A Catered Affair

by Sue Margolis

“That’s impossible,” Nana came back. “You’re going to start throwing up later and you’re going to need somebody with you.”

  “I never get sick when I’m drunk.”

  “Please let me stay,” Rosie said. “Mum and Dad have got the children.”

  I shook my head. “Go home. All of you. I wannabe onmyown.”

  “OK,” Mum said, “but only if you promise not to have another drink and you get room service to send up a gallon of black coffee.”

  “Cack bloffee. I goddit.”

  They wanted to take me up to the penthouse.

  “No, I want to sit here for a bit.”

  “And get maudlin,” Mum said.

  “Absolutely.”

  They agreed to go. “But if you feel ill in the night or you can’t cope,” Scarlett said, “you call me. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  They hovered.

  “I can’t leave you like this,” Rosie said.

  “Yes, you can. Now, go.”

  They exchanged what-should-we-do? glances.

  “Honest, I’ll be fine. It’s what I want.”

  They went.

  I staggered to the nearest table and practically fell onto a chair. I noticed a plate of leftover petits fours. I reached across the table and picked up a ball of green marzipan. Just looking at it made me feel nauseous. I put it down and looked around the room. The waiters were clearing away and stripping the tables now. The guys from the band were sitting drinking Coke or coffee. I sat, idly picking petals off the table centerpiece.

  I was thinking about asking one of the waiters if they could get me some coffee, when—right on cue—Kenny Platters, the caterer, appeared. He was standing over me in his chef’s whites, holding a cup of black coffee.

  “I was on my way home, but before I went I wanted to say how sorry I am for what’s happened. I guess we all know what it’s like to be dumped, but this is in a different league.”

  He sat down and placed the coffee in front of me.

  “Well, at the moment I’m too wasted to be feeling anything.” I hiccuped. “By the way, your chef’s gear suits you. Makes you look very macho.”

  “Thank you. Now, come on, drink some coffee. You look like you could do with it.”

  “But why are you dressed as a chef?” I said, ignoring the coffee. “Caterers don’t cook. They just supervise.”

  “Not me. Nothing goes out of my kitchen that I haven’t had a hand in preparing.”

  “Goo’ fer you. I’m sure the food was wunnerful, but I couldn’t get anything down.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  I took a couple of sips of the coffee. I think I may have belched. One of the waitresses came over and handed Kenny a large Scotch. He thanked her. “My end-of-work treat,” he said to me. “Helps me unwind.” He took a slug.

  “Hope you’re not driving home.”

  “Uh-uh. I always get a cab.”

  “Sensible chap.”

  “Have some more coffee.”

  “Don’t want it,” I said. “Tastes bitter. I got a better idea. Let’s dance.”

  “Dance?”

  “Yes. I can’t face going to bed.”

  “But the band is packing up.”

  I shouted across the room: “Hey, band people!”

  They looked up.

  “One more song, if you please.”

  “She’s a bit worse for wear,” Kenny called out to the band. “I’m not sure she’ll take no for an answer.”

  “OK,” somebody said. “What’ll it be?”

  “Wha’jew ushally play at the end of weddings?”

  “ ‘I’ve Had the Time of My Life.’”

  “Fabulous.” I stood up. “Take it away! Come on, Kenny, let’s you and me do some dirty dancing.”

  The band returned to their instruments. Wires were plugged in. There was lots of screeching and feedback and tapping of mikes.

  “You sure you want to dance to that song?” Kenny said.

  “Absolutely. Cos the truth is that up ’til now, I have had the time of my life. Even though it’s all bloody over now.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it’s not over.” He downed some more of his Scotch and led me onto the dance floor.

  The female singer started up. I laid my head on Kenny’s shoulder—for no other reason than it was starting to get too heavy for my neck. We didn’t so much dance as shuffle around the dance floor, me letting out the occasional hiccup.

  “Jew know that me and my family all call you Kenny Platters?”

  He smiled. “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah. It’s because your business is called Platters. And you’re Kenny. So we call you Kenny Platters. Geddit?”

