A Catered Affair (30 page)

“Is it that, or do you have a problem with Kenny? I think the real reason you won’t get into a relationship with him is because he’s a caterer. Talking to him today, I’ve discovered that this is a man with plans and ambitions, but you can’t see beyond Kenny Platters the caterer.”

“You’re calling me a snob? Me of all people?” I spent my life fighting for social equality and human rights. I could be accused of many things, but being a snob wasn’t one of them.

“You know what?” Rosie said. “I think I am calling you a snob. You’re this high-flying lawyer, and Kenny Platters doesn’t come with the right credentials. He isn’t good enough. Where do you get off on being so high and mighty?”

“I’m not,” I protested. “It’s not that simple.” Rosie had no idea of the extent to which my choice in men had always been influenced by my dead father. I couldn’t let go of the notion that if Kenny and I did become a couple, our differences—in career and education—would eventually put a strain on our relationship.

Rosie said, “It is that simple. Do yourself a favor. You could have a great thing going here with Kenny. It’s time to take off the blinkers.”

“God, you can be arrogant sometimes. Why do you always think you know it all?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to come across as arrogant—honest. I’m telling you what I think because I love you. Please, just say you’ll give it some thought.”

 

 

It upset me that Rosie thought that I was being blinkered simply because I knew what I was looking for in a man. I didn’t understand what was so wrong with having a checklist. I wasn’t being a snob.

Unless of course I was. In which case I was nothing more than a narrow-minded bigot—the kind of person I despised. And didn’t that make my father a bigot, too? I chose not to ponder either notion.

I went back to the unpacking. By now, Kenny was in the bedroom, making a start on building a chest of drawers called Olf.

“Your friend Rosie’s a bit scary,” he said.

I passed on her apologies. “She can be pretty forthright, but she’s one of the kindest people I know. You pressed a few of her buttons—that’s all. Plus she’s still getting up in the night with Izzy and I think she’s pretty knackered.”

“It was the same with my sister. I remember doing something to annoy her—like putting the cutlery away in the wrong drawer—and she started screaming at me. Something like: ‘Don’t cross me. I’m postpartum, I’m exhausted and I’ve got a gun.’”

When the chest of drawers was finished, Kenny suggested he go out and buy the ingredients for a Thai curry.

I wouldn’t hear of it. I told him that he’d worked hard enough for one day and that we’d get takeout—on me.

But he insisted on the grounds that cooking helped him relax. “And you can practice your knife skills on the veg.”

“OK, if you insist, but you should know I only own four saucepans.”

He said he would relish the challenge. When he’d finished making a shopping list, I gave him directions to the supermarket.

As I started hanging clothes in the bedroom closet, it struck me that I’d had no need to be scared about the flat reminding me of Josh. There wasn’t a trace of him here. Everything was new. He had never showered in my shower, walked on my new wooden floors, washed dishes in my kitchen sink. Most important, he had never lain on my bed. I was glad I’d gotten a new bed.

I was aware that over the last few weeks my life had brightened up. Things weren’t so bleak. I could see a future.

B
y now it was September. Hugh was in Angola studying the impact of a new freshwater project that some thought might be a template for similar schemes all over the third world. We spoke occasionally when he had access to a satellite phone. If he had Internet, which was rare, he would send e-mails telling me about the terrible poverty and deprivation he was seeing and how he was starting to think that the humanitarian problems in Africa would never be solved. He always signed off by saying he was thinking about me and couldn’t wait to see me. I was flattered and happy to wait and see how my feelings for him developed.

Meanwhile, I was still hanging out with Kenny a couple of times a week—at either his place or mine. If we were at my place we would order takeout. If we were at his, we would cook together, or at least I would sous chef for him. After dinner, he might watch a soccer game on TV while I read the paper or went over case notes. There had been no more near kisses or head stroking.

Scarlett and Grace were back from Yorkshire and still in talks with Napoleon and Ed about them all parenting a child. They had been over to my “new” flat a few times and were getting to know Kenny. He and Scarlett really hit it off. Because they both had a great sense of humor, they soon had a real banter going. They also argued about comedy. One night they got into a debate about Shakespearian humor. “What sort of person laughs at a Shakespeare comedy?” Kenny said. “He was a great writer, but don’t try and tell me he was funny.”

