Sisteria (29 page)

Finally, just after one, the door which led to the staircase burst open. Standing in the doorway, swaying and gripping the handle for support, was Naomi.

When she finally put one Bruno Magli in front of the other she didn't so much walk as lurch on to the roof. Beverley assumed her sister was suffering an acute attack of height-induced dizziness as she watched her take a few wobbly steps on her four-inch heels. She'd moved less than a yard before she lost her balance completely, tripped over a handbag somebody had left lying on the asphalt and fell flat on her face. Beverley dashed over to help her.

‘'S'OK,' Naomi shouted to Beverley, as she pulled herself up into a sitting position and let out two loud hiccoughs. ‘Stay where you are. I didn't feel a thing.'

Reaching into her shoulder bag, she pulled out a half-bottle of Absolut, unscrewed the top and brought it to her lips. She was wearing the same red suit she'd had on the day they had lunch at the Morgue, only now the front was covered in dirt from the roof. Her black tights had a huge hole in one knee.

‘You're pissed,' Beverley said, stating the gobsmackingly obvious.

‘You're not wrong, Bev. You're not wrong,' Naomi slurred. ‘But at least I'm not an unlisted dress size.' She prodded Beverley's barely visible bump through her long denim shirt and roared with drunken laughter.

‘In case you'd forgotten, I'm five months pregnant,' Beverley said acidly.

‘Oh yeah... so you are, Bev. So you are.' Once again Naomi put the vodka bottle to her lips and threw back her head.

‘'Course,' she said, shaking a finger at her sister, ‘up the spout's what you have to be these days if you want to get up the ladder.'

Beverley looked down. Naomi was weeping snail trails of black mascara.

‘What are you going on about?' Beverley said, her tone a mixture of weariness and impatience.

‘I reckoned I was being so bloody clever,' Naomi said, waving the Absolut bottle in the air, ‘persuading you to get pregnant instead of me. I thought if I got up the duff, Channel 6 would refuse to renew my contract. And guess what...'

‘What?'

‘The fucking bastards still refused to renew it.' She gave a loud, bitter laugh. ‘An' jew know why, Bev, jew know why? I'll tell you fucking why...' She paused to hiccough. ‘They refused to renew my contract because... get this... because I wasn't pregnant. Talk about fucking irony.' She took another swig of vodka and laughed again.

‘Don't be absurd,' Beverley said. ‘Nobody gets the sack for not being pregnant.'

‘Oh yes they do... when that pointless, feebleminded yokel Eric Rowe decides pregnant presenters are the way forward because of the wholesome image they project. Can you believe it? The whole bloody country adores me... but that's not good enough for that sheep-shagging bumpkin.'

Beverley was in the middle of processing this not inconsiderable weight of information when she heard banging, crashing and shouting coming from the doorway.

‘OK... let go... I've got it.' A young lad in a baggy T-shirt and flares standing just outside the door was bent over a huge stainless-steel box which he was dragging towards himself.

‘Right,' he shouted down the stairs. ‘Now the mike.'

A moment later he had taken hold of a long pole with a large fluffy microphone on the end. As he laid it gently on the floor by the box, three more people appeared. Two of them were men. One had a Sony Betacam TV camera on one shoulder. The other was carrying a Nagra tape recorder. A woman in combats and trainers was carrying a clipboard and a mobile phone. Strung round her neck was a stopwatch.

‘Film crew, great,' Beverley said. ‘Once you've got the old people's story they'll come down off the roof. So how long do you reckon it'll take to set up and get going?'

No answer.

Beverley looked down. Naomi was lying on the roof floor as if it were a bed, her legs drawn up to her chest, clutching the Absolut bottle. Her eyes were closed. Beverley tapped her cheeks.

‘For Christ's sake, wake up, Naomi. You've got a bloody report to do.'

‘I'm finished, Bev. Finished,' she mumbled, almost incoherent now.

Beverley sat herself on the ground and cradled her sister's head.

‘No you're not,' she soothed. ‘No you're not.'

Lying there sobbing, an overgrown foetus in grubby Armani, Naomi had never looked so sad and pathetic. Beverley couldn't help feeling sorry for her.

‘Oh, God... I thought this was going to happen. She was already pretty slaughtered when we got in the car.'

