Perfect Blend: A Novel (8 page)

One day, Bel got a phone call at work. Her mother had been rushed to the hospital. She had a ruptured spleen. Amy found out later that this had come—surprise, surprise—courtesy of Bel’s drunk of a father. For some reason Bel felt able to confide in Amy, and throughout that summer Amy listened and offered her support. Bel’s mum recovered and was finally persuaded to press charges against her husband, and eventually he went to prison. As Bel’s family crisis subsided, the two young women started going to clubs and gigs and having fun. Slowly, their relationship turned from counselor-patient to a proper even-handed friendship.

Mark—known by everyone apart from Bel as Jurassic Mark because of his Neanderthal attitudes toward women—was a great big muscle-bound Aussie, a himbo fitness trainer with a man tan and a jaw that looked like it had been chiseled by the bloke who’d carved the presidents on Mount Rushmore. He called Bel “babe” and introduced himself with lines like “G’day, I’m Mark. I can bench a hundred and sixty K.” He bought her flowers, perfume, and sexy underwear. She cooked him lasagne from scratch, ironed his track suits, and on one occasion even cleaned and waxed his vintage midnight-blue Jaguar with cream upholstery.

Back in the kitchen, Bel pulled her baggy green “boyfriend” cardigan around her. “Okay, you’re right. You’re always right. I hate it when you’re right.”

“Right about what? I still haven’t said anything.”

“I know, but you’ve said it before. Look, I know Mark’s a sexist control freak, but here’s the thing.” She took another mouthful of wine. “God help me for saying this, but I think a bit of me enjoys being controlled and dominated by men. I think it has to do with seeing how my dad treated my mother.”

“I think you might be right.”

“Sometimes I think about leaving Mark, but then we make love and … what can I say? That man controls me like I’m some racing car, engine all revved up to go, but he holds me back. He has this way of bringing me to the brink of an orgasm and then taking his foot off the throttle and holding me there. I just lie there gasping and pleading, and then finally … when he’s ready … Oh … my … God. I’m addicted. I just don’t know how to wean myself off him. I wake up planning to ignore all his calls and go cold turkey, then by the evening I’m in bed with him and back in horny heaven. In that postcoital glow he asks me to collect his dry cleaning or trim his nose hair and I’m helpless to resist.”

Just then the door buzzer rang. Amy frowned a question. She went over to the intercom. “Hi, it’s me.” It was Brian. She buzzed him in and went back into the living room. “It’s Bri—probably wants a shoulder to cry on.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Go easy on him tonight,” Amy said. “He’s a bit fragile. Don’t start winding him up.”

“What do you mean, ‘don’t start winding him up’? I never wind him up. He’s always the one that starts it.”

They heard the front door close. Brian plodded into the living room, looking pretty forlorn. His sweatshirt hood was up. Amy noticed that it was covered in raindrops. “Starting to chuck it down out there,” he said by way of general greeting. Soon his eyes were fixed on Bel. His expression began to change. A smile hovered on his lips. “I see you’ve come as a traffic light.” He was clearly referring to her red hair and green cardigan combo.

Bel didn’t miss a beat. “And you’ve come as a mugger.”

Brian pulled off his wet hood. Bel’s eyes went straight to his hair. “Ooh, and the ferret family rang. They want their nest back.” She was on a roll and, judging by her grin, delighted to be beating him.

“Well, the pedestrian crossing rang, and it wants you back.”

“Okay, kids,” Amy butted in. “Enough. If you don’t stop scrapping, I’m going to turn this car around and neither of you will get ice cream.”

“But he started it,” Bel protested, doing an excellent imitation of a whining seven-year-old. “He called me a traffic light.”

Amy had often thought slash hoped that Bel and Brian’s mutual teasing disguised a sexual tension between them, but in the half dozen or so years they’d known each other, nothing—at least nothing that she knew of—had happened between them. Amy couldn’t help being disappointed. She was a romantic and would have liked nothing better than for her two best friends to fall in love.

They were both creative, arty types with a left of center worldview. They were surely perfect for each other. When she put this to Brian, he said it wasn’t that he didn’t find Bel attractive. It was just that there was no way he would get into a relationship with a woman as self-obsessed as she was. When Amy asked Bel if there was any way she could see herself falling for Brian, her response wasn’t dissimilar. “Look, don’t get me wrong, I like Brian a lot and he is cute—there’s no getting away from it—but he’s so bloody neurotic. I mean, this thing he has with women and their physical appearance. What is that about? He’d drive me mad.”

