Gucci Gucci Coo (15 page)

“What about cheap bangers?” Sam asked. She was touched by his use of the word
banger
. He was really trying to get into the vernacular.

“Love ’em,” she said. “It’s the fat that gives them their flavor. You know what I also adore?”

“What?”

“Tinned spaghetti sandwiches on white bread with butter and Marmite.”

“Now, that,” he said, laughing, “is totally gross. The tinned spaghetti I can understand, but I just don’t get this Marmite thing. It’s disgusting. What is it about you Brits and rancid meat products?”

Ruby explained that Marmite was actually made of yeast, and that he was thinking of Bovril. “And anyway, that’s rich coming from somebody whose countrymen invented southern pear salad. Do you mind telling me who in their right mind would mix pears with cheese and mayo?”

They started to compete about which country produced the most disgusting foodstuffs. She countered his jellied eels with American cheese product, but in the end they decided it was a tie because it was impossible to choose between black pudding and hog snout.

By the time they got to the restaurant, Ruby realized she hadn’t laughed this much in ages. Certainly not since she and Matt split up.

When they sat down, the waiter came to take their drink order. Sam said he fancied a beer, but Ruby decided to stick to sparkling water.

“Somebody told me this place used to be much bigger,” he said. “Apparently they sold part of it off to the undertaker’s next door. I can’t help thinking there’s something odd about a Chinese restaurant becoming an undertaker’s. You wonder if people die and two hours later they want to do it all over again.” This made her almost choke with laughter.

They were chatting and laughing so much that it was ages before they got round to looking at the menu. It was only when the waiter came a third time to try and take their order that they decided they ought to think about food.

As she studied the menu, a thought occurred to her. How would she feel if Sam turned out to be a nonsharer? Whereas in French or Italian restaurants, nobody shared food, although tasting was allowed, strictly upon invitation (a rule Aunty Sylvia had yet to take on board), in Indian and Chinese places everybody shared. That way people got to taste a bit of everything. But every so often, Ruby came across somebody who either didn’t know about the food-sharing rule or, more worryingly, refused to observe it.

She had worked out long ago that a reluctance to share had less to do with selfishness and more to do with being cheap. People who took a what’s-mine-is-mine attitude seemed to think that if they agreed to share their food, it would end up being eaten by everybody else and they would end up with nothing but fish lips and chicken feet. What was more, they would have to pay for the privilege. To avoid this, they seized “their food” the second it arrived. They then lined up their glass of beer, the soy sauce bottle and the little white vase with the carnation to create a no-go area, the dining equivalent of the North Korean border.

She had no reason to think that Sam was one of the mean, neurotic nonsharer types, but in the past she had discovered that people she thought would be sharers turned out not to be and vice versa.

When their food arrived, she noticed that he looked a bit uncomfortable and seemed reluctant to help himself to anything. She offered him some of the sweet-and-sour pork she’d ordered.

“You’re a sharer!” he said, relief flooding into his face. He took the oval plate from her. “I’ve been sitting here worrying that you wouldn’t be. You see, there are these two guys at the hospital and whenever we go out for Chinese food, they never share. I guessed it was a Brit thing. These guys are so weird. They build barricades around their food with the beer glass, the soy sauce bottle…”

“…and the little vase with the carnation,” she added, laughing.

“You’ve seen it?”

“Once or twice,” she said.

They had almost finished eating when a couple of potbellied middle-aged men came in and sat down at the next table. Sam had his back to them, but Ruby, who was facing the pair, had become aware that every so often they stopped talking to stare at her. At first she thought she must have food around her mouth, which Sam had been too polite to point out. She dabbed her lips with her napkin, but the leering didn’t stop. Then they started laughing. She found herself straining to hear what the men were saying. It took her a while to work out they were speaking German. She’d taken German in school and had always been pretty good at it. How good it was now, she wasn’t sure. She carried on listening.

“Sie hat melonen, ja?”
said the more portly of the two. He started laughing and held out his palms as if he were weighing two massive watermelons.

