A Catered Affair

By Sue Margolis

A novel about a jilted bride who's about to discover that not marrying the wrong man can sometimes lead you to the right one.

When Tallulah gets jilted at the altar, she gets very drunk and starts making passes at the male wedding guests. She even propositions the caterer. But in the next few weeks, reality comes crashing down around her. Her difficult mother becomes more impossible than ever. Her lesbian sister starts trying to have a baby. Nana Ida gets busy matchmaking. What Tallulah is about to discover is that happiness doesn't always come in the form of the perfect doctor- and that sometimes real love doesn't require a catered affair.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
• Release date: Aug 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781101517123

Sue Margolis

Sue Margolis was a radio reporter for fifteen years, mostly for BBC Radio 4’s Woman’s Hour. She studied politics at Nottingham University, where she met and married Jonathan Margolis, also a journalist and author. Sue is the author of ten romantic comedy novels. Her first, Neurotica, came out in 1998 and was a bestseller in the UK, the US and Germany. Her third novel, Apocalipstick, was bought by NBC television in the US in 2011 as a potential TV series. Sue’s audiobooks are consistently in the fiction top 20 on iTunes. Sue lives with Jonathan and their family in London. For more information, see www.suemargolis.com and www.facebook.com/suemargolis.books.

Book preview

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.

But Frank and I didn’t work out. Our relationship fell apart when he was cast as Danny in the school production of Grease, and he and Dawn Braithwaite, who played Sandy, ended up onstage, snogging for real—with tongues—in front of the entire audience. So much for Frank being a nice Catholic boy.

Why on earth would you bring up Frank O’Rourke? Mum went over to the stove and opened the oven door. That was years ago. The boy was a yutz.

She took a look at the chicken and roasted potatoes and said that they would need another twenty minutes.

Mum.

Umm. She was rummaging in the freezer now.

I wish you could get over this problem you have with Josh. You’ve known him for over a year now, but you’re never at ease with him. It’s like you’re always holding back.

Oh, not again. We’ve had this conversation. Peas or green beans?

I’m easy.

Or I’ve got some cauliflower florets.

Mum, honestly, I don’t mind . . . This whole thing is upsetting both of us. Josh feels that you’re judging him without trying to know him.

Maybe we’ll have cauliflower for a change. I could make cauliflower puree. You like that.

I know it upsets you that I’m with a ‘boring’ doctor, I said, but Josh isn’t remotely boring. He can be funny and witty. He often makes me laugh. Josh was my hero. I adored this handsome, gifted doctor who devoted himself to saving the lives of children and spent a month each year in India or Africa, helping out in remote village hospitals. I was always bragging and telling people how proud of him I was.

And since you’re the one marrying him, that’s all that matters, but I don’t always find him easy. Sometimes he can be a bit aloof and standoffish.

That’s because he’s so involved with his work, I said. His mind is often on other things. He doesn’t mean to be rude. You need to cut him a bit of slack.

OK, I guess it must be hard for him, doing the job he does. And you’re right—I haven’t gotten to know him. I promise to make more of an effort. She put the bag of cauliflower florets down on the counter.

Even though I wasn’t sure how she’d take it, I decided to say something that had been on my mind for ages.

The way you feel about Josh, I said. It has to do with Dad, doesn’t it? To you he was boring, conventional, cerebral—and there were times when he made you miserable. You’re worried because you think I’ve chosen somebody like him.

Mum dropped a handful of cauliflower florets into a pan. She didn’t look at me. Although she was more than happy to advise other people, she could be surprisingly reticent in her own relationships. I think I probably am, she said. Her expression was thoughtful—sad even.

But I take after Dad. I’m a boring lawyer. I’m not an overgrown teenage rebel like you.

She rolled her eyes, but not without humor. The remark didn’t offend her. She’d heard it from Scarlett and me many times.

I guess my outlook on life is pretty conventional, I went on. I’m engaged to be married. I want to settle down, have kids, live in a nice house. What’s wrong with that? I wish you could respect me for who I am.

I do respect you. How could you even think that I don’t? Look at the work you do. You’re a human rights lawyer. One of the things you do is fight for people who are escaping persecution and trying to get asylum in this country. You challenge government decisions on a daily basis.

Yes, but you’d prefer it if I did something arty and creative or performed onstage like Scarlett.

