A Catered Affair Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3 - A month before the wedding …

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5 - The evening before the wedding …

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Also by Sue Margolis

  PRAISE FOR SUE MARGOLIS’S NOVELS

  Perfect Blend

  “A fun, sassy read … the romance blooms and the sex sizzles. This is a hilarious and engaging tale. Sue Margolis has whipped up a winner.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “A fun story full of an eccentric cast of characters … Amy is an endearing heroine.”

  —News and Sentinel (Parkersburg, WV)

  Forget Me Knot

  “A perfect beach read, with a warm heroine.”

  —News and Sentinel (Parkersburg, WV)

  “Amusing … the story line is fun and breezy…. Fans of Sue Margolis will relish the cast’s antics.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “A wonderful glimpse into British life with humor and a unique sense of style…. This is one British author that I’m glad made it across the pond, and I will definitely be looking for more of her books.”

  —Night Owl Romance

  Gucci Gucci Coo

  “A wickedly prescient novel…. Likable characters and a clever concept make this silly confection a guilty pleasure.”

  —USA Today

  “It’s Margolis’s voice that separates Gucci Gucci Coo from other entries in the fast-growing chick-and-baby-lit category…. Her language … is fresh and original…. [This] is a fast, fun read [and] a great book for any smart girl who has ever had to attend a baby shower.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “This popular British author keeps turning out fun and witty novels that readers will grab off the shelves…. Though her previous books have drawn many Bridget Jones comparisons, her writing may become the new standard for the chick-lit genre.”

  —Booklist

  “If you liked any of Sophie Kinsella’s Shopaholic books or Allison Pearson’s I Don’t Know How She Does It, you’ll like this British take on pregnancy and motherhood… . It’s a fun, entertaining read and a book you’ll pass on to friends.”

  —A Mama’s Rant

  “You’ll laugh out loud at Ruby’s humorous escapes … and relate to her many misgivings about her life and where it’s going. Ms. Margolis’s trademark witty, bright writing style shines through in Gucci Gucci Coo. Fun!”

  —Fresh Fiction

  Original Cyn

  “Hilarious … Margolis’s silly puns alone are worth the price of the book. Another laugh-out-loud funny, occasionally clever, and perfectly polished charmer.”

  —Contra Costa Times

  “Has something for everyone—humor, good dialogue, hot love scenes, and lots of dilemmas.”

  —Rendezvous

  “A perfect lunchtime book or, better yet, a book for those days at the beach.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “Delightful… . Fans will appreciate this look at a lack of ethics in the workplace.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  Breakfast at Stephanie’s

  “With Stephanie, Margolis has produced yet another jazzy cousin to Bridget Jones.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A comic, breezy winner from popular and sexy Margolis.”

  —Booklist

  “Rife with female frivolity, punchy one-liners, and sex.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  Apocalipstick

  “[A] sexy British romp…. Margolis’s characters have a candor and self-deprecation that lead to furiously funny moments…. A riotous, ribald escapade sure to leave readers chuckling to the very end of this saucy adventure.”

  —USA Today

  “Margolis combines lighthearted suspense with sharp English wit … [an] entertaining read.”

  —Booklist

  “A joyously funny British comedy … just the ticket for those of us who like the rambunctious, witty humor this comedy provides.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “[An] irreverent, sharp-witted look at love and dating.”

  —Houston Chronicle

  Spin Cycle

  “This delightful novel is filled with more than a few big laughs.”

  —Booklist

  “A funny, sexy British romp…. Margolis is able to keep the witty one-liners spraying like bullets.”

  —Library Journal

  “Warmhearted relationship farce … a nourishing delight.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Satisfying … a wonderful diversion on an airplane, poolside, or beach.”

  —Baton Rouge Magazine

  Neurotica

  “Screamingly funny sex comedy … the perfect novel to take on holiday.”

  —USA Today

  “Cheeky comic novel—a kind of Bridget Jones’s Diary for the matrimonial set … wickedly funny.”

  —People (Beach Book of the Week)

  “Scenes that literally will make your chin drop with shock before you erupt with laughter … a fast and furiously funny read.”

  —The Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “[A] splashy romp … giggles guaranteed.”

