by Sue Margolis
Now we were all laughing.
Scarlett was so quick off the mark these days. Not that she hadn’t always been, but even she would admit that her comedy had come a long way since her early lesbian stand-up days in pubs and clubs. I found myself thinking back to the first time, early on in her career, when Nana, Mum and I went along to support her. I remembered noticing how much her hand was shaking when she walked onto the tiny stage and took the mic off the stand.
“Coming out wasn’t easy,” she’d announced, clearing her throat. “My closet was huge. It had this labyrinth of subterranean tunnels and all these combination locks to undo … At first, I thought I was just bi-curious. I mean, I wasn’t one of those women who know they’re gay because they kick-start their vibrators and roll their own tampons. I just thought, maybe I’d like to sleep with women … Then I did a few one-night stands—you know, kinda lickety-split.”
“What are you? A fucking dyke?” some observant drunk heckled.
“And what are you, mate?” Scarlett shot back. “My alternative?”
The audience clapped and whooped their approval. Scarlett had gotten her first big laugh. She was out of the starter’s gate and away. I remember Nana, me and Mum all high-fiving.
“Fuck you!” yelled the drunk, waving his fist at Scarlett.
“Fuck me?” she said. “Er, I think not. And anyway, you’ll never go back to women.”
More whistling and applause from the audience. Meanwhile, the drunk was manhandled out of the pub, still effing and cursing.
“I’ll let you off,” Scarlett called out after him. “I remember the first time I had a beer.”
By now Scarlett was done with pubs and clubs. These days she was performing at all the big-name stand-up venues and was beginning to be offered spots on late-night TV comedy shows.
While Nana passed around more food, Scarlett asked me how work was going. “That asylum case of yours is starting to hit the headlines.”
“I know. Thank heavens. We need all the publicity we can get.”
I was fighting the extradition of an Iranian civil rights activist, a woman named Nasreen Karimi who had held meetings in Tehran where she had spoken out against the Iranian government, sharia law and forced marriage. Doing this, she had risked the death penalty. What was more—because she had a boyfriend—she had refused to consent to her own arranged marriage. He was now working legally in the UK. When her family found out about her boyfriend, she fled to Britain. She was adamant that had she stayed in Iran her family would have murdered her in an honor killing. The Home Office had shown no interest in her plight—clearly believing her story to be lies—and had turned down her request for asylum.
“We’re calling for a judicial review of the Home Office ruling,” I said, “claiming breach of natural justice on the part of the government. So they can’t deport her for the time being. Meanwhile, I’ve found several Iranian students living over here who knew Nasreen and who have made written statements confirming her civil rights activities. I just hope the Home Office will listen. God knows what she’ll do if we lose. I’m really worried she could take her own life.”
Mum grimaced. “Please can we talk about something else?” she said.
“I’ve been following this case,” Nana piped up. “The way the government is treating this poor young woman is appalling. Something needs to be done. Amnesty or somebody should be organizing a protest.”
I said I thought it might happen now that the case was attracting media interest.
“So, the wedding’s under control?” Mum said, determined to change the subject. “And we’re finally decided on the menu?”
Until a few weeks ago, the menu for the sit-down dinner had been an issue. Nana had been quick to share her vision: to start, melon boats decorated with glacé cherries and cocktail umbrellas, followed by chicken soup with matzo balls. The main course would be poussin—“that’s posh chicken, you know”—and stuffed neck. To finish: cherries jubilee. “Everybody loves it when the waiters come around and set light to them. It’s a bit of a talking point.” It didn’t help that for perverse reasons known only to her, my mother decided that Nana’s menu plan had a charming retro appeal and we should go for it.
The Park Royal, the West End hotel where we were holding the reception, used a caterer called Platters. It was run by a thirtysomething, very on-the-ball guy called Kenny. His surname was actually Green, but the whole family had taken to calling him Kenny Platters. He’d e-mailed us half a dozen or so sample menus, which were a great mix of modern European and Asian dishes. When I spoke to him about the problem we were having with Nana, Kenny laughed, said he’d heard it all before and told us not to worry. He said that since he was organizing a tasting for Josh and me at the hotel—to finalize the menu—why didn’t we bring Nana along, too. “Leave your grandmother to me. Like a lot of elderly people, she’s wary of trying anything she thinks is newfangled, but all she needs is a bit of encouragement.”
