Authors: Sue Margolis
By midafternoon the reporters and TV crews had arrived.
A few hours later, when I went to collect the kids from Debbie-from-down-the-road’s, they came rushing to the door. “Mum! Mum! We just saw you on the news.”
O
ver the next few days, thanks to the newspaper and TV coverage of the strike, more and more people joined the picket line. They came from as far away as Scotland and Cornwall. Most arrived in groups, in hired buses, like the ladies from the Women’s Institute. Some came by tube. Others drove. One woman hitched from Penzance. Groups tended to stay for a couple of days. They booked themselves into bed-and-breakfasts, which didn’t come cheap in central London.
Surrounded by her fans, Nancy was in her element and went around signing autographs and being starry and patronizing. “Thank you so much for coming, my dear,” she’d say. “You have no idea what this means to us, having ordinary civilians join us in our plight.”
Sometimes there were as many as three hundred people on the picket line. That didn’t stop STD and the rest of the management team crossing it each day, apparently unperturbed by all the hissing and booing. Whenever James Harding appeared, he was met by cries of “traitor” and “turncoat.” When two women pelted him with eggs and flour, the police decided it was time to have a presence on the picket and sent a couple of good-natured constables—both
Coffee Break
fans, as it turned out—to keep the peace.
By now the reviews of the program had started to appear. Apart from the expected rave in
Radio World
, it was universally panned. The
Times
called it “mucky” and “prurient” and “fodder for the brain-dead.” The
Independent
asked if tabloid broadcasting had finally reached its nadir and called for James Harding to resign. “How could the man who once championed such an intelligent, thought-provoking program as
Coffee Break
dismantle it in favor of this twaddle and tripe? James Harding should hang his head in shame.” The
Daily Mail
printed an editorial lamenting the loss of a great British institution: “For four decades
Coffee Break
was a beacon of British broadcasting. These days it panders to an ignorant, uncouth underclass made up of people whose interests rarely extend beyond their next KFC Bargain Bucket or new Adidas jogging pants.”
Eventually the viewing figures were in. Des managed to get hold of them through a mate who worked on the listings pages of one of the newspapers. The numbers were disastrous.
Coffee Break
was managing to attract a few thousand listeners at best. Des was euphoric and declared that victory was ours.
“But Harding and STD are still crossing the picket,” I said. “There’s no sign of the program being pulled.”
It didn’t help that, in an interview with one of the papers, James Harding had made the point that new programs often took a while to catch on and that all
Coffee Break
needed was time to find its feet.
Des called him deluded. “Take it from me. This strike will be over in a week.”
• • •
A
week later, we were still manning the picket line. James Harding and Co. clearly weren’t budging. Des kept sending around e-mails, appealing to us to keep the faith. It would all be over soon, he promised, but nobody had the stomach or, more to the point, the savings to take it much further.
Worried as I was about money and whether I would have a job to go back to when the strike was over, part of me was feeling pretty upbeat. I was enjoying being in a new relationship. It was early days, but I wasn’t ruling out the possibility of it getting serious. I was especially enjoying the sex. Huck was so brilliant at it and I still couldn’t get enough of him.
When his piece appeared in the
Vanguard
, I couldn’t have felt more proud. I insisted we go out to celebrate. “There’s a new Italian around the corner I’ve been meaning to try. My treat.”
Natalie, the new sitter—who was Debbie-from-down-the-road’s university student niece—came to mind the kids. It hadn’t occurred to me that they would read anything into Huck and me going out—after all, they knew that we were friends from way back. Plus I’d made it clear that we were celebrating Huck’s newspaper debut. Ben didn’t seem at all bothered, but a look came over Amy’s face, which wasn’t entirely happy.
After an excellent dinner with a bottle of vintage Soave that Huck insisted on paying for, we walked home arm in arm. We agreed that it seemed ridiculous to be saying good night at the end of the street. Huck begged me to sleep in his bed. I needed all my willpower to say no. Instead we snogged in the shadows like a couple of teenagers. When he opened my coat and his hand began stroking my inner thigh above my stocking tops, I did nothing to stop him. My tongue simply went deeper into his mouth. When he pulled the crotch of my panties to one side, I felt myself let out a whimper of delight.
