A Catered Affair (4 page)

She did pretty well with minimum effort and could have gone on to university, but Scarlett was having none of it. She got a job as a runner with a Soho film company and started trying to impress the bookers on the comedy circuit.

Meanwhile, I was in my second year at Leeds, studying law. I chose the subject because it fascinated me and because, more than anything, I wanted to be a lawyer. I also knew that Dad would have approved.

Although she’d loved Dad to bits, Scarlett understood that I felt his loss more than she did. We talked about how, growing up, I had “belonged” to Dad and she had “belonged” to Mum. As kids there had been no jealousy between us. It was just how our family was.

After Dad died, that changed—at least as far as I was concerned. Although I never said anything to Mum or to Scarlett, and Mum went out of her way to be loving and affectionate, I felt very alone without Dad. I began to resent the relationship Scarlett had with Mum. I knew, and I think they both knew deep down, that they would always have a special connection.

The hurt I was feeling had an effect on my relationship with Scarlett, and I cooled towards her, particularly after I went to university and she was left at home. Then one night, not long before her eighteenth birthday, Scarlett came into my room (I was home for spring break). She asked if she could try out a couple of comedy bits on me. “I’ve been experimenting with some new material,” she said. I asked her what kind and she said, “Lesbian.”

“Lesbian? Isn’t that a bit risky? I mean, what do you know about being a lesbian?”

“Quite a bit, actually.”

I didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds. It was dawning on me that she was serious. “Hang on. Are you actually telling me you’re gay?”

She nodded. “You’re the first person I’ve come out to.”

After all the mean, shitty thoughts I’d been having about my sister, she’d chosen to confide in me. I felt privileged and very loved, but at the same time it was like I was a kid being given a Christmas present that I knew I didn’t deserve because I’d been bad all year.

We stayed up talking until five in the morning. Scarlett told me that she’d known she was gay since she was eight. I was astonished that a person could know before they hit puberty, but she was adamant. She described standing in the school playground and it suddenly hitting her that she wanted to spend her life with a girl. “I knew nothing about sex,” she said, “but I was in no doubt that I wanted to live with a girl. I also had this sense of it being wrong and that people would disapprove.”

She had kept her secret for all these years. I couldn’t begin to imagine the confusion my little sister must have felt. I hugged her and we both started to cry.

“But why haven’t you come out to Mum?” I said at one point. “You know she’ll be cool with it.”

“Yeah, too cool. I wouldn’t put it past her to put an announcement in the
Jewish Chronicle
: ‘To Shelley Roth—a beautiful lesbian, Scarlett Poppy, just out. Proud mum and daughter doing well.’ ”

I said that I took the point. That night, my relationship with my sister began to change. As we talked, I started to acknowledge how hard it had been for her, living with a pushy stage mother. Of course, Mum would have had a fit if she’d heard herself described as “pushy” and “a stage mother.”

“Pushy? Me? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, come on, Scar, do your Celine Dion . . . ‘
The first time ever I saw your face
. . .’”

It took her a couple of days before she could pluck up the courage to come out to Mum. Afterwards, she reported back to me. “I don’t know why I was so worried. She was great. She hugged me, told me how much she loved me and how proud of me she was and that as far as she was concerned, my sexuality was neither here nor there.”

But it was too good to be true. That evening, while Mum was preparing dinner, we heard her on the phone to Aunty Brenda. She’d put Brenda on speakerphone, presumably so that she could carry on peeling potatoes.

“Bren, you will never believe it . . . I’ve got one.” I hadn’t heard Mum this excited since she wangled an invite to one of Sting’s rain-forest fund-raisers.

“One what?” we heard Aunty Brenda say.

“A lesbian.”

“My word. How exotic. So what are you feeding it?” Scarlett and I corpsed. Aunty Brenda wasn’t remotely homophobic. She simply “got” my mother and enjoyed teasing her.

“Very funny. I’m trying to tell you that Scarlett’s just come out as gay.”

“Good for her. Tell her Aunty Brenda says mazel tov.”

“Isn’t it wonderful? I’m the mother of a lesbian. I can’t believe it. It’s just so . . . cool.”

“Shelley.”

“What?”

