Coming Clean (11 page)

I was told that I “looked well,” which I knew to be princess code for “you’ve put on weight.” I felt as if they were all looking at me and thinking that I was one family-sized KFC bucket away from throwing the earth off its axis.

One couple, Sharon and Russell Shapiro, had brought their two teenage children with them. Josh and Hannah were close friends with Gail’s kids and went to the same school. After everybody had remarked on how tall they were getting and assured Josh, much to his embarrassment, that he wouldn’t need the braces for long and they were sure to be off well before his bar mitzvah and the results would be well worth it, the kids disappeared into the TV room, where Spencer and Alexa—having called a truce—were playing on the Xbox.

At one point during predinner drinks and what Murray always referred to as “suburban snacks,” Sharon stopped sipping her caffeine-free Diet Coke and turned to Gail. “You know, I really worry about what these computer games do to children’s minds. Unless they’re educational, they’re banned in our house. Gail, please tell me the kids aren’t playing war games in there.”

“Don’t worry. We’re really strict about computer games, too.” She called out to Murray, who was in the middle of a conversation on the other side of the living room. “Hey, hon, do you know what game Alexa and Spencer are playing?”

“I dunno . . . it might be that new one Spencer just got . . . Something like
Flesh-Eating Zombie Ninjas Take Over the World
.”

Sharon was horror-stricken. “Omigod. Murray, are you serious?”

“Of course he’s not serious,” Gail said, glaring across the room at her husband. “Murray, tell Sharon you’re joking.”

Murray had just finished placating Sharon when the doorbell buzzed. “Ooh, that’ll be him,” Gail whispered, digging me in the ribs. She got up and went to answer the door. “Hello, you must be Mike,” she boomed from the hall. “I’m Gail. Welcome to our home . . .”

Mike the secret agent was full of apologies for being late. He’d been stuck in a meeting and couldn’t get away.

“Oh, I totally understand,” I heard Gail say, each word in italics. I imagined her winking and tapping the side of her nose.

She led Mike into the living room.

“Everybody, this is Mike . . . Mike, this is everybody.”

People called out, “Hi, Mike,” and waved.

Murray immediately went over to shake hands with Mike and offer him a drink.

Meanwhile, Sharon cornered me and whispered, “So, this is the S-P-Y.”

So now Sharon knew. My sister had such a big mouth.

•   •   •

O
K, I admit it. I’d been hoping for Daniel Craig. Mike couldn’t have looked less like my sexy secret agent fantasy. He was tall and gangly with shoulder-length hair parted down the middle. He was also wearing a suit and tie. The man looked like Jesus going for a job interview.

Murray handed Mike a glass of wine and began introducing him to the other guests. Meanwhile, Gail grabbed my arm and dragged me into the hall. “OK, don’t panic about the hair,” she whispered. “I’m thinking that maybe he’s on some undercover mission that requires long hair. Once it’s over, you make an appointment for him with Carl. Aside from that, he’s quite nice looking, don’t you think? Good teeth. I think there’s definitely something to work with.”

•   •   •

G
ail got busy seating everybody around the table. “And, Soph, I’ve put you next to Mike.” Wink.

Everybody made a start on the chopped liver. As usual, half a dozen conversations were being conducted at full volume around the table: “Kids, don’t fill up on bread—there’s more to come” . . . “Bastard wanted to charge me five grand over the Blue Book price” . . . “The doctors are carrying out a battery of tests” . . . “Did you keep the warranty?” . . . “I told her, she must have something to fall back on.”

“I feel that I ought to apologize,” I said to Mike over the din.

“For what?”

“Bernice setting us up like this.”

Mike laughed. “Well, I have to admit I don’t usually let people matchmake for me, but Bernice is one of those women who don’t take no for an answer. Plus she didn’t stop telling me how wonderful you are.”

“Well, I’m very flattered that you came—especially on your own.”

“My pleasure . . . So, Bernice tells me you’re a producer on
Coffee Break.
Excellent program. One of the few intelligent radio shows left. I never miss it when I’m at home.”

“That’s always good to hear—especially from a male listener. Still, I don’t suppose you get much time at home. I imagine you’re always off on some assignment or other.” I stopped myself. “Gosh, I haven’t said too much, have I?” By now I’d lowered my voice to a whisper.