“Come to bed with me,” he whispered, pushing his fingers hard up inside me. There was a second thrust. Then a third. “You’re so wet. You know you want to.”
“Of course I want to. But we can’t. We agreed. Remember?”
“But the kids won’t know. You can go back to your room afterwards.”
“Oh, cheers. That makes me feel so wanted. And what if one of them wakes up and needs me while we’re at it?”
Huck was sliding moisture over my clitoris. My head was on his shoulder. It was as much as I could do to keep upright. “Come on. Let’s finish this at home.”
I pulled his hand away. “No. We have to stop this. We’re adults, for Chrissake. We can wait until the morning.”
“I’m at work in the morning.”
“OK, the afternoon, then. The next morning. Whatever.”
Annoyed with him for putting pressure on me, I walked on ahead, rearranging myself and doing up my coat.
He caught up with me. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what came over me. I just fancy you so much, that’s all.”
“Ditto, but I don’t want the kids knowing what’s going on until we’ve worked out where this relationship’s heading. And that’s going to take time. I thought you understood that.”
“I do. I just let my urges get the better of me, that’s all. Am I forgiven?”
“I guess, but when Amy and Ben are around, keep your urges in check. OK?”
He bowed his head and pulled a little-boy-being-scolded face.
“I promise. God’s honor.” He took my hand. “Oh, by the way. Could I ask you a favor?”
I smiled. “Sure.”
It turned out that he was due to hold his weekly staff meeting the following night, after the club closed at around nine. But the furnace at the center was playing up again and he wondered if I wouldn’t mind if he held the meeting at my place. “All we need is use of your kitchen table for an hour or so.”
“No problem,” I said. “You’re more than welcome any time.”
When we got back, I paid Natalie, checked that the kids hadn’t given her too much trouble (they hadn’t) and showed her out. Then I said good night to Huck—who, after everything I’d said, still gave me a lingering, pleading look. I bashed him over the head with a magazine and went upstairs to check on the children.
As usual, Ben had kicked off his duvet. I pulled it back over him and kissed him on the forehead. “Night-night, sweetie.”
The moment I went into Amy’s room, she sat up in bed. “Sorry, hon. Did I wake you?”
“I haven’t been to sleep.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Mum?”
“What, darling?” I sat down on the side of her bed.
“Are you going to marry Huck?”
I hadn’t been expecting this, which was pretty stupid considering the look on her face when I’d told her that Huck and I were going out. “Marry him? Where on earth did that come from? Amy, just because two people who’ve known each other for years go out to dinner, it doesn’t mean they’re going to get married. And besides, I’m not even divorced from your dad yet.”
“I wasn’t talking about you going out to dinner.”
“What, then?”
“I dunno. It’s more the way you are with him. You talk to him like you used to talk to Dad when you were getting along.”
Not a lot got past my daughter. She’d sensed the intimacy between Huck and me.
“Amy, tell me something. Are you worried about me getting married again one day?”
She burst into tears.
I took her in my arms. “Oh, sweetie, what is it? What’s going on?”
She couldn’t speak for a few moments. Eventually, she wiped her eyes.
“It’s Dad,” she said.
“What about him?”
“Well, you know that he and Roz haven’t been getting along and I thought that if they split up . . .”
“. . . Dad and I might get back together.”
She nodded. “And now you’ve ruined it ’cos you’re going to marry Huck.”
“Darling, your dad and I are getting a divorce. There’s no way we’re going to get back together. Don’t you remember how miserable we all were those last few months before we split up?”
“I guess.”
“Huck and I are friends and that’s all.” Seeing how upset she was, I wasn’t about to say any more than that. “If that changes, you and Ben will be the first to know. Nothing is going to happen suddenly. Now please try to stop worrying.”
