When nothing changed and he refused to go for counseling, maintaining that he was capable of working on his issues on his own, I realized that I had allowed him to procrastinate long enough. By now I was struggling with his lack of commitment. It was make-or-break time. I needed him to make up his mind, particularly as I wanted to start a family. I knew Josh did, too, although he wasn’t clear about when. He talked about “some time in the future” and “one day.” If I waited until thirty-five to get pregnant I’d be officially classified as a geriatric primigravida. What were you after forty? Decayed? Putrified?
One evening after work—having spent the day psyching myself up—I arrived unannounced at Josh’s flat and said that we needed to talk. We sat on the sofa, and I held his hand and told him how much I loved him and wanted to be with him. “The bottom line is,” I said, “do you want to be with me?”
“But I am with you.”
“I mean as in marriage or living together.”
“You know that scares me.”
“Yes, but maybe it’s time you faced the fear.”
He said he needed time to think.
“How much time?”
“Give me a week.”
Five days later, he phoned and asked me to dinner. “There’s something I want to ask you.”
I agreed to meet him. It occurred to me that he was going to ask me to marry him, but I refused to get my hopes up.
He picked me up that night, and we drove into town. “Omigod. Petrus,” I said as we pulled up outside the restaurant. Right now my hopes of a proposal were soaring. Josh loathed posh restaurants—unlike me, who adored them—and I could think of only one reason why he had brought me here.
I should say that Josh’s antipathy towards fancy, Michelin-starred restaurants had nothing to do with his being cheap. Nor did he feel intimidated by them. They simply bored him. He didn’t get what all the fuss was about. His appreciation of the exotic gastronomic arts extended to pizza, curry and Chinese. Left to his own devices he was happy to live on nursery food: bangers and mash, shepherd’s pie, spag bol. The way he saw it, food was fuel. He ate to live, not the other way round. He just hated what he saw as all the pomp and pretense. I took the point. I had no time for men who took you out to dinner and spent the entire evening going on about the provenance of the goat cheese and the Cabernet’s soft mouthfeel. On the other hand, I loved good food—even though I was a pretty hopeless cook—and once in a while, I enjoyed sharing a bottle of decent wine and eating from a menu that didn’t have pictures. It seemed that tonight we were about to do just that.
After we sat down, Josh ordered champagne. Then, knock me down with a Gordon Ramsay spun-sugar halo, if he didn’t present me with the most exquisite solitaire engagement ring. “Tally, will you marry me?”
“Hey, that sort of rhymes, doesn’t it?” I said, avoiding the question.
“So will you?”
I looked at him. “Josh, are you absolutely, one hundred percent sure about this?”
“The last few days, I’ve done nothing but think about us, and I don’t want to lose you. So in answer to your question—I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”
“Honestly.”
“Honestly.”
I felt my face become one huge grin. “OK, then yes, I’ll marry you. How’s June looking for you? I know it’s only six months away, but . . .”
“June is looking perfect.”
I held out my hand and let him slip the ring onto my finger.
The evening after Josh got back from Sydney, we had dinner at my flat. We’d just finished eating when Mum called to say she was on her way back from her aqua aerobics class and could she pop in. She seemed delighted when I told her Josh was with me.
The moment she saw him, she kissed and hugged him and said how happy she was that he was going to be her son-in-law.
“I even got you a present,” she said, “which is why I’m here.” She handed him a shiny silver gift bag.
“Shelley, you didn’t have to do that.”
“Mum, that is so sweet.” Aw, she’d taken our conversation to heart and she really was trying to make an effort with Josh.
“It’s nothing much,” she said. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I was passing this vintage clothing shop in my lunch hour and I saw it in the window. It’s just a bit of fun.”
He opened the bag and pulled out a bright red shirt covered in tiny clowns. Josh, who was strictly a Gant-denim-shirt-andchinos kind of a guy, clearly wasn’t sure what to say. He cleared his throat. “Wow . . . It’s very bright . . . and clowns . . . Well, it’s certainly unusual . . .”
Mum’s crest couldn’t have fallen any further. “The clowns were the whole point. I thought you could wear it for work.”
“For work?”
“Yes. I thought the children might like it—especially the little ones. I saw it as a bit of a conversation piece—something to distract them from all the tubes and needles.”
