Best Supporting Role (10 page)

I said that I didn’t understand why, if she had such low self-esteem, she found the confidence to have phone sex with strangers. It was something I associated with exhibitionists, not shrinking violets.

She laughed. “Believe me, I’m no exhibitionist. But becoming a single mother with no income changed me. When you have a child, you do what you have to do to provide for them. Right now the only thing that matters is Will’s welfare and having enough money to live on.”

I said I felt exactly the same about Dan and Ella. “But one day wouldn’t you like to have a proper career?”

She said that maybe she’d give it some thought when Will started school, but modeling was definitely out. In four years she would be thirty-three, practically geriatric in the modeling world.

“So come on—what do you do?” she said.

I explained how I used to be a fashion designer and that now I did something much less glamorous.

“Hang on,” she said after I’d told her what I did. “You gave up
running your own company to become an operator on the police nonemergency helpline?”

“I needed to earn money—like you. And it has its moments. Only the other day, a woman rang to complain that the rabbit she’d bought didn’t have the floppy ears she’d been promised and what were the police going to do about it.”

“What did you say?”

“I referred her to the Sale of Goods Act. After which I attempted to eat my own head.”

Rosie burst out laughing. “I’m not surprised. . . . So here we are, both in dead-end jobs with no hope for the future.”

“Yep. Here we are.”

“Shall I open another packet of marshmallows?”

“Why not?” I said.

•   •   •

“O
h, by the way,” I said to Steve as we pulled up at a traffic light a couple of blocks from Selfridges. “I finally got to meet my next-door neighbor—you know the one with the baby, who’s been away all this time.”

“Yeah? What’s she like?”

“Unusual.”

“How d’you mean?”

“OK . . . you have to guess what she does for a living.”

“I dunno. . . . She breeds badgers.”

“Nope.”

“She writes the predictions in fortune cookies.”

“Nope.”

“She’s a pet food taster.”

“What? No. That’s gross.”

“OK, I’m bored now. I give up.”

“She does phone sex.”

Steve blinked. “What? How does that work?”

“You know . . . she gets paid to talk dirty over the phone.”

“Nice. And you call that unusual? I call it perverted.”

“Oh, stop being such a prude. She’s hard up and it pays the mortgage.”

“I’m not being a prude. I just happen to think it’s not the greatest career choice, that’s all. What sort of a role model is she for her child?”

“One that keeps a roof over his head.”

“Money isn’t everything.”

“It is when you don’t have it.”

“OK, touché,” Steve said.

“I really like her. Ever since I lost touch with Belinda in Sydney, I’ve had a girlfriend vacancy. I think I might just have filled it.”

“So you spend a couple of hours with this person and suddenly she’s your best friend?”

“I didn’t say she was my best friend. I just really like her, that’s all.”

“Fabulous. My girlfriend’s new best friend is a hooker.”

“Stop it. She’s not my
best
friend.” But I knew she would be. Rosie was fun, alive, a bit of a rebel. She couldn’t have been less like the conventional conformist Tommy Padstow mothers at school, who, even though I envied them, would never be my friends. I had nothing in common with those women, whereas Rosie and I had loads in common.

“Plus she isn’t a hooker,” I went on. “It’s purely phone sex.”

“And you believe her?”

“Actually, I do.”

Steve grunted.

“Oh, look, we’re here,” I said, ignoring the grunt. “Make a left.”

Villiers Mews, with its cobblestones, its lopsided antiquarian bookshops dotted among impossibly quaint Georgian cottages, could have provided the template for a Christmas cookie tin.

Shirley Feldman Exclusive Foundation Garments was halfway down the street—the limp, dried-up shop between a swanky cigar shop and Chandrika Crew—Nannies for Discerning Mummies. The bra shop’s candy-striped awning—chic circa 1982—was faded and full of holes. As we got closer, I noticed that some letters had fallen off the sign. It now read:
SHIRLEY FELDMAN EXCLUSIVE FOUND GA
RMENTS
, which didn’t have quite the same cachet.

There was a parking space directly in front of the shop. “Can you believe it?” Steve said, killing the engine. “We’ve actually found a parking space around the corner from Selfridges on a Saturday.” He took his cell out of his pocket and announced that he had to tweet this momentous news.

