Sisteria (8 page)

‘You reckon?' Beverley said, smiling. She could hardly believe it. Naomi was actually jealous of the way she looked. It was the biggest compliment she'd had in years.

‘Oh, without a doubt... So,' Naomi went on, ‘what do you think of this place? Isn't it a hoot? I came for lunch last week with Donna Karan and they put on a death fashion show - all the models were prancing around in five-hundred-pound couture shrouds. I bought one for Mum... dunno why. Wishful thinking, I s'pose.'

Try as she might, Beverley couldn't stop herself giggling.

‘You didn't really, did you?' she said.

‘Might have done,' Naomi smiled. She stopped a passing Morgue attendant and without asking Beverley what she would like to drink, ordered kir royales for them both.

While they waited for their drinks, Naomi asked after the children.

‘Yeah, you know... fine,' Beverley said, assuming Naomi was only asking out of politeness.

‘So how are they doing at school?' Naomi pressed her. ‘Natalie must be, what, in the lower sixth now?'

‘Yes, that's right,' Beverley said.

‘Don't look so surprised. She's my niece. I haven't forgotten how old she is.'

‘Sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. It's just that you never used to be interested in hearing about the kids.'

‘Well, I am now,' Naomi said, smiling.

For the next few minutes, after the drinks arrived, Naomi listened intently while Beverley told her about Natalie wanting to do English at Manchester and how Benny had been predicted straight As in his GCSEs.

‘You must be so proud of them, Bev,' she said gently and reached out to pat her sister's hand.

‘Yeah, I am. Really proud. That's not to say they don't give me a hard time and there aren't moments when I would happily trade in either one of them for a new washing machine.'

They laughed.

‘But you must be proud of yourself, too. I mean, it can't have been easy bringing them up with so little money around.'

‘No, it wasn't,' Beverley said, looking down into her kir. ‘But you know me. I've always tried to stay positive... So, Nay, what's happening with you, aside from the amazing career, the wealth, the fabulous new flat?'

‘Well, funny you should ask,' Naomi laughed, ‘because I do have news.' She bent down, picked up her handbag and opened it.

‘There,' she said, ‘a present for you.'

‘What's this?' Beverley said, taking the squat glass jar Naomi was holding in front of her. It was full of what appeared to be tomato purée.

‘Look at the label,' Naomi said.

Beverley looked. A simple line portrait of Naomi smiled up at her from the side of the jar. Next to the portrait were the words Pure Gold.

‘Isn't it wonderful, Bev?' Naomi purred. ‘Aren't you pleased for me? I've got my very own cook-in sauce.'

‘Wow,' Beverley said with genuine enthusiasm. ‘That's amazing.'

‘I knew you'd be over the moon. I mean, for somebody like you, I guess there's nothing like a bit of vicarious success and glamour. I can hardly believe it, I'm the first woman on British TV with her own range of gourmet sauces. They go on the market in three weeks. So far there's bolognese, stroganoff, bourguignonne, coq au vin and tomates aux fines herbes. I brought you the tomato because it's kosher.'

‘Gosh, thanks, Nay, that's really sweet of you.'

‘My pleasure,' Naomi said. Then she leaned across the table and whispered, ‘I tell you, Bev, I stand to make a fortune from this. An absolute fortune. One day I'll be richer than Anthea, Esther and that bloody Vanessa put together. Just you wait and see.'

‘But you're loaded as it is,' Beverley said. ‘Why do you need even more money?'

Naomi laughed and looked at her sister in mild astonishment.

‘Because, my darling,' she explained, ‘you can never have too much of the stuff. Never.' She took a huge glug of her drink.

For the next ten minutes Naomi gabbled on about how Maurice Saatchi had phoned her every day for a month, begging her to let him handle the advertising. This was followed by accounts of how Delia had got into a strop when she found out her proposed recipes for the cook-in sauces had been rejected in favour of those designed by the Two Fat Ladies, and how Diana Rigg had turned down an offer to play Cleopatra at the National in order to become the Pure Gold mum in the TV ads.

