. That means so much to me.” For a few seconds our eyes locked. “Josh, I am so in love with you.”

  “Ditto,” he said, just as our food arrived.

  “By the way, changing the subject, I
’ve been looking at more wedding venues.” I told him that I’d bookmarked a few places I would show him after he’d had a sleep.

  “Show me now if you like.”

  “But you’ve just got off a long-haul flight.”

  He insisted, so I reached for my bag and took out my laptop. “There are a couple of gastro-pubs that could be perfect.”

  We spent the next few minutes looking at the venues I’d picked out and Googling others. Three were definite maybes. We decided that we should have dinner at each of them to test out the food.

  Josh finished his fry-up and ordered a second round of toast. “You know,” he said, looking thoughtful, “you and I have come such a long way.”

  “We have, but you’ve done all the work, getting over your issues with your dad.”

  Josh had been eight when his dad walked out on his mother and his two younger siblings. By the time he reached his late teens, he was obsessed with the notion that his dad’s ability to abandon his wife and family could be somehow inherited. Even though he knew the fear was irrational, it took hold. Josh assumed he was his father reincarnated and walked out on relationships the moment they looked like they were getting serious. He reasoned that it was kinder to walk away early on, rather than wait until they were married with kids.

  Then he met me—at my law firm’s Christmas party. The firm did a lot of pro bono work for charities. Josh was there representing a child cancer charity. I hadn’t long finished with my last boyfriend and was feeling a bit lost—particularly with the holidays coming up. I don’t want that to sound like I was desperate and out to capture anything in pants—although some festive sex would have been nice.

  We bonded over wasabi peas. I’d been standing at the bar, pigging out on the peas because I’d been in court all day and had hardly eaten, when the bowl went flying and most of the peas ended up in Josh’s beer. I was full of apologies, but he seemed more amused than put out. He got us both fresh drinks and we started chatting. I was drawn to his intelligence, his compassion—oh, and his sexy chestnut brown eyes. I guess the attraction was mutual because at the end of the evening he asked me out. We started dating and pretty soon we were an item.

  A few months later, we knew we were in love. A year down the line, I was dropping so-where-do-we-go-from-here hints about marriage. But Josh made it clear that he was fine with things as they were. Marriage wasn’t up for discussion.

  Towards the end of our second year together, I realized that the situation wasn’t working for me. I wanted us to get married or at least start living together. I was thirty-three and I was ready.

  Rosie and Scarlett registered their concern about me being involved with a serial noncommitter and the heartache it might cause. “You must take control,” Rosie had said. “It’s been two years. Tell him you either set a wedding date now or you’re off.” I told her that I couldn’t just walk away from the person I loved. I would give him a few more months.

  When nothing changed and he refused to go for counseling, maintaining that he was capable of working on his issues on his own, I realized that I had allowed him to procrastinate long enough. By now I was struggling with his lack of commitment. It was make-or-break time. I needed him to make up his mind, particularly as I wanted to start a family. I knew Josh did, too, although he wasn’t clear about when. He talked about “some time in the future” and “one day.” If I waited until thirty-five to get pregnant I’d be officially classified as a geriatric primigravida. What were you after forty? Decayed? Putrified?

  One evening after work—having spent the day psyching myself up—I arrived unannounced at Josh’s flat and said that we needed to talk. We sat on the sofa, and I held his hand and told him how much I loved him and wanted to be with him. “The bottom line is,” I said, “do you want to be with me?”

  “But I am with you.”

  “I mean as in marriage or living together.”

  “You know that scares me.”

  “Yes, but maybe it’s time you faced the fear.”

  He said he needed time to think.

  “How much time?”

  “Give me a week.”

  Five days later, he phoned and asked me to dinner. “There’s something I want to ask you.”

  I agreed to meet him. It occurred to me that he was going to ask me to marry him, but I refused to get my hopes up.

  He picked me up that night, and we drove into town. “Omigod. Petrus,” I said as we pulled up outside the restaurant. Right now my hopes of a proposal were soaring. Josh loathed posh restaurants—unlike me, who adored them—and I could think of only one reason why he had brought me here.

