“It is, Ad,” she said, her face lit up with enthusiasm. “Believe me, it is.”
* * * * *
“Rache,” Adam said, “you didn’t tell me Austrians had moved into your building.”
“They haven’t,” she said.
“So why is the front door being opened by a bloke wearing lederhosen and a Tyrolean hat?”
“What?” Rachel leaned across Adam and peered out of the car side window. “Blimey. Who on earth’s that?”
“I don’t like this,” Adam declared. “Look, you stay here, I’m going to check him out.”
He opened the car door.
“Adam,” Rachel hissed, pulling him back. “For Chrissake, be careful. He might have a . . .”
“A what?” Adam said. “A semiautomatic bratwurst? Don’t be daft.”
“I’m not being daft,” she came back at him, “and I’m not having you confront him on your own. I’m coming too.”
By the time they reached the door, the man had disappeared inside. It then took Rachel several seconds rummaging through her bag before she found her keys. The moment they stepped into the hall, they spotted him hovering outside Shelley’s flat.
“Er, excuse me,” Rachel called out. “Can I help you?”
The man swung round. He was tiny, with a fair-sized paunch. He also had a beard and was wearing small gold-rimmed glasses.
“Oh, hi Rache. Hi Adam,” he said—except it wasn’t the voice of a he. He was a she.
“Shelley?” Rachel said uncertainly. “Is that you under there?”
Shelley pulled off the beard and burst out laughing. “Course it is.”
Adam rolled his eyes.
“I’ve been to a fancy dress party. We had to go as our favorite hero or heroine.”
“So,” Adam said, “who did you go as, Captain Von Trapp’s batman?”
“Hah, hah. Oh come on—isn’t it obvious who I am?”
Rachel and Adam looked at her and then at each other.
“Not really,” Rachel said. “No.”
“Oh come on,” Shelley urged. “It’s easy. Guess.”
“Nope. Give up,” Rachel declared.
“I’m Dr. Joseph Bircher. You know—who invented muesli.”
“Oh right,” Rachel said diplomatically. “I bet that’s a first for a fancy dress party.”
“Yes,” Adam said. “Very whole grain, I’m sure.”
Then he whispered to Rachel that Bircher was Swiss.
Rachel elbowed him in the ribs.
Shelley feigned offense at the whole-grain remark and then invited them in for a drink. Adam made noises about having to get to his mother’s, but Rachel said five minutes wasn’t going to make much difference.
While Shelley disappeared in search of a bottle of Château Noshit Aussie organic, Adam went to the loo.
When he came into the living room, he winced at the decor as if he were seeing it for the first time, flicked an imaginary spot of dirt off the pony skin sofa and sat himself down gingerly next to Rachel. A moment later Shelley came in, carrying two glasses of red wine.
“The thing about so many wines,” Shelley said, “is that they put antifreeze in them to give them a kick. This stuff is totally additive free.”
She handed a glass to each of them and then went back to the kitchen to fetch her glass of cranberry juice.
Adam took one sip of wine and pulled a face. “I can understand why they add the antifreeze,” he muttered.
This time Rachel kicked him. “Be quiet,” she hissed. “Shelley’ll hear you.”
Just as Shelley walked back into the room, Adam’s mobile went off. It was his mother again.
“I’m sorry, but I really do have to go.” He stood up and kissed Rachel briefly on the lips. “It’s probably best if I sleep at Mum’s tonight. I’ll pop round tomorrow to say good-bye.”
Rachel smiled—doing her best to conceal her disappointment. They hadn’t done it in ages and now they wouldn’t until he got back from South Africa.
“OK. See ya.”
He gave Shelley a hesitant, awkward peck on the cheek and left.
After Adam had gone Rachel told Shelley about the comedy competition and about having met Matt Clapton again. She listened, made highly encouraging noises about the competition and laughed when Rachel explained the mix-up over the T-shirt, but Rachel could tell her friend was preoccupied.
Eventually their conversation fell into silence.
“You know,” Shelley said eventually, as she carried on swinging on the garden swing and dragging her feet over the Astro Turf. “You’re so lucky to have a somebody who loves you.”
Rachel’s smile was tinged with guilt.
“I mean,” Shelley went on, “at this party tonight, there wasn’t one bloke who seemed even remotely interested in me.”
Rachel was tempted to say this probably had more to do with the beard and lederhosen than any innate unattractiveness, but she didn’t.
“Look,” she said, “I know how hard it is to find a decent bloke with all the jerks and wallies out there.”
She told Shelley about Tractor, the seventies freak who’d tried to pick her up in the Red House the other night.
“Oui, madame,”
Shelley chortled when Rachel got to the clitoris-licking frog joke. “That’s hysterical. So what does he look like, this bloke?”