  “I think so.”

  “So will Stewart be waiting for you when you get home?”

  “Stewart? No, he lives in Manchester.”

  “Really? Huh. Can’t be eashy. Long-distance relationships can be hard work.”

  “But Stew and I aren’t in a relationship.”

  “Don’t tell me … he dumped you.”

  “What? No, I didn’t get dumped.”

  “So, you dumped him. Good fer you. Whad he do? Discover he was straight? Cheat on you with another guy?”

  “No. None of the above. Stew and I have never been in a relationship.”

  “But you said he was your partner.”

  “He is. Stew is my business partner. He runs Platters Manchester.”

  “Oops.” I started giggling. “Sho you’re not gay, then?”

  “No.”

  “Nana was certain you were because you dress so well. She reckons straight men don’t have a clue how to dress.”

  “I’m not sure that’s entirely true.”

  “So … Kenny.” Hiccup.

  “Yes.”

  “You know how you’re not gay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I was wondering …”

  “What?”

  I blinked. “I’ve forgotten. I’ve forgotten what I was wondering. Isn’t that funny?”

  Kenny agreed that it was.

  “Oh, I know what I was going to say. Yeah. So is there a Mrs. Kenny Platters?”

  “Nope.”

  “K. So you seeing anybody?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Brilliant. You see, I was thinking that since you’re not bad-looking …”

  “Thank you.”

  “In fact, has anybody ever told you that you look a bit like Micky Bubble?”

  “No, they haven’t. And Micky Bubble would be … ?”

  “Micky Bubble is Micky Bubble. How can you not have heard of him? He’s that shinger. Ver’ famouse. My nana loves him.”

  “Do you mean Michael Bublé?”

  “Thassit. Micky Booblaay … Anyhow, as I was saying—since you’re not bad-looking and this is my wedding night … would you sleep with me?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Would you sleep with me? I just feel that a bride should do the deed on her wedding night, even if it’s not with her beloved.”

  “I see.”

  “I’ve got the penthouse suite. It’s all paid for.”

  I never got to hear Kenny’s decision because just then everything faded to black.

  The next morning, as I started to come around, I was aware of being in a bed that wasn’t my own. It took a moment to work out that I was in the penthouse suite at the Park Royal. I lifted the duvet and saw that I was still in my wedding dress, minus my shoes.

  The pain of the previous day’s events hit me like a wrecker’s ball. Josh had left me. I was alone in the world with nobody to love or to love me back. I tried to force myself back to sleep. That way I wouldn’t have to face the day. I wanted to sleep forever, but I couldn’t because every time I closed my eyes the pain in my head seemed to get worse. It felt like my skull was trapped in a vice. Then there was the desperate thirst.

  “Oh God. Everything hurts.”

  “It will after w
hat you put away last night.”

  The man’s voice made me jump.

  “Who’s that?” I looked around, trying to see where the voice had come from.

  “It’s me, Kenny. Over here.”

  He was lying on the sofa in the window, still in his chef’s whites.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, practically leaping off the sofa. “If you need to hurl again, I’ll get the ice bucket.”

  “Again? How many times have I been sick?”

  “I dunno. Four. Maybe five.”

  “Into an ice bucket?”

  “It’s all I could find.”

  “And you stayed with me all night. While I was chucking up?”

  “There was no way I could have left you alone, not in that state.”

  “How did I get here? The last thing I remember we were dancing.”

  “Me and one of the waiters helped you up here. You sang all the way up in the lift.”

  “What did I sing?”

  “ ‘Like a Virgin.’ ”

  “Oh my God.”

  He came and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Oh, by the way, I think you should have this.” He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out my engagement ring.

  I frowned a question.

  “You threw it against the wall. I think it was while you were being sick for the third time.”

  I took it from him. My beautiful engagement ring. I would send it back to Josh.

  By now, bits and pieces of our conversation from last night were coming back to me.

  “I’m sorry—I really made a tit of myself last night. If I embarrassed you in any way, I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t.”

