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  “Just a little,” Ruby said by way of understatement.

  “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have let Saul bully me earlier. I should have insisted on telling you that Sam was here. It’s just the most staggering coincidence. Remember the conversation we had the other day about Saul’s American relatives—Buddy and Irene—the ones who are big in kosher pickles? I said I thought were called Ep-stein? Well, I got it wrong. They’re Epstiens after all. Sam is Saul’s cousin. Isn’t that just amazing?”

  “Amazing,” Ruby said with a tight-lipped smile. “Totally amazing.”

  Chapter 9

  Bridget, not one to be intimidated by a doctor, informed Sam that what Ruby needed wasn’t water, but hot sweet tea. After two cups of her thick orange brew—the sort that you could stand a spoon in—Ruby decided she felt well enough to go home. Fi—who now knew about the painkillers-and-champagne combo, as well as the contents of Ruby’s drunken conversation with Sam—tried to persuade Ruby that she was in no fit state to drive. When Ruby insisted, Fi started to panic and went to find Saul’s dad to see if he would give Ruby a lift home.

  Just then Sam appeared. “You know, Ruby,” he said kindly, “you really shouldn’t get behind a wheel.” He’d clearly heard her talking to Fi.

  “Didn’t anybody ever tell you it’s rude to listen in on other people’s conversations?” Ruby replied tersely. She was still cross with him for the way he had been teasing her.

  “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t really help it. You and Fi were practically shouting. And Fi’s right. With what’s in your bloodstream right now, you’d be a danger on the road. Why don’t you let me give you a ride home?”

  “Thanks,” she said, “but if I can’t drive, I’d prefer to get a cab.”

  Ruby knew herself well enough to realize that the indignation she felt was only partly to do with his having teased her. She was also feeling cross with herself. It wasn’t so much having fainted that bothered her. What upset her was that she had confessed to having mixed painkillers and alcohol and that he must now think she was the kind of ditz-brain who never read the directions on medicines.

  She got up from the sofa and straightened her shoulders and back in order to make herself look as in control and unditz-brained as possible. A second later the room started to spin again and she fell back onto the sofa in a heap, aware that her skirt had ridden up her legs and was now practically round her waist.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be OK in a moment,” Sam said. “You just stood up too fast.”

  As she maneuvered her skirt back to her knees, she felt the dizziness start to ease off.

  “You know, you really need to take it easy for a few hours. And I’m not happy with you going home in a cab. You might start to feel ill again, and if you do, there should be somebody with you.”

  “I really can take care of myself, you know.”

  “Sorry. I’m coming on too strong. It’s force of habit. As a doctor you get so used to handing out advice. You’re right. I’m sure you’ll be fine in a cab.”

  As he turned to go, she felt her heart sink. “I’m sorry, too,” she said. “I was being rude and ungrateful. You were only trying to help.”

  “Look, I know you’re pissed with me for teasing you back then,” he said, “and you have every right to be. I apologize. You didn’t know what time of day it was and there I was, taking advantage. That was wrong. Can you forgive me?”

  Ruby could tell from his sheepish expression that he was genuinely contrite. She managed a small, reluctant smile. “Yes, I can forgive you. Anyway it’s me who should be apologizing. I was short with you on the phone the other day. It was because I was in the middle of a rather difficult conversation. Chanel, who works with me in the shop, and her husband had just found out they can’t have children.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I know how hard it is to receive news like that…. Anyway, you weren’t remotely short. Ikept meaning to phone you, but I’ve lurched from one emergency to the next over the last few days. I didn’t resurface until last night.”

  “That’s OK. Look, there’s another thing. I owe you another apology. I behaved badly when we met at the hospital. I should never have made up that daft post office story. I was so embarrassed, that’s all. Did you realize I was lying?”

  “’Fraid so. I’d been standing at the coffee machine for quite a while without you noticing me, so I heard pretty much all of your conversation with Fi.”

  “Oh, God.” She covered her face with her hands. “So you know how the stamp got inside me and everything?”

