That Jewish Thing

by Amber Crewe

Genres: Jewish Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

**SHORTLISTED FOR THE JANE WENHAM-JONES AWARD FOR COMEDY IN THE 2022 ROMANTIC NOVEL AWARDS**

The new romantic comedy from the author of Adult Virgins Anonymous.

Tamsyn Rutman is at yet another wedding, for yet another cousin. She wouldn't mind - the food's pretty good, the location is fabulous and there's a moderately famous singer crooning away - but what is a Jewish wedding if not the perfect opportunity for the bride to do a bit of matchmaking on behalf of her single, workaholic cousin? Tamsyn's not at the table with her parents and her family, she's sitting next to Ari Marshall.

Ari is everything Tamsyn doesn't want for herself, and everything her family want for her. Stubbornly determined not to fall into the trap of someone else's happily ever after, Tamsyn decides to focus on work, and while interviewing London's hottest new chef, finds herself being swept off her feet . . . by someone her family definitely wouldn't approve of.

But somehow, Ari and Tamsyn keep crossing paths, and she's about to find out that in love, and in life, it's not always easy to run away from who you really are...

Release date: August 17, 2021

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 352

Sample

Acknowledgements

I am who I am today because of my family. To the Bursteins and the Matteys, the whole mishpocha, thank you. I went through a tough time in my teens, struggling to embrace my Jewishness and my heritage. For me it was moving away from North West London to University (and becoming President of the Durham Jewish Society!) that made me realise who I really am, and what I’m a part of. I hope this book goes some way to honouring our connection, the amazing celebrations we’ve experienced together, as well as the sad moments. We come out stronger every time.

To my agent Bryony Woods, and the team at Coronet, especially Melissa Cox and Morgan Springett – you guys are amazing! Thank you for believing in this book, and for understanding my commitment to getting it right.

Thank you to the maven Keren David, my guide and my cheerleader, for covering my blind spots and helping to make this book the most wonderful version of itself. I would have pissed so many people off without your wisdom and input!

A very special mention to my friend Chloe, for whom the last year has not been easy, but who has never failed to be a bright light of good cheer. You are an amazing human, and in a way, without you Ari Marshall would not exist. The actor Ben Schwartz may be out of reach (for now . . .), but your undying, unquenchable thirst for him provided endless inspiration when crafting my hero. You are awesome, and I can’t wait for us both to be horribly embarrassed about this paragraph in years to come.

I wrote this book whilst the world seemed to be descending into turmoil and uncertainty, and if it weren’t for my friends, I don’t know what I would have done. You all know who you are, but special mentions need to go to my graphic novel book group chums, we’ve met most Saturdays on Skype to talk about anything and everything. I like to think we’ve kept each other sane? Thank you for never failing in your support and enthusiasm. And a very special thank you to Felicity, on whose doorstep (at least six feet away) I vented all my concerns and who, when I was worried about how to bring the main characters together at the end, suggested Brent Cross Shopping Centre. Of course! How can a Jewish novel set in North West London not culminate at Brent Cross?! You are a star.

Finally, a thank you to my team at the day job. I wrote this novel whilst learning to be a manager for the first time, in the middle of a pandemic. It’s not been the easiest ride, but without the support, compassion and friendship of my colleagues I never would have managed all of it. Particular thanks to Dimple and to Hannah, but also to everyone I work with. I recognise how lucky I am, and I’m truly grateful.

Whether you are Jewish, curious about Jewish life and culture, or just in the mood for a romantic yarn, thank you for picking up this book. Don’t be scared to embrace who you are, nor ignore the myriad of possibilities right in front of you.

Chapter 1

Heavesdon Manor in Hertfordshire is one of those grey-stone country houses that wouldn’t look out of place in an expensive Jane Austen adaptation. From looking at Google Maps, it’s about equidistant between North West London and Essex, and therefore optimally inconvenient for both sides of the family.

I was almost disappointed when Mum and Dad said I could stay at theirs afterwards. Living in grimy East London has its perks, one of the best ones being a perfect ‘get out of family events scot-free’ card. But I knew I couldn’t miss this. Not the longed-for fairy-tale wedding of my first cousin Abigail Galinski. She’s been talking about this wedding ever since she knew what a wedding was. We played ‘weddings’ with our Barbies, and she always got annoyed when I inevitably decided it would be far more fun for my doll to pretend to rock-climb her chest of drawers rather than aim for the happily ever after. I guess it never really seemed that important for me. But for Abigail Galinski, I know this day means absolutely everything.