  —New York Daily News

  Also by Sue Margolis

  Neurotica

  Spin Cycle

  Apocalipstick

  Breakfast at Stephanie’s

  Original Cyn

  Gucci Gucci Coo

  Forget Me Knot

  Perfect Blend

  NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, August 2011

  Copyright © Sue Margolis, 2011 All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA: Margolis, Sue.

  A catered affair/Sue Margolis. p. cm.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-51712-3

  1. Jewish women—Fiction. 2. Jewish families—Fiction. 3. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. 4. Domestic fiction. 5. Jewish fiction. I. Title.

  PR6063.A635C37 2011
>
  823’.914—dc22 2011009673

  Set in Fairfield

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

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  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Ellie … I heart my gay daughter.

  (To my straight kids: Yes, yes, I heart you guys, too. Let’s not make a big deal out of this.)

  Chapter 1

  My mother opened the front door, kissed me hello, rearranged my fringe and pincered an imaginary piece of lint off my jacket without missing a beat in her phone conversation.

  “OK, Jean,” she continued in her best caring-sharing voice, “I hear that you want to die, but before you end it all, maybe we should talk about what’s been going on in your life up ’til now.” I followed Mum down the hall into the kitchen.

  “Jean, here’s what I need you to do: Very slowly step away from the ledge … Take your time. No, hurry.” Mum sat down at the kitchen table and covered the phone mouthpiece with her hand. “Got another jumper. Third this week. There’s tea in the pot.” I took two mugs from the kitchen cupboard.

  “Jean?” Mum continued into the phone. “It’s Shelley here again. OK, have you done that for me? … No, Jean, please don’t jump … Jean, listen to me. I need you to come off the ledge and get back into your apartment … No, please calm down … Don’t yell. I’ve got a chicken in the oven.”

  I looked a question at my mother. “What’s that supposed to mean—‘Don’t yell. I’ve got a chicken in the oven’?”

  She covered the mouthpiece again. “I couldn’t think of anything else to say,” she hissed. “You want to swap places?”

  Mum turned her attention back to poor suicidal Jean. “So, how many husbands have cheated on you? … This is the fifth … I agree, that is rather a lot. No, of course that doesn’t make you ugly, worthless and a total loser. You’ve made some poor life choices—that’s all.”

  “Diabolical, more like,” I muttered. Mum waved her hand and shushed me.

  “How do I roast a chicken? Well, before I put it in the oven, I lift the skin away from the meat and rub in butter, crushed garlic and freshly ground salt and pepper … Oh, you put a lemon in the cavity to keep it moist … I might try that … Now, then, Jean, have you moved away from the ledge? … You’re back inside? … Well done. Perhaps you should go and sit down … Good … Have you thought of getting some counseling? You need to find out why you keep choosing men who cheat on you. I mean, as Dr. Phil would say, ‘How’s that workin’ for you?’ There could be some kind of codependency going on. Your relationships do sound highly dysfunctional … Oh, I see … You’ve already made an appointment with a therapist? … Excellent. That makes me think that you don’t really want to die and that maybe you’re in fact looking to be empowered … Omigod! … You want to kill your husband. No! … Jean, I’m not talking about that kind of empowerment! You have to listen to me … Step away from the knife rack … Don’t do this, Jean. I’m begging you! I just don’t think that cutting off your husband’s testicles while he’s taking a nap is your best way forward. I mean, think of the mess. All that blood on the sofa … Jean—are you there? Please don’t hang up … Oh, you’re there. You’ve taken a Valium? Good idea. That will calm you down. I’m going to stay on the line until the Valium kicks in. No, I’m not on my own. My daughter Tallulah is here—she’s come for Sunday lunch … Yes, it is a lovely name … I’ve got two daughters … Tally’s a lawyer. Scarlett’s a stand-up comedian … You’ve got a greyhound? Called Meatloaf? That’s nice.” Mum and I sipped our tea and she carried on talking to Jean. Four or five minutes went by. “You’re starting to feel calmer now? Good. Now, before I hang up, I want you to promise me you’ll keep that therapist’s appointment and that you won’t castrate your husband while he’s sleeping. Please don’t let me down … OK, I believe you … Bye, Jean, and good luck.”

  Mum put down the phone and let out a sigh. “Bloody hell. For a moment there I thought she was actually going to do in her old man.”

  “She still might,” I said.

  “I know. It always bothers me that I never find out how the story ends.”