Beverley looked up. The woman with the clipboard, whom Beverley took to be Naomi's producer, was standing beside her. She held out her hand and helped Beverley to her feet.

‘The day centre story's been hanging over for ages,' the producer went on, ‘but Naomi never got round to doing it - even though she knew Eric was insisting on her coming up with a story about the elderly. I think she ignored it partly to spite him. Anyway, when she found out what was going on here, she rounded us up in a last-ditch attempt to do the story, win Eric over and save her career.'

They both looked down at Naomi, who had started to snore loudly.

‘Some hopes,' Beverley said.

***

At Beverley's suggestion, the producer, whose name was Harmony, phoned Fallopia and asked her to come and fetch Naomi. She'd just come off the phone and was in the middle of telling the crew not to bother unpacking their equipment when she noticed the GEVULT members standing at the edge of the roof.

‘What do we want?' Lenny was shouting through a megaphone.

‘The bastards out,' the old people roared.

‘When do we want it?'

‘Now. Now. Now.'

Harmony broke into a broad smile.

‘Wow. Look at those codgers go,' she chuckled. ‘This story is far too good to give up on. I mean, even if there isn't going to be another series of
Naomi!
, I'm sure I could sell it somewhere else at Channel 6.'

‘So where's Naomi?'

Harmony and Beverley turned round to see Queenie, who had spotted the film crew and come limping over, bursting with excitement.

‘Has she gone off to do her hair and make-up?'

As the final word left her mouth she saw Naomi lying on the ground.

‘My God, what's happened?' she said, her voice full of panic. ‘Is she ill? Somebody should get a doctor. For heaven's sake, shout down to one of the ambulancemen.'

‘Mum, don't panic,' Beverley said. ‘She'll be OK. She's been drinking. She's passed out, that's all.'

‘Drunk?' Queenie exclaimed. ‘Why?'

‘Don't worry, Mum, I'll explain later.'

‘So who's going to cover the story?' Queenie said anxiously. ‘What about our publicity?' She looked as if she were about to burst into tears.

Harmony, on the other hand, was staring at Beverley's stomach.

‘Can I help you?' Beverley inquired.

‘Oh, sorry. Now I'm really embarrassed. It's just that I was trying to work out if you were pregnant...'

‘Or fat?'

Harmony went red and nodded.

‘It's OK,' Beverley said. ‘I'm pregnant - just not very, that's all.'

‘God, that's great,' Harmony said. ‘Look, this may sound daft...'

‘What?' Beverley asked.

‘Well, I was just thinking that since this is such a brilliant story, since your mother and her friends are so desperate for the publicity and since you are pregnant and therefore fulfil all Eric Rowe's criteria for a presenter, why don't you try your hand at doing the interviews? It would take no more than five minutes. You just vox-pop the old folk, ask them what's been going on at the day centre and what they're trying to achieve by protesting, finish with a short piece to camera and Bob's your...'

‘Me? Interviewing? Yeah, right,' Beverley laughed dismissively.

‘No. I mean it,' Harmony said. ‘Look, nobody at Channel 6 even knows we're here doing the story. If you make a hash of it, there's no harm done. Go on. Have a go.'

‘Ooh, Bev... why don't you?' Queenie urged. ‘Look, what have you got to lose? And think, if you pull it off you'll be getting us the publicity we need, and saving my reputation.'

‘Don't be daft,' Beverley laughed. ‘It's an absurd suggestion. I couldn't possibly get up in front of a camera. Naomi never stops telling me how inarticulate I am. I'll go all to pieces. It's out of the question...'

‘If you do it,' Queenie said, ‘we'll come down. I promise.'

Beverley stood considering her mother's proposal.

‘You would? You'd persuade everybody to leave the roof?'

‘Yep.'

Beverley contemplated for a few more seconds.

‘No, it's crazy,' she said finally. Her tone was adamant. ‘I can't do it. I'll clam up. I won't be able to put one sentence in front of another. I'll be useless. Naomi's the egomaniac, not me. And look at what I'm wearing - baggy trousers and a bloke's denim shirt. My hair's all over the place. I can't do it...'

Harmony bent down over one of the metal equipment boxes and took out a can of hairspray and a huge make-up bag.

