A Catered Affair

by Sue Margolis

  “If I could possibly get a word in. I am not going out with Kenny. This is Scarlett getting hold of the wrong end of the stick. The two of us just hang out together. We’re friends—that’s all.”

  Just then Kenny appeared, dripping wet. The only thing covering his modesty was a tea towel. His hand was behind his back, clearly gripping the towel in an attempt to hide the gape. “Tally, this was all I could find in the airing cupboard. Don’t suppose you’ve got a bath towel in one of those boxes.” It was only then that he noticed Nana and Mum.

  “Ah. Morning all.” I could see he didn’t know where to put himself or what his next move should be. He nodded at Nana and Mum. “Hope you’re both well.”

  “Not dating, eh?” Nana said to me, her face one huge grin. “If you say so, darling.”

  “Hello, Kenny,” Mum said. “So, how’s business?”

  “Mustn’t grumble,” Kenny said. He looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him. I wanted to scream at Nana and Mum that they’d got it all wrong. Instead I tried to “normalize” the moment—to pretend that there was nothing odd about me, Nana and Mum standing in my hall with my half-naked wedding caterer.

  “Kenny,” I said, “you remember my mum and Nana Ida.”

  “Of course. You’ll forgive me if I don’t shake hands.”

  “I think that would be for the best,” Mum said, smiling.

  “Ooh,” Nana said to Kenny. “Tell Stewart I’ve finally made an appointment with his mother’s alternative therapist.”

  “Excellent. He’ll be pleased.”

  “And your aunty Pearl? How’s she? Lovely woman. Give her my regards.”

  “Will do.”

  Mum grabbed Nana’s arm. “Come on, Mum. Let’s give these two some privacy. We said we’d be at the hospital at half past eleven. Bye, Tally. I’ll call you during the week. Good to see you again, Kenny.”

  “You, too,” Kenny said.

  “Cheerio,” Nana said, giving us both a smile and a wink. “And I’m loving the tea towel.”

  Suddenly everybody’s eyes were on Kenny’s nether regions. It seemed that Nana was the only one to notice that Kenny was wearing a souvenir tea towel covered in images of London landmarks. Written under the image that actually covered the relevant area were the words BIG BEN.

  Mum opened the front door and practically shoved Nana out of the flat.

  “Bloody hell, Tally, you didn’t tell me your mother and nana Ida were coming.”

  “That’s because I didn’t know. I’m really sorry. There wasn’t time to warn you.”

  “So now they think that we’re …”

  “Yes, but don’t worry. They might take a bit of convincing, but I’ll set them straight.”

  I went rummaging in one of the removal boxes for bath towels. I handed him two, and he disappeared into the bathroom. A few minutes later the Ikea van arrived with my furniture and Rosie arrived with the most beautiful bunch of flowers.

  I introduced Kenny and Rosie and left them to get acquainted while I went out to get cappuccinos and bacon sandwiches to keep us going.

  When I got back they were in the living room. Kenny was sitting on the floor unpacking my new coffee table. Rosie was sitting on my new white sofa, arms folded across her chest.

  “I can’t believe you hated The Piano,” she was saying. “It’s one of my all-time favorite films. Not only is it an epic work of searing emotional intensity and brooding sensuality; it’s a hugely important feminist commentary. That scene where the husband chops off Holly Hunter’s finger so that she can’t play the piano again is momentous. At that moment he is cutting off all her power—her penis, if you will.”

  “I have to confess I didn’t get that far. To me it just seemed pretentious and dull. Tally fell asleep after about ten minutes. I held out for a bit longer, but in the end I turned it off and watched the soccer.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” Rosie was getting quite irate by now. “You gave up on The Piano to watch soccer? How could you do that?”

  “I have to say, it wasn’t hard.”

  “But how could you not appreciate its visual beauty, the poetry of expression told in the form of off-center melodrama.”

  “I’m sorry. I have no idea what that last bit means.”

  “It’s perfectly clear. How can you not understand?”

