A Catered Affair

by Sue Margolis

  I thought about the future we would never have: No forever house where we would raise our children. No family Christmases or camping in France with our kids and a funny-looking mutt that we’d already decided to call Bert.

  It occurred to me that I could take some small comfort in Josh having dumped me because of his commitment phobia. It meant it was “nothing personal.” I had done nothing wrong. Then why was I starting to think that his leaving was all down to me?

  I started to dwell on my imperfections. I could be confrontational and pedantic. It was the lawyer in me. Perhaps that part of my personality had begun to grate on him. OK, I was reasonably smart, but I had hidden shallows—like my trashy TV and tabloid newspaper habit. Maybe that had driven him away. When I had a lot of work to do, I tended to retreat into myself and become distant. It was an anxiety thing. At other times, I could be self-absorbed. I wasn’t always a good listener. Maybe I’d neglected him.

  I kept replaying scenes from our relationship, looking for clues, hints or telltale signs that he’d wanted out.

  Last summer we’d spent two glorious weeks on Lemnos. Had he been thinking about leaving me then? I thought he was as in love as I was. Each night, after dinner, we would stroll along the beach gazing up at the stars and making plans for our future. One night, we made love behind some rocks, both petrified that we would be discovered and thrown into some hellhole of a Greek jail.

  Did he think about leaving me when he read the Sunday papers and made us Marmite toast for breakfast?

  Worst of all, did he want to leave me when we made love?

  If I’d had to answer these questions a few days ago, it would have seemed like a no-brainer. Now I wasn’t so sure. All I knew for certain was that if Josh had been dropping hints to let me know that he was unhappy, they were far too subtle for me. I also knew that on top of the loneliness and rejection, I was feeling worthless and a failure.

  The daylight faded and I fell asleep again.

  The next day—Tuesday—I phoned Jill at the office to let her know what had happened and to say that I didn’t think I’d be able to make it back to work this week. The poor woman was really choked up.

  “Oh, Tally … what a thing to have happened. Heaven knows how you must be feeling.” She asked me if there was anything I needed. Groceries maybe. “You have to keep your strength up. How about I come round with a nice piece of steak? Red meat’s full of iron. Or what about a chicken? You could roast it and it would do you for a few days.”

  I thanked her but said I didn’t have much of an appetite. “Of course I’ll return the office gift voucher,” I said.

  “What? Don’t you dare! I won’t hear of it, and I’m sure everybody else will agree. For God’s sake, spend it. Buy something to cheer yourself up.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely positive. I don’t want to hear another word.”

  “But I feel so guilty taking it under false pretenses. And it was five hundred quid.”

  “Tally, I mean it. Not another word.”

  “That’s really kind of you,” I said. “Tell George I’ll be back at work as soon as I can. There’s still so much work to do on the Nasreen Karimi case. And I think being in the office will do me good. It’ll take my mind off things.”

  “Speaking of Nasreen,” she said. “The phone hasn’t stopped ringing. All the papers are running articles now.”

  “That’s fantastic, but I left all the news editors my numbers. I wonder why they haven’t contacted me. I really ought to speak to them to make sure they’ve got all their facts straight.”

  “It’s my fault. I’m sorry if I crossed the line, but I told them they weren’t to disturb you because you were on your honeymoon. I thought you deserved a few days off, so I passed them over to George. I knew he was fairly up to speed with the case.”

  “No, that’s fine, Jill. You did the right thing. On second thought, I’m not sure I’m really up to giving newspaper interviews just now.”

  Jill told me to take care. “We’ll all be thinking of you,” she said.

  No sooner had I put the phone down than it started ringing.

  “Tally. Terry here.”

  “Terry.” Did I know a Terry?

  “Terry the builder? We’re due to start work on your flat on Thursday?”