Mike looked perplexed. “Actually things are pretty busy at the moment, what with the Christmas rush.”

“So even in your line of work things hot up at Christmas? I had no idea.”

“I’ll say. Shoplifters are a nightmare at this time of year.”

“Shoplifters?”

“Yes. In the store.”

“Oh, I get it. You tell people you work in a store and that acts as your cover. Very clever.”

“My cover? Cover for what?”

I felt the need to lower my voice. “You know.”

“Actually, I don’t.”

“Your cover . . . for your real job . . . the one we can’t talk about.”

“You think that I have another job? And that I keep it a secret?”

“OK, I get it—this is your way of telling me that you don’t want to have this conversation. I totally understand. It’s way too sensitive. Let’s change the subject.”

“Sophie, I’m confused. I honestly don’t have another job.”

“Of course you don’t.” Wink. “That’s fine. Say no more.” Wink.

“So, what is this other job I’m meant to have?”

“You seriously want me to come out and say it?”

“I’d be really happy if you did.”

I looked around to check that nobody was listening in on our conversation. “You’re a secret government agent.”

Mike threw his head back and roared. “What? That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. You think I’m a spook?”

“Yes. Bernice told my sister that you work for MI5.”

“Actually, what I am is president of MFI—Mike Flemming Ironmongery. I own a chain of hardware stores.”

“Hardware stores?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re definitely not a secret agent?”

“Definitely not.” He was still laughing.

“Not even secretly?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Wow. I’ve really embarrassed myself.”

“Only a bit,” he said. “I think it’s hilarious. I am going to dine out on this for years. You can blame Bernice. She’s a lovely lady, but I’m not sure she’s the greatest listener in the world.”

“You can say that again.”

“So I guess you’re not quite so interested in getting to know me now you’ve discovered that I’m not a secret agent.”

“What? No—of course I’m interested.” What else could I say?

He looked dubious. It was obvious he could see right through me.

I battled on, nevertheless: “So, how are things in the hardware business?”

I was asking out of politeness and he knew it, but he was kind enough to indulge me.

He was in the middle of explaining that inquiries about house security were up and that sales of catches, latches and bolts had never been higher when I realized that Murray was standing behind us. I hadn’t noticed that he’d gotten up and was going around the table topping up people’s wineglasses.

“Drop more, you two?”

Murray gave me the first refill. He’d just started pouring wine into Mike’s glass when Spencer came by—probably on his way to the fridge to get another can of Coke—and jogged his father’s elbow, causing him to lose his balance. One second Murray was filling Mike’s glass, and the next vintage burgundy was cascading from the bottle into Mike’s lap. By the time Murray had regained control of the bottle the damage had been done.

“Spencer, you klutz! Look what you made me do.” Murray was shaking his hands, which were covered in red wine.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” Spencer’s voice, which had just started to break, had gone all high-pitched.

“You never
mean
it!” Gail bellowed from the other side of the table. “Why can’t you look where you’re going?”

“I’ve said I’m sorry.”

Red of face, Spencer disappeared.

Marcia, one of Gail’s charity worker friends, who was sitting to my right, began calling for soda water and paper towels.

By now Gail was already halfway to the kitchen. I took one look at Mike’s drenched lap. It was clear that paper towels and soda water weren’t going to have much impact.

Murray was full of apologies and offered to take Mike upstairs and fix him up with a fresh pair of pants.

“That’s really kind of you,” Mike said, dabbing at the area with a wad of paper towels, which had appeared courtesy of Gail. “But I think I’d best get home.”

“Nonsense,” Gail cried. “You can’t go. You haven’t even finished your chopped liver. Murray, go upstairs and fetch Mike a pair of joggers.”

“No. Please. If you don’t mind, I think I’d rather go.”

“OK,” Gail said, “but I’m making you a roast chicken sandwich to take with you, and no arguments.” She got up and disappeared into the kitchen.

Mike sat dabbing at his lap, looking as if he didn’t know where to put himself.

“It’s such a shame you have to leave,” I said. “We were just getting to know each other.”

He offered me a half smile. Clearly what he wanted to say was: “You know what? I think this is probably for the best.”

A couple of minutes later, Gail returned with two foil parcels. “Right, I’ve made you a sandwich and there’s a slice of my homemade cheesecake.”