Rachel told her.
“So exactly how pale would you say his skin was?”
“Very. You could rent him out for hauntings.”
“Really. That pale.” The idea clearly turned Shelley on. “Plus I’ve always found that whole seventies thing rather sexy. I mean it’s so cheesy, it actually gets stylish again—a bit like Leo Sayer or Vesta curry.”
“Shelley, he uses
The Clitorati
to pick up women. Is that sad or what?”
Shelley shrugged. “I dunno, I think it’s sweet in a naff kind of way. Maybe he’s just shy and it’s his way of hiding it.”
“Yeah, right,” Rachel said dismissively.
“So, did his balls look big in the leather trousers?”
“I didn’t investigate,” Rachel said, giggling and pulling a face.
Shelley pretended to go all pathetic. “Sorry. It’s just that I’m a poor pregnant woman who isn’t getting any.”
“Oh come on,” Rachel said warmly. “There’s somebody out there for you. I know it.”
“Not who’ll take on another bloke’s baby.”
Rachel stood up, went over to Shelley and put her arm round her.
“Yeah he will,” she said, hugging her tight. “Just wait and see.”
“You reckon?” Shelley smiled doubtfully.
“Promise—or my name’s not an anagram of Czar Hat Elk.”
CHAPTER 7
“I agree,” Rachel declared. “They are completely and utterly gross. Sam, look at me—I would never, ever ask you to wear one. And that’s a promise. Grandma had no right to start talking to you about page boy suits—particularly not cherry-red velvet ones. Apart from anything else, it’s far too early. Adam and I haven’t even set a wedding date yet. But I promise that as soon as we have, you will hear about it from me, not Grandma. OK?”
Sam nodded and carried on eating his Coco Pops, which were floating disgustingly in orange juice. Rachel picked up a half slice of buttered toast and disappeared once more behind the
Guardian,
but she couldn’t concentrate because her mind kept going back to what had happened—or to be precise, not happened—when Adam came round the day before, to say good-bye.
When he arrived (an hour or so after Rachel had gotten back from dropping Sam at his best mate Charlie’s house, where he was going to spend the day), she had answered the door wearing nothing but a cook’s apron and a sexy smile. She had kissed him and led him into the kitchen where she was in the middle of preparing a scrambled egg and smoked salmon brunch.
“C’mon,” she’d purred, handing him a glass of champagne, “why don’t we take all this to bed?”
“Wonderful thought, Rache, but the thing is, my mum cooked me kippers before I left.”
“Oh right,” she said. “Stupid of me, really. I might have known she’d cook for you. I should have phoned and checked with you first.”
“Might have been an idea.”
He went on to say that tempting as it was, he didn’t have time for sex because he had to rush back and get started on his packing.
“Come on, Ad,” she said, putting her arms round him. “This is the last chance we’ll get.” She removed one of her arms from round his neck and began undoing his jeans belt.
“Rache, not now,” he’d said, clamping his hand over hers. “I really don’t have time. It’s not just my packing I’ve got to do, there’s a whole load of stuff I must get in the post before I leave, not to mention a pile of bills waiting to be settled.” He paused and lifted her chin, which had fallen almost to her chest. “Come on, Rachel,” he said softly, “what’s a month when we’ve got our whole lives to look forward to? Now then, why don’t you go and put something warm on. You must be freezing.”
* * * * *
Lying in bed on Sunday night, she’d worked out that it was now nearly six weeks since they’d had sex. She decided that going down on him the other night in the Rotherhithe Tunnel didn’t count because he hadn’t returned the gesture, not that he really could have at the time without creating a whole new driving offense. Adam seemed to be forever producing excuses for not making love to her. If it wasn’t that her parents were in the flat and Faye might be listening, it was that he had to dash back to Manchester. She put it down to him working too hard and did her best to pretend she didn’t mind, but she did. She minded a lot. What she couldn’t understand was why, when he was so desperate to marry her, he was so off sex. It just didn’t make sense. Then, just before it got light, Rachel’s emotional pendulum took a more generous-spirited swing. She decided she was being far too hard on him. Everyone knew the sex part of a relationship cooled after a year or so. Look at her and Joe. (For some reason she forgot that sex with her ex had cooled primarily because he was gay.) Adam might not be wildly demonstrative, she thought, but he showed his love in more practical ways.
* * * * *
“Sam,” she said eventually, putting down the newspaper. “You know, when Adam and I get married, he won’t try to take the place of your dad. You do understand that, don’t you?”
“He’d better not. ’Cause nobody could ever, ever take the place of Dad.”
“But you do like Adam, don’t you?”
“He’s OK,” Sam said with a shrug.
It was the same response she always got when she asked Sam how he felt about Adam. No matter how often or hard she pressed him, he would never say more than Adam was “OK” or “all right.”