  Oh God. Of course. That Terry. I’d totally forgotten. I hadn’t packed up the kitchen contents. I hadn’t booked a van to move the furniture into storage. I hadn’t even booked a storage unit. Josh and I had been planning to do all that this week. On top of everything, I had nowhere to stay while the work was going on, but I supposed I could always camp out at Mum’s.

  “Terry, I’m so sorry, but I’ve had a few personal problems and I’m not sure I’m going to be ready for you by Thursday.”

  “No worries. The thing is our van got nicked and we won’t be able to make it, either.”

  “No! That’s fantastic … Sorry, I didn’t mean that. Of course it’s not fantastic. It’s dreadful that your van got stolen.”

  “Tell me about it. Me and a mate dropped into the Taj Mahal in Stockwell for a vindaloo and when we come out, there it was—gone.”

  Long story short, Terry and the rest of the gang wouldn’t be able to start work until Monday. That gave me plenty of time to get the place ready.

  It didn’t occur to me to call off the work. Not only was the flat in dire need of a face-lift, but I’d paid Terry a pretty hefty nonrefundable deposit. I also decided that living in a newly refurbished apartment—clearly, I wouldn’t be putting it up for rent now—would be some small consolation after everything that had happened. I’d bought it because it had huge potential and because it was in a great location, just off Camden High Street, but its tatty nylon carpets and embossed wallpaper that a previous owner had covered in white paint—long gone yellow—had depressed me from the moment I moved in.

  In the weeks leading up to the wedding I’d gotten really excited that the work I’d put off doing for so long was actually going to start. When it was finished the place was going to look wonderful. The plan was to knock the living room—which had a fabulous gray marble fireplace and the original wooden shutters—into the kitchen and make it one large living space. I was also going to put in French doors leading to the garden. The new kitchen units were on order. Ditto the white bathroom suite and gray floor tiles.

  I wandered into my beige melamine kitchen and started opening cupboards, trying to work out how many containers I would need. As well as packing up the kitchen contents, I would need boxes for my books and CDs. Then there were all my winter clothes and shoes. It occurred to me that for the first time in two days, I wasn’t thinking about Josh.

  I went online and ordered thirty removal boxes. It seemed like a lot, but when I’d discussed packing up my flat with people at work, everybody said the same—that when they’d moved or put their house contents into storage, they always underestimated how many boxes they needed.

  Afterwards, I rang round various man-and-van-type removal people. Everybody was booked up for Sunday. The only guy who could fit me in was the Wizard of Aus. We agreed on a hundred quid cash.

  By lunchtime I was ready to go back to bed. I had no idea how exhausting misery could be. Once again, I checked if Josh had texted or e-mailed. He hadn’t. Mum, on the other hand, had texted three times and Scarlett twice. Both wanted to know how I was and if they could come over yet. I told them that I needed more time alone.

  I thought about taking a shower, but I couldn’t be bothered. I smelled my pits. I was good for another day.

  On Wednesday morning, I was woken by the buzz of the intercom. I turned over and ignored it on the grounds that it was probably just some delivery bloke wanting to get into the building. Let him try another bell. Eventually, somebody would let him in. The buzzer went a second and a third time. Muttering, I dragged myself out of bed, shuffled to the door and picked up the handset.

  “’Lo.”

  “Tally, it’s Rosie. I
’m worried about you. Let me in?”

  “I want to be on my own.”

  “No, you don’t. Not really. Now, come on. Open up.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Sorry, no can do. I’m staying here until you let me in.”

  “You’re so bossy—d’you know that?”

  “Yep. It’s why you love me. Now, open the door.”

  I pressed the RELEASE button. A few moments later, Rosie was presenting me with a bunch of wildly clashing orange and fuchsia gerberas. “Thought these might cheer you up,” she said.

  “They’re gorgeous,” I said, giving her a hug.

  “So, how you doing? No. Stupid question. Ignore that. You feel like total crap.”

  I managed a smile. “Pretty much.”

  “So have you heard from the bastard?”

  “Uh-uh. All I know from his cousin Napoleon is that he got cold feet and has run away to Edinburgh.”