“Nein. Zitronen.”

“Orangen, vielleicht?”

By now Sam was waving a hand in front of Ruby’s face to get her attention. “You feeling ill again?” he said.

“No, I’m fine. Sorry, I was miles away.” But instead of turning back to talk to Sam she carried on watching the men and listening. At this point Sam glanced over his shoulder to see what she was looking at.

“They seem like pretty regular guys to me,” he whispered. “What language are they speaking? Sounds like German.”

“It is. They’re talking about me.”

“They are? What are they saying?”

She hesitated.

“Come on,” he urged. “What is it?”

“OK…” She took a deep breath. “They seem to be discussing the size of my breasts.”

“What? Are you sure?”

She nodded. “They can’t seem to make up their minds whether they’re more like melons, lemons or oranges.” Ruby was used to workmen making “phwarrr, darlin’, you’ve got more front than Southend” comments about her breasts, which were a C cup bordering on a D. She’d learned to ignore the remarks, while at the same time being quietly flattered. Somehow it felt different when the men making the remarks were sitting next to her in a restaurant.

“Right,” Sam said, starting to get up. “Leave this to me.”

She grabbed his hand. “No,” she hissed. “Please. Sit down. I’ll deal with it.” It was about time, she thought, that she proved to him she wasn’t a helpless ditz brain.

She stood up and placed her napkin on the table. Smiling brightly, she walked to the next table. The men smiled back, clearly thinking that despite her being with a man, she was giving them the come-on.

“Guten Abend,”
she said.
“Schoenes Veterinare in Anbetracht.”
The smiles vanished and were replaced with expressions of shock and embarrassment. They had been found out. One of them managed to stammer a
Guten Abend.
Their faces having turned deep crimson, the men lowered their heads and began studying the froth on their beers. Ruby returned to her seat, grinning.

“Well, you certainly wiped the smiles off their faces.” She could tell by his expression that he was impressed. “So, what did you say to them?” Sam asked.

“Nothing really. I simply said that it was nice weather, considering.” She took a sip of water. “But I think I made my point, don’t you?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

A
FTER DINNER
, S
AM
drove her home. “I had a great time tonight,” he said as they stood outside her street door.

“Me, too.”

“So…” She watched him shifting uneasily on his feet. “I was wondering if maybe we could do it again sometime.”

“I’d like that,” she said.

“How’s about this Saturday? I’m free during the day.”

“Saturday’s good,” she said—far too quickly, in her opinion. She could have kicked herself. Had reading
The Rules
three times taught her nothing?

“But what about the shop?”

“The shop?…Oh, yes, of course the shop. Er…that’s not a problem. I can get somebody in to help Chanel.” She stood there hoping and praying that Annie, the high school student who helped them out from time to time, would be up for a day’s work.

“So, what did you have in mind for Saturday?” she asked.

“You know what? I’ve never been to the coast.”

“Brighton,” she declared. “It’s sort of Venice Beach meets Coney Island meets Notting Hill. You’ll love it.”

“Sounds great. So it’s a date?”

“It’s a date.”

He placed his hand gently on her arm. “Promise you’ll call me if you start to feel ill again.”

“I promise, but stop worrying. I’ll be fine.”

He planted a kiss on her cheek. She detected the faintest hint of cologne. A sudden and powerful wave of desire washed over her as she realized how desperately she wanted to kiss him on the lips and have him kiss her back.

He made a move to go and then stopped. He was shaking his head and grinning. “The way you dealt with those guys back at the restaurant is still making me smile. I think your German is better than you think.”

“Oh, it’s not that good,” she said, “believe me.”

He insisted she was being modest. She decided not to shatter his illusion. There seemed little point in confessing that on the way home, a linguistic realization had struck her. Instead of remarking to the Germans that it was “nice weather, considering,” she’d actually said it was “nice veterinarians, considering.”