  I should say that Josh’s antipathy towards fancy, Michelin-starred restaurants had nothing to do with his being cheap. Nor did he feel intimidated by them. They simply bored him. He didn’t get what all the fuss was about. His appreciation of the exotic gastronomic arts extended to pizza, curry and Chinese. Left to his own devices he was happy to live on nursery food: bangers and mash, shepherd’s pie, spag bol. The way he saw it, food was fuel. He ate to live, not the other way round. He just hated what he saw as all the pomp and pretense. I took the point. I had no time for men who took you out to dinner and spent the entire evening going on about the provenance of the goat cheese and the Cabernet’s soft mouthfeel. On the other hand, I loved good food—even though I was a pretty hopeless cook—and once in a while, I enjoyed sharing a bottle of decent wine and eating from a menu that didn’t have pictures. It seemed that tonight we were about to do just that.

  After we sat down, Josh ordered champagne. Then, knock me down with a Gordon Ramsay spun-sugar halo, if he didn’t present me with the most exquisite solitaire engagement ring. “Tally, will you marry me?”

  “Hey, that sort of rhymes, doesn’t it?” I said, avoiding the question.

  “So will you?”

  I looked at him. “Josh, are you absolutely, one hundred percent sure about this?”

  “The last few days, I’ve done nothing but think about us, and I don’t want to lose you. So in answer to your question—I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”

  “Honestly.”

  “Honestly.”

  I felt my face become one huge grin. “OK, then yes, I’ll marry you. How’s June looking for you? I know it’s only six months away, but …”

  “June is looking perfect.”

  I held out my hand and let him slip the ring onto my finger.

  The evening after Josh got back from Sydney, we had dinner at my flat. We’d just finished eating when Mum called to say she was on her way back from her aqua aerobics class and could she pop in. She seemed delighted when I told her Josh was with me.

  The moment she saw him, she kissed and hugged him and said how happy she was that he was going to be her son-in-law.

  “I even got you a present,” she said, “which is why I’m here.” She handed him a shiny silver gift bag.

  “Shelley, you didn’t have to do that.”

  “Mum, that is so sweet.” Aw, she’d taken our conversation to heart and she really was trying to make an effort with Josh.

  “It’s nothing much,” she said. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I was passing this vintage clothing shop in my lunch hour and I saw it in the window. It’s just a bit of fun.”

  He opened the bag and pulled out a bright red shirt covered in tiny clowns. Josh, who was strictly a Gant-denim-shirt-andchinos kind of a guy, clearly wasn’t sure what to say. He cleared his throat. “Wow … It’s very bright … and clowns … Well, it’s certainly unusual …”

  Mum’s crest couldn’t have fallen any further. “The clowns were the whole point. I thought you could wear it for work.”

  “For work?”

  “Yes. I thought the children might like it—especially the little ones. I saw it as a bit of a conversation piece—something to distract them from all the tubes and needles.”

  “You know what,” he said, holding the shirt against him, “it’s a brilliant i
dea, but I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be way too small for me.” The relief on his face was obvious.

  “Oh, well,” Mum said. “It was just a thought.”

  “No, it was a great idea,” I said. “I’m just not sure it’s quite Josh’s style.” I felt the need to relieve the tension. “Mum, how’s about we pop down the road to the wine bar and have a glass of something?”

  She said she had a pile of chores to do before bed and didn’t have time. She said good night to Josh, who had the manners to thank her again for the shirt. Then I walked her to her car.

  After I’d waved Mum off, I went back inside. Josh was watching the TV news.

  “You could have been a bit more diplomatic,” I said. “She’s trying to bond with you.”

  “Yes, by getting me some ridiculous comedy shirt that makes me look like I trained under Dr. Seuss.”

  “Well, get you.”

  Just then the phone rang. Josh was nearest, so he picked up. I muted the TV.

  “Hi, Nana … Well, I’m glad you’re going to be my nanain-law, too. Yes, Tally and I are both very happy. You want to do what to celebrate? … Take us all to see Micky Bubble at the O2 and then out to dinner?”

  I burst out laughing. “She means Michael Bublé,” I whispered.

  He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “No way. This isn’t happening. Have you actually heard his version of ‘I’m Your Man’? I’m going to tell her I’m busy.”

  “Don’t you dare! My family is trying to make nice. Stop being difficult. You are so coming.”

  He screwed up his face at me. “OK, Nana—Tally and I would absolutely love to see Micky Bubble.”

  Chapter 3

  A month before the wedding …

  I could hear Josh telling me to wake up. “I come bearing tabloid trash,” he said. “Oh, this is right up your street: ‘Billionaire Wills His Fortune to Imaginary Friend.’ And according to the Sunday Star … fish communicate by farting.”

  I was still half-asleep in Josh’s bed, head under the duvet. “Ver’ funny,” I said regarding the newspaper headlines. “Wha’ time is it?”

  “Past nine.”