Mum was standing at the sink now. Now you’re just being ridiculous, she said. But we both knew I wasn’t. She turned on the tap and covered the cauliflower with water. It’s funny, because when your dad and I first met, he was such fun. On our second date he took me canoeing! Me, in a canoe—can you imagine? I have no coordination and I practically get seasick in the bath! But he insisted I had to go. And as it turned out, I wasn’t too bad. Back then, he was so full of life and up for anything—that’s why I fell in love with him. We had all these plans. As soon as I’d mastered the art of canoeing, we were going to learn to sail. We were going to fix up an old yacht and go round the world. Afterwards, we were either going to open a bed-and-breakfast in Mexico or emigrate to Israel and live on a kibbutz. But once we were married and I got pregnant with you, real life took over. Your father changed, but I didn’t. I made the mistake of holding on to our dreams. He accused me of refusing to grow up. I guess he had a point . . . Her voice trailed off.

Mum and Dad spent the first few years of their marriage living with Mum’s parents, Nana Ida and Grandpa Joe. Dad had refused to go to university after school because he had all these great plans to travel the world and wouldn’t waste three years studying; then, however, he began studying for a law degree. Afterwards, he joined a small, local firm of attorneys who specialized in property and divorce. He stayed there until he died twenty or so years later.

It was Dad who insisted on raising Scarlett and me in a middle-class suburb and putting money aside so that we could go to private schools. Mum—who had no time for sensible—would have been happy to bring us up in one of the poor, crime-ridden, but oh-so-boho areas of east London and let us take our chances at the local state school. She would have seen it as character building. What was more, it would have horrified her parents and she would have gotten a kick out of that.

Nana Ida—whom Scarlett and I often pumped for information about the family—said our mother had always been a bit of a rebel. At sixteen she was spending her Saturday mornings standing outside the town hall, selling Militant, the Marxist newspaper. The same year, she formed an all-girl punk band called Angry Zit Chicks. Even now Nana slapped her hand to her chest in despair when she recalled Mum’s shaved head with the huge red-and-purple Mohawk running down the middle.

It often occurred to me that Mum didn’t have it easy, growing up with German immigrant parents who were so grateful to the government for allowing them to come to this country that they practically turned convention and conformity into their second religion.

They trimmed the hedges, mowed the lawn, kept their flower beds neat and never hung out washing on a Sunday. Grandpa Joe joined the Rotary. Although they didn’t keep Christmas, every Christmas Day, they showed their respect by watching the Queen’s traditional TV broadcast. Even now, Nana Ida kept a portrait of the young Queen Elizabeth on her mantelpiece.

By the time she was eighteen, Mum was over her Militant punk phase and focusing all her energy in a new direction. She wanted to perform on the West End stage and sing in musicals. Even though her music teacher at school said she had a remarkable voice and deserved a shot at trying to break into showbiz, Nana Ida and Grandpa Joe were horrified by the idea. They called it mad, ridiculous, outrageous. It couldn’t possibly work out. She was bound to fail. What would she do then? What would she have to fall back on? Nothing—that was what. It didn’t occur to them for one minute that she might succeed.

Nana Ida and Grandpa Joe were determined that she should get a proper job. They wanted her to learn shorthand and typing and become a secretary or go into personnel at Marks and Spencer. When Mum refused, Grandpa Joe threatened to have a stroke.

Mum got her parents off her back by enrolling at the local secretarial college. Only she never showed up. Nana Ida would wave her off every morning, but instead of going to the college, Mum caught the Tube up to the West End. She had a job working as a receptionist for a Mayfair clairvoyant-slash-astrologer who was happy to let her take time out to go to auditions.

Mum finally landed a part in the chorus of Hello, Dolly! The clairvoyant was sad to lose her but said he had seen it coming. Nana Ida and Grandpa Joe did an astonishing and immediate about-turn and became their daughter’s biggest fans. Our Shelley? Singing on the West End stage? They were ecstatic. On her first night they came to see her and brought the entire family.

When the show finished its run, Mum started auditioning again. This time she wasn’t so lucky, and work came in dribs and drabs—mainly short stints in underwhelming, provincial versions of Godspell and Jesus Christ Superstar.

She bashed away for two or three years—not nearly long enough, she would later admit—but the rejections and living off cornflakes and cold baked beans had started to get to her. Plus, once again Grandpa Joe was threatening to have a stroke if she didn’t move out of that flophouse she called an apartment.