These days, Amy had come to accept that Brian and Bel would always connect as competing, teasing siblings rather than lovers.

“I’m sorry,” Brian said to Bel. “I’m in a lousy mood, that’s all. I had no right to take it out on you.”

“You’re forgiven,” Bel said with a wave of her hand.

Amy offered them a maternal smile. “That’s better. Now play nicely, you two.”

“Have you really got ice cream?” Brian asked Amy.

She said she thought she had some rocky road in the freezer.

“Ah, rocky road. How appropriate.” Brian gave a bitter laugh.

Bel took this as her cue to commiserate with him about Bean Machine. “God,” she said as Amy disappeared into the kitchen to take the ice cream out of the freezer, “these people think they can just march in wherever they want and destroy small businesses. It’s appalling. There should be some legislation, something to protect people like you.”

“I know, but there isn’t. Short of a miracle, I’m stuffed.” He flopped into Amy’s battered brown leather armchair.

“Yeah, well, I’m going to be stuffed, too, if I don’t get some proper acting work soon.”

“Does that mean you’re running out of money?” There was real concern in his voice.

“No, I just got another electronic voice job. I’m just looking at my career as a whole, that’s all. You know, wondering where I’m going …”

“So you’re not facing potential bankruptcy and ruin, then?”

“Well … no.”

“No bailiffs about to knock on the door.”

“No.”

“So, all in all, your life’s looking pretty fine and dandy.”

By now Amy had come back into the living room, having left the ice cream to thaw. “And there are no bailiffs about to knock on your door, either,” she said to Brian, her tone gently scolding. “I know the Bean Machine thing is pretty scary and we’re all worried, but have you allowed yourself to consider just for one moment that you might actually survive?”

“Yeah, and Boy George might actually be straight.” He let out a long breath. “Anyway, believe it or not, I didn’t come around to talk about the Bean Machine thing. Something else has happened.”

“Oh, God, what now?” Amy said, lowering herself onto the sofa next to Bel.

“It’s Maddy.”

“What about her?”

“She just dumped me.”

“She dumped
you?”

“Yep. Can you believe it? She’s the one with the webbed feet, and she dumped me.”

“Maddy?” Bel piped up. “Who’s she? Why does nobody keep me in the loop? I thought you were still seeing Emma with the tail and the hairy back. You know, if you could get all these women together, you could set up a tent and start charging admission.”

Brian managed a good-humored eye roll.

Amy made the point that in a way Maddy ending it was good news. “I mean, you’d pretty much decided it wasn’t going to work out between you.”

“I know,” Brian said, “but I wanted to be the one to end it. I never, ever allow myself to get dumped. That’s my whole emotional MO—rejecting women before they can reject me—you know that.”

Amy asked if Maddy had given him a reason for ending it.

He took a deep breath. “She says I have moobs.”

“Moobs?” Amy repeated.

“You know … man boobs,” Bel volunteered.

“Yeah, yeah … I know what moobs are. I was just processing, that’s all.”

“Anyway, she says she finds them a turnoff. I went home, but I was too scared to look in the mirror, so I thought I’d come here. Amy, I want you to tell me honestly, do I have man breasts?”

With that, he stood up, took off his sweatshirt, and lifted his T-shirt to his chin. Amy wasn’t about to hurt her best friend’s feelings by telling him he had moobs, but Bel—who hadn’t even been invited to give her opinion—wasn’t so squeamish. She stood in front of him, eyes level with his chest, squinting.

“Okay, turn to the side,” she said, making a twirling motion with her finger. He was clearly embarrassed, but he turned.

“Hmm. Well, there’s definitely a bit of abdominal swelling going on. You planning an epidural or a natural birth?”

“Look, I know about the gut, okay? I need to diet and get back to the gym, but please tell me I don’t have breasts.”

“There’s nothing,” Bel said. “Not really.”

“What does ‘not really’ mean?”

“It’s nothing. Honestly.”

“No, ‘not really’ means there’s something.”

“Okay, maybe there’s just the teensiest budding, but you can hardly see it.”

“She’s right,” Amy said. “It’s barely noticeable.”

“Budding? I have budding? What am I, a pubescent girl?” He fell back into the armchair. “Oh, God, I’m repulsive.”

Bel told him to stop dramatizing. “Of course you’re not repulsive. You’ve put on a couple pounds, that’s all. It’s no big deal. You’ll lose it in no time.”

Brian pulled down his T-shirt, and Amy went to fetch another wineglass.

