Best Supporting Role (13 page)

“I’m not expecting anybody’s help. I intend to do this on my own.”

“Don’t kid yourself. You need me. You’ll never cope on your own.”

“Of course I won’t . . . because what I need is a pompous, condescending, arrogant son of a bitch undermining me and telling me what to do the whole time.”

“OK, I’ve heard enough. You and I are through.”

“What? You can’t dump me. I’m the one doing the dumping.”

“Fine. Whatever. You know what, Sarah, I’ve done my level best to help and look after you. What have you given me in return?”

He meant the lack of sex. He was right to be angry. I’d been cruel stringing him along, promising something that I knew deep down
was never going to happen. Then just now, he’d come in and seen me messing around on the phone—being sexual and having fun. It was clearly more than he could bear.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I led you on. That’s unforgivable. All I can say in my defense is that my head is still a bit of a mess. Nevertheless, I’m hugely grateful for everything you’ve done—the pro bono work, going over Aunty Shirley’s accounts—and I will pay you back.”

“I don’t give a toss about the money. It was you I wanted.”

“I know, but I can’t be with somebody who wants to control me.”

“Control you?” He sounded exasperated. “Not this again. Why is it that all the women I’ve ever dated think I’m out to control them? You’re insane. My whole life, I’ve attracted insane women.”

Still muttering to himself, he was out the door.

“M
ummy,” Ella said, swirling Coco Pops around in her bowl in order to make the milk go brown, “do mummies have penises?”

Before I had a chance to say anything, Dan leaped in. “Of course they don’t have penises, dummy. Mummies have beards.”

Ella looked confused. I groaned inside. Seven thirty in the morning was way too early for discussions about female genitalia.

“You know—hairy vaginas?” Dan added helpfully.

“Yes, but Chloe in my class says they have tiny, teensy-weensy penises as well.”

“No, they don’t.”

“They do. Chloe says.”

“They don’t.”

“Do. They’re called kit-risses.”

Ella looked at me for confirmation.

“Actually, Chloe’s quite right,” I said. “Women and girls have something called a
clit-oris
and it is a bit like a tiny penis—except that you don’t pee out of it.”

“See. I told you I was right,” Ella said to Dan. She poked her tongue out at him. “So,” she said, turning back to me. “If you don’t pee out of your clit’ris, what’s it for?”

The death conversations had been so much easier than this.

“Tell you what—why don’t you finish your cereal and we’ll talk about this later when there’s more time?” I could have added, “and I’m not so fantastically hungover from lack of sleep.” I’d lain awake most of the night, furious with Steve for being a controlling jerk. At the same time I hated myself for stringing him along. I’d been dishonest and cruel. Deep down, Steve was a decent, kind man and he’d meant well. Maybe, instead of dumping him, I should have suggested he, slash we, see a counselor to help him work on his control issues. My brain had been so full of Steve that I’d barely thought about Clementine Montecute or my plan to reopen the shop.

Ella was getting down from the table.

“Where are you going?” I said. “You haven’t finished your breakfast.”

“I’ll be back in a minute. I’m going upstairs to look at my clit’ris.”

“Yuck. Gross. Mum, tell her that’s gross.”

Sarah . . . do not make a big deal of this. Girls should feel free to explore their bodies and not be made to feel embarrassed or ashamed of them.

“Dan, be quiet.” I refrained from adding, “Like you’ve never played with your penis.”

I called after Ella, “That’s fine, sweetie, but make it quick or we’ll be late for school.”

•   •   •

I
was in the middle of making the kids’ packed lunches when the phone rang. It was Rosie, checking to see if I was OK after last night.

“Sorry to call so early, but Will and I are off in a bit. I’ve got this friend who works at T.J. Maxx and apparently they’ve just had a delivery of Vivienne Westwood. She’s holding a couple of things back for me, but I need to get there for opening time.”

“God, I miss clothes shopping,” I said. “Even at T.J. Maxx.”

I gave her a quick rundown of what happened after she left.

“Do you think I was too hard on him?” I said when I’d finished. “He seemed genuinely upset and confused when I accused him of being controlling.”

“Hon—you had to end it. What choice did you have? And as for him being upset—it’s not your fault he doesn’t understand his need to dominate women. That’s why in all these months you couldn’t bring yourself to sleep with him.”

“I know. I get that, but instead of dumping him, maybe I should have suggested counseling. I mean he wasn’t a bad guy. Deep down, he meant well.”

“You know why you didn’t suggest counseling?”

“Why?”

“Because you spent years trying to mend Mike, and the sensible, sane part of you has no intention of taking on another project.”

“You’re right. And if I’m honest, I’m relieved that Steve and I are over . . . but at the same time I can’t help feeling lonely.”