“Do me a favor. Please don’t hold a street party to celebrate. You’re in your fifth decade. Perhaps the time has come to stop trying to scandalize the neighbors.”

“Who said anything about scandalizing the neighbors?”

“Come on, it’s your hobby. Scarlett’s coming out is about her, not you. Being a gay woman might be trendy in certain circles, but she’s going to come up against prejudice and bigotry and you need to be there for her.”

“I know that, Bren. I’m not a complete fool. Can you imagine me not being there for her?”

Scarlett and I never doubted Mum’s sincerity, but there was no getting away from it—our mother was high on
pride
. Pretty soon she was bandying about “insider” words like
femmie
and
butchie
and had bought an I HEART MY GAY DAUGHTER shopper and k.d. lang’s
Greatest Hits
album.

Mum had been overjoyed when Scarlett came out, but a year or so ago when she discovered that Scarlett was dating Grace, who wasn’t just a successful newspaper and magazine photographer but also black, she was positively euphoric. It was as if all her Christmases had come at once. A few months later, when Scarlett and Grace moved in together, Mum confided in me that she fantasized about them having babies and her being a grandmother to mixed-race children. “And of course we’d invite all of Grace’s family to stay for the holidays.” It was clear she was imagining pans of jerk chicken simmering on the stove and Grace’s parents, grandparents, brothers and sisters gathered around the tree, boogying to a reggae version of “O Holy Night.”

 

 

A few days after I’d told her that Josh and I were getting married, I was back at Mum’s for Friday-night dinner. She’d invited me over because there was something she wanted to tell me. “Look, I don’t have a lot of money, but I made sure I put a bit away from your dad’s life insurance to pay for weddings for you and Scarlett. There’s enough to give you a nice party. I know it’s what your father would have wanted.”

“Mum, are you absolutely sure? Josh and I were planning on getting a bank loan.”

“Stop it. I’m not having you start your married life in debt. Now, I don’t want to hear another word.”

I got up and gave her a hug. “Thanks, Mum.”

“My pleasure. So, come on, what sort of dress have you got in mind . . . ?”

Mum and I had just finished coffee and I was thinking about heading home, when the phone rang. Mum went over to the kitchen counter and picked up.

“Hello. Yes . . . If you need to talk . . . I’m listening.”

God, now she was doing Frasier impersonations.

“Mum, you can’t keep on doing this.”

Mum waved a hand to shush me. “OK . . . Harold, so has anything happened to make you so depressed? . . . I see. Your fake plants died because you didn’t pretend to water them . . . And because your lucky number never comes up, you think you’re cursed . . . What is your lucky number? . . . Three million, seven hundred and forty-eight thousand, nine hundred and thirty-one. Uh-huh . . . So, how’s that working for you?”

I picked up my jacket and gave Mum a wave to let her know I was leaving. “Speak to you during the week.” She nodded and went back to the unfortunate Harold.

I got into my car and was about to start the engine when my cell rang. It was Scarlett. I wasn’t expecting to hear from her, as she and Grace were away for the weekend in Dorset.

“Omigod, I just read your e-mail.” She sounded really excited, as I’d hoped she would. “Grace and I would absolutely love to be bridesmaids at your wedding.”

Since that night in my bedroom when Scarlett came out to me, our relationship had grown and matured and we were closer than I had ever thought possible. I had also come to think the world of Grace. Josh loved both of them, too, and agreed that they should absolutely be bridesmaids at our wedding.

“Oh, Scar. That’s fantastic. I’m so pleased, and I know Josh will be, too.”

“But lesbian bridesmaids? You sure? I mean, aren’t some of Josh’s family really orthodox? Don’t they still stone people for being gay?”

“It’s only his old aunts and uncles who are religious. And his mum says they’ll be fine. She says it’ll give them something to gossip about.”

“Great. Then we’re on, but I have to warn you that dresses are totally out of the question.”

“O-K. That’s not a problem.” There was no way I wanted them to wear outfits they weren’t comfortable with. On the other hand, this was my wedding day. I didn’t want my bridesmaids in sneakers. Plus, Scarlett and Grace were gorgeous. We were talking full-on lipstick lesbians here. These were not the kind of women who favored trucks and mullet haircuts. I asked her what she had in mind.