“I think his humor still works,” Scarlett said.

“You’re actually saying that Bottom has you in stitches—a man in a donkey’s head.”

 

 

Work-wise, things were getting busier, but the only case really worrying me was Nasreen’s. I was still trying to get her out of the detention center, pending the outcome of the judicial review, but nobody at the High Court or the Home Office was interested. So much for the Free Nasreen demonstration having any influence. Hardly a day went by when I didn’t phone or e-mail the clerk of the court in an attempt to find out when we might hear something. Each time the response was the same. Her case was “in the system” and a decision would be made in “due course.”

“I understand your frustration, lass,” George Dacre had said one day as we stood chatting in the corridor. “I’ve been in your situation many times. All you can do is be patient. If the Home Office weren’t taking Nasreen’s case seriously, they would have deported her by now. Between you, me and the gatepost, I’m quite hopeful.”

I was doing my best to be patient and share George’s optimism, but each time I saw Nasreen, she was more despondent. At the end of each visit, I pleaded with her not to give up hope. “You know what, Tally,” she said the last time we met. “I’ve gotten to the stage where I don’t care what happens to me. If I have to go back to Iran, so be it. What’s making me ill is the not knowing.”

After each visit, I would get back to my office and feel guilty about turning my attention to other cases. I kept telling myself that I could be doing more to help her, but I knew that at this stage, patience was the only real option. I was also cross that I wasn’t making any headway with the Henry Dixon case. Surprise, surprise—Central London Radio could not be persuaded to take him back. The best they could offer was a paltry severance deal or an off-air job, which would mean him taking a substantial pay cut. Henry was prepared to accept a lump sum, but after nearly thirty years in the job he wanted enough to live on. I was still trying to persuade the station to improve their offer, but so far they were refusing to budge. Henry, on the other hand, was still banging on about his human rights and how his bosses were behaving like cowards by not giving him back his job. He said that by doing that they would be educating the public and helping them accept his disability. Our last conversation had gone something like this:

“Hello, is that Henry?”

“Hong Kong Phooey!”

“Hi, Henry. Tally Roth here. Just to say that I’ve had another conversation with CLR’s lawyers and I’m afraid they’re still digging in their heels.”

“Wilma!”

“I think if we hold on, we could shame them into offering you a better severance package. What worries me is that if we keep refusing their offers, you’ll end up with nothing.”

“That’s another fine mess you’ve gotten me into!”

“Henry, I know it’s taking forever, but I’m doing my best to get you a decent settlement.”

“I know. Don’t think I’m not grateful, but I’m just so frustrated. I have a disability. I don’t see why I have to be turned into a pariah.”

“I agree. It sucks. Look, just sit tight. I’m going back to see if I can get some more money out of them. I’ll be in touch, OK?”

“OK. Live long and prosper!”

 

 

The other news was that Rosie had heard from Jeremy Baxter, who had asked her to come in and see him.

“Look, I know I sound like a wimp,” she’d said, “which isn’t like me, but please would you come with me? If Jeremy Baxter thinks the book’s lousy, I really don’t want to hear it on my own.”

I knew that Jeremy Baxter would let her down gently, but even so, I thought she might need some support. “Of course I’ll come,” I said.

The meeting was scheduled for late one Friday afternoon.

Jeremy Baxter’s office was in an elegant Georgian house, just off Piccadilly.

“Must be doing well for himself,” Rosie said. This was only the third sentence she’d uttered since we met at my office. It wasn’t just that she was nervous about the meeting with Jeremy Baxter. Now that her parents’ house renovations were over, they had gone back to Scotland, and this was the first time that Rosie had left the children with their new sitter. She’d already texted her twice, once to check that everything was OK and another time to remind her that if she went to the fridge for milk, not to touch what was in the milk jug. But Rosie was too late. It seemed that Rachel had felt like a snack and had just downed a bowl of Coco Pops covered in breast milk.