  It was then that I was hit with a memory so excruciating that I wanted the Park Royal’s solid oak floorboards to swallow me up. “Yes, I did. Omigod. I asked you to sleep with me.”

  “I think at one stage you may have mentioned it vaguely.”

  “Stop trying to let me off the hook. We both know there was nothing vague about it. I tried to get you into bed. So did you? I mean—did we?”

  “What? No. Of course not. I would never take advantage of a woman, and particularly not one who’s pissed out of her skull. And even if I’d wanted to—apart from when you were vomiting—you’ve been pretty much unconscious for nine hours.”

  “Point taken,” I said. “I apologize for even suggesting it. Kenny, I’m so sorry to have put you through all this. Thank you so much for looking after me. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  “I’d like to say it was a pleasure, but …”

  “I don’t know how I’m ever going to be able to make this up to you.”

  “You don’t have to make anything up to me. I’m just glad you’re OK. For the record, I’ve got some idea of what you’re going through. My girlfriend dumped me six weeks ago. We’d been going out for over a year.”

  “Oh, Kenny, I’m sorry.”

  “That’s OK. I just wanted to say that the next few weeks are going to be difficult. You need to be kind to yourself. Don’t push things too hard.”

  “Thanks, Kenny. I’ll do my best.”

  “By the way,” he said, smiling now. “You ought to know that you have vomit in your hair.”

  “Fabulous. Boy, I must stink.”

  “Don’t worry, I found I got used to it after a while. It’s like when you’re in a farmyard. You stop smelling the …”

  “Yeah. Thanks. I get the picture.”

  I pushed back the duvet and stood up. Even after nine hours’ sleep, I still felt a bit drunk. I felt myself sway and wobble. I grabbed hold of the nightstand and sat back down on the bed.

  “Tally, I’m not sure you should be going home on your own. Look at you—you can’t even stand up.”

  He suggested we get a cab to my flat. “At least then I’ll know that you’ve got home safely.”

  I said he’d already done more than enough. “I’ll be fine on my own. Honest. Please don’t worry.”

  “OK, well, I guess I should be getting home. I need to shower and change and get to work. I’m doing a celebrity baby shower later in the week and I need a vat of baby poop.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry. What I meant to say is that I need to make a vat of baby poop. It’s not real. It’s melted chocolate. You spread it on Pampers. The mother-to-be hands them around to her guests like canapés, and the fun part is licking off the ‘poop.’ ”

  “Well, if you ask me, that’s a crap idea. Please tell me you didn’t invent it.”

  “Er, no. But it’s all the rage. The moms seem to love it. The problem is I can’t seem to get the consistency of the poop right.”

  I wished him luck. “Kenny—thanks again for staying with me. It was such a sweet gesture. I won’t forget it.”

  “Anytime,” he said. He went back to the sofa and started putting on his trainers.

  “I’d give you a thank-you kiss,” I said when he’d finished, “but since I stink of vomit, maybe that’s not such a good idea.”

  He came over and kissed me on the cheek. “Bye, Tally. Promise me you’ll hang in there.”

  “I’ll try. See you, Kenny Platters.”

  “See you.”

  “And good luck again, making your poop.”

  Chapter 7

  After Kenny Platters left, I took a shower and got changed. My wedding dress lay in a heap on the bedroom floor. I couldn’t bear to look at it. My instinct was to rip the thing apart. Or maybe I would do something even more melodramatic like take it home and burn it. In the garden. At night. On a magnificent funeral pyre that I would construct. Once the flames got going, I would throw on all the gifts—clothes, books, CDs, jewelry—that Josh had ever bought me. Their cremation would rid my heart of Dr. Josh Eisner forever. At least that’s what I told myself.

  The truth was that although I wanted to do away with my wedding dress, I couldn’t destroy something so beautiful. In the end, I decided to abandon it. I laid it on the bed, along with my pretty feather hat. Then I scribbled a note, which I left poking out of one of the dress sleeves: Please take. Wedding canceled due to lack of interest on part of groom. PS—Could do with a dry clean. Maybe one of the chambermaids would flog it on eBay and make a few quid.