In the end she did the secretarial course for real and started applying for office jobs. To their credit, my grandparents chose not to rub her nose in her failed showbiz career. After six months she got a job working as a receptionist at Fein Management, one of the largest film and theatrical agencies in the world. Dad was the Lou Reed look-alike, leather-clad dispatch rider who used to deliver scripts and contracts.

When Dad qualified as a lawyer, he and Mum moved into Cedars Close—a quiet suburban cul de sac full of twitching curtains. I’m not sure she ever forgave him for condemning her to what she always referred to as spiritual death by garden sprinkler.

Mum set about scandalizing the neighbors by sunbathing topless in the back garden. During general elections, our house was the one smothered in VOTE WORKERS’ REVOLUTIONARY PARTY posters. She also took to driving a lime green VW camper with bubble-gum pink drapes, which she always kept parked on the street. Since she was now working part-time at Fein Management, she was always there to pick me and Scarlett up from school—in the camper. The first time she came to collect us, Scarlett and I walked the mile home rather than let anybody see that the vehicle had anything to do with us.

Even now, Mum didn’t fit the Cedars Close profile. For starters, she didn’t look the part. Understated and conservative had no place in her style vocabulary. At sixty—and on the heavy side, as she would be the first to admit—she wore her hair in a severe, geometric bob, which she dyed London bus red. There was also the yin-yang tattoo on the back of her shoulder. Being large, she knew she couldn’t wear fussy styles, but she could get away with offbeat. She went for long, black, asymmetric jackets that she picked up each year in the Yohji Yamamoto sale. She wore these over palazzo pants and scooped-neck, gently fitted tunics that ended just above the knee. These blank canvas outfits enabled her to put her foot down on the gas when it came to accessories: massive handbags, wide hipster belts and lashings of chunky, arty jewelry that she picked up at Spitalfields market. She had drawers full of heavy gold and silver necklaces and rings with stones the size of small asteroids. When she set off for the Tube each morning, she looked about as inconspicuous as a disco ball at a funeral.

Mum always said that if she’d had the money to move to a trendier part of London, she would have sold up after Dad died. But even the rough East End neighborhoods had become gentrified now and were out of her price range. Unless she won the lottery or married a millionaire, she was stuck in the burbs.

Mum could have earned more by going for a job in a higherpaying industry. Thirty-five years after joining Fein Management, she was still there. Even though she was now PA to the veep, the money wasn’t great. Scarlett and I often asked her why she stayed so long and on such a mediocre salary. Her answer was always the same: Even though she hadn’t made it on the stage, working at Fein made her feel that she was still part of the showbiz world. She loved the glitz, the gossip, getting dolled up for the awards ceremonies, bumping into Bette, Whoopi and Dame Judy in the ladies’.

When we were children, Mum was always closer to Scarlett than to me. I don’t think that Scarlett was her favorite exactly—she would have been horrified at the suggestion—but because Scarlett could sing and act, landed the lead in all the school plays and was clearly destined for the stage, Mum cheered her on, organized after-school singing and drama lessons and generally lived vicariously through her—not that Scarlett always appreciated it. A family occasion was never complete without Mum nagging her to get up and perform. Come on, Scar, do your Cher. What about ‘The Shoop Shoop Song’? Everybody loves that.

Scarlett was no shrinking violet, but even she went through an awkward adolescent stage. At age thirteen or fourteen she didn’t take kindly to being cajoled by her mother to perform at family events in front of a bunch of smelly rellies. Dad would always rally to her defense and tell Mum to back off, but she just shushed him in that what-do-you-know? way of hers. When Scarlett turned bright red and refused to do her party piece, Mum couldn’t resist grabbing the limelight for herself . . . Does he love me I want to know . . .

By now, Dad would be glaring at Mum, and Scarlett would be accusing her of being weird and embarrassing. Scarlett would leave the room in tears. Dad would go after her to try to calm her down. She’s a bit shy—that’s all, Mum would say. Then Nana Ida would add something guaranteed to put everybody at ease, like: It’s probably her time of the month. She needs some carbs. Would she like a banana?

If Mum lived through Scarlett’s achievements and talents, Dad lived through mine. I was the serious, thoughtful, academic one who got straight As at school. Dad took me on long walks in the park and encouraged me to talk about life, the universe and everything.