“I agree,” she said as she poured him some wine, “It’s nothing to worry about. When blokes put on weight, it often goes to their stomach and chest. Did you see those pictures of Jack Nicholson on the beach the other day? Massive malumbas.”

“The man has to be over seventy,” Brian said, wobbling his right chest with his hand. “I’m still in my prime.” He paused as a thought occurred. “But what if it’s hormonal? They say that with so many women on the pill, the water supply’s getting contaminated with estrogen.”

“I’m no expert,” Amy said, “but I’d say the chances of you developing female secondary sexual characteristics from the water supply are pretty minimal, but if you’re worried, you should go to the doctor.”

He nodded and said he thought he would, just to be certain he didn’t have a hormone imbalance.

“And if you are turning into a woman,” Bel said, going over to put an arm around him, “I’ve got this slinky little black shift that would look just great on you. If we did your hair, got you some pearls and some long gloves, you could have a real Audrey Hepburn thing going on.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Amy! Quick! Get him off me. He’s giving me an Indian burn.”

Chapter 4

THE FOLLOWING DAY
, Charlie’s school was closed. The local council was holding elections, and the building was being used as a polling station. Charlie had been due to spend the day at Ruby’s, but at half past seven she’d phoned to say she had woken up with a blinding migraine and the twins were going to her mother’s. “I’d ask Mum to have Charlie, too, but she’s getting on, and I’m not sure she’d cope with three of them tearing about her tiny flat.”

Amy completely understood and wouldn’t have dreamed of imposing on Ruby’s mum, but it did leave her in a bind. There was no point phoning Val or asking Charlie’s friends’ mums to see if one of them could have him because they all worked. There was only one viable plan B: Victoria. She had two children, Delilah, known as Lila, who was nine, and Arthur, who was seven. Lila would be at school, but Arthur was at home getting over a stomach bug. The boys got on well, although Arthur, who was a tall, hefty lad, was apt to throw his weight around, not that Victoria ever acknowledged it.

Victoria had spent years devoted to her career, declaring that she didn’t have a maternal bone in her body and that if she went through early menopause like her mother had, so be it. Then she met, fell in love with, and married Gorgeous Simon—he of the patrician jaw, Grecian curls, and megabucks salary courtesy of a top City law firm, where he was a partner. They hadn’t been back from their honeymoon (Bora Bora) for more than five minutes when, with much fanfare, they announced that they were pregnant.

Before that, there had been a glorious white wedding on the river at Henley, paid for by Simon’s parents, who were loaded. Victoria, who along with her brains possessed a hand-span waist, hazel eyes that were perfect almonds, and auburn tresses that looked like they belonged in a Herbal Essences commercial, wore an understated slinky satin gown trimmed at the shoulders with drop crystals. As they posed for photographs—Victoria with her hair and eyes, Gorgeous Simon dashing in his top hat and tails—grandmas and aunties oohed and aahed and said what a handsome couple they made.

Amy was matron of honor. She wore an off-the-shoulder peach crinoline confection chosen by Victoria. Her sister claimed to adore it and said how perfect it was for Amy’s figure. Amy believed her until the best man got up to deliver the traditional bridesmaid toast and assured her that one day she would rebuild Tara. Of course everybody hooted. Amy’s girlfriends told her not to get upset since everybody knew it was the bride’s prerogative to ensure that she wasn’t outshone by her bridesmaid even if the bridesmaid was her sister.

Victoria’s pregnancy at the age of thirty-one clearly indicated that she wasn’t heading toward the early menopause Val had experienced. Amy was encouraged by this, but she knew that she still could have inherited her mother’s predisposition. At the age of twenty-six she had every right to be fretting about her own fertility.

Nobody could believe the change that came over Victoria. Her pregnancy took over her life. She gave up work at once in order to “be there for my fetus.” She spent nine months reading child-care books, playing Beethoven to her unborn child, and going to birthing, breast-feeding, and child-rearing courses.

She embraced pregnancy—and subsequently motherhood—in much the same way she had embraced her studies at school and university. For her, coping with pregnancy and child care wasn’t about instinct, natural impulses, and doing what felt right; they were subjects to be conquered and mastered. Childbirth and parenting were tests, and she had to graduate with honors. What was more, the rest of the world had to be made aware of her successes and triumphs so that they would look up to her and admire her—maybe even love her.

