Of course, Nana had wanted to know about Josh’s parents. He told her the truth—that his dad had walked out on the family and that these days he had almost no contact with him. He wouldn’t be invited to the wedding. I watched Nana’s eyes fill up. She reached out and took his hand. “Your father is a fool. He has lost a wonderful son.”
It turned out that ours wasn’t the only wedding Nana Ida intended to pay for. She had decided that if Scarlett and Grace ever tied the knot, she would pay for that, too. If they chose not to get married, then she would give them money.
In the same way that Nana had no trouble with Scarlett being gay, she had no trouble with Grace being black. As somebody who’d escaped from Nazi Germany on one of the last Kindertransports out of Berlin, she had no interest in bigotry and racism. To make her point, she went to considerable effort to welcome Grace into the family. Having insisted that Scarlett bring her to Friday night dinner, Nana went over the road to a Jamaican Rastafarian family she had befriended to ask how she might make Grace feel at home. That Friday, we arrived to find a framed photograph of Haile Selassie hanging on the wall next to the portrait of the Queen. Bob Marley was singing “Buffalo Soldier” on the old seventies stereo. “Now, then,” Nana said after we’d all sat down, “who’s for some sweet lime chicken?”
If Nana’s over-the-top welcome made Grace feel uncomfortable, she didn’t show it. She ate all her chicken, asked for seconds of fried yams and kept saying how wonderful it all was and how she couldn’t believe that Nana Ida had gone to all this trouble to make her feel welcome. I had taken to Grace the first time I met her. She was one of those rare people who seemed to have no agenda—no beef with the world. She was kind, easygoing and gentle.
As soon as the wedding plans got under way, Josh and I had decided that our families should meet. We’d agreed on Sunday lunch at a French bistro in Camden Town.
It wasn’t something I was particularly looking forward to, the thoughtful, cerebral Eisners breaking bread with the loudmouth Roths.
Grace—who was, of course, invited—kept telling me to calm down, sit back and let my two worlds collide. It turned out to be good advice. Josh’s brother and sister, who were both rather earnest civil servants, seemed to think Nana was a hoot, especially when she kept referring to their mother—quite innocently—as Mrs. Eisenhower.
What was more, Josh’s mum and mine hit it off straightaway. I hadn’t realized that despite moving in different professional worlds—Josh’s mum taught troubled teens who’d been kicked out of mainstream school—they had a lot in common. Both women had lost husbands and, instead of remarrying, had devoted their lives to raising their families.
Mum and Judy Eisner spent most of the lunch swapping stories about divorce, widowhood and being single mothers—and got rather drunk in the bargain.
We didn’t leave the restaurant until after four, and when we parted it was with kisses and hugs and promises to meet up again after the wedding.
The moment that Josh and I agreed to a big wedding, the stress began. Since January, we had been drowning in decision making: table centerpieces (high or low?), Viennese table (passé?), chocolate fountain (definitely passé), speeches (how many and length of), toast to the royal family (Nana Ida was insisting), wedding cake (after a big dinner and dessert, does anybody actually eat it?), stretch limos (white or black? Er, that would be neither: Josh and I were groom and bride, not drug dealer and moll), white suede yarmulkes for the men saying: ON THE OCCASION OF TALLULAH AND JOSH’S WEDDING (sick bowl, please).
Having said that she would leave all the decisions to us, Nana couldn’t resist making “suggestions.” Royal toast aside—which was particularly important to her—she wasn’t the sort to put her foot down or make diva-ish demands. Instead she would call with her latest “brilliant idea.” “Of course it’s only a thought,” she would say. “I wouldn’t dream of interfering. This is your wedding, and you and Josh must do things your own way, but I do think a traditional toastmaster in a red tailcoat would be nice. Otherwise your cousin Neville would have to be MC, and between you and me the boy’s a bit of a yutz. Ooh, and I do think we should put ‘carriages at eleven thirty’ at the bottom of the invitations.”
At eighty-four, Nana could suddenly be useful again, and she was loving every minute. Even though most of her ideas were old-fashioned and/or a bit tacky, I couldn’t take that excitement away from her.
Mum was doing her best not to interfere with the wedding preparations. I suspected that Scarlett had had a quiet word with her. On the other hand, she kept letting comments slip like: “It’s all very traditional, but if that’s what you want.”