Feeling like a teenager all over again stuffed in the cramped backseat of my dad’s car (a sporty one picked not for practicality, but for the enjoyment of a comfortable retirement), we drive through tall gates and generous parkland as Heavesdon appears in the distance. I haven’t reread the classics since my degree, but even so, I feel the stirrings of romanticism somewhere inside of me. Long lost, but maybe not quite forgotten. Is this what Lizzie felt like when she first saw Pemberley? Hadn’t Emma been set in Hertfordshire? I can imagine someone like Emma living here. An idle, frivolous life filled with luxury. Dreamlike rolling lawns punctuated with ancient trees and crumbling follies to explore and stroll through under bonnets and lacy white parasols.

But whatever costume drama I’m managing to conjure internally is quickly ruined by Mum stating loudly and without provocation: ‘It wouldn’t suit me living somewhere like this. What if you had to pop to the shops?’

There are young men wearing visibility jackets directing cars to parking spaces, which instantly manages to annoy Dad as he wanted to park closer to the entrance of the house.

‘I’m sure they’re saving those spaces for the less abled,’ I say, already feeling like my patience is wearing thin, and the event hasn’t even begun.

‘And what am I? An acrobat? It’s my sister’s daughter getting married, for goodness sake.’ His grumbling fades into mostly indiscernible nonsense as Mum and I share a look.

I do manage to convince my parents to crowd together with me for a selfie in the bright May sunshine before we head inside. I like the way my skin is glowing in the light, and my parents look pretty cute too. Dad in his sharpest dark navy suit (he was very annoyed that it wasn’t a black-tie affair so he could parade around in his tux) and Mum in a pink two-piece and flowery print blouse I picked out for her, one she still isn’t quite sure of no matter how many times I tell her she looks fabulous.

‘It’s a bit bright and modern though, isn’t it?’ she wondered aloud when she tried it on, before I pointed out that yes, that was the idea.

She’s always said that she likes to trust my fashion opinions, but when I give them, it’s as if I’ve forced an outfit on her at gunpoint. Even now, I know she’s waiting for someone to make a comment, a backhanded compliment or give her a look she can interpret as odd, so that she can turn to me with an ‘I told you so’.

I miss Ross as we walk up the steps and into the manor’s grand entrance. Stupid brother. He hates these big, lavish family events as much as I do, but at least he has a sense of humour about it. He should be here next to me making quiet, snide comments about my cousins or sending me stupid texts to diffuse my irritability instead of remaining up in Edinburgh. The rest of the family are so annoyed about it I can’t even bring it up.

‘What’s so important that he can’t come down for one weekend to celebrate his cousin’s special day?’ my auntie Davina, the bride’s mother, had lamented.

‘His PhD,’ is what I wanted to say. But instead, Mum managed something far more diplomatic.

Mum is annoyed too, of course. But I imagine she’s also a little relieved she doesn’t have to parade two unmarried grown-up children in front of everyone. One is already too much to handle. Then I wonder if perhaps she’d prefer if Ross were the one here. He may be unmarried, but at least he’s trying to cure cancer. What am I doing? I’m just working at a magazine. Not even a glamorous one people actually read, but a trade magazine.

I’m under strict instructions not to mention Ross at all, for fear of reminding everyone that he isn’t here. We’re to pretend he doesn’t exist and to deflect conversations quickly in case anyone asks about him. It’s not often that I get to be the ‘good child’ and he ends up being the ‘bad one’, but here we are.

I miss him so much though. I messaged him while I was curling my hair earlier on. One word: loser.

Dillweed he replied, which made me laugh.

We’ve arrived early because Dad wants to take part in the Tisch, which is happening in a room upstairs. I’ve never gone to the trouble of finding out what happens at a Tisch, but as far as I can tell it involves booze, some loud singing, and a lot of thumping on tables. Girls aren’t allowed, of course, which means that in my head it’s the Las Vegas weekender of Jewish traditions. They could have a stripper up there, for all I know. But probably not. I’m not sure that rabbis appreciate strippers.

Mum and I treat ourselves to a glass of pink champagne served by waiters in waistcoats before we move into the room that’s being used for the ceremony.

It might have been a library before it was swathed in acres of white draping. I wonder how much Mum will scold me if I peek behind to have a look.

‘Now is not the time to be delinquent,’ I can hear her saying. That’s how well trained I am now after thirty-odd years. I can hear my mother’s voice in my head before I’ve even done anything. ‘Now is the time to prove to everyone that I did my job properly when I raised you.’