“’K.”
I gave her a squeeze.
“Now come on, you need to get some sleep.”
“Mum?”
“Yes?”
“Will you sing me a song?”
• • •
T
he staff meeting had been arranged for nine thirty. Araminta arrived first. Huck brought her through to the kitchen, where I was loading the dishwasher. While Huck went to find extra chairs, she and I stood chatting and I put the kettle on. This was the second time I’d met her and once again I found myself thinking how beautiful she was—and so different from the rest of the youth workers, with her posh accent and impeccable manners.
“This is such a lovely house,” Araminta said. “I couldn’t help noticing you’ve kept all the original cornicing, and I got a glimpse of the fabulous fireplace in the living room.”
“The house could be lovely,” I said. “But it needs so much work. Starting with a massive chuck out and tidy up. The thing is that, with a full-time job and two kids, I never seem to get around to it.”
“I know how you feel. Mummy and Daddy are the same. They’ve got this massive place in Oxfordshire. It’s a complete mess, but Mummy’s far too busy with the horses and her charity work to sit down and sort out what needs doing.”
Araminta was such an enigma—rich aristo working in the slums. How did that work? “So what took you to Princess Margaret?”
“Rebellion,” she declared. “I find my parents’ life so stifling. People like them have no connection with the real world. I couldn’t face ending up like them. So I’ve been annoying them ever since—”
“You can say that again,” Huck said, coming in with two dining room chairs. “I’ve just discovered that this woman almost took holy orders.”
Araminta rolled her eyes and turned to me. “Huck hasn’t stopped teasing me since I told him. I did not nearly take holy orders. I studied theology at Oxford, that’s all. I was going through a religious phase at the time and I knew it would piss Mummy and Daddy off. They’re staunch atheists. Then during one summer vacation I went to do volunteer work in Africa, and seeing starving babies die in their mothers’ arms, I turned into a nonbeliever, too.”
I said that I could see how that might happen. “So, you studied theology. Don’t suppose you could help my nephew learn his bar mitzvah portion.” I said it as a joke—a throwaway comment to lighten the atmosphere.
“Absolutely,” she said with a flick of her long blond hair. “I’m fluent in Hebrew and Aramaic.” Of course she was.
“Are you serious? You’d really take him on?”
“Yes, if he’s up for it. But why can’t he go to regular classes?”
I explained about him telling his elderly teacher that he was a Satanist and getting kicked out.
Araminta roared. “I rather like the sound of young Master Spencer. Why don’t you get his mother to give me a call?”
Just then the doorbell rang. The rest of the youth workers had arrived en masse.
I stood chatting with them while I finished making tea. I could see Huck wanted to get started, so after finding a packet of chocolate biscuits, which I emptied onto a plate and left on the kitchen table, I took myself off to the living room and called Gail to tell her about Araminta’s offer.
“But she’s not Jewish? Is that allowed?”
I laughed. “What? You think God’s going to send down the bar mitzvah police?”
“I suppose not. OK, I’ll call her. Huh, so Spencer could have an Oxbridge theologian teaching him his bar mitzvah. Finally I’ve got one up on Sharon Shapiro. Soph, I don’t know how to thank you. You are a star.”
I must have dozed off on the sofa. The next thing I knew it was almost midnight. I couldn’t hear any voices coming from the kitchen, so I decided it was safe to go in and make some hot milk. I opened the door to find Huck and Araminta deep in conversation. “That’s brilliant,” Huck was saying. “I wish I’d thought of that.”
“OK, so let’s bounce it off Judy.”
When he saw me, Huck looked up. “I’ve got a meeting with Judy in the morning. Araminta’s offered to come with me. She’s got this amazing fund-raising idea involving Twitter. People bid to get retweeted or followed by a celebrity. Isn’t that totally brilliant?”
I had to agree that it was.
O
n the morning of Ben’s birthday party—as opposed to his actual birthday, which had been a few days before—Greg turned up smelling powerfully of dung.