It had occurred to Amy that as a child Victoria had received so much praise when she did well at school, she had grown up believing that all love was dependent on her success. That would explain why she threw herself into her studies and then into her job. Now she was doing the same with motherhood. Victoria was a self-appointed mother superior, eager to bestow upon other mothers the benefit of her knowledge and wisdom. She lived under the impression that she was respected and admired. Amy suspected that the truth was different. It occurred to her that the moment Victoria appeared in the school playground, women cried out: “Omigod, duck, everyone. Here she comes.”

Since having Charlie, Amy had come across several mothers superior like Victoria. For them, motherhood was nothing less than rhapsodic. Mothers superior would never admit that being stuck at home on a wet afternoon building Lego towers with a toddler who immediately demolished them and then demanded they be rebuilt was a chore. In their view, the mistake other mothers made was failing to see the experience as a truly meaningful step on junior’s epic journey toward learning to play and interact with significant others. It was something to be celebrated, not endured.

They were never sleep-deprived because they were slaves to Gina Ford’s
Contented Little Baby Book
. They knew that looking after infants was all about routine and letting a newborn know who was boss.

A mother superior produced babies who slept through the night from age two weeks. They also napped twice a day: from ten until twelve and from two to four. That way she had time to lobby for a position on the board of governors at the school her three older children attended, help paint the scenery for the end-of-term play, and do her pelvic floor exercises.

AMY’S RELATIONSHIP
with Victoria had never been easy. For a start, Victoria was five years older, which meant that for a long time she was physically bigger than Amy and able to push her around.

At school, Victoria did well in everything. If there was an academic prize to be won, she waltzed off with it. The upshot was that she turned into a bossy know-it-all who believed she was right about everything and couldn’t be challenged. Her parents and teachers should have addressed her arrogance and reined her in, but they never did.

One of Victoria’s favorite sports was crowing over her sister and calling her stupid. Of course she was savvy enough to do this well out of parental earshot. Despite her sister’s bullying, Amy did well at school, but unlike Victoria, she wasn’t Oxbridge material. She left Sussex with a perfectly respectable two-one. Of course Victoria left Oxford with a first.

By the time Amy reached her teenage years, her confidence had grown and she refused to let her sister put her down. Amy learned to fight back, and there were often huge rows. Back then she was unaware that she was jealous of her sister. She saw herself as a helpless victim, eager to love Victoria if only she would stop being such a bully. It was only in the last couple of years that Amy had begun to acknowledge her resentment and admit—to herself at least—that there were times when she teased and goaded her older sister.

As the sisters turned from teenagers to women, the slanging matches continued. They were usually followed by months of bad feeling. These days, their parents having separated, Amy decided that there was enough family friction around and made a particular effort to get along with Victoria. It was by no means easy, though, and there were still times when Amy could have throttled her and happily served the time.

“Of course I’ll have Charlie,” Victoria cooed down the phone. “We haven’t seen him for ages. And Arthur’s not infectious anymore. I’m sending him back to school tomorrow.”

“That’s fantastic. Victoria, you’re a total lifesaver.” On the rare occasions she felt close to her sister, like now, Amy still got the urge to call her Vics or Tory—the way she had when they were kids—but Victoria had put a stop to that years ago on the grounds that both sounded common. On the other hand, it wasn’t common for Delilah to be known as Lila. Amy had given up trying to fathom her sister’s logic.

“I know how hard it is for you working mums to find child care. I’m so lucky that Simon earns enough for me to stay at home. I can’t imagine not being there for Lila and Arthur.”

From the moment Amy got pregnant, Victoria had made it clear that she disapproved of her sister choosing to become a lone parent. Even now she took every opportunity to remind Amy that she was failing Charlie by not providing him with a father. As a rule, Amy wasn’t afraid of standing her ground on the subject, but since Victoria had agreed to mind Charlie, she wasn’t about to debate the issue and risk turning it into an argument.

“I’ll take them to the park,” Victoria went on. “Then I’ll give them lunch. I’ve made a shepherd’s pie. I’m sure Charlie will appreciate some home cooking for once.”

Amy let that go, too.

“Sounds great. Honestly, I really do appreciate it.”

“And then in the afternoon I’ve organized a nature trail and treasure hunt for the local play group.” She helped out at Little Rascals a couple of mornings a week. “Of course the boys will be older than the other children, but I’m sure they’ll enjoy it. And I know you and Charlie don’t get out much, what with you being at work all the time.”

