A Catered Affair Read Online Free

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