  “No other woman, then?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “I guess that’s something.”

  We went into the living room and sat down on the sofa.

  “What a coward,” Rosie said. “To leave you at the altar like that. God, I have so had it with men.” She put her arm around me and gave me another squeeze. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too,” I said. “By the way, you looked fabulous on Sunday. I can’t believe you got your figure back so quickly after having Izzy.”

  Rosie gave a half laugh. “It’s all the worry. The amount that Dan gives me in child support is barely enough to pay the bills. I need to go back to work, but I’m just not ready to leave Izzy. She’s so tiny and she’s still breastfeeding.” She paused. “God, you look awful.”

  “Cheers.”

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  “Sunday morning, before my nonwedding. I think I may have nibbled on a pain au chocolat.”

  Rosie got up and headed into the kitchen. “I’m assuming you’ve got eggs and bread?”

  “Yeah,” I said, wandering in after her. “Bread might be covered in blue bits, though. But I’m really not sure I can manage anything.”

  “Well, you have to try. You need to keep your energy up.”

  I managed a smile. “God, now who’s being a Jewish mother?”

  Rosie stuck two slices of dry but blue-bit-free bread in the toaster and took a couple of eggs from the fridge.

  “Fried, scrambled or boiled?”

  “Um—boils, please.” It’s what Scarlett and I used to call them as kids.

  “With Marmite soldiers?”

  “OK, if you’re offering.”

  “Coming up.”

  I put the kettle on for coffee.

  We sat at the kitchen table, Rosie watching me wolf down my breakfast. I had no idea how hungry I was.

  “By the way,” I said, my mouth full of eggy, Marmitey toast, “I slept with my wedding caterer.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “OK, I’m winding you up. It wasn’t quite like that.” I explained how I had done the sleeping (not to mention vomiting) and Kenny had stayed up all night, looking after me.

  “Are you sure he wasn’t hoping to take advantage of a defenseless woman?”

  At this point, I decided not to tell her how I’d propositioned him. Rosie meant well, but being a teacher, she had a tendency to pontificate. I wasn’t up for a finger-wagging lecture on the dangers women faced when they made themselves vulnerable to potentially violent predators.

  “Hello … he held my head while I threw up. Does that sound like he was trying to take advantage?”

  She said that she guessed not. “So he was a bit of a knight in shining armor. You don’t come across too many men like that.”

  I agreed that you didn’t.

  “Right, changing the subject,” Rosie said. “You have to move in with me. No arguments. You can’t stay here on your own—particularly with the builders pulling the place apart.”

  “Rosie, don’t take this the wrong way and don’t think I’m not grateful, but I think I might find it a bit much being around kids and babies just now.”

  “I get that, but where else will you go?”

  “I’d ask Scarlett, but she and Grace have only got one bedroom. So I’ll probably go to Mum’s.”

  “Well, if you’re sure.”

  I said I was. “You know,” I went on, bringing the subject back to Josh, “I wasn’t picking up the slightest vibe from him that he was getting cold feet. I just can’t get over what he did. It was so brutal, and I loved him so much.” I could feel my eyes filling up. “He was just so perfect. Everything about him was perfect. And then this.”

  Rosie looked like she wanted to say something but was holding back.

  “What?” I said.

  She shrugged. “I dunno … Was Josh really so perfect?”

  “He left me on our wedding day, so I guess not.”

  “Aside from that.”

  I asked her what she meant.

  “Well … he could be pretty snotty—often to the point of rudeness—especially with your mum and Nana Ida, and it was clear your nana in particular adored him. It really upset me, seeing that.”

  “I know. It got to me, too, and we did discuss it, but he was always under so much stress at the hospital, and you know how over the top Mum and Nana can be. Sometimes it got too much for him.”

  “Listen to yourself. You’re still making excuses for him. Has it occurred to you that maybe you admired Josh the healer and humanitarian so much that you put him on a pedestal and didn’t see the real man?”