“You know what,” he said, holding the shirt against him, “it’s a brilliant idea, but I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be way too small for me.” The relief on his face was obvious.
“Oh, well,” Mum said. “It was just a thought.”
“No, it was a great idea,” I said. “I’m just not sure it’s quite Josh’s style.” I felt the need to relieve the tension. “Mum, how’s about we pop down the road to the wine bar and have a glass of something?”
She said she had a pile of chores to do before bed and didn’t have time. She said good night to Josh, who had the manners to thank her again for the shirt. Then I walked her to her car.
After I’d waved Mum off, I went back inside. Josh was watching the TV news.
“You could have been a bit more diplomatic,” I said. “She’s trying to bond with you.”
“Yes, by getting me some ridiculous comedy shirt that makes me look like I trained under Dr. Seuss.”
“Well, get you.”
Just then the phone rang. Josh was nearest, so he picked up. I muted the TV.
“Hi, Nana . . . Well, I’m glad you’re going to be my nanain-law, too. Yes, Tally and I are both very happy. You want to do what to celebrate? . . . Take us all to see Micky Bubble at the O2 and then out to dinner?”
I burst out laughing. “She means Michael Bublé,” I whispered.
He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “No way. This isn’t happening. Have you actually heard his version of ‘I’m Your Man’? I’m going to tell her I’m busy.”
“Don’t you dare! My family is trying to make nice. Stop being difficult. You are so coming.”
He screwed up his face at me. “OK, Nana—Tally and I would absolutely love to see Micky Bubble.”
Chapter 3
A month before the wedding . . .
I
could hear Josh telling me to wake up. “I come bearing tabloid trash,” he said. “Oh, this is right up your street: ‘Billionaire Wills His Fortune to Imaginary Friend.’ And according to the
Sunday Star
. . . fish communicate by farting.”
I was still half-asleep in Josh’s bed, head under the duvet. “Ver’ funny,” I said regarding the newspaper headlines. “Wha’ time is it?”
“Past nine.”
I groaned. We’d been to a party the night before and hadn’t gotten in until after two.
“Ooh, and Sarah Palin is planning to adopt an alien baby.”
“Good for her.”
I decided I ought to rouse myself. We—that is, Mum, Scarlett, Grace and I—were having Sunday brunch at Nana Ida’s and she was expecting us at twelve. Josh couldn’t make it because he was helping his best mate, Andy, move house.
I pulled back the duvet to see Josh standing over me in his boxers. He was cradling the usual stack of Sunday newspapers—broadsheets for him, tabloids for me. These days I made no apologies for watching
How Clean Is Your House?
, buying CDs with titles like
Classical Music for Your Family Road Trip
and reading the tabloids. By the time I got home after a day in court, or hours spent reading up on case law or legal precedent, I was desperate for an easy-listening, watching or reading fix.
Whereas I read trashy thrillers to get me to sleep, Josh would choose a tome from his nightstand, which was piled high with books on quantum physics, string theory and postmodernist philosophy.
I especially looked forward to the Sunday tabloids. It was like getting my comics when I was a kid. I lapped up the headlines: SINGING NUN IN DRUG SUICIDE PACT . . . PEDO, GAY, LEFT-WING TRANSSEXUALS TAKING BRITISH JOBS . . . I FOUND FACE OF JESUS ON MY POP-TART. I knew my tabloid habit annoyed Josh. So much so that if we were expecting people for dinner, he would do a thorough sweep of the flat looking for stray copies of the
News of the World
.
“They’re all boned,” he said, meaning he had gone through the papers and removed those annoying, loose bits of advertising. He let go of the pile. It landed beside me with a thud. A couple of glossy magazine supplements slid off the bedspread onto the floor.
“You are good,” I said, reaching down to pick up the
Sunday Times
Style section.
“I know. That’s why you keep me. Tea or coffee? And I’m making Marmite toast.”
“I’d rather have sex,” I said. Fully awake now, I appeared to have an urgent case of lady wood. I started giving him come-to-bed eyes, but as come-to-bed eyes went, I doubted they were my best, since I hadn’t removed yesterday’s makeup and they were probably smeared in black mascara.
He practically dived back into bed. “Your wish is my command.”
