A Catered Affair (15 page)

By the time dinner was over, I was feeling the opposite of inhibited. The booze had caused me to become totally hibited. When the dancing started up, I began pouncing on men: single, married, young, even the old ones with the bad comb-overs—and dragging them onto the dance floor. I draped myself over them and came on to them all—even my ancient uncle Solly, who had to be in his late eighties but seemed to have been in them for as long as I could remember.

Scarlett or Rosie would cut in and make me go and sit down, but I would only get up and head for the bar or start cruising the room again.

By the end of the evening I could barely stand. When people came to say their good-byes, I couldn’t work out if it was them or me who was swaying. Everybody said how brave I’d been. Nana’s friends from the Jewish day center promised they would get their accountant, lawyer, financial consultant grandsons to call and ask me out. They insisted I wouldn’t be on the shelf long because I was a great catch, which made me feel like a halibut.

When close friends started leaving, I got maudlin and started falling onto people’s shoulders, blubbing that my life was over. I will never forget how each one invited me to come and stay with them—even my friend Lilly, who had a husband and two kids in a one-bedroom flat. Mum thanked them all and explained that I was coming back to her place for a few days.

When all the guests were gone, Scarlett and Grace suggested I come and stay with them. Rosie thought I should come to hers.

“No, she’s coming back with me,” Mum said. “It’s all settled.”

“When was it settled?” I said, aware that the room was refusing to stay still. “I never settled anything. Ac-shully, since the penthouse suite is paid for, I intend to stay in it. I’m gonna sleep in every bed.”

“Then we’ll all stay with you,” Nana said.

“No . . . way . . . José. Iwannabealone.”

“That’s impossible,” Nana came back. “You’re going to start throwing up later and you’re going to need somebody with you.”

“I never get sick when I’m drunk.”

“Please let me stay,” Rosie said. “Mum and Dad have got the children.”

I shook my head. “Go home. All of you. I wannabe onmyown.”

“OK,” Mum said, “but only if you promise not to have another drink and you get room service to send up a gallon of black coffee.”

“Cack bloffee. I goddit.”

They wanted to take me up to the penthouse.

“No, I want to sit here for a bit.”

“And get maudlin,” Mum said.

“Absolutely.”

They agreed to go. “But if you feel ill in the night or you can’t cope,” Scarlett said, “you call me. Promise?”

“Promise.”

They hovered.

“I can’t leave you like this,” Rosie said.

“Yes, you can. Now, go.”

They exchanged what-should-we-do? glances.

“Honest, I’ll be fine. It’s what I want.”

They went.

I staggered to the nearest table and practically fell onto a chair. I noticed a plate of leftover petits fours. I reached across the table and picked up a ball of green marzipan. Just looking at it made me feel nauseous. I put it down and looked around the room. The waiters were clearing away and stripping the tables now. The guys from the band were sitting drinking Coke or coffee. I sat, idly picking petals off the table centerpiece.

I was thinking about asking one of the waiters if they could get me some coffee, when—right on cue—Kenny Platters, the caterer, appeared. He was standing over me in his chef’s whites, holding a cup of black coffee.

“I was on my way home, but before I went I wanted to say how sorry I am for what’s happened. I guess we all know what it’s like to be dumped, but this is in a different league.”

He sat down and placed the coffee in front of me.

“Well, at the moment I’m too wasted to be feeling anything.” I hiccuped. “By the way, your chef’s gear suits you. Makes you look very macho.”

“Thank you. Now, come on, drink some coffee. You look like you could do with it.”

“But why are you dressed as a chef?” I said, ignoring the coffee. “Caterers don’t cook. They just supervise.”

“Not me. Nothing goes out of my kitchen that I haven’t had a hand in preparing.”

“Goo’ fer you. I’m sure the food was wunnerful, but I couldn’t get anything down.”

“I’m not surprised.”

I took a couple of sips of the coffee. I think I may have belched. One of the waitresses came over and handed Kenny a large Scotch. He thanked her. “My end-of-work treat,” he said to me. “Helps me unwind.” He took a slug.