‘Please?' she pleaded.

***

Five minutes later, her hair brushed and heavily lacquered, to say nothing of Queenie's quilted coat shoved up inside her denim shirt to make her pregnancy look more obvious, Beverley stood blinking in front of the camera, the blood pounding in her ears.

Chapter 24

‘...And so we come to the end of a story which I think you will all agree is quite remarkable. These elderly rebels, this proud band of Grey Panthers standing beside me today, have, over the last seven months, fought a ferocious, passionate and above all top-secret battle. It required courage, fortitude and grim determination. As we have heard, there were times when the struggle became almost too much to bear. There were days when they felt cowed and disheartened. But the word “defeat” had no place in their vocabulary. Theirs was a cause which had to be fought for and won. Let GEVULT be an inspiration to us all. This is Beverley Littlestone for Channel 6, at the Sidney and Bessie Hamburger Jewish Day Centre in Temple Fortune, north London.'

‘And cut,' the producer shouted.

At the cameraman lowered the Betacam and the sound man took off his headphones and nodded enthusiastically, the old people burst into spontaneous applause. Beverley stood in front of them, still shaking with nerves.

‘Beverley... my Beverley,' Queenie cried, coming up to hug her daughter. ‘I can't believe it. I never knew you had it in you. You're a star, darling. An absolute star.' Beverley looked at her mother. Queenie had tears in her eyes.

‘She's right, Beverley,' Harmony said, putting her stopwatch back in her pocket. ‘That was an incredibly professional piece to camera. You'll have the whole country weeping buckets when this goes out.'

Beverley looked at her, stunned.

‘You mean I was actually good?' she said. ‘You're not just saying that to be polite?'

‘Believe me, Beverley, you were great. Your interviews with the old people were superb. You were gentle with them, but you still managed to get the facts. It's hard to believe you've never done any television. I tell you, I can't wait for Eric to see this.'

‘You think he'll be pleased, then?'

‘Pleased? Believe me, he'll be knocked out. You're pregnant, articulate and pretty - everything he's looking for in a new presenter. If I were you I'd stay close to the phone for the next couple of days.'

***

While Harmony and the crew started packing up, Beverley walked to the far end of the roof. Her board of lacquered hair flapping in the wind, she stood gazing out across the rooftops, blushing with pride. So, the useless, inarticulate fat matzo pudding wasn't so useless after all. Of course Tom had been telling her for ages that all that stood between her and a successful career was confidence, but she'd always laughed at him. He loved her. Or did before she dumped him. What else would he say? But Harmony didn't even know her. She had no agenda, no reason to flatter her. Beverley smiled. She realized how, over the last weeks and months, her self-esteem and confidence had grown. It had begun when she made the decision to have the affair with Tom and culminated in her finally being able to stand up to Naomi. Although she was too modest to admit it to anybody else, deep down she wasn't surprised she'd found the courage to perform in front of the cameras.

Standing there on the roof, she suddenly began toying with the idea of having some kind of professional future. Not in telly. She laughed. That was absurd. She may have performed well in front of the camera for a first-timer, but she was nothing like as talented as Naomi and never would be. Eric Rowe would see that in a flash. No, to consider for one minute that she was about to be offered a job as a television presenter was laughable. But it wasn't laughable to think that in a year or so she might start a masters degree, or go back to teaching. She'd only taught for a few months. She'd given up when Natalie was born. Or, maybe now that she'd suddenly found her voice, perhaps she might even read for the bar. For a few brief moments, she was able to suppress her gnawing anxiety about Melvin and think about herself - about how far she'd come and where she was heading.

***

Queenie and the rest of the demonstrators went down first, followed by the film crew. Beverley stood watching from the roof as the old people came out of the building and were immediately mobbed by their relatives. A reporter from the
Evening Standard
, as well as a pair from GLR and 5 Live, were doing their best to push their way to the front of the scrum. She and Naomi, who by now had pretty much sobered up, came down last.

When they reached the ground floor, Fallopia was standing at the bottom of the stairs, her breasts forming an enormous continental shelf under her baggy rainbow sweater. Naomi fell into her arms, sobbing.

‘He sacked me,' she cried into Fallopia's shoulder. ‘That bastard sacked me.'