And because this is first cousin Abigail Galinski’s wedding (and also because I haven’t got my baby brother to pin any blame on), I behave.

The room is beautiful. Like a Renaissance vision of heaven. At the end of the room, placed beneath a golden cupola surrounded by high windows letting in bright sunbeams, is the chupah. Tall and graceful and surrounded by white flowers, some of the leaves of which seem to have been spray-painted gold.

‘Oh! Isn’t it lovely,’ Mum sighs as we take our seats on the women’s side of the aisle.

‘It’s really pretty,’ I agree.

‘Don’t you want this?’ she turns to me then. My mother, her eyes already glittering with emotion, already playing through possibilities in her head, wondering why I’m not as perfect as my cousin. Abigail, who went on Tour to Israel at sixteen and loved it so much she decided to spend part of her gap year on a kibbutz. Abigail, who attended every event at Hillel House throughout university and kept kosher the entire time. Abigail, who found her husband on Jdate and now teaches at a Jewish nursery.

‘Of course, she won’t be there long,’ I remember Auntie Davina telling Mum when I last saw her. ‘Once she has kids she won’t want to work.’

I wanted to ask what the point of working so hard on her degree had been then, but of course, I knew the answer. To be in the right place with the right people, and to find herself a husband. Nobody literally said it in those words of course, but we all knew that’s what it was for.

At least Mum could say I had been to university. Unfortunately, she could never say that I’d attended even one Jewish Society social or been to Israel other than for a family holiday when I was nine, or even downloaded Jdate. I’ve been eating bacon since I was fourteen (my parents do not know this part).

This is why Ross is a bit of a problem child, too. Sure, he’s going to be a doctor soon enough, but not the right kind of doctor. He went to university and liked it so much he decided to stay there forever. I’m pretty sure that Mum would agree that introverted academics don’t make the best Jewish husbands. Especially ones stuck in Edinburgh.

I’m looking at Mum now. Already tearful, asking me why I don’t want a heavenly chupah and a nice Jewish boy to stand under it with me, and I wish I could lie to her. I really wish I could, but I also don’t want to set her up for disappointment later on. She shouldn’t get her hopes up. Not when it comes to this kind of thing.

‘It’s not for me Mum,’ I tell her. ‘You know that.’

Mum blinks away the forming tears (there’ll be more later, I’m sure) and grabs my hand, giving it a loving squeeze.

‘I love that you’ve never been scared to do your own thing,’ she tells me, but I hear the sadness behind the smile. ‘You and your brother, both on your own paths.’

I imagine the next words she would say though, unspoken but clear as anything in my head: ‘but don’t you think you’re going to regret it someday, and want all of this once it’s too late?’

The room is filling up. Men on the right, and women on the left. In the third row on the other side of the aisle, sitting all alone, I see a familiar face.

‘Is Uncle Doodle okay?’ I ask Mum. She turns to follow my gaze.

Uncle Doodle is really David Rutman, and he’s Dad’s uncle, the brother of my Grandpa Irving. But Ross and I have called him Uncle Doodle ever since he happened to reveal to us his Hebrew name: Dudel Aharon. I can’t remember how it came up, but when I was eleven and Ross was six, this was the funniest thing we had ever heard, and we have called him Uncle Doodle ever since.

‘He had a fall a couple of weeks ago, I don’t think he’s been the same since,’ Mum reveals.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I ask her.

‘Why am I telling you every time your great-uncle has a fall? People that age have falls all the time.’

But he doesn’t look well. In his late eighties, Uncle Doodle looks grey and withdrawn. Both palms are fixed over his walking stick, holding himself steady, as if he’s not sure of himself even sitting down.

‘Where’s Paul and Terry?’ I ask, referring to his son and daughter, my cousins.

‘How am I meant to know? We just got here.’

I get up and squeeze past Mum to go over to him.

‘Tamsyn, shayna meydeleh,’ he says, his expression instantly warming as I come to sit by his side.

‘You’re all on your own Uncle Doodle?’ I ask, as I lean over to centre his kippah, which is at risk of sliding right off his head.

‘I was keeping an eye,’ says a man sitting behind. I don’t know him, but he seems familiar. ‘Your cousin just had to pop out for a bit.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, still trying to place the guy. He must be my age, sweet-looking, one of those bright, happy-face kinds of people. But I don’t dwell on him too much. He seems to know Uncle Doodle, or at least one of my cousins (he could be referring to any of Paul or Terry’s children, Paul or Terry themselves, or relatives of their spouses, for all I know), so the chances of us being distantly related are horribly high.