You’re smart, Tally, he’d say. You could go into the law, medicine—become an academic maybe. You are capable of great things. But you have to study hard. Success doesn’t come automatically. You have to make it happen.

No pressure there, then.

A couple of weeks before he died, we went for our usual Sunday-morning walk on Hampstead Heath. We were almost back at the car when he said something completely out of the blue that I never forgot. I know that at sixteen you won’t have given marriage a second thought, but one day you’ll think about settling down. Don’t do it too early. First, discover who you are. That way you stand a better chance of finding the right person. It’s important you choose somebody who not only thinks like you do and shares your worldview but who also has a similar education and professional background. That way you stand the best chance of finding your soul mate.

There was no doubt in my mind that his advice was based on his own mistakes. He was telling me that he and Mum had married too young—before he, at least, had a chance to find out who he really was. In their early twenties Mum and Dad had believed they were soul mates. A few years down the line, once Dad had his degree and had started working as a lawyer, they discovered how different they really were.

By the time Scarlett and I were teenagers, we were aware that things weren’t right between them. Mum was always nagging Dad to go with her to the movies or the theater—working where she did, she never had difficulty getting free tickets to West End shows. But Dad, whose interests had become far more cerebral over the years, wouldn’t have been seen dead at Les Mis or Phantom.

When Mum tried to engage him in chitchat or gossip, he rarely responded with more than

Reviews for A Catered Affair

[rebeccagraf · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Family drama can be so.....dramatic. This is especially true when you are a woman in your thirties settling down with a family that is, well, unique. Take a mother who will do about anything for shock value, a grandmother who tries to be trendy, a sister who breaks convention, and a former boyfriend and mix it with a young Jewish couple who just wants to be in love. The wedding gets a little out of hand. Sue Margolis brings you a book that will keep you entertained in A Catered Affair.

This was the first book of Ms. Margolis' that I have read. I was hesitant because it was chick lit. It's not that I don't like that genre, but it takes some time to get into and can be slow at times. As expected, it took awhile to get into the story, but it was well worth it.

The storyline was funny with a few detours that were not quite necessary, yet it all came together. The best part of the whole book were the characters. They were hilarious and so unusual. I could just see this as a movie. I was laughing so hard.

While it was funny, it was also a book about commitment and dealing with our past while we deal with our future and present. Life can be funny while it is being painful.

This is a book I highly recommend if you like chick lit and a good laugh. Ms. Margolis gives the reader that and more.

Note: This book was given as a gift from a friend.

[shelleyraec · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

At 34, Tallulah is ready to settle down but when her notoriously commitment-shy fiance leaves her at the alter her neatly arranged life collapses around her. It’s the reception caterer, Kenny, that provides a shoulder for her to cry on despite the support of her best friend and family. Bewildered, Tally has to reconsider her recipe for happiness and choose between her head and her heart.
Oddly enough I wasn’t that keen on Tally, I found her to be a bit self involved and was much more forgiving of her if I mentally took ten years off her stated age. Despite not really identifying with the main protagonist, I thought characterisation was the strongest element of the novel. I liked the slow development of her romance with Kenny who is a nice guy. I really enjoyed the quirky support cast who were involved in small stories of their own. Tally’s eccentric mother and her accidental role as a telephone counselor is amusing as are Nana Ida’s snappy one liners and attitude. Scarlett, Tally’s sister, and her relationship with her partner Grace, added depth and interest to the theme of ‘meeting others expectations’ that wove through the novel.
While there isn’t anything startlingly original in terms of the main story, I thought it was written with a nice balance between humor and drama. It lost me a little near the end where there is what I thought to be an incongruous gap in the timeline between Tally and Kenny’s breakup and makeup. Particularly when it again leap frogs eight months for an epilogue of sorts, though this nicely gathers the loose threads of the subplots together. Still, the ending is traditionally satisfying, with ‘happy ever afters’ bestowed upon the characters.
A Catered Affair is a British contemporary romance by accomplished chick lit author, Sue Margolis. A pleasant way to spend an hour or three it’s an engaging and easy read.

[jjameli_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A Catered Affair is more character driven then plot driven, and that's great when you like the characters, which I did. We get to know Tallulah in the beginning while she is planning her wedding to her fiance. When she gets jilted she takes the time to evaluate her life, and herself. Tallulah changes as the book progress for the better.

I just fell into the life of Tallulah, her renewed independence and new relationships. A Catered Affair put a smile on my face.