While he tweeted, I carried on staring at the shop. I could see Aunty Shirley, all red lippy and big do, dressing the window. I could hear her swearing at the mannequins through a mouthful of pins when their arms fell off.

“OK, done,” Steve said. “I take it you’ve remembered the shop keys.”

I jingled them in front of his nose.

“OK. I was only asking.”

I’d gone round to Aunty Bimla’s a few days ago to pick up the
keys. She and Aunty Sylvia had been bent over a pair of ancient Viking sewing machines—which they’d set up on the dining room table—working on an order for corsets for a Royal Opera House production of
Così fan tutte
. Now that Shirley was gone, neither of them could face going back to the shop. “I hope you don’t mind us working here, poppet,” Aunty Bimla said, “but the shop holds too many memories.” I told her that I was perfectly happy for them to work from home. I wasn’t about to add to their distress by insisting they go back to the shop for the few weeks it would take to finish the order.

We adjourned to the living room and Aunty Bimla served us milky tea and Bombay mix, which we ate in the traditional way, with a spoon. I’d been in this room once before, about ten years ago. Aunty Bimla’s husband had just died and Mum and I came to pay our respects. It was the same as I remembered it—the swirly royal blue and gold carpet, the giant color photograph of Mecca over the mantelpiece, the minaret-design sofa pillows.

The aunties asked after Mum and Dad. I asked how the corsets were coming along. They were coming along fine.

“So, poppet,” Aunty Bimla said, “you’ve definitely decided to close down the shop?”

“Pretty much, but first I thought I’d take a look at the books. I just want to check there isn’t a bit of extra cash lying around—enough to get the shop going again.”

“There’s nothing, poppet. We would have known if there was. You are definitely barking up the wrong tree. You mustn’t worry about closing the shop. All in all, it’s for the best.”

Aunty Sylvia put down her china cup. “It’s the end of an era, though. Forty years we’ve worked there. Where did the time go?”

“I haven’t the foggiest notion, but all good things come to an end.” Aunty Bimla placed her hand on top of Aunty Sylvia’s. They both had tears in their eyes.

“I hate doing this after everything you did for Aunty Shirley. She was so grateful and you know she thought the world of both of you.”

“It was mutual,” Aunty Sylvia said.

“But you must do what is right for you and your children, poppet. Put your best foot forward. Carpe diem—that’s what my father used to say. Seize the carp.”

I said that I would do my best.

As I drained my teacup, it occurred to me that Aunty Shirley might owe the aunties money. “By the way, when was the last time Shirley paid you?”

“A few days before she died,” Aunty Sylvia said.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” I saw her shoot Aunty Bimla a glance. I knew she wasn’t telling the truth.

“Look, you have to tell me if you’re owed money. If you are, I’ll see you get it.”

I would have no choice other than to borrow from Mum and Dad.

“Shirley owes us nothing,” Aunty Sylvia said. “Now let that be an end to it.”

“I agree,” Aunty Bimla said. “We are all square. You mustn’t give it another thought.”

Easier said than done. When it was time to say good-bye, they both hugged me until I couldn’t breathe.

“Thank you,” I said. “For everything.”

“It has been our pleasure, Bubbie.”

“See you soon, poppet, and don’t be a stranger.”

•   •   •

W
hile Steve put money in the meter, I stood outside the shop, struggling to unlock the door. There were three keys and it took me a couple of minutes to work out which one fitted which lock.

Inside, envelopes and junk mail were sprawled over the mat. Once I’d gathered them up, I looked around. Jeez. To say the place was in need of a makeover was an understatement. The pale green carpet, which I remembered from my childhood, was worn and stained; ditto the matching green and gold brocade curtains draped across the changing rooms. The fake gilt trim was coming away from the white melamine counter. On the ceiling, the Styrofoam tiles were coming loose. Several had fallen off. I looked back at the counter and to the wall of wooden drawers behind it. They were dark and Dickensian. When I was a child, they had given me the willies. I’d called them “the brown drawers.” As I’d got older, I still couldn’t bring myself to think of the drawers as beautiful, but I began to appreciate their quality and that they had character. Attached to the drawer fronts were filigree label holders. These were in desperate need of a good going over with some Brasso. The slips of paper inside were yellow and torn. Written on each, in thick italic script, was a bra size. The smallest was 32A. The largest was 46JJ. Mother of God—and I thought I had big boobs.