Nana never objected to an outing—particularly when it involved eating—so it wasn’t hard persuading her to come to the tasting. “But we’ve decided on the menu, right?” she said. “I mean, the tasting is just to check out the quality of the food.”
“Partly, but Kenny suggested that before we make a final decision, we should try out some of his more contemporary dishes.”
“Contemporary? Ooh, I’m not sure I like the sound of that. I watch all those trendy cookery programs on TV. The things they make, you wouldn’t believe: bacon and egg ice cream, snail porridge, leather-flavored chocolates. I like good, old-fashioned food. My foster mother, Aunty Sylvia, God rest her soul—who took me in when I came to this country—she was a wonderful cook. Her food may have been plain, but it was tasty like you wouldn’t believe. Having said that, she only ever fed the family leftovers. We never found the original meal.”
I admitted that Kenny’s menu might be short on cocktail wieners, fish balls and mini potato latkes. “But what harm can it do, just to try a few new things?”
Nana wasn’t happy, but she agreed to “give it a go.” “I draw the line at raw fish, though. If there’s one thing I don’t do, it’s bait.”
We were due at the Park Royal at midday, so we arranged to pick Nana up an hour before. I knew she would fret if we were late, so we made sure we arrived on the dot of eleven. We pulled up outside Nana’s building to find her waiting on the pavement. I kissed her hello and helped her into the back of the car. She sat down with a loud oomph. “All that standing around isn’t good for my back,” she said.
“But there was no need to wait outside,” Josh said. “We said we’d buzz up when we got here.”
“But I was worried I might be late.”
I watched Josh roll his eyes.
I glared at him as if to say, Hey, take it easy. She’s an old lady. She gets a bit obsessive sometimes. Deal with it.
It troubled me that somebody who was so tuned in to the emotional needs of sick, vulnerable children couldn’t appreciate vulnerability in the elderly.
As he started the engine he looked at Nana in the rearview mirror. “Sorry for being irritable. It’s just that I’ve got a lot on my mind at the moment.”
“You’re a big important specialist. Of course you’ve got a lot on your mind. You don’t have to apologize. I totally understand.”
“Tell you what,” Josh said. “Why don’t we stop off at the drugstore and get you some ibuprofen for your back pain?”
“You sure it won’t react with my proton pump inhibitor?”
“Nope. It’ll be fine.”
“What about my blood pressure pills?”
A jeez from Josh. “Nana, stop worrying. I’m a doctor. I know what I’m talking about.”
When we arrived at the hotel, Kenny Platters greeted Nana first. “So you’re Tallulah’s mother?” he said, shaking her hand.
“Flatterer.” Nana was standing there in her three-quarter-length camel coat and polyester slacks, giggling like a girl and turnin
g ever-so-slightly pink. “I’m her grandmother—Nana Ida.” She elbowed Kenny in the ribs. “So go on. How old do you think I am?”
“Well, my mum’s sixty-five and you look a lot younger than her.”
“I can see that you and I are going to get along,” Nana said to Kenny. “I’m eighty-four years young.”
“No! I don’t believe it.”
“I can show you my free bus pass if you like.”
“Do we really have to go through this charade?” Josh whispered to me.
“Yes. He’s humoring her and she’s lapping it up. Watch and learn.”
As Kenny stepped forward to shake Josh’s hand, Nana turned to me. “Don’t you just love gay men? So charming. And immaculately turned out. Look at that suit he’s wearing. He didn’t get that off the peg, I can tell you.”
Nana had spent years working in the London garment district. If anybody knew her cavalry twill from tweed, Nana did. Apparently Grandpa Joe used to tell this old Jewish joke about a woman walking in the park. A man stops in front of her, opens his raincoat and exposes himself. The woman takes one look and says, “Huh. You call that a lining?” He always said that joke could have been invented for Nana.
