Perfect Blend: A Novel
Praise for
SUE MARGOLIS’S
NOVELS
Forget Me Knot
“Light and quippy, Margolis’s newest is perfectly agreeable.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A perfect beach read, with a warm heroine.”
—Parkersburg
News and Sentinel
“Amusing … the story line is fun and breezy.… This is a fun inane frolic … fans of Sue Margolis will relish the cast’s antics.”
—
www.genregoroundreviews.com
“A wonderful glimpse into British life with humor and a unique sense of style … the characters are vivid and as varied as you can get … as the characters work out their lives, it’s great fun to sit back and watch as they bumble through painful situations with humor … If you’re looking for a light hearted romance with original characters and lots of fun, look no further … 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.”
—
NightOwlRomance.com
Gucci Gucci Coo
“A wickedly prescient novel … Likeable characters and a clever concept make this silly confection a guilty pleasure.”
—USA Today
“It’s Margolis’ voice that separates
Gucci Gucci Coo
from other entries in the fast-growing chick-and-baby-lit category.… Her language … is fresh and original is a fast, fun read.… This is 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.”
—
Mamarant.blogs.com
“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’ trademark witty, bright writing style shines through in
Gucci Gucci Coo
. Fun!”
—Fresh Fiction
“The absurd, good-humored mystery and a colorful array of secondary characters sets this bit of chick lit a notch higher than your typical girl-meets-doctor.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“This humorous, personable tale has an added touch of mystery which makes for a fun and enjoyable read.… Don’t miss
Gucci Gucci Coo
. It’s the perfect book for the summer!”
—Romance Reviews Today
Original Cyn
“Hilarious … Margolis’ silly puns alone are worth the price of the book. Another laugh-out-loud funny, occasionally clever, and perfectly polished charmer.”
—California
Central Contra Costa Times
“Delightful … Fans will appreciate this look at a lack of ethics in the work place.”
—
The Midwest Book Review
“Has something for everyone—humor, good dialogue, hot love scenes, and lots of dilemmas.”
—Rendezvous
“A perfect lunch-time book or, better yet, a book for those days at the beach.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Breakfast at Stephanie’s
“With Stephanie, Margolis has produced yet another jazzy cousin to Bridget Jones.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“A heartwarming, character-driven tale … a hilariously funny story.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“A comic, breezy winner from popular and sexy Margolis.”
—Booklist
“Rife with female frivolity, punchy one-liners, and sex.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“An engaging tale.”
—
Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
Apocalipstick
“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
“Quick in pace and often very funny.”
—
Kirkus Reviews
“Margolis combines light-hearted suspense with sharp English wit Entertaining read.”
—Booklist
“A joyously funny British comedy … a well-written read that has its share of poignant moments … There are always great characters in Ms. Margolis’s novels. With plenty of romance and passion,
Apocalipstick
is just the ticket for those of us who like the rambunctious, witty humor this comedy provides.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Rather funny … compelling … brilliant send-ups of high fashion.”
—
East Bay Express
“[An] irreverent, sharp-witted look at love and dating.”
—Houston Chronicle
ALSO BY SUE MARGOLIS
Neurotica
Spin Cycle
Apocalipstick
Breakfast at Stephanie’s
Original Cyn
Gucci Gucci Coo
Forget Me Knot
To Greg, Jack, Don, and Jackie
(House, Bauer, Draper, and Nurse)
,
who kept me company on all those rainy afternoons
when I played hooky from writing
.
Contents
Other Books by this Author
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter 1
AMY WAS ABOUT
to slide her front-door key into the lock when her date, the knee-tremblingly sexy, not to mention witty and amusing, Duncan, whom she’d been seeing for three weeks and who had just treated her to seared marinated loin of Scottish venison, celeriac remoulade, toasted hazelnuts, and Parmesan tuile at Le Caprice, drew her toward him, gently cupped her face in his hands, and began kissing her.
It occurred to her that somebody might see, but it was past eleven, and except for Perry Mason summing up at some volume inside old Mr. Fletcher’s apartment down the hall, there was nobody about. Amy made no attempt to pull away. As things got steamier in the kissing department, she was in no doubt that her first night with Duncan was going to be perfect. She’d certainly planned it carefully enough. Charlie, her six-year-old, was safely tucked up at his grandmother’s. There was Moët in the fridge, fresh linen on the bed, and Space NK jasmine candles on the nightstand.