  While I waited for a minicab in the hotel reception, I texted Mum, Scarlett and Rosie to say that I was OK and on my way home. I asked them not to call round because I needed some time alone to lick my wounds. I would have texted Nana, but she didn’t own a cell phone. I could have called, but I wasn’t up to speaking to anybody. I knew Mum would call and let her know that she’d heard from me.

  When I got home I disconnected the landline. All I wanted to do was sleep, but there was one more job I had to do first. I had to return my engagement ring. I knew that most of my women friends would disapprove of me sending it back. Rosie in particular would be up in arms. I could hear her now: Bloody hell, Tally, that ring cost over a grand. Why on earth didn’t you sell it? At least then you’d have got some compensation for what the bastard did to you.

  The argument made sense, but the last thing I wanted was compensation. And even if I had, a thousand quid wasn’t going to cut it. No, returning the ring seemed far more dignified.

  I went in search of a padded envelope. I found one in the kitchen drawer where I kept the takeaway menus, bits of old string, and instructions for Ikea furniture that had been built years ago and I didn’t even own anymore. The envelope was used but perfectly serviceable. I wrapped the engagement ring in paper towels and slipped it inside. I decided not to send it by post, as even special deliveries went missing these days. Instead I called a courier company. Since Josh was in Scotland, I decided to send it to Andy, his best man. I knew his address because he shared a flat with one of my girlfriends.

  I wrote my second note of the morning. This one said simply: Please see that Josh gets this. Thanks, T. Then it hit me that the wedding presents needed to be returned. They were in the spare room in
Josh’s flat. All the items we’d put on the wedding list, the Habitat china, glassware, cutlery, the Alessi kettle, the retro Dualit toaster, were in boxes on the floor. You could hardly get into the room it was so full. It also occurred to me that I’d left some clothes there. For some reason I thought that it was my responsibility to send back the presents. After all, traditionally, it’s the bride who writes the thank-you notes. But even though I had a key and I knew that Josh wasn’t there, I couldn’t face being anywhere near Josh’s flat. It would be far too painful. He could deal with the presents. It was the least he could do. I would manage without the clothes.

  Twenty minutes later, my beautiful square-cut diamond solitaire engagement ring that I’d loved so much was being collected by a bloke in motorcycle leathers. I handed him the envelope. He gave me a form to sign. “Need a pen, love?” I did. I scrawled my name. He took the top sheet and left me with the copy.

  “Cheers,” he said. He pulled down his helmet visor and left. I stood in the doorway, looking down at the piece of paper. I didn’t cry—at least not then. I was too numb.

  I took a couple of ibuprofen for my hangover headache and crawled into bed. I fell asleep almost at once. I was woken by the hot midafternoon sun. Once again, my new reality hit me with a punch that left me reeling. I had never felt so alone. I spent the next few hours sobbing on and off. I’d loved Josh so much. I still loved him. I knew that if he walked through the door now and said he’d made a huge mistake, I would fall into his arms, forgive him and take him back. Once or twice I got up to see if he’d left a voice message or texted. He hadn’t. The only texts I had were from Scarlett, Rosie and Mum. They all said how much they loved me and were thinking of me. There was also one from Kenny Platters. He wanted to know if I’d got back OK. He was such a sweet guy. I texted everybody else to say that I loved them, too, and that I would be in touch soon. I sent a message to Kenny letting him know that I was home and safe. I thanked him again for last night. It occurred to me that I really ought to send him something. A bottle of posh Scotch maybe.

  Afterwards I made a cup of tea and took it back to bed. I sat with my back against the pillows, sipping and ruminating.

  I ached for the intimacy I’d had with Josh. Not just the sex—the other stuff we’d shared: the inside jokes, our daft vocabulary of made-up words that only we understood. Who else but us called a bill a William, or referred to Woody Allen as Wooden, on the grounds that Woody was overly familiar?