  “Kinda,” he said. His face was wrinkled in discomfort, but she could tell it was on her behalf. He crouched down in front of her. “I have an idea. Why don’t we just pretend this stupid stamp business never happened, and start again?”

  She looked at him doubtfully, taking in his navy cashmere jacket and lavender check open-neck shirt. “I’m not sure…”

  “It’s easy. Watch.” He stood up and offered her a broad smile. “Hi, my name’s Sam Epstien. I’m Saul’s cousin.”

  She took his outstretched hand and shook it. “Ruby Silverman. Fi and I go way back.”

  “I couldn’t help noticing you weren’t feeling very well earlier. I’m a doctor, is there anything I can do?”

  “Actually, I’m feeling much better, but I wouldn’t say no to a lift home.”

  He grinned. “My pleasure.”

  IT TURNED OUT that Sam had already agreed to take his uncle and aunt—Buddy and Irene—back to their hotel in Kensington. “Would you mind if we dropped them off first?” he asked Ruby. She said she didn’t mind in the slightest.

  By now she had worked out that Irene was the elderly American woman with the knobbly Jackie Stallone face-lift and absurdly bloated trout pout who had tried to stop her going into the kitchen to see Bridget.

  Buddy turned out to be overweight and in possession of a permanently perspiring bald head.

  As he made the introductions, Sam explained that in the last few years, ever since his parents had died in a car crash in 1996, Buddy and Irene had been like a mother and father to him.

  “You can’t begin to imagine how much we adore this boy,” Irene said to Ruby, at the same time squeezing Sam’s hand. “We have three daughters, so he’s the son we never had.”

  “And he has such a brilliant mind—like you wouldn’t believe,” Buddy added. “Sam, did you tell Ruby how you were top of your class at med school?”

  “Er, we didn’t quite get around to that yet,” Sam said, starting to look distinctly pink around the gills. Ruby knew how he felt. Whenever her parents had a party, Aunty Sylvia would home in on couples who had sons about Ruby’s age. Then she would drag her protesting across the room to meet each set of parents. “This is my niece, Ruby,” she would gush. “Isn’t she beautiful? Do you know she got three A’s at A level and a distinction in her grade-eight piano exam?”

  The four of them got into Sam’s car—Buddy and Irene in the back, Ruby and Sam in the front.

  “You know,” Irene said to Buddy, as she grappled with her seat belt, “those pickles today, they weren’t half bad.”

  “Neh.”

  “You don’t think so? I thought so.”

  “Not enough snap. You got a handkerchief, Irene? The sweat’s pouring off me. It was so hot in there. Did anybody else find it hot in there? I found it hot in there.”

  “I was fine,” Irene replied. “Perfectly comfortable. I think maybe it’s your thyroid. You should get it checked out.” She paused. “Sam, you’re the doctor. Tell Buddy he needs to get his thyroid checked out. He won’t listen to me.”

  “You know, it’s not such a bad idea,” Sam said, looking at Buddy through the rearview mirror.

  “I’m fine. Stop fussing. It was hot in there, that’s all.”

  “You know,” Irene went on, “maybe you’re right about the pickles. They looked magnificent, though. I said to Ruby here how good they looked, didn’t I, dear?”

  “You di
d.” Ruby turned round to see Buddy dabbing at his head with a folded handkerchief.

  “Irene.” Buddy sounded like an elderly schoolmaster about to reprimand one of his pupils. “How often have I warned you about being taken in by superficial appearances? What my wife sometimes forgets, Ruby, is that when it comes to deciding if a pickle is a great pickle or merely a mediocre pickle, only a fool lets himself be duped by what it looks like. Don’t get me wrong. Naturally, the look of a pickle, its color and its texture are important, but at the end of the day, there’s only two things that count: snap and flavor. A great pickle is like great sex. It should set your senses on fire. Don’t I always say that, Irene—a great pickle is like great sex?”

  “You do, Buddy. You always say that.” Irene leaned forward in her seat belt and tapped both Ruby and Sam on the shoulder. “He always says that.”