I think Mum secretly fantasized about us getting married at the Kremlin or on the bridge of the
Starship Enterprise
.
Josh and I finished our tea and toast, then tried making love again, but the moment had passed. Instead we showered and dressed and went our separate ways—him to Andy’s, me to Nana’s.
What with the Ikea sale, the Sunday traffic madness on the North Circular was even worse than usual. Then, once I’d gotten to Edgware, I needed to stop off and get Nana a bunch of flowers.
It was past twelve thirty when I arrived. “Where have you been?” Nana said by way of greeting. “We were starting to worry.”
“Monster traffic. I tried calling, but my phone’s out of battery.”
I handed her the flowers.
“Freesias. My favorite,” she said, leading the way down the hall. “And you got the yellow ones. They’re the ones that smell, you know.”
Of course I knew. She’d been telling me since I was eight.
Mum and Scarlett were already sitting at the dining room table. I kissed them both hello. “No Grace?” I said to Scarlett.
“In Paris,” she said. “Taking pics of Carla Bruni for the
Sunday Times Mag
. They’re doing a series on European first ladies. With a bit of luck it’ll be the cover story.”
“Wow, what a coup.”
I pulled out a chair and sat down at Nana’s walnut dining table. I had eaten hundreds of meals at this table. Nana was a great cook. She didn’t do fancy, but what she did, she did to perfection. Everything she put on the table—from her roast beef to her soups and strudel—was sublime.
It was Nana Ida who got Scarlett and me into food. That’s because when Mum went back to work after Dad died, she insisted on “helping out” by coming over each day to cook. By then Nana was a retired widow with nothing much going on in her life. Suddenly she was shopping, schlepping and cooking family meals like she had in the old days. She said that being needed again so late in life was a gift from God.
Our fridge was always full of her homemade goodies. She even baked almond biscuits for us, and God forbid she came round and caught sight of a shop-bought cake. Mum was an OK cook, but nothing like as good as Nana. Plus cooking bored her.
Today, Nana’s table was covered with her white linen Shabbat tablecloth. I looked at all the deli food. Nana’s imitation crystal dishes were full of herrings (Dutch, pickled and chopped), fish balls (fried and boiled), cucumbers (
haimishe
and sweet and sour), cream cheese, egg and onion, and chopped liver. The smoked salmon was arranged on a platter shaped like a fish. Underneath the salmon it said A PRESENT FROM NAPLES. Scarlett had gone there on a school trip and brought it back for Nana. The bagels, from the Israeli deli, not the supermarket (God forbid), were piled into a bread basket. Beside them was Nana’s ancient breadboard and serrated knife.
“Come on. Nobody’s eating.” Nana picked up the bread knife and began slicing bagels. “So who’s got news?”
“Oh, FYI,” Scarlett said, “we’re still auditioning sperm donors.”
Scarlett and Grace had been living together for six months and had been talking about getting pregnant almost from the get-go. They’d decided that Grace would have the first baby because she was established in her career and more able than Scarlett to take a year or two out. The problem was that since the law had changed, enabling children to find their spermdonor fathers, there were fewer men willing to donate, and so far they’d found nobody suitable. Then they had a change of heart. Maybe it would be better for the child to have a proper, loving, involved father who would not only be willing, but want to share child care. That meant finding a gay man, most likely, who was ready to become a dad.
“So how do you go about auditioning a sperm donor?” Nana said. “Actually, on second thought, maybe I don’t want to know.”
Scarlett said that they’d narrowed it down to three—all gay. One was a principal dancer with the Royal Ballet. Another was a drama student. The third was a photographer on the
Sunday Herald
picture desk. His name was Richie, and Grace had known him for years. So far he seemed the most likely. “He’s desperate to become a father. We both adore him and know he’ll make a great dad. What’s even more perfect is that he’s white. Grace and I think it’s important to have a mixed-race child to reflect our relationship. Only problem is that Richie’s partner, Tom, isn’t sure he’s ready to become a parent.”
Nana was counting on her fingers.
“So if things worked out, this child would have four parents,” I said, “you, Grace, Richie and Tom. And what about grandparents?”
Mum did the math and said it worked out at eight including Nana.
“God,” I said, “Christmas is going to be fun at your house.”
