A Catered Affair (6 page)

“I still get news through friends,” I said. “Last I heard he was planning to move back to the UK. Apparently, he’s been offered a job advising the government on third world poverty.” I found myself getting wistful for moment or two. “Funny how you always carry a bit of a torch for your first real love.”

“What about that Frank O’Rourke—the one your mum wanted you to marry?”

“I loved him, but I’m not sure he counts. We were just kids.”

“Dan was my first real love,” Rosie said. “If I carry a torch for him, it’s only because I want to set light to his sorry arse.”

“Now, there’s an image,” I said, laughing.

By now, Rosie had opened the bag of cabbage leaves and selected two large ones that looked like they might do. With a lack of self-consciousness that I’d been told affects many women who had given birth and had had armies of medics rooting around their vaginas, she opened her robe, unhooked the cups of her nursing bra and clamped the cabbage leaves to her enormous mammaries. I went to check on the risotto.

“You know,” Rosie said, while I sat drinking her Sauvignon and she made do with tap water because she didn’t want to get Izzy tipsy, “if I can catch up on some sleep, I might even get back to my novel.”

I didn’t say anything for a moment. “Hang on. ‘Back to’ implies that you’ve started it.”

She grinned. “Correct. Not that I’ve done much so far. I finally got going after Dan left. Then—get this—you remember Cod from uni? Well, I found out he got published. I thought, if that jerk can do it . . .”

“Cod? No. You’re wrong. He works for
Wind Turbine
magazine.”

“He did. He just published
Kumquats and Other Deaths
and there’s another book due out next year.”

“You’re kidding. Cod got published? I don’t believe it. But his stuff was such pretentious rubbish.”

“I know, but his writing’s probably matured a bit by now. Anyway, it’s doing quite well, apparently.”

“So Cod was the clincher. He was the one who got you writing. How weird is that?”

“I even started a writing course. Mary, my tutor, has read a few of my short stories and poems, and she thinks I’ve got real talent. Can you believe it? I always thought I could write, but this is the first time I’ve had it confirmed. I’m just so excited.”

“Rosie, this is fantastic,” I said. “This is just the kind of boost you need right now. So what’s the book called?”

“The Sand Collector’s Daughter
. It’s the story of a middle-aged woman whose father walked out on her family when she was a child. The only thing she has that belonged to him is his collection of sand from all over the world. Using the samples of sand as clues, she pieces together details of his life and starts to understand who he really was.”

“So what is he, this guy? A builder? And he’s got these leftover piles of sand in his garage? God, the daughter could find a mutilated corpse in the sand and then there could be a massive police hunt and she could fall in love with the detective leading the case.”

Rosie rolled her eyes. “No dead bodies. No police hunt. No sexy detective. Tally, don’t you read anything apart from trashy thrillers?”

“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 breast-feeding 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 breast-fed 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.

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.