“Of course you feel lonely. Steve filled an emotional vacancy and even though he was a jerk—OK, a well-meaning, generous jerk—you’re going to miss him.”

“I guess. . . . You know, I’m so cross with myself for not seeing through him sooner.”

“Sarah, please don’t start beating yourself up. We’ve all been there. I went out with this bloke Dennis for two years. He permed his eyelashes and hardly ever wanted to have sex. When he finally admitted he was gay, I couldn’t believe it. All my friends had seen it the moment they met him, but the thought had never occurred to me.”

“You’re kidding. Never?”

“Not really.”

“Huh.”

“OK, I admit it was pretty dumb of me, but I just want you to know that I understand how you feel. OK?”

“OK . . . and Rosie . . . thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

She said she had to go because Will was squawking. I went back to the lunch boxes. As I started spreading egg mayo onto slices of granary, I found myself thinking about Steve again. God help me, I had fallen for a man who wore gray suits and parted his hair like a Mormon. I’d found him sexy. I still did. What was going on with me? What would Judy have said? She would probably have said that despite the feelings I still had for Mike, I felt a powerful compulsion to get as far away from him as possible. Steve had been about as far away as it got. What I actually needed was somebody who fell between the two extremes: a relaxed, happy-go-lucky, creative type, who made me laugh, preferably owned his own place, but definitely had savings and a pension plan. I didn’t know for certain, but I suspected that happy-go-lucky guys with pension plans were pretty thin on the ground.

•   •   •

I
’d dropped Dan and Ella at the school gates and was heading back to the car when Imogen Stagge moved into view. “Yoo-hoo, Sarah.”

As she came trotting towards me, I couldn’t help noticing that the hem of her skirt didn’t quite cover her navy knee-highs. “Won’t keep you—just wondering if you’d heard anything from Greg Myers.”

“Not yet. I called my cousin Rupert and he promised to drop him an e-mail. I’m sure I’ll hear something in a few days.” I hated lying to Imogen. She was a bit hard to take, but she was a decent sort—the archetypal good egg. If I did the right thing and owned up about there being no cousin Rupert, she’d probably understand. But I couldn’t trust her not to gossip. The chances were that any confession I made would get back to Tara and Charlotte.

“Jolly good. Jolly good,” she declared. “Now then, you’ll have to excuse me, but I must fly. I’ve got an appointment with the doc. I’ve decided that menopause-wise, hormones are definitely the way forward. My memory’s got so bad, I’m practically having to write the boys’ names on Post-it notes.”

She laughed her hearty laugh and strode off, not before making me promise to keep her in the loop Greg Myers–wise.

I should have headed straight to work, but instead, almost without thinking I turned the car around and set off towards Aunty Bimla’s. Having spent the night angry and troubled as I dissected my relationship with Steve, suddenly I was high with excitement. I couldn’t wait to tell the aunties that I had decided to get the business
up and running and they had their jobs back. I could have called them, but this was news that I wanted to deliver in person.

On the way, I called Don at the nonemergency helpline. “Don, I’m really sorry, but something urgent has come up. I’m going to be an hour or so late; can you possibly manage without me?”

“You all right, Sarah? Anything I can do?”

“Thanks, but I’m fine. Something I need to sort out, that’s all.”

“No worries. Everything’s quiet here. See you when we see you.”

“Thanks, Don. I owe you one.”

Aunty Bimla’s face lit up as she opened the front door. “Poppet, what are you doing here?”

“I have news.”

“Good, I hope . . . Come in, come in. Sylvia’s just got here. We haven’t quite finished the corsets for
Così fan tutte
. Another day or so and we will be done. I don’t want you to think we have been shilly-shallying.”

“You honestly believe I’d think that?” I put my arm around her and gave her a squeeze.

Aunty Sylvia looked up from her sewing machine. “Bubbie, what are you doing here?”

“She has news,” Aunty Bimla said. “But she hasn’t said if it’s good or bad.”

“It’s fantastic,” I said.

Aunty Bimla clapped her hands. “In that case, I’ll make tea.”

“And there’s still some of my homemade cheesecake left in the fridge,” Aunty Sylvia said.

I explained that I didn’t have time for tea as I had to get to work.
“I just popped in to tell you that things have changed and I’ve decided to reopen the shop after all.”

“Really?” Aunty Sylvia said. I could hear the trepidation in her voice.

“Really.”

“Sit, poppet, and explain. What has happened?”

Aunty Bimla pulled out a dining room chair. I sat. She did the same.

“It’s Clementine Montecute,” I began.

“What about her?”

I reeled off the story.

“So, her chickens finally came home to roost.” Aunty Bimla was rubbing her hands with satisfaction.