“He buys you great presents,” Rachel persisted. “Those Pokémon cards cost him a fortune.”
Another shrug.
“And he spent ages the other day helping you with your math homework.”
“Yeah, except he tells me I shouldn’t subtract, I should deduct.”
She giggled. “Oh, don’t take any notice,” she said. “That’s just Adam’s idea of a joke.”
She went back to her newspaper.
“But Mum,” Sam said thoughtfully, “when you get married, could Barbra come?”
“Barbra who?” Rachel said vacantly, from inside the newspaper. “Bit of an old-fashioned name, for a kid.”
“No. You know,” Sam said impatiently,
“Barbra.”
“Sorry, darling, my brain’s not quite got in gear yet. I’m not with you.”
“Oh Mum, come on. . . .”
Suddenly the penny dropped.
“What?” she said, lowering the newspaper. “You mean Barbra as in Streisand?”
He nodded eagerly.
“You want Barbra Streisand to come to my wedding?”
“Yeah, can she?”
In an instant her doubts about Sam’s sexuality resurfaced. Not that they had ever really gone away. She still had no problem with him growing up to be gay, it was just that she worried about how he’d cope as a teenager. She knew for a fact that gay adolescents could become very isolated and lonely. Had it been a football hero he’d wanted to invite, she wouldn’t have turned a hair. She would have let him get on with it and simply said “I told you so” when all he received by way of a reply was the standard letter and signed photograph. But because of her feelings about his Barbra Streisand obsession she felt compelled to discourage him.
“Sam, don’t be daft,” Rachel said with an uneasy half-laugh. “She’s Barbra Streisand, mega-rich superstar, not Barbra Streisand, cheap nightclub turn, available for weddings and bar mitzvahs. I mean perhaps she’d sing for Michael Jackson or the president of the United States, but even then . . . and she’d charge hundreds of thousands of pounds—”
“No,” Sam cut across her, “I mean maybe she’d
like
to come—as a guest. She could sit with us on the top table.”
“Oh darling, that’s very sweet,” Rachel said, smiling, “but she doesn’t know our family. Why on earth would she want to come to a wedding where she doesn’t know a soul?”
“But I feel like I know her,” Sam said. “I can sing all of her songs. I’ve seen all her films stacks of times.”
“So have thousands of people, Sam. But you can’t expect her gratitude to extend to showing up at their weddings.”
“You never know,” he persisted. “She might come. I could write and ask her. . . .”
“Sam, stop being silly,” Rachel said, beginning to get exasperated. “You cannot possibly invite Barbra Streisand.”
“Why not?”
“Because apart from anything else we haven’t even set a date yet.”
“I could at least find out if she’d like to come.”
Rachel let out a long slow breath. “Look, if you’ve had enough to eat, go and put your lunch box in your schoolbag.”
“Can’t I at least . . . ?”
“No,” she said firmly. “That’s enough. Now off you go. Your dad’ll be here in a minute.”
Every so often Sam spent a week with Joe and Greg. They enjoyed having him stay. Sam adored going there because he got spoiled rotten, and it gave Rachel a chance to spend the evenings working on her comedy. Usually they would pick him up on a Monday after school, but today, as Rachel was due at Xantia’s half an hour earlier than usual, Joe had agreed to take Sam to school.
Clearly frustrated, Sam got down from the table and ran off toward the kitchen. A moment later the intercom buzzer went. Rachel stood up, went to the front door and lifted the handset.
“Oh hi, Joe. Come on up.”
She left the door ajar and went back to the table to gather up the breakfast things. Her mind returned to Joe and Greg and whether they really could be influencing Sam’s sexuality. As usual she did her best to convince herself that sexuality had far more to do with nature than nurture. What was more, she thought there was absolutely nothing stereotypically gay about Joe that could influence Sam—even if it were possible. He still went to see West Ham every Saturday. He was tall, broad-shouldered and with his dark curly hair and Semitic features he looked more like an Israeli paratrooper than a caricature gay. Greg on the other hand was blond and gamine and just a tad too Liberace for her liking. But then again, what about Adam? The man covered his flat in Saran Wrap and kept an index file of all his clothes, for Chrissake. If that wasn’t stereotypical gay behavior she didn’t know what was. But because she knew Adam was straight, it had never occurred to her that his bizarre idiosyncrasies might have an adverse effect on Sam.
There was a tap on the door and Joe walked in.
“Wotcha,” he said with a tentative half-smile. Two years after their divorce, the hostility had gone, and in recent months, Rachel and Joe had been getting on better. But there was still a trace of awkwardness between them.
“Hello,” Rachel said, with an identical smile. “Greg not with you? I thought you said—”
“Yeah, he’s parking the car. He’ll be up in a minute.”