Ben, who had answered the door, came charging into the kitchen holding his nose. “Mum! Mum! Dad stinks of poo! It’s really bad. I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Ben, stop it. I’m sure your dad doesn’t stink of poo.”
“He does. He probably couldn’t get to the loo in time and had an accident.”
“I think that’s highly unlikely. Your father is many things, but I’m pretty sure that incontinent isn’t one of them.”
Just then Huck appeared in the doorway, grinning. “I’m not even going to ask what this is about.”
“Probably for the best,” I said, waving him good-bye. He was spending the day with his mum and dad. He’d decided to make himself scarce because it was Ben’s party and he didn’t want to intrude on a family day. I felt guilty he felt he had to leave, but I hadn’t put up a fight.
Ben said bye to Huck and then turned back to me.
“But Dad is in a continent. Europe.”
“I don’t mean that kind of continent.”
“What other types of continent are there? There’s Europe, Africa, America, Asia, Scandinavia . . .”
The kid certainly knew his continents.
“Ben, that’s enough. I’ll explain later.”
“You always say that. Just to shut me up.”
Just then Greg appeared in his socks.
“I just met Huck on his way out.”
“Yeah, he’s spending the day with his parents.”
Greg look relieved.
“So what’s going on? Ben seems to think you’ve pooed your pants.”
“Cheers, Ben . . . Actually, I’ve trodden in some manure. I’ve left my shoes outside on the step.” He explained FHF had dispatched him to a farm in Surrey to pick up some sacks of manure. “We’re landscaping the garden and Roz wanted some decent organic muck for her roses.”
I glanced out the kitchen window. The grass needed cutting. The bindweed needed attacking. The old toys and rusty garden furniture needed clearing. “Roz certainly keeps you on your toes,” I said. “You only just finished helping with the decorating. How did that go, by the way?”
“Very well. Turns out I’m pretty good with a paint roller. And I’ve learned how to hang wallpaper.”
“Huh. Who’d have thought?”
“I’d better clean my shoes,” he said.
What? He wasn’t leaving them for me?
“I’ll take them outside to the garden tap. I might need some disinfectant, though.” He went over to the cupboard under the sink. Huh. I used to doubt he knew where the kitchen was kept, let alone the disinfectant. Turned out he knew all the time.
Nobody saw Amy come in. “I think you ought to know that there are two dogs on the step, sniffing Dad’s shoes.”
• • •
B
en’s entire class had been invited to his birthday party, plus Freddie and Tom. In the end he gave up on the idea of inviting the six dwarves and decided on a time travel theme instead.
Everybody was to come dressed in a costume from the past: Egyptians, medieval knights, cowboys. No pressure there, then. The mums were going to hate me. This year, even though money was tight, I’d decided to placate the mothers by spending a bit extra on party favors.
It was Greg who suggested that Ben should make a time capsule. He’d intended it as a party activity, but Ben, who loved the idea in principle, was less than keen on involving his friends. He wanted us to make a family time capsule.
Greg ordered the specially designed airtight container on the Internet. Each of us put in things that were relevant to Ben. I chose the BabyGro he wore when we brought him home from the hospital after he was born. I also included some of his first paintings and drawings, along with a copy of the
Times
from the day of his birth, which Mum had given me as a keepsake. Greg put in photographs he’d taken a few moments after Ben’s birth. Amy didn’t own anything that was particularly Ben-related, so she added stuff that was her-related: a Justin Bieber CD and copies of
Mizz
and
Teen Now
. Ben put in a completed sticker album along with some Blu Tack (“’cos that’s how we stuck things”), his copy of
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone
and several dead insects in a jar (“’cos insects might become extinct and scientists of the future could bring these back to life”).
After Greg had cleaned his shoes we all trooped into the garden. It was agreed that we should bury the capsule under the apple tree. Greg found a rusty spade in the shed and we all took turns at digging. When it was done, Ben picked up the capsule.
“One day,” he said, in the manner of a priest presiding at a graveside, “I will open this time capsule and remember when we were still a family.”