***

Although she fought to conceal it, after ten minutes Beverley's fascination was starting to flag and she was grateful when Lance arrived to take their order. Naomi announced in a distinctly holier-than-thou tone that she wouldn't bother with a starter because she was watching her weight. Feeling like some Hogarthian glutton for even considering ordering the spicy carrot, coconut and coriander soup, Beverley said she'd skip the first course too. She scanned the menu again for something vegetarian and low-fat, but there was nothing. Reluctantly she ordered plantain, chilli and polenta fritters. Naomi ordered achiote and honey-cured elk carpaccio with chorizo, pomegranates, green lentil horseradish mash and miso wasabi syrup, which made Beverley feel slightly less glutton-like until her sister added: ‘And I would like that without the mash, the chorizo - oh, yes - and the elk.'

For a few moments Lance stared at her, apparently lost for words. ‘I'm sorry, I don't quite understand,' he said, his biro poised over his pad. ‘You'd like the elk and chorizo without the elk or the chorizo.'

‘Or the mash,' Naomi replied briskly. ‘Just bring me the pomegranates -
al dente
of course - in the sauce.'

Then, after making sure a bewildered Lance understood precisely what was meant by
al dente
, she dismissed him and drained her glass. She paused for a second or two.

‘So, how is Mum then?' she said finally.

‘You really do care, don't you?' Beverley said.

Naomi said nothing. Instead she stared down, a look of mild embarrassment on her face, and began straightening her knife and fork, which were perfectly straight to start with.

Beverley decided not to push it, but she was in no doubt now. She'd been right all along. The important matter Naomi had brought her here to discuss was Queenie. Naomi wanted to make peace. It was simply pride that was making it hard for her to get the words out.

At that moment, Lance arrived at their table, pushing one of the Morgue's hospital trolleys. They continued in silence while he placed their main courses in front of them.

‘All I know,' Naomi said after Lance had trundled off to his next slab, ‘is that I'd be five hundred times better a mother than she ever was.'

‘Wouldn't take a lot of doing, I'll admit,' Beverley said, putting a forkful of plantain, chilli and polenta fritter into her mouth.

All of a sudden, Naomi fell silent. She was clearly building up to something. Here it comes, Beverley thought. Here it comes. But Naomi said nothing.

‘C'mon, Nay,' Beverley said kindly, ‘what is it? What was this amazingly important thing you wanted to discuss?'

Naomi took a deep breath.

‘OK, here goes. Look, I know we've had our silly squabbles and disagreements, but I'd like to think that's all in the past now…'

While Naomi continued to beat round the bush, Beverley listened and took the occasional bite of food. As she chewed on the second or third of these, she suddenly sat bolt upright in her chair. She shook her head and started to frown. Naomi was far too wrapped up in what she wasn't saying to notice her sister's troubled expression. By now Beverley had stopped chewing. She glanced round to see if anybody was watching, then discreetly transferred the mouthful of food into her napkin. She was in no doubt. The polenta definitely contained something meaty. Meaty verging on porky.

‘You see, Bev,' Naomi continued, still utterly unaware that her sister wasn't listening, ‘there's something I would like you to do for me.' She paused for a few moments. Beverley didn't look up. By now she had spread the napkin open on her lap and was busy poking her finger around in the glistening mulch of half-chewed-up food.

‘Jeez, this is hard,' Naomi went on, sounding nervous and unsure of herself for the first time in her life. ‘I've been rehearsing in front of the mirror for days. Right, I'm just going to come out and say it. You see,' she went on, her voice dropping, ‘I need to ask you something - something big, well, huge, actually... Oh God... Beverley, look, do you think there's any possibility... I mean... will you have my gravy?'

‘Christ, how many calories do you think there are in a puddle of gravy?' Beverley said, finally looking up from the mulch and holding her flattened palm out towards Naomi. ‘Does that look like a piece of crispy bacon to you? For God's sake eat the gravy. You know I can't. It'll be made from meat juices. It's not kosher.'

‘No, Beverley... you didn't hear me... God, the bloody racket in here... that's not what I said.' She paused and took a very deep breath.

‘Beverley, I don't want you to have my gravy, I want you to have my baby.'

