A Catered Affair (19 page)

Going back to the office made no sense. By the time I left the motorway it would be nearly three. There was no point fighting through the Friday afternoon traffic in order to spend a couple of hours at my desk. I reached for my cell and phoned Jill to say I would be working from home for the rest of the day and could she call George’s Tourette’s chap and arrange a time for him to come into the office.

I got back to Scarlett’s flat and spent an hour or so catching up on work e-mails. Afterwards I showered and got changed. I was due in North London at half past six. I had a date with Nana Ida. She was taking me out to dinner “somewhere fancy-schmancy to cheer you up.” She’d left it to me to decide on the restaurant. I knew how much Nana loved Dover sole, so I’d chosen Deep Blue, a fish place in Hampstead that a couple of people at work had recommended.

I was due to pick her up at the Jewish Community Center in Hendon. She and her best friend, Millie Siderman (Scarlett and I always used to call her Millie Spider-Man), had been at the annual reunion for Jewish war refugees.

Since my flat was on the way, I decided to stop off and check on how the renovation work was coming along. I’d been popping in most days after work.

When I arrived, Terry and his men were packing up for the day. “So, whachew reckon to how it’s going?” Terry said. “By the way, sorry about the mess outside.” He was referring to the back garden, which was now filled with old kitchen units, a fridge, a stove, a bath and a basin. By contrast, the flat was completely bare. Not only had it been stripped back to the plaster and floorboards, but since yesterday the wall dividing the kitchen and living room had come down.

“Wow, this space is amazing. It feels huge.”

Terry warned me not to get too carried away, as the kitchen units were going to take up a fair bit of room.

“Let me show you what else we’ve done today,” he said.

Terry, who’d been in the trade for more than thirty years, took huge pride in his work—something to which I had not the slightest objection. What I struggled with were his lengthy, hugely detailed discourses describing his daily achievements, building-wise. A couple of days ago when I’d arrived to get a progress report, he’d spent half an hour showing off the new window putty in the kitchen.

“You see, what I had to do was take out each pane and remove the pins holding the glass in place.”

“I see.”

“Then I had to scrape out all the old putty and replace it with new putty.”

“Makes sense.”

“Of course, after that I had to press the panes back into the soft putty.”

“Sounds tricky.”

“It’s OK, so long as you know what you’re doing.”

“Of course.”

“Anyway, then I had to carefully replace the pins and scrape off the excess putty and leave the putty to harden . . .”

“Wow. Well, Terry, I have to say your putty looks great.”

“Yeah, it’s not bad, although I do say so myself. I’ve done the same in the bathroom. Why don’t I show you?”

By this stage I had been ready to eat my own head, but I couldn’t upset the poor fellow, so I followed him into the bathroom.

Tonight he wanted to show me all the areas along the skirting board and door surrounds, which had needed wood filler. “Of course, I took my time prepping the damaged areas with a wire brush. That’s the secret—smoothing them down before you start filling. Then you need to make sure you get a smooth finish. I’ve sanded them all down with medium-grit sandpaper, and I think you’ll find it’s all ready for painting.”

“Terry, thank you for all your hard work. The wood looks great, but I’m in a bit of a hurry tonight . . .”

“So where’s your hubby, then? Been wondering why we haven’t seen him around. Hasn’t left you already, has he?” Terry guffawed.

I decided that lying would only make things more complicated. “Actually, he has,” I said. “In fact, he left me at the altar.”

“No way! He left you at the bleedin’ church?”

“Bleedin’ synagogue, actually, but yes, I’m afraid he did.”

“Bastard. Excuse my French.”

“No, that’s OK. Feel free.”

“You know,” Terry said, “I’ve got this mate who does jobs for money.”

“You mean he’s a builder? Are you saying we need to hire an extra person?”

“No, no. You’re not following my drift. This mate—his work is of a more personal-slash-physical nature, with the emphasis on
slash
, if you get me.”

“Sorry, I don’t get you . . . hang on . . . yes, I do . . . bloody hell . . . you mean he’s a hit man?”