Greg and I tried making the point that we hadn’t stopped being a family. But Ben wasn’t having it. In proper families the parents lived together. It was hard to argue with that. Amy agreed with her brother and said that she was fed up with her friends—who surprisingly all came from families in which the parents were still together—feeling sorry for her.
After lunch, Ben went to get changed into his Marty McFly outfit. This had been easy to put together since it consisted of a red sleeveless padded jacket, a checked shirt and jeans (which he’d already owned). Amy had agreed to come to the party, but, being nearly eleven, she insisted that this was purely in a supervisory capacity. “There’s no way I’m dressing up in some goofy costume.”
Greg sat at the kitchen table blowing up balloons while I made a start on the party sandwiches.
“Wow, fantastic cake,” he said, eyeing the beautifully crafted DeLorean covered in edible silver paint, which had pride of place on the counter. “The kids are going to love it. So what did that set us back?”
I explained that one of the mums at school had made it and charged only for the ingredients. “She’s taking a specialty cake baking course and did the DeLorean as one of her assignments. Yesterday, when she took it to be it marked, her tutor gave her an A.”
Greg said he wasn’t surprised.
“So,” I said, licking peanut butter off my thumb, “how are things with you?”
“Work’s OK,” he said. “But things are a bit tricky between Roz and me.” It didn’t occur to me that he would open up about him and Roz. Until now he’d been pretty cagey.
“I thought the Prague trip might help sort things out,” he continued. “But to be honest, we’re struggling.”
“Greg, I realize that some of what’s going on between you two has to do with me falling out with Roz. I just want to say that I had no intention of coming between you, but her behavior has been intolerable.”
“You don’t have to tell me.” He threw a balloon into the air and bashed it with his fist.
“Thank you for supporting me on this. I’m really grateful.”
“That’s OK . . . You know, what Ben said before about us not being a proper family anymore really upset me.”
“Me, too. But we’re doing our best. Given time, the kids will adjust.”
“I guess. Maybe it’s just the mood I’m in. The other thing that got to me was seeing those photographs of Ben as a newborn. They brought back so many memories.”
“For me, too. Do you remember how I was in labor for seventeen hours? It was agony. They say the second baby’s easier, but it was much worse than with Amy.”
“The thing I remember most is you hitting me and telling me in no uncertain terms that you would never let me near you again. I had that bruise on my arm for two weeks.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “Yes, but I did say sorry afterwards.”
“You did. And I accepted your apology rather gracefully, if I remember.”
“I can still see the midwife handing him to you and you bursting into tears.”
“I did not burst into tears,” he said. “I welled up a bit, that’s all.”
“Yeah, right. If you say so.”
“What about when we brought him home and Amy took one look at him and said we should ‘send him back to his own garden.’”
“She must have thought we’d harvested him from some local vegetable patch.”
Greg started on another balloon and I finished sawing a pile of sandwiches into triangles.
“Look,” I said eventually. “There’s something you should know. It’s about Huck. The thing is . . . well . . . we’re sort of together.”
He didn’t seem surprised. “I’d kind of worked out there was something going on.”
“You had? How?”
“It was seeing you together the other day. You just seemed very comfortable.”
“I had no idea we’d let our guard slip. Amy noticed, too.”
“Oh, great. So the kids know? I don’t get you, Soph. When I started seeing Roz, it was ages before I introduced her to the kids—partly at your insistence. And it was several months after that before I moved in with her. You bump into an old flame and a few weeks later the two of you are shacked up.”
“OK, first of all, Huck was never an old flame.”
“Whatever.”
“He was looking for somewhere to live and I had a spare room. At the time—as you well know—I was going out of my mind worrying about money. It seemed like the perfect solution. You said so yourself. I certainly don’t recall you raising any objections.”
“You’re right, I didn’t. I don’t know why, because even then I had my suspicions about the two of you. You know, Soph, after all the kids have been through, I can’t believe you’re doing this to them.”