Chapter 6

‘What?' Beverley had said, wiping the last bit of suspect pork off her hand and at the same time doing her best, but failing, to pick her jaw up off the table. ‘You want me to be a surrogate mother?'

‘That's pretty much the size of it,' Naomi said, running her finger round the rim of her empty champagne flute.

Neither of them spoke for a couple of seconds. ‘Listen,' Naomi said eventually, ‘do you want me to complain about the bacon...?'

‘No, really,' Beverley said: The food was the last thing on her mind. ‘It doesn't matter. I'd nearly finished anyway... But I don't understand. What's wrong? Why can't you have your own baby?'

Naomi swallowed hard, as if she were fighting back tears. She looked up at Beverley.

‘I'm infertile. According to my gynaecologist, my eggs are next to useless, my tubes are blocked like the Bakerloo Line in the rush hour and my cervix is so weak that if I could get pregnant, I wouldn't be able to carry a foetus beyond the third or fourth month.'

‘Oh, God, Nay,' Beverley said, reaching out and squeezing her sister's hand, ‘that's awful. What can I say? I'm so, so sorry.'

‘I found out a few months ago.' By now the tears were beginning to roll down her face. At that moment Lance passed by. Beverley caught his eye and ordered two more kirs.

‘At first I was in shock,' Naomi went on. ‘I couldn't believe it. You know... everything had been going great till then. I had it all. Brilliant job, stacks of money in the bank. I'd even managed to find a wonderful bloke I wanted to make babies with. We started trying - and when nothing happened after six months or so, I went to the doctor, and then...'

Her voice trailed off.

‘So... so, how would it work - this surrogacy thing?' Beverley asked, her head still spinning with shock at her sister's mind-boggling request. ‘I mean, what about the actual getting pregnant bit?'

‘Oh, right. Well, for a start there's no actual sex involved. You'd have to be -I mean, if you agreed, that is - artificially inseminated. Tom - he's my chap - and I agreed we shouldn't involve fertility clinics just in case somebody blabbed to the press. But according to all the books and articles I've read, do-it-yourself artificial insemination is dead easy. Apparently when lesbians want to get pregnant, they put the bloke who's agreed to father the child in another room with a few dirty mags and get him to come into a jar. His sperm is then transferred into a turkey baster which is a bit like a huge eye dropper. The woman then sticks this up inside her and simply squeezes the rubber top to release the sperm. It's easy.'

‘Easy,' Beverley repeated. She took a glug of her kir. ‘Easy bloomin' peasy.'

‘I know I could make a good mother,' Naomi said, almost pleadingly. ‘I'd try to be the exact opposite of ours. I just want a chance to prove it.'

She paused and stared into Beverley's eyes.

‘Please, Bev,' she pleaded, ‘I know I'm asking for the moon, but please be the one to give me that chance.'

Beverley took another sip of her drink. For a moment Naomi looked like the needy, vulnerable little girl she used to collect every afternoon from Gearies School.

‘Look, Nay, I have a pretty good idea what it must feel like to be told you can't have children, but you said it - what you're asking of me is absolutely huge. I mean, to carry a child - and using my egg, it would technically be my child - to give birth to it and then give it up... I'm just not sure I could...'

‘But will you at least think about it?'

‘Yes, I will. Promise.'

Beverley decided to change the subject in order to give herself time to think.

‘So, tell me about this Tom, then,' she said, ‘who is he? Someone famous?'

Naomi dabbed her under-eyes with her napkin and gave a half-smile.

‘Fairly. He's Tom Jago, the drama director. You know, did that amazing production of
Blue Remembered Hills
for the BBC last summer - won all those awards.'

Beverley nodded, but was none the wiser.

‘We've been together just over a year. I tell you, Bev - not only is he amazingly talented, but he's also a bit of a dish.'

‘They've all been good-looking, Nay - and rich. The bit you always seem to find difficult is hanging on to them for more than three months.'

‘I know. It's the job. I'm always working. How can you make a relationship work when one of you is constantly putting in fourteen-hour days?'

Beverley knew full well it was her sister's personality which put men off rather than the hours she worked, but she decided to let it go.