“Nah. He doesn’t do executions. At least not since the recession. Money isn’t like it was. He’s more into grievous bodily harm. For a few hundred quid he’ll go round and rough your Josh up good and proper. Make sure he can’t use his wedding tackle for a bit.”

“Terry, this is very kind of you, and I do appreciate the thought. I have considered violence, but I’m not really sure it’s the way to go.”

“OK—what about if my mate planted drugs on him and sent the police round?”

“Another excellent thought, and I am tempted, but it’s not really my style.”

“Well, if you change your mind, I’ve got Benny the Blade on speed dial.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “I didn’t think people were still called Benny the Blade.”

“Actually, his name’s Rodney, but he thought Rodney the Blade didn’t have the right ring to it.”

I said I could see that.

Terry seemed to have forgotten about showing me the umpteen bits of skirting board and architrave he’d filled with wood filler, so I was able to make my excuses and be on my way.

“If you change your mind about Benny,” he called after me, “just let me know.”

“Will do.”

 

 

When I arrived at the community center, waitresses were clearing away the buffet table, but the reunion party was still in full swing. I had no idea that people in their eighties and nineties could make so much racket. Every conversation was being conducted at full volume. I caught snippets as I went hunting for Nana Ida.

“Ach, nobody eats at the China Garden anymore; it’s too crowded.”

“For a dead man, he looked so well. That holiday must have really agreed with him.”

“She let me take a cab. My own daughter. Can you believe it?”

Nana Ida was sitting at a table with Millie Siderman–Spider-Man and two other women. I wondered when Mrs. Siderman had gotten to be so small. In my mind she was still this tall, intimidating woman with the heavily accented foghorn voice. These days she was five foot nothing with a dowager’s hump.

The rest of the women sitting at the table—Nana included—didn’t have humps. On the other hand, they all had the requisite bleached blond, spun-sugar hair. I had begged Nana to keep up the trendy bob Trevor had given her for the wedding, but I could see she hadn’t. The peer pressure must have been too great. Judging by the size of her do, it was obvious that she was backcombing again and had resumed her two-giant-cans-of-Elnett-a-week habit.

Along with the big, brittle hair came the long, perfectly painted nails. Nana had “a wonderful girl who comes to the house.” I looked at the women’s knotted hands, which they clearly still wanted to show off. Not only were their nails painted, but each of them was wearing at least one fancy dress ring. But it was the engagement rings that always caught my eye. Elderly Jewish women seemed to wear identical diamond solitaire engagement rings, set in platinum. These were serious rocks that had clearly been bought to impress and outdo. I remember, years ago, taking a close look at Nana’s diamond and teasing her about being a Jewish princess. She shrugged. “OK, maybe I am. So bite me. But that’s only part of the story.” She explained that to Jews of her generation, diamonds were currency. If the world ever went crazy again, they were something that could be instantly bartered, handed over in return for escape.

Of course, poor Jewish women in the East End weren’t so lucky. Maybe only one or two among a group of friends would have one of these insurance-policy rings. But according to Nana, no woman—however poor—got married without one, even if it meant a friend who was more well-to-do coming to the rescue and temporarily donating her own diamond. I remember Nana laughing and saying how the same ring could turn up at a dozen weddings.

Millie Siderman spotted me first. “So, darlink . . .” She had lost height, but all her life, she hung on to her German accent. “How are thinks?” She was giving me a look that most people reserved for close family members on their deathbeds.

“Not bad. I’m getting there.”

“You look terrible. There’s nussink of you.”

“Leave her alone, Millie,” Nana said. “The poor girl’s had a lousy time. She’s entitled to lose a few pounds.”

“You know,” one of the other women said. “Maybe I should get my Harry to walk out on me. I could do with losing some weight.”

Somebody pointed out that if Harry walked out on her, stress would be the last thing she’d feel. She’d celebrate with Danish and cheesecake.

By now Millie Siderman—having insisted I sit down next to her—had picked up a tin-foil platter covered with a paper doily. It was empty apart from one slice of strudel. “Here, darlink, have the last piece of
apfel
strudel.” I was starving. I’d picked up a sandwich on the way back from seeing Nasreen, but I’d had nothing since and I wasn’t sure if I could hold out until dinner. I helped myself to the strudel. Nana passed me a plate and a fork.