“OK, let’s get a few things straight. Huck and I are not ‘shacked up.’ We never, ever sleep together when the kids are in the house. We never touch in front of them. We don’t even sit on the sofa together.”
“And yet Amy still picked up that there was something going on between you.”
“I guess that’s girls for you. Anyway, I’ve told her we’re friends and she seems perfectly cool with that. With hindsight, maybe the situation isn’t ideal. And OK—if I’m being totally, searingly honest, I think I was starting to have feelings for Huck before he moved in. I’m sorry if I’ve fucked up, but I swear that we’re being careful around the kids.”
He seemed to calm down. “Maybe I’m being too hard on you. I think I’m just pissed off because you seem to be getting your life together and I’m struggling.”
“I am still on strike, you know.”
“OK, work aside, you seem to be getting things sorted.”
“Hey, come on. You will, too. You just need to keep working at it. I’m not going to pretend I like Roz, but you’ve told me how much you love her, so I’m assuming she has qualities that I’ve never seen.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Soph, do you ever think we did the wrong thing by splitting up?”
“In the beginning, sure, but I know that if you and I had stayed together we would have ended up killing each other. You’re only having doubts because you and Roz have hit a rough patch.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
• • •
O
n Monday morning, I was driving home after dropping the kids off at school when my mobile rang. It was Des.
“It’s over.”
“What?”
“It’s over. Management caved.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. What did I tell you about keeping the faith? I just got a call from one of the senior board members. Apparently they spent the whole of Sunday discussing the audience figures. James Harding pleaded for more time to improve them, but instead they held a vote of no confidence and he ended up being sacked as chairman and resigning from the board.”
“I’m stunned. I never thought they’d get rid of Harding. So what happens now?”
“Well, STD’s been asked to clear her desk and a new chairman has already been appointed.”
“Blimey. They didn’t waste much time.”
“And I’ve just been informed that the new chairman would like to see you ASAP.”
• • •
I
t was over. I practically skipped to the station. Outside the GLB building, the picket was nowhere to be seen. The only evidence that there had ever been a strike was a rain-soaked banner poking out of one of the trash cans.
By now I was starting to feel nervous.
Please, God, don’t let the new chairman be some fire-breathing despot.
I knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
I knew that voice. Sitting at the large mahogany desk, looking every inch the company chairwoman, was Liz. The same Liz who had retired as editor of
Coffee Break
to tend her garden.
“Liz? No! You’re the new chairman?”
“I am, but I’m not sure if I should be referred to as chairman, chairwoman, chairperson or chair. What do you think?”
“It’s bloody fantastic—that’s what I think.” A moment later we were throwing our arms around each other. “So how . . . when . . . ?”
“I got a call last night from one of the board members—right in the middle of
Downton
, if you please. I almost didn’t pick up. Anyway, he told me that James Harding had stepped down and that they wanted to appoint a new chair. He hinted heavily that if I were to put myself forward, the vote would go in my favor. I agreed on the spot and they voted late last night.”
“But I thought you were busy tending your parsnips and cabbages.”
“I was climbing the walls after a week. Nobody told me how boring retirement is. I was desperate to get back to work.” She went over to the drinks cupboard. “One of the perks of the job.” She smiled. “Come on, it’s after eleven. What do you fancy?”
“Oh, go on, then. I’ll have a small G and T.”
“Coming up.”
We clinked glasses. “Congratulations, Liz. I can’t believe I’ve got my old boss back.”
She led me over to the leather sofa. “OK,” she said as we sat down. “Here’s the deal. It goes without saying that we want you as permanent editor. And I’ve managed to negotiate you a pretty decent pay raise, which will come into effect immediately.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate that.”
“Believe me, it’s my pleasure. Now, then, the plan is to take the program off the air for a couple of weeks to give you and the rest of the team some time to come up with a format that’s fun but without compromising the program’s more heavyweight content.”
“Actually, we came up with some ideas and proposals ages ago. I showed them to Shirley Tucker Dill, but of course she trashed them.”