“I bet he hates the book,” Rosie said as we walked up the steps. “I don’t know why we’re even bothering.”

We walked into the smart, gray-carpeted reception. Behind the desk was a woman in her sixties wearing a blond wig, false eyelashes and a gash of wonkily applied red lipstick.

“I’m Rosemary Thomas,” Rosie said.

As the woman peered at her appointments list, she shoved her wig back a few inches and scratched her head. It was all I could do not to laugh, but Rosie was so nervous, I’m not sure she noticed.

“He’s expecting you,” the woman said. “Go on in.”

I had imagined Jeremy Baxter as sixtyish, charming, avuncular and tweedy. The man who greeted us was tall, sandy haired, in his mid-thirties and wearing what had to be a two-thousand-pound suit. I glanced at Rosie. I knew her well enough to recognize her “smitten” expression when I saw it.

“Rosemary, good to see you,” he said, shaking her hand. “I’m Jeremy.”

“Oh, do call me Rosie,” she cooed. I wasn’t sure that I had ever been witness to Rosie cooing. “And this is my friend Tally, who’s come along to offer me moral support.”

I shook Jeremy’s hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Tally.”

Jeremy Baxter’s office walls were lined with books—presumably written by his clients. He sat himself down behind a desk, which appeared to be one solid piece of glass, and invited Rosie and me to take the leather armchairs in front of him.

“Right,” he said, “Let’s get down to business . . .
The Sand Collector’s Daughter
.”

“It’s my debut novel,” Rosie ventured.

Jeremy nodded. “So, Rosie, where do you see yourself ten years from now?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she simpered. I’d never seen Rosie simper, either. “Possibly on the bestseller lists. Maybe with a couple of literary prizes under my belt.”

“Well, I’m not going to patronize you. This is how I see it. This book will never become a bestseller. In fact it will never even find a publisher. And that is because it is very, very bad. Your prose is pretentious, affected, ostentatious, overblown. Quite honestly, it’s some of the worst writing I’ve ever come across.”

Rosie looked like somebody had punched her. “I see,” she said, her voice breaking. “Well, thank you for your time.” She started to get up. I could see her trying to fight back the tears.

“Is this really necessary?” I said to Jeremy Baxter, wondering what on earth was going on. Where was the sweet-natured chap Cod had promised?

“I don’t think Rosie would want me to lie to her.”

“Yes, but do you have to be quite so brutal?” I stood up, too.

“Whoa. Hang on,” Jeremy Baxter said. “Will you both just sit down? I haven’t finished.”

“Actually, that’s where you’re wrong,” Rosie shot back, reverting to her usual spirited self. “I may not be the best writer in the world, but I think I’ve heard enough.”

“Rosie, will you please sit down and let me finish?”

“What—and let you insult me some more? Why should I?”

“I haven’t insulted you. I’ve insulted your writing, which is bloody awful. Now, I have something else to say, and I need you to listen.”

We both sat.

“OK,” he began. “Do you remember a film called
The Piano
?”

“Yes,” Rosie said. “Jane Campion. It’s one of my favorite films.”

Jeremy Baxter rolled his eyes. “Why am I not surprised?

“OK, here’s the thing. Keith Warren, who worked with her on that film, happens to be a mate of mine. Back then he was a young assistant to the assistant director’s assistant. He is now making his own movies. They’re all in that bleak, miserablist, Gothic vein, and he has just started to get noticed here and in the US. He came into the office the other day, mentioned that he was looking for a new project and saw your manuscript. Long story short, he took it home, read it. The bad news is that, like me, he is no fan of your writing. The good news is he thinks it’s a brilliant tale and he wants to turn it into a movie. What’s more, he pitched it to Universal and they’ve registered strong interest. Now, I need to apologize to you. Keith approached the studio behind my back, which is totally unethical. It meant that I couldn’t ask your permission . . .”

But I could tell that Rosie didn’t give a damn about the legal ins and outs. She was sitting, blinking. “What? You’re not serious. Universal is interested in making a film of my book? This has to be a windup.”