‘I know, I know,' Fallopia soothed with the stomach-churning tenderness of the lovesick. Her feelings for Naomi had clearly caused her to go soft. ‘Don't worry,' she went on, ‘Pia's here. I'll have you home in two shakes, Pookie-Wookie.'

‘Pookie-Wookie?' Beverley repeated under her breath, barely able to stifle her giggles.

She looked at her sister while Fallopia comforted her. The red suit was filthy and ruined. Her hair was all over the place. Her white face was streaked with mascara. She looked wretched, drained and exhausted. Anybody who knew her could see at a glance that the fire which had once roared inside Naomi Gold's belly had finally been extinguished. After a few moments she lifted her head from Fallopia's shoulder and turned towards Beverley.

‘Bev,' she said almost in a whisper.

‘What, Nay?' Beverley said tenderly.

Naomi sniffed.

‘A big part of me did genuinely want that baby, you know. Pia will tell you - there's this blinkin' great cupboard back at my flat filled with teddies and baby clothes. Every night I used to go to bed reading Penelope Leach. I know all about colic and what to do when their pooh goes a bit green.'

Beverley smiled.

‘I'm a mess, Bev. I know that now. Please don't hate me.'

‘I don't hate you.' Beverley walked over to her sister and put her arms round her. ‘None of us do.'

‘You mean that?' Naomi blubbed, returning the hug.

Beverley held her tighter and patted her on the back.

‘Yes, I mean it.'

They carried on holding each other for a few minutes. By this time even Fallopia had tears in her eyes.

‘I promise I'll look after her, Beverley,' she said. ‘Girl Guide's honour and all that.'

‘I'm sure you will,' Beverley said, letting go of her sister. ‘So, Nay, what are your plans now?'

Naomi sniffed.

‘Well, for a start I think it's time to get my head sorted.'

‘That's the ticket, Pookie,' Fallopia said heartily, giving Naomi a quick squeeze. ‘Find yerself a trick cyclist, chin up, chest out. We'll soon have you back on your feet.'

Naomi and Fallopia gazed adoringly at one another for a few seconds.

‘Maybe I'll book into Melvin's place for a few days,' Naomi said. ‘God knows how you managed to get him in there, Bev. I always understood the Friary was strictly A-list.'

‘A few days?' Beverley repeated in astonishment, stoically ignoring her sister's barb. She was thinking more in terms of months, after which she imagined Naomi still needing to visit the Friary as an outpatient for several decades.

‘Yes. I mean I'm not bonkers. Not like Mel. I've just been working in a high-stress career for far too long and I need a bit of a rest, that's all. God, I wonder who'll be in my group therapy? Imagine the kind of names you get to share your angst with. Then I have to think about what clothes to pack. I'd guess it's pretty informal during the day and smart casual at dinner.'

Beverley smiled and shook her head. A huge part of her couldn't help feeling relieved that Eric Rowe hadn't succeeded in knocking all the stuffing out of her sister.

‘Look, Pookie,' Fallopia said, interrupting Naomi, who seemed to have lost herself in her reverie on mental institution chic. ‘Perhaps now would be the time to give Beverley our other bit of news. You know...'

‘Oh, God, yes. I nearly forgot.'

She blushed like an awkward schoolgirl and turned back to Beverley.

‘The two of us are planning to get married. I mean, it won't be a proper wedding like you understand it. We thought perhaps a Wiccan ceremony in Cornwall. Both of us would really love you to be there. You would come, wouldn't you?'

‘'Course,' Beverley said beaming. ‘We'll all come.'

Fallopia grinned with delight and hoiked up her bosom.

‘And I'd be more than happy to take you out to choose something to wear,' Naomi gushed. ‘I mean it won't be easy, 'cos you're bound to be pretty porky still, after having the baby.'

Beverley didn't get a chance to reply. At that moment Queenie came over, half-trotting half-limping.

‘Sorry, blinkin' reporters. Couldn't get away. Nay, darling, you OK now?'

‘Yes, I'm fine.' Naomi took a deep breath. ‘Look, Mum, I've treated you so badly. I know you'll find it hard to forgive me... but you know how we've never really sat down and talked about the past? Well, I was wondering whether maybe, if you had the time and you weren't too tired, you could come over to the flat now and the two of us could sit down and have a...'