By now they were giving off enough energy to heat a small town. “Let’s move this party inside,” he whispered. Just then, Amy’s mobile started ringing in her bag.
“Ignore it.” Duncan pulled her jacket off her shoulder and began planting kisses across her collarbone. “This time of night is way past the cutoff for calls.”
“I’m sorry,” she said between soft cries of delight, “but I really have to take it. It could be Mum. There might be something wrong with Charlie.”
He gave a shrug and leaned against the wall, arms folded.
Had she glanced at the number on the screen, she would have seen that it wasn’t her mother calling but her best friend, Bel.
“Hi, hon, it’s me. Sorry to phone so late, but …”
“Look,” Amy whispered, sliding her key into the lock, “this really isn’t a good time.”
“Oh, God, it was your big date tonight. I totally forgot. So are you and Dan in the middle of things?”
“Duncan. His name’s Duncan.”
“Sorry. ’Course it is. So are you?”
“Are we what?”
“In the middle of things?”
“Sort of.” Amy turned the key, but it refused to budge. Duncan saw that she was struggling and took the key from her. He started jiggling it in the lock but couldn’t make it turn either. “I think you need a new lock.”
“There’s a knack,” Amy said.
“Look, I wouldn’t have bothered you,” Bel continued, “but I’m frantic because I’ve got the attention-this-vehicle-is-reversing audition tomorrow.” Bel was an actress slash automated announcement artist, although she would be the first to admit that she hadn’t had any proper acting work in over a year. Bel’s most notable work—automated announcement–wise—was her “Mind the gap” heard at all London Tube stations where there was a space between the train and the platform edge. Then there was her highly acclaimed “Power on, select valid mode,” which had been taken up by vacuum cleaner manufacturers in nearly every English-speaking country in the world.
“It’s only one line,” Bel said, “but I can’t get the emphasis right. I need your help.” As a strict method actress trained in the Stanislavski school, Bel was always looking for her motivation or
analyzing
the emotional authenticity of a part. In Amy’s opinion, this would have been fine if she had been playing Phèdre or Ophelia, but surely such detailed introspection wasn’t necessary to deliver lines like “At the rotary, take the third exit.” There were people who thought Bel was a pretentious ham. Amy, who had known her since first grade, knew her needless overanalysis was due to a deep-seated fear of failure that had begun at school.
“Okay,” Bel continued. “Should it be: Attention, this vehicle
is
reversing … Attention, this vehicle is
reversing
… or …
Attention
, this vehicle is
reversing?”
“I dunno,” Amy said. “What about putting the emphasis on all the words? I mean, it’s meant to be a warning.”
“You think? What, like a shouted exclamation:
Attention! This vehicle is reversing!
”
The volume of Bel’s voice, not to say its pitch, caused Amy to wince. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Hmm, that could work,” Bel said. “So you think that’s better than
Attention
, this vehicle is
reversing
, which I have to admit was my personal favorite.”
“I’m not sure. Look, Bel, you’ll have to work it out. I really have to go … That’s it, Duncan. Harder, harder, jiggle it a bit more. Yep, we’re almost there.”
“Omigod,” Bel said. “I’m thinking that you and I have seriously crossed a boundary here.”
“Behave.” Amy giggled. “Duncan is trying to open the door to my flat, that’s all. The lock’s jammed again. Listen, I really do have to go …”
“Okay, speak soon. Love you.”
“Love you, too. And good luck with the audition.”
Smiling and shaking her head, Amy put her phone back in her bag. She apologized to Duncan for the interruption and explained about Bel being a struggling actress with a heart of pure gold but one who was prone to frequent outbreaks of anxiety-driven neediness.
“It’s fine. Forget it,” he said, his attention still focused on the lock, which was refusing to budge.
“Here, let me,” she said. “I’m used to it.”
He stepped aside.
“The trick,” she explained, “is to pull the key out ever … so … slightly and then turn … There! Dunnit!” The door swung open.
“You know, I happen to find technically competent women incredibly sexy.”