“Of course, you must sue for breach of promise,” Millie went on.

“Actually,” I said, through a mouthful of strudel, “you haven’t been able to do that for forty years.”

“Really? Vell, they should brink it back.” She put a paper napkin to the corner of her mouth and wiped away a drizzle of saliva. “So, vhat do you think of the strudel? Isn’t it vunderful?”

I had to admit it was superb. This hadn’t been brought in from a local patisserie. It was homemade.

“Now try a scone. The raspberry jam is like nussink you ever tasted.”

Millie was already busy piling clotted cream onto half of a scone.

“And look at these vol-au-vents. And the finker sandwiches. When the plates arrived, nobody could bear to eat anything—it all looked so pretty.”

“You’ll never guess who did the catering,” Nana said. “Kenny Platters. He’s such a talented young man. You should have tasted the chocolate mousse cake. I can’t tell you how beautiful it was.”

“Wow. So Kenny’s here?”

“Of course.” Nana said she thought he was in the kitchen. She lowered her voice. “And guess what . . . I’ve just found out he isn’t gay.”

“Really?” I said, playing along.

“Yes. Millie went into the kitchen to see if they had some Pepto-Bismol and she got chatting with Kenny’s aunty Pearl. She’s another survivor, and she got him to do the catering. Anyway, it turns out that Kenny’s girlfriend just walked out on him. What a thing. And he’s such a lovely boy. You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to go and say hello. I’ll come with you. I haven’t had a chance to congratulate him on this tea.”

“Nana,” I said, grinning, “I’m getting a sense here that you’re trying to set me up.”

“Just go and say hello. What’s the harm?”

We headed towards the back of the hall. After a few paces, Nana touched my arm. We stopped walking. “Tally, I need to tell you something. Josh phoned me this morning.”

I felt my stomach turn over. “My God. To say what?”

“He wants to pay me back everything I spent on the wedding.”

“That’s very commendable, but how is he planning to do that? He hasn’t got that kind of money.”

“He’s selling his flat to raise it.”

“Huh. It pains me to say it, but I have to admit I’m impressed. So what did you say?”

“At first I said I was too angry to speak to him and I didn’t want his money. I was on the point of putting the phone down on him. Then I thought, why not let him pay it back? After all, he did a very bad thing. I decided it would be good for his soul. Plus it means when you finally find Mr. Right, I can give you another wedding.”

I laughed. “Don’t hold your breath. Right now, finding Mr. Right is the last thing on my agenda . . . So did Josh say anything about his plans or why he walked out on me?”

“Not a word. To be honest, he couldn’t get off the phone quick enough.” She paused. “Tally, you’re a beautiful girl. Believe me, every lid has its pot. And you will find yours.”

“If you say so, Nana. But whatever happens, I’m not taking money from you again. If Josh gives you back what you spent, I want you to hang on to it. I never felt easy about taking it in the first place. You’re not getting any younger. You might need it.”

“We’ll see,” Nana said.

Swing doors led into the kitchen. Nana and I stood aside to let a couple of crockery-laden waitresses through. “My God, the place looks like a hospital sluice room,” Nana said as we went in. She was referring to the floor-to-ceiling stainless steel. The kitchen was busy with waiters and waitresses scraping plates and stacking them. A woman in a white apron and rubber gloves was loading an industrial-size dishwasher. An elderly woman—clearly one of the guests rather than part of the hired help—was washing up by hand in gray, scummy water. The official dishwasher woman was telling her she had to stop because she was breaking health-and-safety regulations. The old dear at the sink kept insisting she was only trying to help and save on electricity. A second old lady was busy wiping down surfaces and complaining to a waiter dumping cakes and sandwiches into a plastic sack that it was a crime to throw away perfectly good food.

“Here he is,” Nana said.

My gaze shifted from the old women. Once again Kenny was wearing his chef’s whites, only this time he had accessorized the outfit with the matching tall hat.

“Nana Ida,” Kenny said, his face breaking into a smile. “I had no idea you were here.” He bent down and kissed her on the cheek.