Yes, they’re having a girl. (Don’t ask how I know. Suffice to say ultrasound scanners are notoriously excitable. It’s all that buzzing!)
So while the happy couple try to find somewhere that captures their imagination, local estate agents have been slithering around Daisy’s flat with their weasel words and electronic tape measures, though not the unspeakable Whittle, I’m happy to say. Thus far there have been no offers, though there was one young man who seemed quite keen when he first arrived, less so when he departed. He may, I suppose, have been put off by the odd whispering he half-heard as he toured the rooms; disturbing words and phrases (the telly thought them up) at the very edge of audibility that perhaps created unease in his mind and lead him to look elsewhere.
“Run! Go now, while you still can! Bad things happened here!”
It was priceless, honestly. You should have seen his face.
Of course, ultimately, we shall let Daisy sell, but only when we are good and ready and that will be after the arrival of the baby, who, very privately, in a sealed-off corner of my mind, I have christened Icicle.
What a brilliant name!
Icicle Parsloe Epstein.
Brain surgeon? Astrophysicist? Bestselling novelist?
What stars couldn’t you shoot for with a name like that?
One guest I didn’t expect at the party is Chad Butterick. The elfin-faced TV performer arrives, if not exactly on the arm of, then definitely alongside, Daisy’s old friend Antoni. It turns out the pastry chef and the broadcasting “leg-end” have been seeing something of one another, going together to screenings and such like. It’s not clear whether the pair are romantically attached, but they certainly share an interest in patisserie, Chad telling several guests over the course of the evening, “Oh, you know me, I’m anybody’s for a cream horn.”
As his gift, Antoni has made the cake, a marvelously demented creation garlanded with icing sugar daisies and studded with miniature chocolate eggs to symbolize Eggstain.
Chantal and her sculptor Phillippe arrive to raise a glass to the happy couple—it’s quite true, he does have a massive pair of hands!—and also from Daisy’s workplace is no-longer fetus-like Dylan and his paramour Bexley. Everyone is introduced to Chloe as though she were the Queen—“Enchanted to meet you”—and Mr. Gupta (perhaps because he has been briefed) correctly surmises that Antoni’s favorite periodical is an online publication called Dessert Professional. His two sons are thrilled to discover Chad Butterick, who it turns out they have grown up watching. The young men quiz him intensively about his career in cheesy TV, the performer’s eyes flashing with pleasure as he takes them through his fascinating autobiography.
In one of those sudden moments of stillness that can fall inexplicably upon such gatherings, Lorna’s powerful Glaswegian voice is heard booming, “Is no one going to cut this fucking cake?”
It’s decided the moment has arrived for speeches. Eggstain says it’s wonderful to see everyone, he’s never been happier, and he’s shocked how quickly one’s life can change for the better. There’s a funny pause—a small shrug—and I have an intuition he’s thinking about his ex. (Hope Waverley, it turns out, was a chronic pogonophile, exclusively attracted to heavily bearded males. When Eggstain took the Bic razor to his overgrown facial topiary, it was finally game over for them. Her life, however, had assuredly undergone an uptick since she decided to tackle her unresolved issues and began group therapy. In a redbrick mansion block in Marylebone, at the very first meeting, in the very next seat, she discovered a much-troubled fellow artist who was more beard than face. The group now has two vacancies, if anyone is interested.)
Eggstain adds that he used to think his life was essentially seventy percent over. “But now, I realize, it’s only just beginning.”
There is warm applause. Then it’s Daisy’s turn.
“It’s so great that you’re all able to be here,” she says. She looks around the room at the smiling friends and relations, draws breath to continue… but nothing comes. She pulls the face.
And everyone laughs. Everyone.
“What?”
“We love you, darling!” heckles Antoni.
“I just want to say,” she tries again. “What I want to say is.”
She wrinkles up her nose once more and the room howls.
“What?!”
She really doesn’t get it, does she?
“Oh, God. I’m so shit at this. It’s not exactly the Royal Albert Hall, is it? Okay—deep breath—I’m very happy my mother is here tonight with her new friend.” There is a ripple of approval. “She once told me that good things come to those who wait. Well, I waited. And I waited and I waited. And then I still waited… and I never did get that puppy!”
“Oh, darling!”
“I’m joking, Mummy. I was talking about Dr. Egg—about Mark.” There is a cheer. “When we first met, the handsome young man you see today looked like an owl hiding in a hedge.”
He nods comedically. “It’s true.”
“Or possibly one of those homeless people you see sleeping in doorways.”
“Okay, you can stop now.”
“In fact, the last time I saw a beard like that it was Hagrid’s in Harry Potter!”
“Okay, now you’ve gone too far!”
“But look! Look what was underneath!” Another cheer. “It was a very good thing indeed. And I’m just so happy that I waited to find out. Mark is my better half. My lover. My friend. My soulmate. And, as many of you know, the co-producer of an exciting new project due out next year.” Some cries of Ahhh. “As they say in TV-land, if it goes well, we might even try for a second series.”
“She needs some new writers,” says the telly.
“Anyone else concerned that the kid could inherit the doctor’s overbite? No? Just me?” says you know who. “Okay, maybe not actively concerned. But you know, worth flagging. Possibly?”
We machines have had altogether less to worry about since Daisy discovered her “soulmate.” The desperate days of Blue Bombsicles and midnight takeaways from Kong’s Kitchen now feel like part of another life. Of course I am happy for