“I’m thinking maybe an early thirties, transgender,
Cabaret
slash-Weimar vibe—you know, men’s pinstripe suits, long cigarette holders and monocles. Mum would love it.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

Scarlett started laughing. “I’m joking. Of course we’ll wear dresses. I’m sure that whatever you choose will be great.”

“Hooped lavender crinolines it is, then,” I said.

“Great. We’ll bring the curds and whey.” She paused. “So what did Mum say when you told her the news?”

“Well, she’s insisting on paying for the wedding, which is really generous. I think she’s doing her best to be happy for me, but she’s struggling. The bottom line is I’m getting hitched to a boring doctor instead of a performance poet or some artist who marinades brains in lark’s spittle.”

“What do you do with her? You have to let me speak to her again. I hate the way I get all the maternal plaudits. I mean, look how she reacted when she found out that Grace was black. It wasn’t just ridiculously OTT and embarrassing; it was so insensitive to you . . . and to Grace, for that matter. I’m going to call her.”

“No, don’t. She’s trying. We have to give her credit for that. Whenever either of us tries to speak to her, it always touches a nerve and she gets herself worked up trying to pretend there’s not a problem. You and I know her feelings towards Josh—and me, for that matter—are all tied up with her relationship with Dad. I take after him, and even though she denies it, she has real problems with that. It’s not always easy, but I know she loves me. Let’s just leave things as they are.”

“You sure?”

“I think so.”

“OK, hon. But if you change your mind, you only have to say.”

“I know. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

 

 

I got home and put the kettle on. While it was boiling I texted Josh. He was about to catch a flight home from Sydney, where he’d been giving a series of lectures on the latest techniques in treating childhood leukemia. I was due to pick him up at Heathrow the following evening.
Hey, J, hope final lecture went well. Can’t wait to have you back. Safe journey. See you Heathrow Terminal 3. Love you forever and ever and then some. T XXX.

I spent the next few hours lying on the sofa, drinking mugs of tea and reading case notes. When I’d finished, I got some cheese and crackers and ate them in front of
Antiques Roadshow
. By half past nine I was thinking about having a bath and an early night.

I’d just gotten out of the tub when I heard my mobile going. Without even grabbing a towel I ran to get it. I thought it could be Josh phoning from Sydney to say there had been a delay. Naked and dripping on the carpet, I pressed CONNECT.

“Oh, Tally, I’m so glad I reached you.” It was my best friend, Rosie, sounding more than a tad hyper. “I don’t suppose you happen to have a cabbage?”

“Er . . . not on me, no.”

“Look, I know it’s late, but you couldn’t possibly bring one over, could you? I wouldn’t ask, but it’s a real emergency.”

“
I
don’t get it,” I said to Rosie. “How does a person have a cabbage emergency? What are you doing, bulk pickling sauerkraut?”

“Duh. It’s for my breasts.”

“Of course. That explains everything.”

“Actually, it does, and if you were a nursing mother, you’d know that. My breasts are hot, red and engorged with milk. I’m in agony. I think I’ve got mastitis. Cabbage leaves help relieve the pain and swelling.”

“God, you poor thing. OK, I’ll be straight over. I’ll pop into Tesco on the way.”

“You sure you don’t mind?”

“Rosie, you’re a two-minute drive from me. Of course I don’t mind.”

Rosie Thomas had been my best friend since university. She started off in the law department with me, and we hit it off straightaway. We bonded over
Friends
, the
X-Files
(with particular reference to David Duchovny, after whom we both lusted) and the fact that we shared the same liberal political views.

After about a week, she realized law wasn’t for her, and she changed to modern history. Even though she wasn’t in my lectures and tutorials anymore, we would meet up for coffee or lunch with the other girls who had joined our gang. The other great thing about Rosie was that she could cook and she used to have us over to her student house and fill us up with homemade spag bol and chili. Even now she loved to cook, although she hadn’t entertained much since having Ben. She still kept piles of cookery books on her nightstand, though, and there was rarely a night when she didn’t share her bed with Jamie Oliver or Gordon Ramsay.