“That’s so kind. You really shouldn’t have.”

“Of course I should. I’m so sorry you have to go.”

Mike gave everybody a good-bye, great-to-have-met-you salute, and I walked him to the door. “Give me a call,” I said. “Maybe we could go out for coffee or a drink sometime.”

“Sure,” he said.

But we both knew that was never going to happen.

•   •   •

B
y the time I got back to the table, the chopped-liver plates had been cleared and replaced with bowls of chicken soup. I’d just picked up my spoon when Spencer appeared in the doorway carrying his laptop.

“Mum . . . Grandma and Granddad are on Skype.”

Gail got him to bring the laptop to the table. “And mind the soup. It’s boiling hot.” She still sounded irritable. It was clear she hadn’t forgiven him yet. She made some space on the table and Spencer put the laptop down in front of his mother. Murray got up from his chair so that I could sit next to her.

“Hey, Mum and Dad,” Gail said, brightening. “You OK? Soph’s here. Can you see her?”

I leaned in and waved. “Hi, parents. It’s me.”

Mum and Dad’s faces froze into a thousand pixels.

By now Murray, Spencer and Alexa had gathered around, along with a few of Gail’s friends who knew Mum and Dad.

“Ooh . . . you’ve got company,” Mum said, unfrozen now. “And I can see Murray and the kids.” She gave everybody a wave.

“Who’s she got there?” Dad said, clearly perplexed. “What time is it?”

Gail explained she had people over for Friday night dinner. “So, where are you?” Gail said. “Looks like you’re in a restaurant.”

“We’re just finishing lunch,” Mum said. “Phil had the day off, so he brought us to this wonderful fish place. I just had snapper. It was OK, but you can’t compare it to a nice plate of haddock and chips.”

Gail asked if they’d got the jar of Marmite she’d sent.

“We did, darling, and thank you. But if you could send out some Yorkshire tea, that would be great, ’cos we’re running really low.”

Gail said she’d put a couple of boxes in the mail the next day.

“So how are things?” I asked. “We’re all missing you.”

“We’re missing you, too,” Dad said. “And the kids.”

Mum asked where they were. When I explained that they were with their father and Roz (another piece of news I’d had to break to them a while back), Mum went quiet.

“I still can’t get used to this whole situation,” she said. “I’m still getting the palpitations.”

Dad told her to be quiet and said that nobody wanted to hear about her palpitations. “You know,” he said, “there’s one thing about living over here that I can’t get used to. All Phil and Betsy’s friends insist on calling me Chuck. I tell them my name’s Charles, but they just slap me on the back and carry on calling me Chuck.”

“Yeah, Americans like to shorten names,” Gail said. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I’ll tell you one thing I’ll never get used to,” Mum said. “The portion sizes . . .”

“And your mother refuses to eat hot dogs . . . on the grounds that she always gets the same part of the dog.” Dad roared.

“Good one, Dad,” Gail said. She turned to me. “You know, sometimes I think that subconsciously I married Murray because his jokes remind me of Dad.”

“And the closets are so huge,” Mum went on. “The one in our bedroom sleeps four.”

“And your mother still hasn’t got used to going into shops and having the assistants ask how she is. The other day she spent a full five minutes telling the girl on the supermarket checkout about her hemorrhoids.”

“I did not! I was telling her about my neuritis and you know it . . . Listen, I need to powder my nose,” Mum said. “I’ll be back in a tick.”

She disappeared, but we could still hear her. She was asking the waiter for the loo.

“You’re looking for Lou?” the waiter’s voice said. “I don’t think we have anybody of that name working here. What’s Lou’s last name?”

“No, you misunderstand,” Dad said. “My wife isn’t looking for a person called Lou. She
needs
the loo.”

“She means the restroom,” Phil broke in.

“No, I don’t,” Mum came back. “I don’t need to rest. I’m feeling fine. I just need to spend a penny.”

“Spend a penny?” It was the waiter again.

“Could you just direct my mother to the toilet?” Phil said.

“And I’ll have another Coke,” Dad was saying to the waiter. “And don’t fill the glass with ice. I’m paying for Coke, not ice.”

“Dad, be quiet,” Phil said. “People like lots of ice over here.”