Chapter 10

Ruby was rubbing her forehead in frustration. “Look,” she said to Ivan the Terrible as she switched the house phone to her other ear, “I know you’re extremely busy, but if you could just see your way clear to fixing the loo today. The ball cock is acting up again. And although I really do appreciate your having made a start on the kitchen, the cupboards still don’t have any doors.” She explained that she was going to Brighton for the day and he would have the place to himself.

“I understand, but eet ees problyem. You see, my brother, he ees sick and he hef very big operation today. Not good. Three years his testicle has been on waiting list.”

“Goodness. As long as that? Poor man. Look, I can see things are difficult. Don’t worry about getting here today. I can manage with the loo as it is for a few more days. I hope your brother’s OK.”

“Tenk you. Look, there ees possibility I fit you in. After I see my brother in the hospital, I hef job in Edgware. Maybe I fit in bollock after I trim Mrs. Goldberg’s bush.”

R
UBY WOULD HAVE
been ready on time, but Fi rang just as she was getting out of the shower to tell her to switch on the TV. “It’s a repeat of some stupid daytime chat show on Sky, but they’re discussing the pressures on pregnant women to stay thin. They’ve got this doctor on from St. Luke’s, so I thought you might be interested.”

Ruby pressed the TV remote and sat down on the sofa. The obstetrician from St. Luke’s was a handsome, blue-eyed patrician type in his early forties. His name was Tom Hardacre. He was being interviewed by a young female presenter—Kate somebody or other—about new government statistics that showed that anorexia among pregnant women and those who had recently given birth was on the increase.

“This is something new and quite startling,” he was saying. “In my opinion the images of women shown in magazines as well as those coming out of Hollywood put intolerable pressure on women.”

The mainly female studio audience began clapping. Then an actress in the audience responded by saying that Hollywood stars were themselves under pressure to remain thin, otherwise the work dried up. A discussion followed about why female celebrities weren’t rising up and doing more to put a stop to the situation.

At one point during the discussion, the audience was shown giant black-and-white paparazzi photographs of ultrathin Hollywood mothers leaving the hospital with new babies.

“Of course, Dr. Hardacre,” Kate the presenter said, “two of those mothers—China Katz and Mia Ferrari—gave birth at your hospital. One would have thought that a hospital like St. Luke’s, committed as it is to promoting healthy pregnancy and natural childbirth, would be spearheading a campaign to educate expectant mothers about diet. Do you think you are doing enough?”

Ruby thought it was a slightly barbed but perfectly reasonable question. Tom Hardacre fielded it perfectly. His face formed itself into an expression of deep concern. “Kate,” he said, adding a condescending smile, “I don’t want you or anybody watching this program to think for one minute that I and all my colleagues at St. Luke’s aren’t desperately worried about this issue. We are. What’s more, all the medical staff go to tremendous lengths to explain to our expectant mothers that they are putting the health of their babies at risk by excessive dieting. I’d say we are doing everything we can, but if you, Kate, or indeed anybody thinks there is more we could be doing, I would absolutely welcome their suggestions.”

Ruby gave a tiny shiver. “Euuh, smarmy or what?” She had only been watching this man for a few minutes, and as a rule she wasn’t one to judge people so quickly, but she’d taken an instant dislike to him. She wanted to carry on watching the interview, but she knew that by now she must be running late. She switched off the TV and went into the bedroom to get dressed.

The door buzzer rang just after ten. Sam was right on time. She, on the other hand, was still in her bra and pants, indecisive about what to wear.

She dashed to the door and pressed the intercom button. “Hi, Sam, come on up.” With that, she ran back to the bedroom and began rummaging through the pile of clothes on the bed in an effort to find something to throw on, so that she would look halfway decent when she let him in.

Her sexy black silk kimono would have been perfect. Of course it wasn’t on the bed and the only thing hanging on the back of the bedroom door was her grungy, scratchy with dried-up food stains, pink terry number—the one she wore when she was getting her period and wanted to do nothing but curl up in front of
Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman
and eat Marshmallow Fluff sandwiches. She couldn’t possibly put it on to greet Sam. In desperation she pulled on one of her long, baggy T-shirts.