I started laughing. “Idiot.”
Before you could say IUD, he was tugging at my pajama bottoms.
Josh had been feeling particularly upbeat, not to say frisky, all weekend. One of his leukemia patients, an eight-year-old boy who had caused him much anxiety after his first bonemarrow transplant failed, had undergone a second and finally been given the all clear.
Josh lifted up my top and started kissing my breasts. I reached inside his boxers. “Wow.”
“Josh Eisner—human broomstick—at your service.”
He couldn’t have been inside me more than twenty seconds when the phone trilled. We carried on for three or four rings. Finally Josh rolled off me. He lay on his back, forearm over his eyes. “It’ll be your nana. We’ve told her we don’t want doves being released after the ceremony. Why can’t she let it go?”
I leaned over Josh and picked up the receiver.
“Tally, it’s me.”
“Hi, Nana. What’s up?”
“I’ve been thinking about this issue with the doves.”
“Doves?” Josh whispered.
I nodded.
“Bloody hell’s bells.”
“You know what?” Nana said. “I’ve come to the conclusion you’re right. The idea is a bit tacky.”
“You’ve come to the conclusion that I’m right and the idea is a bit tacky,” I repeated for Josh’s benefit.
“Thank God for that,” he muttered.
“Well, I’m glad we’re agreed,” I said to Nana.
“Me, too. Now then, my niece Janice called. Your cousin Elliot wants to sing ‘Angels’ during the ceremony. He’s such a talented boy. Lovely voice. He sings on all the cruise ships. She said he’s got a fabulous white tux he could wear.”
I repeated this aloud—emphasizing the bit about the fabulous white tux. Josh looked at me, his expression one of quiet desperation. “So now we’ve got your cousin Elliot singing as well as the Manischewitz Jewish gospel choir your mother just booked.”
“Behave,” I whispered, trying not to laugh. “It was a Jewish steel band and I put a stop to that last week.”
Josh said he was going to make tea and toast.
“You know what, Nana,” I said, “I’m not sure that the rabbi will approve of a pop song being performed during the service.”
“You don’t think ‘Angels’ counts as religious music, then?”
“Not really. Look, why don’t you tell Janice that we’d love Elliot to sing, but I think it will have to be at the reception.”
“Yeah, preferably before the guests arrive,” Josh muttered as he left the room.
At the beginning of January, Josh and I had been planning a small, intimate wedding. A couple weeks later, after I’d announced our engagement to Mum, she had insisted on paying for a slightly bigger, less intimate affair and we’d accepted. By the end of the month Nana had stepped in and everything changed again.
When Nana found out that we weren’t planning a big fat Jewish wedding and were going for something smaller and slimmer, she was—in the nicest possible way—up in arms. I explained that Josh and I wanted to keep things simple and that even if we’d wanted a fancy-schmancy wedding, Mum couldn’t afford it and she was refusing to let us contribute. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Nana said. “Of course you want a big wedding, and I will pay for the whole thing. It will be my present to you and Josh. I don’t want any arguments.”
Josh and I insisted, as did Mum, that Nana hang on to her savings because living into advanced old age—and we were all convinced she would—didn’t come cheap. But Nana clamped her hand to her chest and played the I’m-not-long-for-this-world-let-me-do-this-one-last-thing-before-I-die card, and in the end Mum threw up her hands in defeat. Josh and I accepted Nana’s offer rather more graciously and took her out for dinner to say thank you.
Our wedding was now going to be a lavish do for two hundred people with an eight-piece band, a toastmaster and a close-up table magician.
Nana was happy to admit that one of the reasons she wanted to give us a big wedding was to show off to her friends. After all, her granddaughter was marrying a handsome doctor—a specialist no less. The moment she found out we were engaged, Nana called everybody from her cleaning lady to her chiropractor. All Nana’s friends at the day center, everybody she met at the queue at the kosher butcher, the deli and the doctor’s surgery, knew that her granddaughter the lawyer was marrying a brilliant cancer specialist.
“By the way,” she said at one point, “I bumped into Estelle Brownstein the other day at a Ladies’ Guild lunch. There she was, all hoity-toity because her granddaughter’s marrying a pharmacist with three shops. I soon put her in her place.”