“Hope you’re not driving home.”

“Uh-uh. I always get a cab.”

“Sensible chap.”

“Have some more coffee.”

“Don’t want it,” I said. “Tastes bitter. I got a better idea. Let’s dance.”

“Dance?”

“Yes. I can’t face going to bed.”

“But the band is packing up.”

I shouted across the room: “Hey, band people!”

They looked up.

“One more song, if you please.”

“She’s a bit worse for wear,” Kenny called out to the band. “I’m not sure she’ll take no for an answer.”

“OK,” somebody said. “What’ll it be?”

“Wha’jew ushally play at the end of weddings?”

“ ‘I’ve Had the Time of My Life.’”

“Fabulous.” I stood up. “Take it away! Come on, Kenny, let’s you and me do some dirty dancing.”

The band returned to their instruments. Wires were plugged in. There was lots of screeching and feedback and tapping of mikes.

“You sure you want to dance to that song?” Kenny said.

“Absolutely. Cos the truth is that up ’til now, I have had the time of my life. Even though it’s all bloody over now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it’s not over.” He downed some more of his Scotch and led me onto the dance floor.

The female singer started up. I laid my head on Kenny’s shoulder—for no other reason than it was starting to get too heavy for my neck. We didn’t so much dance as shuffle around the dance floor, me letting out the occasional hiccup.

“Jew know that me and my family all call you Kenny Platters?”

He smiled. “No, I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. It’s because your business is called Platters. And you’re Kenny. So we call you Kenny Platters. Geddit?”

“I think so.”

“So will Stewart be waiting for you when you get home?”

“Stewart? No, he lives in Manchester.”

“Really? Huh. Can’t be eashy. Long-distance relationships can be hard work.”

“But Stew and I aren’t in a relationship.”

“Don’t tell me . . . he dumped you.”

“What? No, I didn’t get dumped.”

“So, you dumped him. Good fer you. Whad he do? Discover he was straight? Cheat on you with another guy?”

“No. None of the above. Stew and I have never been in a relationship.”

“But you said he was your partner.”

“He is. Stew is my business partner. He runs Platters Manchester.”

“Oops.” I started giggling. “Sho you’re not gay, then?”

“No.”

“Nana was certain you were because you dress so well. She reckons straight men don’t have a clue how to dress.”

“I’m not sure that’s entirely true.”

“So . . . Kenny.” Hiccup.

“Yes.”

“You know how you’re not gay?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I was wondering . . .”

“What?”

I blinked. “I’ve forgotten. I’ve forgotten what I was wondering. Isn’t that funny?”

Kenny agreed that it was.

“Oh, I know what I was going to say. Yeah. So is there a Mrs. Kenny Platters?”

“Nope.”

“K. So you seeing anybody?”

“Not right now.”

“Brilliant. You see, I was thinking that since you’re not bad-looking . . .”

“Thank you.”

“In fact, has anybody ever told you that you look a bit like Micky Bubble?”

“No, they haven’t. And Micky Bubble would be . . . ?”

“Micky Bubble is Micky Bubble. How can you not have heard of him? He’s that shinger. Ver’ famouse. My nana loves him.”

“Do you mean Michael Bublé?”

“Thassit. Micky Booblaay . . . Anyhow, as I was saying—since you’re not bad-looking and this is my wedding night . . . would you sleep with me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Would you sleep with me? I just feel that a bride should do the deed on her wedding night, even if it’s not with her beloved.”

“I see.”

“I’ve got the penthouse suite. It’s all paid for.”

I never got to hear Kenny’s decision because just then everything faded to black.

 

 

The next morning, as I started to come around, I was aware of being in a bed that wasn’t my own. It took a moment to work out that I was in the penthouse suite at the Park Royal. I lifted the duvet and saw that I was still in my wedding dress, minus my shoes.

The pain of the previous day’s events hit me like a wrecker’s ball. Josh had left me. I was alone in the world with nobody to love or to love me back. I tried to force myself back to sleep. That way I wouldn’t have to face the day. I wanted to sleep forever, but I couldn’t because every time I closed my eyes the pain in my head seemed to get worse. It felt like my skull was trapped in a vice. Then there was the desperate thirst.