“Well, I hope he’s not going to be long,” Rachel said anxiously, as she continued to stack plates. “I don’t want Sam being late for school. Now look, I’ve packed his eczema cream. It’s quite bad behind his knees. Please, please make sure he puts it on before bed. And it occurred to me that maybe he should lay off dairy for a while. It seems to aggravate it.”
“Rache, will you stop being a Jewish mother for five minutes? Greg and I can cope, you know. He’ll be fine.”
“Sorry,” she said, allowing a smile to creep onto her face. “I worry about him when he’s away, that’s all.”
At that moment Sam ran in from his bedroom and threw himself into his father’s arms. Joe kissed him and held him in a tight bear hug.
“Hi. So how’s my boy?” he asked, letting Sam go and ruffling his hair.
“Brilliant,” he said. “Listen Dad, after school can we go to that old record shop we went to a few weeks ago—you know, the one in Finsbury Park? They might have some more Barbra LPs.”
“Yeah. Sure,” Joe said.
“Great. By the way, Mum says when she gets married to Adam I’m not allowed to invite Barbra Streisand to the wedding. She says she wouldn’t come, but I think I should at least be allowed to write and ask her. . . .”
“Whoa, Sam. Slow down.” Joe turned to Rachel. “What, you and Adam finally got round to naming the day . . . ?”
“No. Not quite,” Rachel said, shaking her head. “It’s just my mum getting ahead of herself and making announcements before there’s anything to announce. Sam’ll explain.”
“OK . . . So, Sam,” he said, ruffling his son’s hair again, “what makes you think Barbra Streisand would want to come to Mum’s wedding?”
Before Sam had a chance to reply, the living room door opened and Greg came in. God, she thought, the man minced so much, cattle must shudder when he passed.
“Hiya,” he said to Sam, giving him a playful punch on the shoulder.
He then air kissed Rachel and presented her with a House of Fraser carrier bag.
“Oooh,” she said excitedly. “What’s this?”
She looked inside. It was full of cosmetics samples.
“I always say beauty comes from within,” Greg twinkled. “From within jars, tubes and palettes.”
“Greg, thanks,” Rachel gushed. “These are wonderful. You are kind.”
“Yeah, well, when you work on a cosmetics counter you can’t move for freebies. I must confess I helped myself to the Gommage Polissant and the Lift Jour Anti Rides, but I left the rest for you.”
She thanked him again. “And, wow, Greg, that’s some, er, fuchsia cashmere polo neck you’ve got on.”
“Isn’t it?” he said proudly. “To be honest, it was a toss-up between the Valentino pink or the Yves Saint Laurent, but Joe persuaded me to go for the Valentino. I think he was right. It’s just a tad softer with my skin tone.”
“Mmm . . . So,” she went on with faux breeziness, “what else have you guys got planned for after school apart from going hunting for old Barbra LPs?”
“Greg and I thought we might pop into that new kitchen shop in Hampstead,” Joe told her. “We badly need a new set of frying pans.”
“And when we get back, Sam can help me season them,” Greg promised.
“Cool,” Sam piped up.
“Great. Marvelous,” Rachel said. “Couldn’t be better. And now you’d better get going—it’s almost half past. Sam’s stuff is in the hall.”
* * * * *
“Hi, it’s only me,” Rachel called from the hall as she closed the Marxes’ front door.
“Oh hello, Rachel,” Xantia shouted back. “Come into the living piazza. Otto and I are just finishing our meditation.”
Rachel hung her jacket in the clothes pod. As she made her way into the living piazza she could hear the soft, slow beating of a drum and Xantia and Otto chanting the same word over and over again. She couldn’t make it out, but it sounded a lot like
Taramasalata
.
By the time she reached the living piazza, their chanting had stopped and Xantia was sitting cross-legged on the floor, slowly rotating her head. Otto, who was on his feet, bent down to pick up the small African drum.
He shot Rachel a brief, distant smile before heading out of the living piazza. Rachel couldn’t make him out. On the one hand, Otto was this reserved, virtually silent artist who only became truly animated when other designers or journalists like Nettle di Lucca from the Sunday
Tribune
’s “Shitegeist” page came to the house to talk to him about his work. On the other hand, if she tried to imagine him without the purple clothes, what she saw was a very ordinary-looking, slightly overweight Jewish man in his mid-forties—not unlike a younger, balder version of her father. Like her father, too, Otto was an obsessive grazer and snacker.
Occasionally, Otto and Xantia spent the mornings at home working on interior design projects or sketching clothes for the new OP8 of the People range that was going to be launched in the new year. It was quieter there than at their office in South Kensington—particularly with Rachel around to answer the phone and shield them from everything but the most dire of design emergencies.