‘Funny,' she said instead, ‘I suppose I always imagined you settling down eventually, but it never occurred to me for one minute that you might want children. You've never shown the remotest interest in them. For God's sake, Nay, you bought Natalie a Prada handbag for her first birthday.'

‘Oh God, didn't she like it?'

‘Well, she didn't say she didn't, but then again she couldn't speak yet. She did love playing with it, though. She kept her Duplo men and bits of soggy old biscuit in it.'

‘I suppose she was a bit on the young side. I'm no Maria Von Trapp, am I?' Naomi said. ‘But what do you expect? I don't know how you did the mothering thing, Bev - I mean, what sort of maternal role model did we have? I've always been so scared that I'd repeat our mother's mistakes. Then, a year or so ago, things began to change. Whenever I went out, I found myself gazing into prams and getting all soppy and tearful. Did you know, Beverley, new-born babies have this heavenly smell about them?'

‘Yeah, I know, that kind of delicate blend of shit and vomit,' Beverley said.

Lance arrived with their second round of kir royales.

‘No,' Naomi said, picking up her glass and taking a sip, ‘I mean the smell of their skin. It's so soft and pink. Look, Bev, you wouldn't breathe a word of this, would you? If the press find out they'll have a field day, but I've even been seeing a shrink. I know how hard I can be and Renate's been brilliant at forcing me to confront my feelings about Mum. I mean, getting angry in therapy is so different from getting angry with people in the office. It's just so cathartic, you wouldn't believe it.'

‘Does all this mean you're ready to do some emotional bridge-building with Queenie, then?' asked Beverley. ‘Originally I thought that's why you got us together. She's dying to see you. It's been ages.'

‘I know. It's unforgivable of me to have left it this long. I'll give her a ring, Bev, as soon as I've got an hour or six to kill - I promise.'

Beverley laughed.

‘That would be wonderful,' she said gently, taking her sister's hand again.

There was a pause while Naomi gathered her thoughts.

‘Look, getting back to the surrogacy,' she said, ‘you know, I wouldn't expect you to do it for nothing...'

‘Heavens, Nay. If I agreed I wouldn't want paying. It didn't even occur to me.'

‘Well, it occurred to me. Look, I've got a fair idea how things are financially with you and Melvin, and I thought two hundred and fifty sounded about right...'

Without thinking, Beverley let out an uncharacteristically sardonic laugh.

‘Great,' she said, ‘that should just about cover the milk bill.'

‘Bloody hell, how far does it go back - 1485?'

‘No, June.'

‘Hang on. I think we're at cross-purposes here. I mean two hundred and fifty
thousand
.”

Beverley sat blinking at her sister. It was a few seconds before she could speak.

‘What, as in a quarter of a million?'

‘The very same.'

‘Pounds?'

‘No, cocktail gherkins, you dope. Yes, of course pounds.'

Beverley knocked back the rest of her kir in one gulp.

***

While Beverley was on the Tube, still desperately trying to take in the enormity of what she was being asked, not to mention offered, Benny Littlestone was sitting on his bed, ripping into a pile of bubble packs and tipping their contents on to his duvet: one twenty-five-millimetre butterfly hose clip, six thirty-two-millimetre rubber washers, twelve clear plastic shower curtain rings and half a dozen inlet hose washers.

He picked up a couple of the inlet hose washers and gave a short soft laugh. Why on earth had he bought them? They had a diameter of less than half an inch. They wouldn't fit over his middle finger, let alone his penis. A thirty-two-millimetre rubber washer, being lightweight and slightly stretchy, might on the other hand be just the business. He would try it much later when his sister wasn't around and everybody was asleep.

He turned back to the print-out Lettice had given him last week from the Foreskin Reclamation Web site.

The six pages of information and instructions had been written by Dr Dwight Lafayette, founder of the San Francisco-based foreskin reclamation self-help group, Recover. Lafayette was a Christian vegan and former missionary who had spent much of his professional life converting ‘primitive peoples' to Christianity. Having spent thirty years watching members of African tribes distend various body parts with the aid of weights, he had become an expert in the art, and on the plane home to the US after retiring from his post had a vision of the Almighty standing by him in the aisle commanding him to apply what he had learned about earlobes and mouths to heathen Jewish penises.