I’d met Kenny a couple of times and it hadn’t occurred to me for a second that he was gay, but now I found myself looking at his expensive gray suit with drainpipe trousers, his white shirt and skinny purple tie. What was more, his spiky hair—long sideburns just so—hadn’t been cut anywhere that sported a barber’s pole, other than ironically. Having noted all that, I wasn’t about to stereotype him.
“Just because a man is well dressed,” I whispered to Nana, “doesn’t mean he’s gay.”
“Really? When did you last see a gay man in sandals and socks or a short-sleeved shirt and a tie?”
Point taken. I found myself thinking about the men I’d dated and how none of them had shown much interest in fashion or style. Josh was better than the others, but even he had to be persuaded that a business suit with a backpack slung over one shoulder wasn’t a good look. On the other hand, I rather approved of guys who didn’t obsess about their appearance. I couldn’t imagine living with a man who spent more time in front of the mirror than I did.
As we made our way to our table in the hotel dining room, Nana engaged Kenny in conversation about her acid reflux. “My doctor put me on proton pump inhibitors, but they stop the body absorbing calcium. Now, calcium is very important for the bones, especially when you’re my age. So they put me back on the ranitidine, but it’s not as good.”
“Tell you what,” Kenny Platters said. “My partner, Stewart, his mother sees this wonderful naturopath. Why don’t I text him and get the number? Maybe she could help you.”
“You’d really do that?”
“Of course. No problem.” Kenny pulled out a chair for Nana. Once she had sat down, he unfurled her napkin and arranged it on her lap. That done, he excused himself and said he would be back with some canapés for us to try.
“What a lovely young man,” Nana said, “and see, I was right about him being gay. He’s got a boyfriend.” She began unscrewing the top on a bottle of sparkling water. “You know, I’ve got a feeling this food is going to be wonderful.”
The canapés arrived, arranged on a matte black tray, looking like a painting by Miró. There were angular pieces of sesameginger salmon, a chain of sushi rolls with artful dollops of wasabi and fishcakes arranged alongside scribbles of mustard. Nana perused the tray, nose wrinkled, clearly looking for something that she recognized. “Try this,” Kenny said, placing a lamb chop in a paper napkin and handing it to her. “I call them lamb lollypops. I think you’ll really love them.” She asked if it was coated in anything weird. Once he assured her it wasn’t, she took a bite. We watched as she sat chewing and processing. “Now, that is what lamb used to taste like years ago,” she said. “I might try another of those.” Nana’s taste buds had been titillated. There seemed to be no stopping her. After the lamb, she moved on to the salmon. She even downed two portions of sashimi. “And, Kenny, I’m loving your spicy tuna balls.”
We came away after the tasting, Nana clutching the number of Kenny Platters’s boyfriend’s naturopath and singing the praises of the chicken lemon masala and the halibut in capers. “And as for that lavender crème brûlée,” she said, “it was like angels peeing on your tongue. Who’d have thought you could cook with lavender? What a thing!”
By the time we dropped Nana back at her flat, the menu was decided: vegetable samosas with raita to start, followed by the halibut with capers. For dessert there would be a choice: spiced pear tatin or lavender crème brûlée. “I’ll write it all down, so that I remember. Then I’ll be able to brag to Estelle Brownstein. I bet her granddaughter’s not having lavender crème brûlée.”
When I got home, I recited the menu to Mum. She’d been clamoring for bangers and mash, and apple crumble and custard to follow, on the grounds that everybody loved easy, old-fashioned food, but even she had to admit that Kenny Platters’s menu made her mouth water.
When it came to my wedding dress, there were no arguments. From the get-go, I had taken control. If I hadn’t, there could have been serious problems. Mum would have had me in some freaky, froufrou, Lady Gaga nightmare—making me look like a harlot from the court of Louis Quatorze. Nana would have gone for a diamante-and pearl-studded meringue, making me look like a toilet-roll cover. Since my dress was the one thing I wasn’t prepared to compromise on, I decided that the way around the problem was to insist on paying for it myself. “But you can still help me choose,” I said to Nana Ida, hoping she didn’t feel that I was excluding her.