“You know,” Aunty Sylvia said, “there was something about that Montecute woman I never liked.”

“What was that?”

“Skinny wrists. My mother-in-law had skinny wrists. Evil woman—God rest her soul.”

“So here’s the thing,” I continued. “With Clementine Montecute out of the picture, we’ve lost our main competitor. I don’t see any reason not to reopen the shop. What do you think?”

The aunties looked at each other.

“You know,” Aunty Sylvia said. “There are competitors besides Clementine Montecute.”

“Yes, but are you telling me their seamstresses are in the same league as you and Aunty Bimla?”

Aunty Sylvia shrugged. “Not quite as good maybe . . . But the
shop is in such a terrible state. Where would you find the money to do all the repairs?”

“I agree. Poppet, I hate to say this, but you’re living in cloud cuckoo land. Take my advice, let it go. There’s no point in flogging a dead horse.”

“OK, what would you say if I told you that Aunty Shirley is due a ten-thousand-pound tax rebate—which now comes to me? This means I can pay you both up to date and have some money left over to do some work on the shop. I’m also going to ask the landlord for a contribution.”

“Good luck with that,” Aunty Sylvia said with a sniff. “Old man Mugford’s so tight, he wouldn’t give you the steam off his piss.”

“Sylvia, please. Do you have to be so crude?”

“I speak as I find. The fact is Shirley never got a penny out of him.”

“Well, I thought I’d give him a call anyway. But that’s not the main issue. The point is that you two are brilliantly talented seamstresses. If I’m to get the shop up and running again, I need to be able to offer the bespoke service. That’s what the shop has always been known for. If I let it go, all I’ll have is just another lingerie shop.”

Aunty Sylvia turned to Aunty Bimla. “So what do we think?”

“Well, far be it from me to toot my own horn, but I think the child is right. We do know our stuff and I don’t know about you, but the thought of retiring gives me the willies.”

“Me, too.”

“I’m thinking that maybe we should say yes.”

“OK,” Aunty Sylvia said. “It’s a yes from me and it’s a yes from her. Let’s see if we can’t make this work.”

They said they wouldn’t take a penny in payment until the business was on its feet. It appeared that money-wise their boats were about to come in. Sanjeev’s big deal with the Paraguay people was on the point of going through and Roxanne had landed the part in the haunted refrigerator movie.

“That would appear to leave us at stalemate,” I said. “Because I’m not prepared to even think about getting started until you’re both paid up to date.”

The aunties conferred and said that they would be more than happy with five hundred pounds each. I said that wasn’t nearly enough and offered them two thousand each. They came back with a counteroffer of a thousand and we settled on fifteen hundred.

Aunty Bimla made us all high-five. Then she insisted I stay for tea and a slice of Aunty Sylvia’s cheesecake.

•   •   •

A
fter I left the aunties, I sat in the car, spooling through my e-mail. Viagra deals. Amazon offers. Twenty percent off on a funeral. The usual. I was about to hit “delete” one last time, when my brain did a double take. Marcus Winkworth Featherstone had replied—or at least Winkworth’s PA had. Please God, please God . . . please let Greg Myers have said yes. I opened the e-mail.

Hi Sarah, Greg Myers asked me to thank you for your kind invitation to open your school fair. Sadly, due to his busy work schedule, he won’t be able to attend. He thanks you for thinking of him and wishes you all the very best. . . .

Crap. Not that I was remotely surprised. Now what did I do? I thought back to my conversation with Steve during which we’d discussed what I would do if Greg Myers said no. Back then I’d been so full of bravado. Did I really have the balls to put my plan B into action and ambush him outside the theater? At any other time, I might have. But this wasn’t any other time. I was at the point of opening a business. Even though it stood almost no chance of becoming a success, I wasn’t entirely devoid of hope. I couldn’t risk my future reputation by getting arrested for stalking Greg Myers.

On the other hand, what choice did I have?

I decided to hold that thought and call Mum and Dad to tell them my news about reopening the shop. My fingers were hovering over the keypad when the phone rang. It was Dad to say that he’d read about the Clementine Montecute scandal and wanted to know if I’d heard.

“I have . . . and I’ve made a decision.”

“Let me guess. Now that she’s gone, you’re definitely reopening the shop.”

“Dad, I can’t let this opportunity go. Suddenly, it feels like all the planets are in alignment.”

Dad laughed. “I suspect your aunty Shirley had a hand in that. I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“So you’re not angry with me?”

“Of course I’m not angry with you and nor is your mum. We’ve been discussing it and we’re both agreed that now you’ve got the tax money and there’s no Clementine Montecute to worry about, reopening the shop doesn’t sound like such a daft proposition. That’s not to say we aren’t worried, but there are times in this life when you have to take risks.”