  I shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe.” I wasn’t up for self-analysis right now. Instead I changed the subject and asked Rosie how the writing was going. I knew that her parents were still with her—the renovation work on their ancient barn of a house had hit problems and was taking forever—so she was able to take a bit of time away from Izzy and Ben.

  “Not bad,” she said. “I’ve been putting in a few hours each day. As soon as I’ve finished the chapter I’m working on, I’ll let you see it.”

  I forced my mouth into a smile. “Great. I can’t wait.”

  Rosie said that she had finally shown her work to Mary, the unpublished fiction-in-verse crime-thriller writer. Apparently she’d loved it and described it as “a philosophical allegory for our times.”

  After Rosie left, I sat down with my laptop and got up the prologue to The Sand Collector’s Daughter. I needed to reread it, to reassure myself that I hadn’t made some hideous error of judgment about her writing. I’d just started when the phone rang. It was Scarlett.

  “Hey, how are you?” she said. “We’ve all been so worried about you. Why haven’t you called anyone?”

  “You got a sec? I need to read you something.”

  “Tally, I just asked you a question. Are you OK?”

  “I’m coping, I guess. But there’s something else on my mind right now.”

  “What?”

  “OK—you read proper books. Tell me what you make of this … ‘Common sand is made up mostly of quartz. Quartz. Hard, weather-resistant quartz. Kw-or-tz …’”

  I continued for a couple of minutes until Scarlett interrupted.

  “This is brilliant. Utterly brilliant.”

  “Really? You think so?”

  “Absolutely. It’s a fantastic parody of the literary novel. Where did you find it? You have to Facebook it.”

  “No way. Rosie wrote it. It’s the prologue to her novel. It’s called The Sand Collector’s Daughter and it’s meant to be serious literature.”

  “Stop it.”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “Blimey. OK, you have to tell Rosie the truth before she shows it to somebody who thinks it’s just a joke. It’ll break her heart if that happens.”

  “And it’ll break her heart if I tell her. She’s got no husband, no money and two tiny children. All her hopes are on this book.”

  “I admit that it isn’t going to be easy, but y
ou have to do it.”

  “I know. I can’t keep putting it off.”

  “So, sweetie, come on—how are you?”

  “I dunno. Sleeping a lot.”

  Scarlett said it was only to be expected as I was still in shock. “I take it there’s been no word from Josh.”

  “You take it correctly,” I said.

  “Bastard.”

  “Let me ask you a question,” I said. “Tell me honestly. Do you think I put Josh on a pedestal? Rosie thinks I was so in awe of Josh the doctor that I lost sight of the real person.”

  “OK, if I’m honest, I think that maybe you did look at him through rose-tinted specs. When he got irritable with Nana you’d tell him off, but at the same time you’d make excuses for him.”

  “I guess I didn’t want to see his bad points. I was so blinkered.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. When you’re in love it’s easy to miss the bad stuff.”

  “I get that, but I still feel stupid. Maybe I also missed the signs that he wasn’t over his commitment phobia.”

  “It’s possible there weren’t any signs. I suspect that he kept things bottled up.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And it’s possible you may never get to the bottom of why he really left.”

  “You could be right. I think that’s going to be very hard to come to terms with. But I don’t have much choice.”

  “I know. It’s not going to be easy … So, changing the subject, you and Kenny Platters seemed to have a lot to talk about the other night at the hotel.”

  “You saw us? I thought you went straight home.”

  She said that Nana had left her bag on one of the tables. “I came back to get it.”

  “Yeah, Kenny and I had quite a good chat. Then we slow danced to ‘I’ve Had the Time of My Life.’ I asked him if he would sleep with me. At which point I passed out and he stayed up with me most of the night while I hurled.”

  “Hang on. Could you just go through that again?”

  “Which? The hurling part?”

  “Funnily enough, no. I was more interested in the ‘I asked him to sleep with me’ part.”