‘You look very dapper Uncle Doodle,’ I say, turning back to my uncle.

‘And you are beautiful, as always,’ he responds.

‘I have a bone to pick with you though.’

‘You do?’ One corner of his mouth quirks up; he knows I’m about to tease him.

‘Mum tells me you had a trip recently. And you didn’t even think to send me a postcard?’

There it is, the full gleaming Uncle Doodle smile. I like imagining what he must have been like before he got old and frail, before his wife, my Great Aunt Gloria, passed away. It was such a long time ago I can barely remember her, but it’s family lore that losing her changed Uncle Doodle forever. He’s always said that I remind him of her, but he can’t mean in the physical sense as I’m not even genetically related to her. From what I gather from stories, Great Aunt Gloria was quite the raging anarchic feminist in her day. But she ended up marrying the Jewish guy down the road, so I guess she wasn’t that anarchic. Going by my family’s standards, it could just mean that she wore trousers to synagogue once.

‘Oh, you should have seen it!’ Uncle Doodle continues, playing into my line. ‘Rode past the pyramids on a camel!’

‘Did you swim in the Nile?’

‘Swim in the Nile? We skinny dipped!’

‘Uncle Doodle!’ I exclaim.

‘But we got out quick before the crocodiles came snapping.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ I wait a moment, watching how his eyes glitter when he’s having fun. ‘But you’re okay now?’ I add warmly, so that he knows what I’m referring to.

‘You mustn’t worry, meydeleh,’ he sighs. ‘You’re young. You should be enjoying yourself, not worrying about alte kackers like me.’

‘Of course, I worry about you Uncle Doodle,’ I say. ‘And I’m pleased that you got back from your trip in time to be here. I know Abigail will be pleased you’re here too.’

I make eye contact with the guy behind, who turns away suddenly as though he’d been caught staring. ‘You okay to keep on watching him?’ I ask.

‘Sure,’ he replies.

‘Uncle Doodle, I’m going to go back and sit with the women again, okay?’

‘You think I can’t sit here on my own without a babysitter?’ he counters, gesturing towards the friendly stranger.

‘Course not, but it gives him something to do,’ I shrug. ‘You’ll save a dance for me later, right?’

‘I won’t get a look in. You’ll have all the boys wanting to dance with you!’

‘Now on that front, you couldn’t be more wrong,’ I assure.

I lean into him so that our shoulders meet and press. The closest we’re going to get to a hug when we’re sitting in folding chairs packed in tight. Then I offer a grateful nod to the stranger behind and go back to my place next to my mother.

‘He’s not well,’ I tell her.

‘I know. But he’s got that whole side of the family to look after him.’

‘Do they look after him though? Paul and Terry aren’t even there. They’ve got some Joe Schmo sitting behind him keeping watch.’

‘I only hope you care about me so much when I get old and frail.’

‘Ross and I already have the care home picked out,’ I tease.

‘Scoundrels, both of you,’ Mum huffs.

The wedding is beautiful. Abigail looks soft and ethereal in a flowing silk gown, her parents proud as they accompany her down the aisle. A string quartet is positioned behind the chupah so that it seems to emanate sweet sounds, and standing just before the platform, his tallis neat and his kippah straight, is Dominic Cohn, the handsome groom. He stares at Abigail as she walks towards him in a way that almost makes me want to sigh. Almost, because I don’t want Mum to think I’m finding this romantic. She’ll start wedding planning for me the moment she thinks I’m in any way amenable to all this romance and spectacle.

Even so, I look behind me and across the aisle to see where my dad is, and if he’s enjoying the moment too. He’s sitting a couple of seats away from Uncle Doodle, and as I’m looking, my eye falls again on the kind stranger who is sitting behind him, and I’m overcome once more with a feeling of familiarity.

I scan back over any event where I might have seen him before. Previous weddings, bar mitzvahs, that one summer I was sent to Jewish camp in an attempt to force me to make more Jewish friends. But nothing. When he catches my gaze and gives me a soft, friendly smile back, I look away, embarrassed.

The bride circles around her husband seven times. It’s a tradition I’m not fond of; it feels strangely awkward for those of us who have to sit and watch. Maybe I’d like it more if the bride and groom circle each other together. The bride doing all the work, revolving herself around the groom, has never felt particularly feminist to me, but it’s not a tradition you see at every wedding. The party under the chupah (bride and groom, rabbi, both sets of parents, Abigail’s sister Sarah and one of Dominic’s grandparents, who is an Auschwitz survivor) have all clearly rehearsed the proceedings, but it appears none of them gave much thought to the size of Abigail’s skirts. They start winding up and Dominic has to help her along, swooshing the skirts around his own legs so that they don’t get caught up.

