A Catered Affair Read Online Free Page A

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 a grunt. He didn’t see the point in lowbrow conversation. He preferred to discuss politics. Mum was happy to join in, but only up to a point. I could see her zoning out when he went on about monetarism or fiscal reform. When he accused her of not listening, she would turn on him: “Of course I’m listening. Can’t you see me yawning?” Mum was no fool, but the intellectual gulf between them was obvious—even to kids like Scarlett and me.
    That day on Hampstead Heath, I had no idea how Dad’s advice—in effect his last words to me—would shape my life. After he died I was filled with the urgent, powerful need to stay connected to him. I sought his approval more than ever. Had he lived, I would no doubt have challenged his views. That’s what teenagers do. But Dad was gone. My memories of him and the thoughts he’d shared with me were all I had left. So it was that he influenced not only my choice of career, but also—with the exception of the totally irresistible Frank O’Rourke—my choice in men. There was no doubt in my mind that he would have thought Dr. Josh Eisner was perfect.
    Dad died doing one of the things he loved: eating at his favorite East End curry place. It was early on a Saturday evening and he’d been to see his team, West Ham, lose three-nil at home to Manchester United.
    According to Madhu, who owned the Lahore Kahari: Genuine Spicy Taste, Dad had almost finished his saag chicken, tarka dal and two rotis when he slumped forward, his face ending up in a basket of papadum . Madhu dialed 999 and found Mum’s work number in the small diary Dad kept in his breast pocket.
    When Mum, Scarlett and I arrived at the hospital, Madhu was already there, pacing up and down, wringing his hands. I recognized him because once or twice we’d eaten at the restaurant en famille. The moment he saw us, he came rushing up to Mum and started pleading with her not to call “the authorities.” He swore on his mother’s life, his children’s lives, his own life, that his food was of the highest quality, prepared in the most sanitary of conditions—which we were free to inspect anytime—and hadn’t been the cause of Dad’s collapse. Then he promised us all free dinners for life.
    Just as Madhu was handing Mum his takeaway menu, a doctor appeared and took Mum to one side. Scarlett and I watched as she broke down.
    “He’s alive,” Mum said, coming over to us, tears falling down her face. “But he’s had a massive heart attack. There’s nothing the doctors can do. It’s just a matter of time.”
    “You mean Dad’s dying?” Scarlett said. “Right now?” She was fourteen. She suddenly looked about three. Mum could only nod.
    While a nurse led us down the corridor to Dad’s room, we could hear Madhu frantically cross-examining the doctor. Was he one hundred percent sure that it was a heart attack and not some form of food poisoning? Would he be prepared to put that in writing?
    As we went into the room, Mum took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. Scarlett and I exchanged glances that I remember being more fearful than heartbroken. Holy shit. We were about to watch our dad die.
    There were no tubes, no monitors, just the oxygen mask on his face. His eyes were closed. Mum sat on