  “You see,” Buddy said, “it’s all about your sugar-to-vinegar ratio. Get that wrong and you’re sunk. I’ve seen grown men, professional picklers who’ve been in the business for fifty years, break down and weep when a vat of sweet-and-sour pickles goes wrong. I always remind them you can’t be too careful with your sugar-to-vinegar ratio. Don’t I always say that, Irene? You can’t be—”

  “So, what do you do, Ruby?” Irene inquired.

  Ruby explained.

  “So, is there good money to be made selling baby clothes?” Buddy asked.

  “I do all right.”

  “So, what do you gross in a year? In that kinda upscale neighborhood I’m guessing what, three quarters of a mil, sterling?”

  “Buddy!” Irene reprimanded her husband. “Ruby’s a stranger. How can you interrogate her like this?”

  Buddy gave a shrug. “I was only asking.”

  “OK, we’re here,” Sam announced. Ruby couldn’t have been more grateful. She’d been racking her brains to find a tactful way of avoiding discussing her business affairs with Buddy.

  “We’re back at the hotel, already?” Irene remarked, incredulous. Ruby turned round and noticed she was making the chewing motions with her mouth that she noticed when she first met her. “That was so quick. Wasn’t that quick, Buddy? I mean, if you tried the George Washington Bridge into the city this time of day it would take twice as long.”

  “Three times. I always say the George Washington Bridge at rush hour is…”

  “Don’t get out of the car yet,” Sam instructed Buddy and Irene. “It’s raining. I have an umbrella in the trunk.”

  Ruby said good-bye to Buddy and Irene and wished them a safe journey home. The pair got out, but she stayed in the car—not because she didn’t want to get wet, but in order to give Sam a private moment with his aunt and uncle.

  “You sure you won’t come up?” she heard Irene say to Sam. “You wouldn’t believe the view from our room.”

  “I’d like to, but I think I should be getting Ruby home. She really needs to get some rest.”

  “OK, Sam. You’re the doctor.” With this Irene motioned Ruby to lower her window. “A handsome Jewish doctor,” she said, her eyes wide with eagerness. “What more could a beautiful, successful girl want?” She was chewing again. “Take it easy, Ruby, and let’s meet up when Buddy and I come for Wimbledon next summer.”

  “It’s a date,” Ruby said.

  “THEY’RE SWEET,” Ruby said once they were on the move again.

  “Yeah. Buddy’s my dad’s brother. He’s a couple of years older, but he looks exactly like him. It’s really weird. Every time I see Buddy, it’s like looking at a ghost of my father. My dad wasn’t so opinionated, though. You really have to be in the mood for one of Buddy’s pickle lectures.”

  “I’ve never lost anybody close to me—apart from my grandma, but she was very old.”

  Pain shot across his face. “I think about them every day.” He explained that his mother and father—both doctors—had been on holiday in the French Alps. “They were on a hairpin bend and their car collided with a speeding tourist bus. They never stood a chance.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose people you love, in that kind of circumstance. You must be so angry.”

  He shrugged. “I was. But it’s hard to stay angry. Slowly the grief and rage stops being all-consuming and you learn to live alongside it.”

  “I can see that,” she said.

  “Say,” he said, pulling up at a red light, “you hungry?”

  “Now that you mention it, I’m ravenous.” She looked at her watch. It was past eight and she hadn’t eaten since lunch. “I couldn’t face anything at Fi’s, but the nausea seems to have completely worn off.”

  “What do you fancy? Italian? French? Chinese?”

  “Believe it or not,” she said, “I could murder some sweet-and-sour pork.”

  “Me, too. I was hoping you’d say that.”

  “I adore Chinese,” she said. “It does it for me in a way that posh French food never can. It’s just got that…that…”

  “Thing,” they said in unison. Then they started laughing.

  As they headed toward Chinatown, they passed a McDonald’s and Ruby confessed that Big Macs were her secret vice.

  He threw back his head and laughed. “I shouldn’t be saying this—particularly not as a doctor—but after seeing Supersize Me I went straight to McDonald’s and bought two large cheeseburgers.”