  Oh, great. This was going well. “Hey, you guys—breakfast’s here,” I said, heading into the kitchen. “Come and get it.”

  We each took one of my new bar stools—which had arrived already assembled. I tried to keep the conversation light.

  “Did I tell you, Kenny, that Rosie had a baby a few months ago?”

  “You did. Actually, my sister just had her third at Christmas. She wanted a home birth, but my brother-in-law put his foot down—quite rightly, I think.”

  “Why quite rightly?” Rosie shot back. “I’ve given birth twice—both times in hospital because my blood pressure went up while I was pregnant, but given the choice I would have opted for home deliveries. It’s so much more relaxed to be at home around your own things.”

  “But what if something goes wrong?” Kenny said.

  “You see, this is what the medicalization of childbirth has done—turned it into an illness. Most births don’t go wrong.”

  “OK, but what if something did go wrong and you couldn’t get to the hospital in time and the baby died or was brain damaged? Could you live with yourself?”

  “You have to trust your midwife to pick up problems early on.”

  “But suppose she doesn’t? Is there no such thing as an incompetent midwife?”

  “There is, and you get plenty of them in hospitals, believe me.”

  “Lovely bacon,” I said. “Really crispy. And the fried eggs are nice and runny in the middle.”

  By now I was thinking that it might be better to separate them and give them different jobs to do. But they both insisted on helping build furniture because I’d said I was hopeless at following instructions. While they got on with the dining room table and my bed, I unpacked boxes.

  By four Rosie said she ought to get back and relieve her parents of Ben and Izzy. She and Kenny exchanged a pleasant-enough farewell, but I couldn’t help getting the feeling that it was for my benefit.

  I walked Rosie to her car. “Thanks for all your help today,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”

  “My pleasure, hon. Look, I’m sorry I was so hard on Kenny. I behaved badly. It’s just that I’m still tired and a bit hormonal and he managed to press a couple of my buttons. I got on my high horse and totally overreacted. Tell him I’m sorry.”

  “So you liked him, then?”

  “Yeah, he’s great. Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, but I really think that Kenny could be perfect for you. You’re right—there is a chemistry.”

  “Oh God, not this again. Look, Kenny and I really get along, but he would never be right for me. Plus the timing’s all wrong. We’re both coming out of bad breakups …”

  “Is it that, or do you have a problem with Kenny? I think the real reason you won’t get into a relationship with him is because he’s a caterer. Talking to him today, I’ve discovered that this is a man with plans and ambitions, but you can’t see beyond Kenny Platters the caterer.”

  “You’re calling me a snob? Me of all people?” I spent my life fighting for social equality and human rights. I could be accused of many things, but being a snob wasn’t one of them.

  “You know what?” Rosie said. “I think I am calling you a snob. You’re this high-flying lawyer, and Kenny Platters doesn’t come with the right credentials. He isn’t good enough. Where do you get off on being so high and mighty?”

  “I’m not,” I protested. “It’s not that simple.” Rosie had no idea of the extent to which my choice in men had always been influenced by my dead father. I couldn’t let go of the notion that if Kenny and I did become a couple, our differences—in career and education—would eventually put a stra
in on our relationship.

  Rosie said, “It is that simple. Do yourself a favor. You could have a great thing going here with Kenny. It’s time to take off the blinkers.”

  “God, you can be arrogant sometimes. Why do you always think you know it all?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to come across as arrogant—honest. I’m telling you what I think because I love you. Please, just say you’ll give it some thought.”

  It upset me that Rosie thought that I was being blinkered simply because I knew what I was looking for in a man. I didn’t understand what was so wrong with having a checklist. I wasn’t being a snob.

  Unless of course I was. In which case I was nothing more than a narrow-minded bigot—the kind of person I despised. And didn’t that make my father a bigot, too? I chose not to ponder either notion.

  I went back to the unpacking. By now, Kenny was in the bedroom, making a start on building a chest of drawers called Olf.

  “Your friend Rosie’s a bit scary,” he said.