  “Mum, you have to stop doing this,” I said, topping up her mug with tea. “For starters, it’s irresponsible. You’re not a counselor. You’ve had no training. You can’t stop people committing suicide by using shrink jargon and quoting Dr. Phil.”

  “OK, what do you suggest I do?”

  We’d been over the problem a dozen times. Mum’s home phone number and the number of the local branch of the Samaritans differed by a single digit. She averaged about four calls a week from people who had misdialed and wanted to talk. She refused to change her phone number on the grounds that informing everybody she knew would be a major hassle. A mass e-mail didn’t appeal because she was convinced she’d end up leaving people off and they would get offended.

  “If you won’t change your number,” I said, “you have to redirect these callers to the Samaritans.”

  “Tally, I’ve already told you why I can’t do that. You don’t get it. These people believe they suck at life. By redirecting them, I’d be telling them they suck even more than they thought because they can’t even dial the right number for the Samaritans.”

  “I do get it, but I also get that it can’t be healthy spending hours at a time trying to talk people down from ledges.”

  Mum drank a mouthful of tea and looked thoughtful. “Maybe you’re right. Perhaps I should change my number.”

  That would be the day. If I knew one thing about my mother, it was that she couldn’t resist involving herself in other people’s troubles. Even though she was hooked on the drama, and the counseling skills she possessed had been picked up from listening to radio shrinks, she meant well, and she was always saying that before callers hung up, they rarely failed to thank her and say how much better they felt.

  “So, anyway,” I said, “I have news.” Pause for dramatic effect. “Josh has asked me to marry him, and I’ve said yes.”

  “Wow.” I watched Mum struggle to arrange her face into a smile. It was the underwhelmed reaction I’d been expecting. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t let it get to me, but it already had.

  “He got me this. Isn’t it beautiful?” I was holding out my left hand and wiggling my ring finger.

  She took my hand and peered at the engagement ring. “A square-cut solitaire. That is stunning, but I didn’t think people bothered so much with engagements and engagement rings these days.”

  “Well, Josh and I are more traditional.”

  “I never had an engagement ring.”

  “Mum, you’ve never even had a wedding ring. You just borrowed one for the ceremony.”

  “Yes, because I found it demeaning. A wedding ring on a woman is about being owned. It says you’re somebody’s property.”

  “Well, thank you, Gloria Steinem, but FYI, these days a wedding ring is seen as a symbol of love, not a mark of oppression, and in case you haven’t
noticed, most married men and women wear them. Josh and I will both be getting wedding bands.”

  “Well, I guess if he’s going to wear one, that’s not so bad … So, have you set a date?”

  “Sometime in June. We haven’t picked an actual day yet … Mum, why can’t you be pleased for me?”

  “Of course I’m pleased for you! My thirty-four-year-old daughter is finally getting married. What’s not to be pleased about?”

  “You don’t look pleased. I mean, here I am telling you that I’ve managed to snare a handsome Jewish doctor—a pediatric cancer specialist, no less—and we’re getting married. According to the Jewish mother handbook, you’re supposed to weep tears of joy and tell me that finally you can go to your grave a happy woman. Then we’re meant to break open the cherry brandy and bond over a chorus of ‘Wind Beneath My Wings.’”

  Mum was laughing. “Well, pardon me for not being a yenta straight out of central casting.” She got up and gave me a hug. “I’m sorry, darling. Of course I’m happy. Josh is a lovely boy.”

  “But not what you had in mind for me.” I couldn’t let it go.

  “Oh, who cares what I had in mind for you?” she said. “You’ve chosen Josh, and if you’re happy, I’m happy. I can’t believe it. My first baby is getting married. If only your dad were alive.”

  “So you don’t wish I was marrying Frank O’Rourke?”

  Frank O’Rourke was this drop-dead gorgeous wannabe actor I’d dated for a few months during my final year of high school. Mum adored him and kept dropping heavy hints about us getting engaged even though we were way too young. I’m not sure what she loved more—Frank or the idea of one day being able to say to her friends, “Meet my son-in-law, the big Hollywood actor.”

  Believe it or not, the other major point in Frank’s favor as far as my mother was concerned was his Catholicism. He went to church regularly and had an uncle in Ireland who was a bishop. Nothing would have amused Mum more than to send out wedding invitations requesting the pleasure of the company of her Jewish family at the Church of the Immaculate Conception in Dublin.