“Wow, you’ve organized a nature trail
and
a treasure hunt,” Amy singsonged, though how she managed it through clenched teeth, she had no idea. She felt an overpowering need to change the subject. She asked Victoria if she’d gotten around to baking anything for Lila’s school fete, which she knew was being held on Sunday. Ask a silly question. “Actually,” Victoria began, “I’ve made Sleeping Beauty’s castle, which they’re raffling. I was up until midnight, icing it. And if that wasn’t enough, I had to finish her wood nymph costume for the ballet school’s latest production. Strictly
entre nous
, a couple of the speckled frogs aren’t going to look brilliant. Some of the mums are just sticking half Ping-Pong balls onto green hooded tops and leaving it at that. I ask you.”

Amy saw no point in saying that in her opinion sticking half Ping-Pong balls onto a hooded top seemed a rather inventive way of making a frog costume and that she for one was going to make a note of it.

They agreed that Amy should take Charlie with her to Café Mozart and Victoria would pick him up after she’d dropped Lila at school.

CHARLIE LOVED
being taken to the café. Brian made him Bambinocino and, if they weren’t too busy, brought the Connect 4 over from the play area and challenged him to a game. He always let Charlie win. Brian was Charlie’s godfather, and like Bel, he took the responsibility pretty seriously. Not only did he baby-sit from time to time, there had been outings to the zoo, the science museum, and the children’s theater in Wimbledon. For Charlie’s last birthday, Brian had taken him to the circus. Charlie still talked about the trapeze artists and the clowns who had buckets of water poured over them, only the water turned out to be glitter.

Zelma always fed Charlie chocolate cake, which he loved. He was less keen when she pinched his cheek and told him that she could just eat him.

This morning, he seemed happy enough to sit drawing at one of the tables. He was working on what was turning out to be a magnificent gorilla swinging from a tree.

“It’s like the great big huge one we saw at the zoo,” he said to Brian, who was standing beside him, admiring his work.

“I can see that,” Brian said, picking up Charlie’s empty Bambinocino mug. He turned to Amy, who was clearing the next-door table. “That gorilla is fantastic. I’ve said it before: That son of yours has got a real gift.”

“I know,” Amy said, glowing. “His teacher has noticed, too. I’ve no idea where he gets it from. Certainly not from me. And artistic ability wasn’t on his father’s list of talents.”

“Would you like the gorilla when I’ve finished?” Charlie asked Brian.

“You betcha,” Brian said, ruffling Charlie’s hair. “I’ll take it home and stick it on my fridge. That way I’ll get to look at it all the time.”

With that, Brian made his way over to the front door, unlocked it, and turned the CLOSED sign to OPEN.

By the time he returned to the counter and started filling the coffee grinder with beans, the smile he had managed to turn on for Charlie had vanished. “What’s to become of me?” he said to Amy. “A bankrupt in a man bra.”

“You mean a Bro,” Amy corrected, giggling.

“Bro?”

“Yeah. Come on, you’re the
Seinfeld
nut. You must remember the episode where George’s dad invents the man bra. He considers calling it the Mansiere but rejects it in favor of the Bro.”

“Oh, yeah.” Charlie nodded without a hint of amusement.

“We could always bind you up,” Zelma volunteered, coming from the kitchen carrying a stack of clean plates. “It’s what the flapper girls did in the twenties to make their busts flat.”

“Why doesn’t that make me feel better?”

“Oh, come on, Brian,” Zelma said, putting the plates down on the counter, “I’m only trying to lighten the atmosphere. Amy’s right. You need to go on a diet, that’s all.”

“I’m too stressed to diet.” With that he shoved a cheese Danish in his mouth.

Amy put her hand on his shoulder. “We will get through this Bean Machine thing, you know. And I’ll be here as long as you need me. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Me, neither,” Zelma said.

“Really? What about when I can’t afford to pay you anymore?”

Zelma shrugged. “I don’t work here for the money. You know that.”

“Anyway,” Amy said, “it won’t come to that.” But she knew it might.

THIS MORNING,
no sooner had the commuters left than a gossiping gaggle of blond, hair-flicking American girls appeared, their perfect teeth and noses accessorized with Dolce & Gabbana totes and pastel-colored Juicy Couture sweatpants. St. Agatha’s, the snooty private school up the road, was always organizing foreign exchange visits. A couple of months ago it had been loud pushy Italian teenagers for whom the concept of queuing was clearly anathema coming in for their morning espresso. Amy assumed that the Americans were the latest arrivals. As she wiped tables and gathered up dirty crocks, she couldn’t help overhearing their conversation.

“He so totally said that to her.” A girl with hot pink lips was addressing the entire group.