“You know what this place needs?” Steve said as he walked in.

“What?”

“A flamethrower. How did your aunty Shirley let it get like this?
The seventies will definitely be wanting that till back. And look at those drawers. Where did she find them—Uriah Heep’s Dumpster?”

“Well, I think they’re rather magnificent. Shirley was always talking about updating, but after Harry died, I think the spirit went out of her. Then, when business started to trail off, there wasn’t the money to do it.”

Steve carried on looking around. “The place needs total gutting. Have you noticed the ceiling? Look at the gaps where the tiles have fallen off.”

I looked up. There were deep cracks in the ceiling.

I suggested we take a look at the workroom. “Through the door and down the stairs.”

Steve opened the door. Inside was pitch-black. I fumbled for the switch. The fluorescent strip began to buzz and flicker. As I followed him down the steep, narrow stairway, he warned me to watch my step. “Have you seen how the carpet’s coming up? I’m amazed somebody hasn’t broken their neck.”

The basement was pretty cramped. The only daylight came from a small window at one end. Funny, as a child I’d thought the room was huge. I used to love coming down into this secret cave with its boxes of lace and ribbons, tiny teardrop pearls and dainty satin rosebuds with
actual
diamonds in the center. I knew they were real because the aunties told me. The aunties always let me choose some lace and a length of ribbon to take home.

The first thing I noticed now was the cork floor tiles curling up at the corners. Then I found myself wondering if it had always been this untidy. Piles of boxes, old order books and rolls of satin were stacked against the walls. Two sewing machines, which Aunty
Shirley had bought a few years ago to replace the old Vikings (which now lived with Aunty Bimla), sat on a couple of battered postwar utility desks. Every surface, including the floor, was littered with underwires and trimmings.

Steve began to sneeze. It was the dust. He had sensitive sinuses.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” I said. There was a tiny alcove kitchen area at one end of the workroom, along with a loo. Steve looked at the tea stains in the sink and pulled a face.

“Don’t panic,” I said. “The cups are perfectly clean.” I picked one up and wiped my finger around the inside. “Bit dusty, that’s all. I’ll give it a good rinse.”

But he wasn’t having it. Steve wanted a “decent” espresso and insisted on fetching one from the Italian place a couple of doors down. I made myself a cup of Taylors Yorkshire.

He returned with his coffee and two enormous chocolate éclairs. We sat devouring the éclairs, dripping cream over the workbenches.

“So where’s the computer?” Steve said.

“Computer?”

“Yes. Remember . . . I’ve come to look at Aunty Shirley’s accounts. And I’m assuming you know her password.”

I carried on chewing. “She didn’t have one.”

“What? Who in their right mind doesn’t have a password?”

“No—I mean she didn’t have a computer.”

“No computer,” he repeated.

“That’s right. She was a complete technophobe. She did her accounts the old-fashioned way. If I remember rightly, she kept the books in the safe.” I directed him to the cupboard under the sink. “The safe’s to your left . . . at the back.”

He was kneeling down, his head inside the cupboard. “Christ, I can hardly see it. So what’s the combination?”

“She didn’t bother. Give the door a tug. It’ll be open.”

A few moments later he was upright again, clasping three old-fashioned, leather-bound ledgers and brushing a cobweb off his sweater.

I suggested we take the books back to my place and go over them there. “Maybe we could order a curry later and watch a movie.” I was putting the first part of my seduction plan into action.

“Or we could go back to mine. I’ve got a lamb and apricot tagine in the oven.”

“Yours it is,” I said. “Give me a lamb tagine and I’m anybody’s.”

“That’s always good to know.”

Steve had been in his flat just over a year. It was in a brand-new development not far from his office in Tower Bridge. He believed in buying new property because it always came with a ten-year guarantee.

He’d bought the show flat, complete with furniture, because he found decorating a chore. And the beige and cream color scheme was neutral and inoffensive.

“So how’s your campaign to snare Greg Myers coming along?” he said as we chatted in the kitchen, me making tea, him checking on the tagine, which smelled divine.