In order to carry out Dr Lafayette's instructions, Benny had on his way home from school that afternoon got off the bus two stops early and visited the Plumbing and Bathroom Accessories department at Homebase.

As a teenager who regarded himself as passably cool, Benny felt distinctly uncomfortable among all the DIY-savvy dads. He wandered bewildered and awkward past shelves full of planer blades, spigot adapters and sanding discs and headed towards a huge brightly coloured ‘Plumbing and Bathroom Accessories' sign suspended from the ceiling.

Twenty paces later he came to an area thickly colonised by bent tank connections. These immediately gave way to quiet ball valves (side fed), compression nuts and anti-syphon units. Still no penis girth washers or metal rings. Then, out of the blue, next to some mahogany loo brushholders, he spotted the shower curtain rings. Finally he came upon a row of shelves brimming over with packs of different-size washers. He picked up three packs and headed towards the checkout.

There were three tills open, each operated by a man. Shit. There was no chance of him making it through without the cashier, purely by way of matey, blokish conversation, asking him what he was planning to do with all these washers. On a scale of one to ten his plumbing knowledge was about minus fifteen. He didn't stand a hope in hell of bluffing his way through such an inquisition. Such was his panic, it didn't occur to him that all he needed to do was to shrug, admit he knew nothing about plumbing and say they were for his dad. As far as Benny was concerned, he only had two choices, of which just one was viable, since he wasn't about to explain the essential role of a washer in his mission to reclaim his foreskin. He took a ten-pound note from his back pocket, about five pounds more than the cost of the washers and shower curtain rings. If the cashier asked him any technical questions, he would simply chuck the money at him, pick up his packages and make a run for it.

Just as he was about to join the queue nearest to him and fall in behind a particularly capable-looking woman in baggy fawn cords who was paying for a tumble dryer venting kit and two cans of T-Cut, a fourth till was opened by a pretty Asian woman wearing a waist-length plait and an armful of gold bangles. Benny raised his eyes heavenwards and muttered his brief but heartfelt thanks to the God he didn't believe in.

He moved swiftly towards the Asian woman's checkout, but the venting kit woman pushed in front of him and he was forced to wait while she hunted for her chequebook and filled out the cheque with the speed of a dyslexic tortoise. Then, after spending a full minute wrestling the venting kit into a Homebase brown paper bag, she realized she couldn't find her receipt. Another couple of minutes passed while she accused the cashier of failing to hand it to her. In the end she found it in her coat pocket. After mumbling a less than heartfelt apology, she stuck her nose in the air and strode off towards the automatic doors.

Benny smiled at the cashier, partly as a show of solidarity against the obnoxious venting kit woman and partly because he was confident that he had escaped any possibility of being subjected to a plumbing oral.

The woman smiled back at him and began passing the bubble packs over the electronic swipe.

‘Oooh, I see someone's got a leaky gland nut then,' she said with the confidence of a person who could plumb for Europe. ‘They're buggers. I had one last week. How you gonna tackle it? Are you going to remove the capstan head before you have a go at the verdigris and scale or detach the spindle completely so that you expose the waste flange?'

Benny stood blinking at the woman.

‘Er, yes, probably,' he blurted out as he slammed his ten quid on the counter, picked up the bubble packs, which had by now all been swiped, and bolted towards the doors.

***

Having congratulated himself on what he was positive would be the excellent fit of the thirty-two-millimetre rubber washer, he began rereading Dr Lafayette's instructions, a complicated procedure involving stretching some of the loose skin on the penis, holding it in place with a ring, and then letting good old Mr Gravity do the Lord's work - with the help of some fishing weights. Benny flinched when he read about the weights; his visit to Homebase had been traumatic enough. A trip to an angling supplies shop was unthinkable. Instead of using the fishing weights recommended by Dr Lafayette, he decided to improvise. It came to him immediately. Earrings. That was it. He went on to the landing, checked he could still hear his sister tapping away on her computer and headed towards his mother's bedroom.