Scarlett smiled and admitted that it might not be easy. “On the other hand,” she said, “any child we had wouldn’t be lacking in love and affection.”
“Which is all that counts. Now, come on, eat up. There’s ice cream for dessert.” Nobody asked what flavor. Grandma only ever bought vanilla because it was the only one that didn’t stain.
“Mum, you OK?” I’d noticed she’d gone a bit quiet.
“I’m fine,” she said, pouring herself a Diet Coke. “It’s just that I didn’t get the chance to lie in this morning. Eight o’clock I’ve got this guy on the phone threatening to take a bottle of pills.”
“So what did you say?”
Mum shrugged. “I told him if he took the bottle he would definitely die, but if he took two, he might actually feel better. I couldn’t believe it when he said he’d give it a go.”
“Shelley, you’ve got to stop this,” Nana said. “You girls have to tell her. She’s not a trained counselor. One day she’ll get caught and get into trouble.”
“We’ve told her,” Scarlett said. “It’s like talking to a brick wall.”
“So anyway,” Mum continued, “he’s been feeling depressed and he goes to see his doctor. He spends half an hour pouring out his problems, and d’you know what the doctor says? You will not believe this when I tell you. He says, ‘I think your problem is low self-esteem. It’s very common in losers.’ ”
Scarlett burst out laughing. “I don’t believe it. He was winding you up.”
“Well, he didn’t sound like he was.”
“That reminds me of your uncle Bernie,” Nana said. “He suffered from psychosis and low self-esteem.”
“Yeah,” Scarlett said. “He only wanted to kill the deputy prime minister.”
Now we were all laughing.
Scarlett was so quick off the mark these days. Not that she hadn’t always been, but even she would admit that her comedy had come a long way since her early lesbian stand-up days in pubs and clubs. I found myself thinking back to the first time, early on in her career, when Nana, Mum and I went along to support her. I remembered noticing how much her hand was shaking when she walked onto the tiny stage and took the mic off the stand.
“Coming out wasn’t easy,” she’d announced, clearing her throat. “My closet was huge. It had this labyrinth of subterranean tunnels and all these combination locks to undo . . . At first, I thought I was just bi-curious. I mean, I wasn’t one of those women who know they’re gay because they kick-start their vibrators and roll their own tampons. I just thought, maybe I’d like to sleep with women . . . Then I did a few one-night stands—you know, kinda lickety-split.”
“What are you? A fucking dyke?” some observant drunk heckled.
“And what are you, mate?” Scarlett shot back. “My alternative?”
The audience clapped and whooped their approval. Scarlett had gotten her first big laugh. She was out of the starter’s gate and away. I remember Nana, me and Mum all high-fiving.
“Fuck you!” yelled the drunk, waving his fist at Scarlett.
“Fuck me?” she said. “Er, I think not. And anyway, you’ll never go back to women.”
More whistling and applause from the audience. Meanwhile, the drunk was manhandled out of the pub, still effing and cursing.
“I’ll let you off,” Scarlett called out after him. “I remember the first time I had a beer.”
By now Scarlett was done with pubs and clubs. These days she was performing at all the big-name stand-up venues and was beginning to be offered spots on late-night TV comedy shows.
While Nana passed around more food, Scarlett asked me how work was going. “That asylum case of yours is starting to hit the headlines.”
“I know. Thank heavens. We need all the publicity we can get.”
I was fighting the extradition of an Iranian civil rights activist, a woman named Nasreen Karimi who had held meetings in Tehran where she had spoken out against the Iranian government, sharia law and forced marriage. Doing this, she had risked the death penalty. What was more—because she had a boyfriend—she had refused to consent to her own arranged marriage. He was now working legally in the UK. When her family found out about her boyfriend, she fled to Britain. She was adamant that had she stayed in Iran her family would have murdered her in an honor killing. The Home Office had shown no interest in her plight—clearly believing her story to be lies—and had turned down her request for asylum.
“We’re calling for a judicial review of the Home Office ruling,” I said, “claiming breach of natural justice on the part of the government. So they can’t deport her for the time being. Meanwhile, I’ve found several Iranian students living over here who knew Nasreen and who have made written statements confirming her civil rights activities. I just hope the Home Office will listen. God knows what she’ll do if we lose. I’m really worried she could take her own life.”