“That’s nothing,” she said coyly, starting to stroke his cheek. “Charlie will tell you that I’m a whiz with Legos, and I do say so myself that I make the best Play-Doh green eggs and ham in the business.”
That made him laugh, and they started kissing again. Barely losing mouth contact, they managed to get into the flat, close the door, and take off their jackets. Finally, Amy kicked off her slingbacks and took his hand. “The bedroom’s this way,” she whispered.
They had taken no more than a couple of paces when the weird vocals started up in the living room. The door was closed, but they could clearly make out two voices, one male and one female, engaged in soft, perfectly synchronized atonal chanting: “J-lo’s bay-gel. Jay-lo’s bay-gel. Jay-lo’s bay-gel.” At least that was what it sounded like to Amy.
Since she recognized the voices, there was no gasp of fear. Instead, her eyebrows knitted in confusion. “What is going on?” Then came the flush of embarrassment.
Duncan seemed mildly amused. “This must be a first: burglars with a sideline in Transcendental Meditation.”
“J-lo’s bay-gel. Jay-lo’s bay-gel. Jay-lo’s bay-gel.”
Amy managed a thin smile. “I’m really sorry about this. It’s my mum and her new boyfriend, Trevor. He’s a shaman. They’re supposed to be looking after Charlie at her place and taking him to school tomorrow. I can’t imagine what they’re doing back here.”
“What’s a shaman?”
“A sort of spiritual healer. I don’t know much about it, but
they’re
very in touch with nature, apparently. And they chant a lot.”
“Fascinating.” Duncan couldn’t have sounded less fascinated.
Suddenly, the voices stopped. They were replaced by light rhythmic drumming. After a few seconds Trevor started chanting again. “I’malobster. I’malobster. I’malobster.”
Now Amy’s mum, Val, joined in: “I’malobster. I’malobster. I’malobster.”
AMY OPENED
the living room door. Val and Trevor were sitting on her sea grass rug, legs crossed, eyes closed. Val was holding a drum—rather like a tambourine—which she was beating with a wooden stick. Trevor’s arms were at his sides, elbows bent at right angles, thumb and middle finger touching.
Trevor was tall and gangly but not unattractive for a man in his sixties—even with the ponytail. He was wearing his usual getup of loose-fitting burlap shirt over baggy cotton trousers. His feet were bare. Around his neck was a Native American turquoise choker with an arrowhead pendant. Amy could understand why her mother found him cool and interesting. While most of the retired men in Val’s circle spent their days on the golf course, Trevor went on astral journeys.
Val had known Trevor for a couple of years, ever since she’d started working with him at the local tax office. With his ponytail, he wasn’t your average-looking civil servant. Val was intrigued from the get-go. The attraction was mutual, but Val had always been adamant that they’d start dating only after she left Amy’s father. Trevor finally declared his love for Val—shortly before his retirement—at a disclosure of tax avoidance schemes seminar in Hartlepool. A couple of months later, he moved in with her.
Val, plumpish, barely five-four in her heels, was still in her work clothes: black pin-striped trouser suit, crisp white shirt. Her patent courts were lying beside her on the rug. Amy had never seen two people who professed to be a couple look less like one.
“Mum, is everything all right? What are you and Trevor doing here?”
Trevor didn’t react to Amy’s voice. Val, on the other hand, opened her eyes and looked up. “Ooh, I didn’t hear you come in. You made me jump. Trevor persuaded me to do some shamanic chanting with him. It’s really soothing. I must have been more relaxed than I thought. Don’t worry, I made sure that one ear was listening for Charlie.”
“But Mum, what are you doing here? And is Trevor all right? He looks like he’s in some kind of a trance.”
“He’s fine. Best not disturb him,” Val said with an almost maternal smile. “He’s just set off on one of his astral journeys. He won’t be gone long. A quick confab with Spirit and he’ll be back … Anyway, we’re here because we had a bit of a domestic crisis at my place. I had water pouring through my kitchen ceiling. Trevor went up into the loft and discovered the tank had burst. We’ve got no light or water, plus we’re not sure if the ceiling’s safe. There’s plaster all over the place, and it’s still coming down. In the end we thought it best to bring Charlie back here. He’s sound asleep. Hasn’t been a moment’s trouble.” Val began lifting herself up off the floor, letting out a heartfelt oomph as she went. “I did text you to let you know what was going on.”