“Oh God. Everything hurts.”

“It will after what you put away last night.”

The man’s voice made me jump.

“Who’s that?” I looked around, trying to see where the voice had come from.

“It’s me, Kenny. Over here.”

He was lying on the sofa in the window, still in his chef’s whites.

“Don’t worry,” he said, practically leaping off the sofa. “If you need to hurl again, I’ll get the ice bucket.”

“Again? How many times have I been sick?”

“I dunno. Four. Maybe five.”

“Into an ice bucket?”

“It’s all I could find.”

“And you stayed with me all night. While I was chucking up?”

“There was no way I could have left you alone, not in that state.”

“How did I get here? The last thing I remember we were dancing.”

“Me and one of the waiters helped you up here. You sang all the way up in the lift.”

“What did I sing?”

“ ‘Like a Virgin.’ ”

“Oh my God.”

He came and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Oh, by the way, I think you should have this.” He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out my engagement ring.

I frowned a question.

“You threw it against the wall. I think it was while you were being sick for the third time.”

I took it from him. My beautiful engagement ring. I would send it back to Josh.

By now, bits and pieces of our conversation from last night were coming back to me.

“I’m sorry—I really made a tit of myself last night. If I embarrassed you in any way, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t.”

It was then that I was hit with a memory so excruciating that I wanted the Park Royal’s solid oak floorboards to swallow me up. “Yes, I did. Omigod. I asked you to sleep with me.”

“I think at one stage you may have mentioned it vaguely.”

“Stop trying to let me off the hook. We both know there was nothing vague about it. I tried to get you into bed. So did you? I mean—did we?”

“What? No. Of course not. I would never take advantage of a woman, and particularly not one who’s pissed out of her skull. And even if I’d wanted to—apart from when you were vomiting—you’ve been pretty much unconscious for nine hours.”

“Point taken,” I said. “I apologize for even suggesting it. Kenny, I’m so sorry to have put you through all this. Thank you so much for looking after me. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“I’d like to say it was a pleasure, but . . .”

“I don’t know how I’m ever going to be able to make this up to you.”

“You don’t have to make anything up to me. I’m just glad you’re OK. For the record, I’ve got some idea of what you’re going through. My girlfriend dumped me six weeks ago. We’d been going out for over a year.”

“Oh, Kenny, I’m sorry.”

“That’s OK. I just wanted to say that the next few weeks are going to be difficult. You need to be kind to yourself. Don’t push things too hard.”

“Thanks, Kenny. I’ll do my best.”

“By the way,” he said, smiling now. “You ought to know that you have vomit in your hair.”

“Fabulous. Boy, I must stink.”

“Don’t worry, I found I got used to it after a while. It’s like when you’re in a farmyard. You stop smelling the . . .”

“Yeah. Thanks. I get the picture.”

I pushed back the duvet and stood up. Even after nine hours’ sleep, I still felt a bit drunk. I felt myself sway and wobble. I grabbed hold of the nightstand and sat back down on the bed.

“Tally, I’m not sure you should be going home on your own. Look at you—you can’t even stand up.”

He suggested we get a cab to my flat. “At least then I’ll know that you’ve got home safely.”

I said he’d already done more than enough. “I’ll be fine on my own. Honest. Please don’t worry.”

“OK, well, I guess I should be getting home. I need to shower and change and get to work. I’m doing a celebrity baby shower later in the week and I need a vat of baby poop.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry. What I meant to say is that I need to
make
a vat of baby poop. It’s not real. It’s melted chocolate. You spread it on Pampers. The mother-to-be hands them around to her guests like canapés, and the fun part is licking off the ‘poop.’ ”

“Well, if you ask me, that’s a
crap
idea. Please tell me you didn’t invent it.”

“Er, no. But it’s all the rage. The moms seem to love it. The problem is I can’t seem to get the consistency of the poop right.”