be quite honest, just learning that Rupert, in his navy blazer with gold buttons and pinkie ring, used to shake his thang at" wihisspan>< at a world-famous disco was information enough.
‘We will have wine, champagne . . .’ she continues, then frowns ‘ . . .well, maybe not champagne, but the fizzy wine we can do.’ Thanks to her generous divorce settlements, Magda is a very wealthy woman, but she’s also frugal. ‘I mean, who can tell the difference?’ She looks at me, palms outstretched.
People who spend thousands of dollars on art, I’m tempted to say, but she’s already run on ahead.
‘And food, we must have lots of food,’ she says, reaching for a bagel, then thinking better of it and putting it back. Despite her desire for everyone else to eat, I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen anything pass Magda’s suspiciously inflated lips.
‘You mean canapés?’
Magda looks at me mistrustfully. ‘What is this canopy?’
‘Like, for example, mini-quiches,’ I suggest. ‘Or you could do sushi – that’s always easy.’
‘Pah! Sushi!’ She wrinkles her nose in distaste. ‘I don’t get this sushi. These little pieces of raw fish and bits of rice.’
‘Back in London we catered an exhibition with sushi and sake, and it was very successful,’ I try encouraging. ‘In fact, we got several compliments.’
‘No.’ She gives a dismissive shake of the head. ‘We will do meatballs.’
For a moment I think I’ve heard wrong.
‘Meatballs?’ I repeat incredulously. The thought of inviting people to a gallery opening and serving meatballs is unheard of in the art world. I try to imagine Rupert eating meatballs while admiring a watercolour with Lady So-and-So.
Strangely I can’t.
To tell the truth, I think Rupert would have a coronary at the mention of a meatball.
‘Yes, I will make them myself. To my special recipe,’ Magda is saying decisively. ‘They will be wonderful. My meatballs are famous.’ There’s a pause. ‘What? You don’t believe me?’
I zone back in to see Magda looking at me indignantly.
‘Oh, er, yes, of course I do,’ I protest hastily. ‘I’m sure they’re delicious!’
Arms folded, she peers at me, nostrils flared. She reminds me a bit of a bull just as it stampedes. I know this because I grew up near a farm a @€near a f Sm and there was a bull that had nearly trampled to death a rambler who dared cut across his field.
Right now I feel a bit like that rambler.
‘Meatballs, mmm,’ I enthuse, groping around in my head for something to say about meatballs and trying desperately to dismiss images of school dinners. ‘How . . . um . . . meaty!’
Meaty? That’s it, Lucy? That’s all you can come up with?
I cringe inwardly, but if my boss suspects anything, she doesn’t show it. Rather, the corners of her mouth turn up slightly and I see her visibly thawing.
‘My favourite,’ I add.
Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.
‘They are?’ Magda’s ample chest swells.
‘Absolutely.’ I nod, crossing my fingers behind my back.
‘In fact, I could eat them all day every day,’ I continue.
Now I’ve started, I don’t seem able to stop.
‘You could?’ Magda is positively beaming.
‘Oh, yes.’ I nod. ‘In fact, if someone said to me, “Lucy Hemmingway, you can only eat one thing for the rest of your life,” it wouldn’t be chocolate or Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream. Oh, no.’ I put my hand on my hip and waggle my finger theatrically, suddenly feeling a bit like when I played Annie in the school play.
‘Dynamic,’ was how the local newspaper described me. Mum has the cutting in a frame in the downstairs loo, along with a picture of me as Annie. Which is very unfortunate – me in braces and a curly ginger wig at thirteen is not a pretty sight, and not something I want to see every time I use the loo.
It’s the reason I spent my entire teenage years whizzing boyfriends straight out through the front door, despite their bursting bladders.
‘No. Do you know what it would be, Mrs Zuckerman?’ I ask, throwing my arms out wide.
I’m now in full pantomime mode, complete with hand gestures and over-the-top facial expressions. I’m quite enjoying myself. Perhaps amateur dramatics would have suited me.
Had I actually been able to act, that is.
‘No. Tell me,’ whispers Mag r€ whisper SMagda with anticipation.
‘Meatballs!’ I declare dramatically. ‘Nothing but meatballs!’
OK. Maybe I got a bit too carried away there.
Surprisingly, though, Magda looks like all her Christmases have come at once. Or, I should say, Hanukkahs.
‘Oh, Loozy.’ Reaching