Sam greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. He was wearing a round-neck khaki-colored John Smedley over dark beige cargo pants. She couldn’t help noticing how well the khaki matched his dark skin and eyes. Yet again she found herself thinking how seriously handsome this man was.

“Breakfast,” he declared, presenting her with a large flat box with
Krispy Kreme
written across the lid. “I hope you haven’t eaten. I didn’t know what doughnuts you liked, so I bought a few.”

“A few?” she said, laughing.

“OK, a dozen. C’mon, you know that in the Jewish system of weights and measures anything under a gross equals a few.”

“Sam, thank you,” she said, taking the box. “I adore Krispy Kremes.” Since Harrods was the only place in London that stocked them and he’d probably had to drive round for ages to find a parking space before joining the queue in the bakery department, bringing Krispy Kremes was a truly lovely gesture.

“Great T-shirt, by the way.” He was looking at her and smiling appreciatively. She beamed back at him. Matt used to remark on how sexy she looked in baggy T-shirts. She’d never really believed him, though. Having largish breasts, she always felt they made her look like she was wearing a tent. But maybe he was right. Perhaps she could carry off the baggy look.

As she led him into the kitchen he almost tripped over a box of wall tiles, which Ivan had left by the door. “Sorry,” she said, pushing the box to one side with her foot. “Kitchen and loo are in total chaos.” She explained about Ivan the Terrible and made him laugh with the story of Mrs. Goldberg’s bush.

“Heaven knows when it’s going to get finished.”

“It’s going to look great, though,” he said, running his hand over a beech-wood cupboard door, which was lying on the counter. “I like the stainless steel handles. You have a real eye.”

“Thank you,” she said, her lips forming another crescent. It had been ages since she’d received compliments from a man and she was really enjoying it. “Oh, by the way, a doctor from St. Luke’s was just on the telly talking about the dangers of pregnant women going on diets.”

“Yeah, I read the government report. It’s really scary. These women have no idea the harm they’re doing to themselves.” He asked the name of the doctor.

“Tom Hardacre. What’s he like? Seemed a bit patronizing…” She slapped her hand to her mouth. “Oh, God, he’s not a friend of yours, is he?”

Sam gave a reassuring laugh. “No, I barely know him. Meant to be a great doctor though. Very forward-looking. Highly regarded.”

“Oh, right,” she said. “Maybe I got him wrong. Perhaps he was just nervous being on TV.” She paused. “Tell you what, why don’t you make coffee while I finish getting dressed.”

She directed him to the coffee, milk and mugs and went back into the bedroom. Peering out the window, she saw that for once the sun was shining. She began rummaging through the pile of clothes lying on the bed, looking for something summery. Finally she decided on her baby-blue A-line skirt. She would team it with the frilly blue and pink peasant top she’d bought at the start of the summer. It would show off her still-tanned shoulders and midriff.

As she stood in front of the mirror, about to pull off her T-shirt, the realization dawned that the thing didn’t make her look so much sexy as comical. It was the T-shirt Fi had bought her for a joke, two Christmases ago. Written across the front, in massive brown letters, were the words:
Say no to shampoo—demand real poo
.

T
HEY DIDN
’
T STOP
talking all the way to Brighton. He seemed particularly interested to hear about Les Sprogs. He also asked her lots of questions about her family. Soon she was telling him about her Baby Organic plan and Ronnie’s need to psychoanalyze everybody. She loved the way he listened and really engaged with her. So many men she’d been out with—poor old Duncan being an extreme example—always insisted on bringing the conversation back to themselves.

At one point he put a blues CD on the player. She told him how she’d got into blues after seeing the film
Ray
a couple of years ago. “I love the melancholy of the blues—the hot steamy moodiness just draws you in. And don’t you just love the names of some of those blues singers? Muddy Waters. Lightnin’ Hopkins.”