  I passed on her apologies. “She can be pretty forthright, but she’s one of the kindest people I know. You pressed a few of her buttons—that’s all. Plus she’s still getting up in the night with Izzy and I think she’s pretty knackered.”

  “It was the same with my sister. I remember doing something to annoy her—like putting the cutlery away in the wrong drawer—and she started screaming at me. Something like: ‘Don’t cross me. I’m postpartum, I’m exhausted and I’ve got a gun.’”

  When the chest of drawers was finished, Kenny suggested he go out and buy the ingredients for a Thai curry.

  I wouldn’t hear of it. I told him that he’d worked hard enough for one day and that we’d get takeout—on me.

  But he insisted on the grounds that cooking helped him relax. “And you can practice your knife skills on the veg.”

  “OK, if you insist, but you should know I only own four saucepans.”

  He said he would relish the challenge. When he’d finished making a shopping list, I gave him directions to the supermarket.

  As I started hanging clothes in the bedroom closet, it struck me that I’d had no need to be scared about the flat reminding me of Josh. There wasn’t a trace of him here. Everything was new. He had never showered in my shower, walked on my new wooden floors, washed dishes in my kitchen sink. Most important, he had never lain on my bed. I was glad I’d gotten a new bed.

  I was aware that over the last few weeks my life had brightened up. Things weren’t so bleak. I could see a future.

  Chapter 14

  By now it was September. Hugh was in Angola studying the impact of a new freshwater project that some thought might be a template for similar schemes all over the third world. We spoke occasionally when he had access to a satellite phone. If he had Internet, which was rare, he would send e-mails telling me about the terrible poverty and deprivation he was seeing and how he was starting to think that the humanitarian problems in Africa would never be solved. He always signed off by saying he was thinking about me and couldn’t wait to see me. I was flattered and happy to wait and see how my feelings for him developed.

  Meanwhile, I was still hanging out with Kenny a couple of times a week—at either his place or mine. If we were at my place we would order takeout. If we were at his, we would cook together, or at least I would sous chef for him. After dinner, he might watch a soccer game on TV while I read the paper or went over case notes. There had been no more near kisses or head stroking.

  Scarlett and Grace were back from Yorkshire and still in talks with Napoleon and Ed about them all parenting a child. They had been over to my “new” flat a few times and were getting to know Kenny. He and Scarlett really hit it off. Because they both had a great sense of humor, they soon had a real banter going. They also argued about comedy. One night they got into a debate about Shakespearian humor. “What sort of person laughs at a Shakespeare comedy?” Kenny said. “He was a great writer, but don’t try and tell me he was funny.”

  “I think his humor still works,” Scarlett said.

  “You’re actually saying that Bottom has you in stitches—a man in a donkey’s head.”

  Work-wise, things were getting busier, but the only case really worrying me was Nasreen’s. I was still trying to get her out of the detention center, pending the outcome of the judicial review, but nobody at the High Court or the Home Office was interested. So much for the Free Nasreen demonstration having any influence. Hardly a day went by when I didn’t phone or e-mail the clerk of the court in an attempt to find out when we might hear something. Each time the response was the same. Her case was “in the system” and a decision would be made in “due course.”

  “I understand your frustration, lass,” George Dacre had said one day as we stood chatting in the corridor. “I’ve been in your situation many times. All you can do is be patient. If the Home Office weren’t taking Nasreen’s case seriously, they would have deported her by now. Between you, me and the gatepost, I’m quite hopeful.”

  I was doing my best to be patient and share George’s optimism, but each time I saw Nasreen, she was more despondent. At the end of each visit, I pleaded with her not to give up hope. “You know what, Tally,” she said the last time we met. “I’ve gotten to the stage where I don’t care what happens to me. If I have to go back to Iran, so be it. What’s making me ill is the not knowing.”