“Don’t worry,” Amy said, bending down to pick up the drum and stick, which she handed to her mother. “My phone was in my bag. I didn’t hear it. I’m glad you brought Charlie back. Probably the best thing.” A beat. Then: “Mum, this is Duncan.”
“Hello, Duncan,” Val said, giving her daughter a “this one is gorgeous” grin. She shook his hand and said how pleased she was to meet him. Afterward she slipped on her shoes and sat herself down on the leather sofa. “So, Duncan,” she said, moving a scatter cushion into the small of her back, “Amy tells me you’re an electrician. You know, with this burst tank and water going into the electrics, I could really do with somebody to give the wiring the once-over after the plumber’s been. Maybe I could give you a call. What’s your hourly rate?”
To his credit, Duncan didn’t take offense. A smile hovered on his lips as he started to speak. He had barely uttered a syllable before Amy, cheeks burning, waded in. “Mum, I explained to you the other day that Duncan is a lecturer in electronics at Imperial College.”
Val considered this for a moment. “Oh … right. So he doesn’t do wiring, then?”
“No,” Amy said.
“That’s a shame.” Her face, which had fallen a second before, suddenly brightened. She turned back to Duncan. “But surely you don’t get to be a lecturer in electronics without knowing the basics. And what with the credit crunch, maybe you’d appreciate a bit of freelance work. I’m happy to pay cash.” She tapped the side of her nose. “No questions asked.”
Amy didn’t know where to put herself.
“That’s very kind of you,” Duncan said to Val, “but to be honest, household electrics isn’t my field. You really need a skilled electrician.”
“Well, if you’re absolutely sure you can’t do it. Such a pity. You seem so nice and trustworthy.” Val picked her handbag up from the coffee table. “And you don’t look anything like I’d imagine an electronics lecturer to look like. No horn-rimmed specs held together with Scotch tape. No ancient woolly full of holes.”
Amy watched her mother as she finished taking in Duncan’s trendy suit with drainpipe trousers and skinny necktie. “Now, then, don’t worry, you two; Trevor and I won’t hang around. We’ll be out of your way in a tick.” She gave Amy a knowing wink. “Trevor and I had a lovely evening. We watched
X Factor
, and since then he’s been seeing to my
prana.”
Duncan seemed unsure where to look. Amy wanted the floor to swallow her and deposit her somewhere in the vicinity of the earth’s core.
“Ooh, no, it’s nothing like that!” Val said, suddenly hooting with laughter. “Good Lord no.
Prana
is energy. Trevor has been working on my energy levels.”
At that point, Trevor surfaced. He was apparently back from his astral travels. He took a moment or two to come to.
“Hi, Trevor,” Amy said, brightly. “You with us?”
He sprang to his feet. “I’m so sorry. You must think me terribly rude. It’s just that when you find yourself rising above body consciousness, it’s so hard to get back.”
“Ooh, I know,” Val said, giggling. “Happens to me all the time.”
Trevor laughed. “You may mock, but one day I will get you on that astral plane and you’ll see what I mean.”
“Well, only if I get to go business class.” Val chuckled. “I’m not slumming it in coach.”
At that point Amy broke in and introduced him to Duncan. For reasons that Amy suspected had more to do with politeness than with interest, Duncan seemed keen to engage Trevor in conversation about shamanism.
“Ah, well, you see,” Trevor said, lowering himself onto the sofa and picking up a sock, “the principal function of a shamanic practitioner is to invite the healing process.” His tone was gently avuncular, but there was no mistaking his passion. “We call this sacred midwifery. Then, using voice, sound, rattle, or drum rhythm, archetypes arise from the universal unconscious, transforming the splintered psyche into a consistent whole. These tonal substances work their alchemy within the corporeal entity, anointing it with sound—”
“Come on, now,” Val said, gently chiding Trevor, who was slipping his feet into leather sandals. “Fascinating as we find it, these two have got better things to do than listen to you going on about your sacred midwifery. I really think we should be off.”