“Blind Lemon Jefferson.” He confessed he often spent hours in the bath making up names for blues singers. “There’s actually a recognized method for doing it. I found it on this blues Web site. Blues singers often have three names. The first has to be some kind of an affliction—as in blind. The second must be a fruit—as in lemon. And the last has to be the name of an American president—as in Jefferson.”

She thought for a moment. “OK. How’s about Asthmatic Kiwi Nixon?”

“That’s it! Or Flatulent Nectarine Bush.”

Pretty soon they were beside themselves laughing.

“Ooh, ooh, I’ve got one,” she squealed at one point. “How’s about Horny Passionfruit Clinton.”

“You know, you really are very funny,” he said. For a couple of seconds he took his eyes off the road and turned toward her. “And I’ve been meaning to say that the blue in the top really suits you. It goes with your hair.”

“Thank you,” she said, feeling herself flush with pleasure.

I
T WASN
’
T UNTIL
they got to Brighton that Sam realized he’d left his jacket at Ruby’s flat. But since the sun was blazing, they agreed there was no chance of him needing it.

Weather-wise, the late September day promised to be perfect. No doubt the cold and drizzle, which had been around for the last couple of weeks, would be back, but for now the only signs of autumn approaching were the long shadows and a quiet stillness in the air. Even the normally rough sea was calm. Sunlight bounced off what passed for waves, giving the impression that sparklers were burning on the horizon.

The hot dog and burger vendors, who had no doubt packed up for the season when the cold started, were out in full, hoping to make one final killing before the weather cracked up again.

Ruby and Sam strolled along the boardwalk, dodging stray toddlers, cyclists and tank-topped Rollerbladers. Every so often they would stop to watch a street magician or escape artist, or mooch around one of the New Age shops, which sold crystals and tacky Buddha prints and were run by holisticer than thou young men with earlobes full of piercings and dreadlocks the thickness of a Buddy Epstien pickled cucumber.

As they came out of a shop called Merlin’s Cave, Ruby closed her eyes and sniffed the air. “Umm, ozone chips and fried onions. You can’t beat it. It’s over two hours since we had the doughnuts. How d’you fancy a cheap nasty hot dog, packed full of chemicals and carcinogens and offering a fiftyfifty chance of mild to serious gut rot tomorrow morning?”

“Bring it on,” Sam said. “But I insist on extra carcinogen on mine.” They found a hot dog vendor and Sam suggested she find an empty bench while he joined the queue. After ten minutes he came over to where she was sitting, bearing two large hot dogs dripping in ketchup, mustard and onions. “They were out of Coke,” he said, “so I got us two cans of finest ‘carbonated orange-flavored juice drink.’”

“Perfect,” she announced.

After they’d finished eating they decided to head toward the pier. As they walked he told her how much he was enjoying having discovered a new branch of his family through Buddy and Irene. “Saul and Fi are lovely people. And they seem really happy together.”

“They are. I think a lot of people would give anything to have what they have.”

They walked on in comfortable silence. Eventually he asked her if she was getting used to the idea of having a baby brother or sister. She explained that she was still struggling with it. “I’ve had Mum and Dad to myself for thirty-two years. Now I’ve got to share them and I’m ashamed to say that the little kid in me really doesn’t want to.”

He said it was probably normal to feel the way she did. “I don’t think it matters how old you are when a sibling is born. The first child always feels a sense of loss. I know I did. I can remember trying to suffocate my brother with a pillow when he was born. If my mom hadn’t come into the room when she did, I don’t know what might have happened.”

“God, how old were you?”

“Twenty-five.”

She roared with laughter.

When she asked him about his brother, Sam shrugged and seemed reluctant to say very much. “Josh is eight years younger than me and I think he was far more affected by our parents’ deaths than I was. Buddy and Irene loved him as their own, but he kinda went off the rails. These days he doesn’t have much to do with the family.”