  “No! I did the same. Except with me it was a Big Mac. Didn’t that film just get your juices going?”

  “I hate to admit it, but it really did.”

  She asked him what other junk food he liked.

  “I love sandwiches made with french fries.”

  “With ketchup or mayo?” Ruby asked.

  “Ketchup, no contest.”

  “I disagree,” she said, shaking her head. “Ketchup might be the obvious choice, but I think if you gave the mayo option a try, you’d see it was superior.”

  “You think?”

  “Definitely.”

  For the next twenty minutes they exchanged junk food confessions. It turned out that both of them had a weakness for supermarket cakes and cinema pick ’n’ mix sweets.

  “What about cheap bangers?” Sam asked. She was touched by his use of the word banger. He was really trying to get into the vernacular.

  “Love ’em,” she said. “It’s the fat that gives them their flavor. You know what I also adore?”

  “What?”

  “Tinned spaghetti sandwiches on white bread with butter and Marmite.”

  “Now, that,” he said, laughing, “is totally gross. The tinned spaghetti I can understand, but I just don’t get this Marmite thing. It’s disgusting. What is it about you Brits and rancid meat products?”

  Ruby explained that Marmite was actually made of yeast, and that he was thinking of Bovril. “And anyway, that’s rich coming from somebody whose countrymen invented southern pear salad. Do you mind telling me who in their right mind would mix pears with cheese and mayo?”

  They started to compete about which country produced the most disgusting foodstuffs. She countered his jellied eels with American cheese product, but in the end they decided it was a tie because it was impossible to choose between black pudding and hog snout.

  By the time they got to the restaurant, Ruby realized she hadn’t laughed this much in ages. Certainly not since she and Matt split up.

  When they sat down, the waiter came to take their drink order. Sam said he fancied a beer, but Ruby decided to stick to sparkling water.

  “Somebody told me this place used to be much bigger,” he said. “Apparently they sold part of it off to the undertaker’s next door. I can’t help thinking there’s something odd about a Chinese restaurant becoming an undertaker’s. You wonder if people die and two hours later they want to do it all over again.” This made her almost choke with laughter.

  They were chatting and laughing so much that it was ages before they got round to looking at the menu. It was only when the waiter came a third time to
try and take their order that they decided they ought to think about food.

  As she studied the menu, a thought occurred to her. How would she feel if Sam turned out to be a nonsharer? Whereas in French or Italian restaurants, nobody shared food, although tasting was allowed, strictly upon invitation (a rule Aunty Sylvia had yet to take on board), in Indian and Chinese places everybody shared. That way people got to taste a bit of everything. But every so often, Ruby came across somebody who either didn’t know about the food-sharing rule or, more worryingly, refused to observe it.

  She had worked out long ago that a reluctance to share had less to do with selfishness and more to do with being cheap. People who took a what’s-mine-is-mine attitude seemed to think that if they agreed to share their food, it would end up being eaten by everybody else and they would end up with nothing but fish lips and chicken feet. What was more, they would have to pay for the privilege. To avoid this, they seized “their food” the second it arrived. They then lined up their glass of beer, the soy sauce bottle and the little white vase with the carnation to create a no-go area, the dining equivalent of the North Korean border.

  She had no reason to think that Sam was one of the mean, neurotic nonsharer types, but in the past she had discovered that people she thought would be sharers turned out not to be and vice versa.

  When their food arrived, she noticed that he looked a bit uncomfortable and seemed reluctant to help himself to anything. She offered him some of the sweet-and-sour pork she’d ordered.

  “You’re a sharer!” he said, relief flooding into his face. He took the oval plate from her. “I’ve been sitting here worrying that you wouldn’t be. You see, there are these two guys at the hospital and whenever we go out for Chinese food, they never share. I guessed it was a Brit thing. These guys are so weird. They build barricades around their food with the beer glass, the soy sauce bottle…”

  “…and the little vase with the carnation,” she added, laughing.

  “You’ve seen it?”

  “Once or twice,” she said.