Finally, after the service has concluded and the rabbi has said his lovely words about the happy couple, Dominic stamps his foot upon the wine glass, and the room erupts in applause and song. During the happy uproar I grab the chance to pull out my phone and text Ross to tell him that Mum is crying already.

You know what she’s like, he replies almost instantly. She loves it.

We’ve grown apart since he went away, but at times like this, when surrounded by the lunacy of our family and all this intensity, we’ve always stuck together, watching from the sidelines and making our own quiet fun.

 

There’s a lengthy reception whilst the bride and groom, plus their close family, are whisked away for photographs. The weather is nice, so we’ve all been shifted out into the formal gardens behind the manor house. Those perfectly waistcoated waiters are back, not only serving pink champagne but now platters of tiny food too. The string quartet are also back playing their charming melodies, and I make my own private entertainment by watching as the women wearing high-heeled shoes grapple with their tendency to sink into the soft lawn (the trick is to walk on your toes).

I stay close to Mum and Dad. I know most of the people here, but it’s not really the kind of environment where I feel like I can comfortably mingle and enjoy myself. If not Ross, then Abigail and Sarah might have been some of the people I could feasibly hang out with, but they’re not here either of course. I recognise plenty of family members and family friends, but they’d only ask about my job, or my love life, and if I dared to ask them back, I’d be considered rude and churlish. It’s weird – I may be thirty-one years old but as long as I’m attending these events with my parents (and no significant other) I guess I’ll always be the child.

‘And look at Tamsyn!’ Mum is chatting with Deborah Dreyer, someone whose connection to the family I’ve never been able to place. It’s possible we’re related (she’s been around at family functions for as long as I can remember) but nobody has ever told me how exactly. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m doing well,’ I tell Deborah. Her face is flushed with suntan and too-pink lipstick.

‘Still at that magazine?’ she asks me.

‘Yep,’ I smile as warmly as I can muster, even though I want nothing more than to run away and hunt down the miniature salmon bagel bites I’ve seen floating around on one of those waiter’s trays.

‘When are you going to write that novel then?’ I try to recall if I ever mentioned I planned on writing a novel, even in jest, before Deborah continues: ‘I remember when you were small and all you ever wanted to do was read out your poetry and talk about being a writer.’

‘Well, that must have been twenty years ago,’ I say.

‘A magazine is good though. Do you still get to do lots of writing there?’

‘Tamsyn is a managing editor,’ Dad offers proudly. I’m not sure he’s helping.

‘Do managing editors do much writing?’ Deborah asks.

‘No,’ I say. ‘My role is more about making sure the magazine runs smoothly and organising the rest of the staff, editing their work rather than writing my own.’

‘Ah, that’s a shame.’

Except I don’t think it’s a shame, not really. I’m good at what I do, and people seem to like me. Okay, it’s not the most glamorous magazine in the universe, and it’s not publicly available. Our budget has dropped significantly with the advertising downturn, along with the many perks we used to get back in the day, and a lot of the tasks I do are repetitive, but it’s going to pay off one day. It can’t be long before my boss Gareth decides to retire, and then I’m in a prime position to take over. Besides, as much as I liked making up stupid rhymes when I was younger, I’ve never considered myself a writer.

But I don’t tell Deborah any of this.

‘And how are your children doing?’ Mum asks, noticing my irritation, and making me really want to hug her.

‘Oh, you know. I hardly ever see them nowadays of course, which breaks my heart! But Jasper is off being this big-shot lawyer gallivanting all over the place, and Nina is into photography now. She’s flying to Milan next week for a shoot – can you believe it?’

I wish I could disbelieve it, but alas, Nina’s Instagram is a catalogue of glamorous locations and gorgeous models.

‘You should get my Nina to do photos for your magazine!’ Deborah exclaims.

‘We only really have photos of hotel rooms,’ I say.

‘But what about models actually being in those hotel rooms? Make it sexy! You’ll sell more copies!’

‘We’re not really that kind of magazine.’ We’re a trade magazine, the only people who read us are hoteliers and people who want to be hoteliers.

‘Anyway, I must go and speak with Rita over there. I haven’t seen her in yonks! It was lovely seeing you all,’ Deborah beams to my parents before turning directly to me again and adding: ‘and Please God by you, Tamsyn!’

I must have the same conversation three or four times ov. . .