“No, you go with your sister. You young girls know more about today’s fashions than I do, and you must have exactly what you want.”
What Mum wanted was for me to call this dress-designer friend of hers. “I’m sure he could come up with something really original. He did the costumes for last year’s production of the Rocky Horror Show.”
In the end I went with a wedding dressmaker recommended by Grace. Her name was Erika and she had a studio over a pub in Shoreditch. Grace, who had known her since art college, described her dresses as “classic with a twist.” Erika was just starting to get noticed by the fashion writers, but right now she was still affordable.
Having bought all the bridal mags and made several trips to the posh department stores to get ideas, I’d worked out what I wanted: a fifties-style tea dress—nipped-in bodice, full calf-length skirt. I preferred straps to a sleeve, but since I had failed to cut out carbs and start weight training in order to get rid of my bingo wings, a sleeve would no doubt be required.
Mum had been desperate to come along to the first meeting with Erika, but she couldn’t make it, as the son of her aqua aerobics teacher was getting bar mitzvahed that day.
I have to admit that I was relieved it was only going to be Scarlett, Grace and me.
When we arrived, I showed Erika the rough sketch I’d made. “Wow, this is really going to suit you,” she said. “It’s going to show off all your curves.”
“By that you mean my humungous hooters and great big hips and arse.”
“No, I mean your curves,” she said, laughing. “What are you, a size ten?”
“Actually, I’m an eight.” I turned sideways, looked at myself in the mirror and sucked in my stomach. “I had pasta last night. It always makes me bloat.”
Scarlett was standing next to me in her skinny jeans and little cardi.
“You know,” she said, “as we get older, the two of us are really beginning to look like Mum.”
She was right. We both had her dark hair—although we hadn’t seen it in years, not since she’d started dyeing it bright red. We also had her almond-shaped brown eyes and full lips. Scarlett’s nose was a bit daintier than mine, but Nana always made me feel better by insisting that it would do a blind man good to see it. The other difference between us was that Scarlett had inherited Dad’s skinny frame, while I was hei
r to Mum’s tendency to pork up if I didn’t watch what I ate. If there was one time I’d wanted to throttle my sister it was a few years ago when she said, “I do my best to put on weight, but no matter what I do, I just can’t.”
“You know, I’ve always envied you your figure,” she was saying now.
“Yeah, right. You honestly wish you had my lard arse?”
“You do not have a lard arse. You’re full figured and really feminine. Look at me—I’ve got no tits, no hips. I’m just straight up and down. I look like a thermometer.”
“Good job I fancy thermometers,” Grace said, laughing.
“You’re serious?” I said to Scarlett. “You’re actually jealous of my body?”
“Absolutely.”
“Cool.”
We spent an hour or so looking at swatches of satin, silk chiffon and taffeta. Erika suggested that color-wise I go for ivory because it would look good with my dark skin and hair. We chose silk taffeta for the bodice, which would have a three-quarter-length sleeve. Erika convinced me that this wasn’t because my arms were too fat for straps. She insisted that a sleeve was more in keeping with the style of the dress and would look more elegant. The skirt would be made up of layers of chiffon, with pale, antique-rose taffeta petticoats underneath to fill it out and give just a hint of color.
Erika explained that I would need two, maybe three fittings.
“I know,” Grace said. “Why don’t I come along and photograph you at each one? Pictures of your dress fittings would make a great souvenir. It’ll be my wedding present.”
“But you and Scarlett are already getting us that armchair from Habitat.”
“Tally, it’s no effort. I enjoy taking photographs. And the best ones will go in my portfolio, so this will be as much for me as it is for you.”
Grace took grainy black-and-white shots of me posing in a veil and tiara while wearing nothing but my bra and knickers and high heels. There was a glorious picture of me crying out in agony as Erika accidentally pinned the dress to my rear. I especially loved the photographs of Scarlett and me horsing around wrapped in remnants of chiffon and satin.