‘Lead the way,' Queenie said, beaming. Naomi's words weren't merely music to her ears - it was as if Mantovani and his entire orchestra had just turned up.

‘The only thing is,' Naomi explained, ‘I've got guests coming for dinner, so you can't stay long. The caterer's due around five. Maybe you could give her a hand in the kitchen before you go. You know, bash lemon grass stems, do the kumquats, shell the quails' eggs, that sort of thing.'

‘There's a lot I need to say to you too,' Queenie went on, failing to register that her daughter's attempt at reconciliation largely involved pressing her into domestic service. ‘A lot I have to say sorry for and explain. Tell you what, I'll make you my special pancakes like I did when the two of you were little.'

‘What?' Naomi and Beverley gasped in gobsmacked unison.

‘Mum,' Beverley said, ‘You never made us pancakes in your life. The only person who made us pancakes was old Mrs Woodcock next door, who used to take pity on us when you disappeared for hours on end.'

‘Oh well, I knew somebody must have made them,' Queenie shrugged. ‘Now then, let's go.' With that, she put her arm through Naomi's. Then she smiled at Fallopia, who appeared to be bemused but not untaken with this little old Jewish lady, and took hold of her arm too. The three women said their tearful goodbyes and headed towards the door.

‘So, Fallopia,' Queenie said, ‘Beverley tells me you're a lesbian. How
are
things in Beirut these days?'

***

Beverley hadn't had the heart to put the dampers on Queenie's happiness by telling her about Melvin. She would phone her at Naomi's later, when she had some news - whatever that turned out to be.

She waited in the canteen while Sergeant Capstick put in another call to the Richmond police. Her anxiety was mounting by the minute. After all the excitement and elation of the last couple of hours, she suddenly felt sick. He was dead, she knew it. It was her fault. She should have carried on driving round the park. Instead she'd abandoned him. Left him to his leafy gallows.

She wandered over to the canteen window. As she stood watching the cars queuing to get out of the car park, she noticed a rather anxious-looking woman hovering a few yards from the front of the building. She was wearing a navy suit, trainers and a headscarf. Her face had a definite trace of five o'clock shadow.

‘Melvin,' yelped Beverley as she raced to the door.

***

It took him a minute to calm her down. The second she reached him she hugged the life out of him. She followed this with a breathless, tear-laden stream of half-sentences about how she'd thought he was dead and that it was all her fault he wanted to kill himself.

‘I'll never forgive myself. Never. You have to believe me, Tom means nothing to me. I've already finished it. I know we can start again, Mel, I just know it. We'll go away. Just the two of us. That's it, we'll find some sun...'

‘Beverley,' he said gently, gripping her upper arms, ‘look at me. Read my lips. I am not suicidal and I never have been. I know you love Tom. I was angry, very briefly, after I found the letter, but not any more. You must believe me. And I'm not running away so much as running to something - or, to be more exact, someone.'

‘
Someone?
' she sniffed, wiping her eyes and dripping nose on her sleeve. ‘I don't understand. What someone?'

***

‘Rebecca? I'm just so shocked,' she said to Melvin. They'd been sitting in the coffee shop over the road from the day centre for well over an hour, and in all that time, her incredulity had failed to abate. She picked up her chocolate éclair - her third - and bit off the end.

‘I mean, it's been twenty years,' she went on. ‘I thought you hated her.'

‘I think I did for a while,' he said, scratching his head under the silk headscarf. ‘When she first made it big. Do you think it's possible to love and hate somebody at the same time?' He drained his coffee cup.

‘'S‘pose,' she shrugged. ‘You want another coffee?'

He nodded. Beverley turned in her seat and caught the eye of the girl standing behind the refrigerated counter full of cakes.

‘You angry with me, Bev?' he said, reaching across the Formica table and taking her hand.

‘Bit, I guess,' she replied with a weak smile. ‘I mean, you're jetting off to Rebecca and I walked out on Tom to save our marriage. I mean, it's a bit bleeding ironic.'

‘Does he love you?' Melvin said.

‘He did. Before I dumped him.'

‘Then he'll forgive you and take you back. After all, that's his baby you've got in there.'

‘I hope you're right. Mel, I treated him so badly.'