  After each visit, I would get back to my office and feel guilty about turning my attention to other cases. I kept telling myself that I could be doing more to help her, but I knew that at this stage, patience was the only real option. I was also cross that I wasn’t making any headway with the Henry Dixon case. Surprise, surprise—Central London Radio could not be persuaded to take him back. The best they could offer was a paltry severance deal or an off-air job, which would mean him taking a substantial pay cut. Henry was prepared to accept a lump sum, but after nearly thirty years in the job he wanted enough to live on. I was still trying to persuade the station to improve their offer, but so far they were refusing to budge. Henry, on the other hand, was still banging on about his human rights and how his bosses were behaving like cowards by not giving him back his job. He said that by doing that they would be educating the public and helping them accept his disability. Our last conversation had gone something like this:

  “Hello, is that Henry?”

  “Hong Kong Phooey!”

  “Hi, Henry. Tally Roth here. Just to say that I’ve had another conversation with CLR’s lawyers and I’m afraid they’re still digging in their heels.”

  “Wilma!”

  “I think if we hold on, we could shame them into offering you a better severance package. What worries me is that if we keep refusing their offers, you’ll end up with nothing.”

  “That’s another fine mess you’ve gotten me into!”

  “Henry, I know it’s taking forever, but I’m doing my best to get you a decent settlement.”

  “I know. Don’t think I’m not grateful, but I’m just so frustrated. I have a disability. I don’t see why I have to be turned into a pariah.”

  “I agree. It sucks. Look, just sit tight. I’m going back to see if I can get some more money out of them. I’ll be in touch, OK?”

  “OK. Live long and prosper!”

  The other news was that Rosie had heard from Jeremy Baxter, who had asked her to come in and see him.

  “Look, I know I sound like a wimp,” she’d said, “which isn’t like me, but please would you come with me? If Jeremy Baxter thinks the book’s lousy, I really don’t want to hear it on my own.”

  I knew that Jeremy Baxter would let her down gently, but even so, I thought she might need some support. “Of course I’ll come,” I said.

  The meeting was scheduled for late one Friday afternoon.

  Jeremy Baxter’s office was in an elegant Georgian house, just off Piccadilly.

  “Must be doing well for himself,” Rosie said. This was only the third sentence she’d uttered since
we met at my office. It wasn’t just that she was nervous about the meeting with Jeremy Baxter. Now that her parents’ house renovations were over, they had gone back to Scotland, and this was the first time that Rosie had left the children with their new sitter. She’d already texted her twice, once to check that everything was OK and another time to remind her that if she went to the fridge for milk, not to touch what was in the milk jug. But Rosie was too late. It seemed that Rachel had felt like a snack and had just downed a bowl of Coco Pops covered in breast milk.

  “I bet he hates the book,” Rosie said as we walked up the steps. “I don’t know why we’re even bothering.”

  We walked into the smart, gray-carpeted reception. Behind the desk was a woman in her sixties wearing a blond wig, false eyelashes and a gash of wonkily applied red lipstick.

  “I’m Rosemary Thomas,” Rosie said.

  As the woman peered at her appointments list, she shoved her wig back a few inches and scratched her head. It was all I could do not to laugh, but Rosie was so nervous, I’m not sure she noticed.

  “He’s expecting you,” the woman said. “Go on in.”

  I had imagined Jeremy Baxter as sixtyish, charming, avuncular and tweedy. The man who greeted us was tall, sandy haired, in his mid-thirties and wearing what had to be a two-thousand-pound suit. I glanced at Rosie. I knew her well enough to recognize her “smitten” expression when I saw it.

  “Rosemary, good to see you,” he said, shaking her hand. “I’m Jeremy.”

  “Oh, do call me Rosie,” she cooed. I wasn’t sure that I had ever been witness to Rosie cooing. “And this is my friend Tally, who’s come along to offer me moral support.”

  I shook Jeremy’s hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Tally.”

  Jeremy Baxter’s office walls were lined with books—presumably written by his clients. He sat himself down behind a desk, which appeared to be one solid piece of glass, and invited Rosie and me to take the leather armchairs in front of him.