Best Supporting Role (22 page)

“Why?”

“OK . . . that’s enough. Just do as I tell you. Be kind and polite and tidy up after yourselves. Do not expect Betty to run around after you.”

Ella said she would sing her some songs from
My Fair Lady
. I said that sounded like an excellent idea.

“So is Hugh your boyfriend?” Ella said. She and Dan were sitting on the bed, watching me get ready.

“Well, it’s early days yet, but I think you could say he’s my boyfriend.”

“Is he going to be our new dad?” Dan said.

I sat on the bed and put an arm around each of them. “Listen, there might come a day when I decide to get married again, but believe me, nobody will ever take the place of your dad.”

“No, but Hugh’s great. He’d be a good dad. He even supports Chelsea.”

Just then the phone rang. Dan reached over and picked up. “Hi Grandma . . . Yeah, we’re fine. . . . Mum’s got a boyfriend.”

“Dan! Give me that phone.”

“What?”

“Just give it to me.”

“Hello Mum. How are you? . . . Yes, I have started seeing somebody. His name’s Hugh. He’s an actor. What? No, of course it’s not Hugh Grant. Don’t you think I’d tell you if I’d started dating Hugh Grant? . . . Yes, he’s done a bit of TV. No, he doesn’t know Claire Danes. . . . His surname’s Fanshaw. . . . OK, good idea, you Google him and get back to me. Actually, Mum, I’m getting ready to go out.
Can we speak tomorrow? . . . OK . . . fine, when you and Dad get back from your flamenco class . . . Hang on, you’re learning flamenco? . . . No, of course I’m pleased you’ve got a hobby. It’s just that neither of you ever had one before and you’ve certainly never shown an interest in any kind of dancing. I’m just a bit surprised, that’s all. . . . What? Yes, of course I’ve got somebody to mind the children. Look, I really have to go. Speak soon . . . Yep, love you, too.”

•   •   •

T
here was no polite way of saying it. Hugh’s flat was a dump. Clearly all his furniture—the tatty leather sofa, the orange Formica table and chairs, the office swivel chair plonked in front of the TV—had come from the Waterloo auction house. But it wasn’t just the worn-out, bad-taste furnishings that depressed me. There was stuff everywhere—books, CDs, newspapers and magazines. Then there were his collections: his James Bond cars, the eighties cell phones that looked like bricks, his reel-to-reel tape recorders, some of which were really big and were taking up floor space because there was nowhere else for them. Then there were his work tools. I found two spanners on the sofa, a set of drill bits on top of the toilet cistern.

When I arrived at Hugh’s place, he was in the middle of making chicken risotto. We stood in his kitchen drinking wine and taking turns to stir the risotto.

“Sorry the place is such a mess,” he said. “I did clean the bathroom in your honor, though, and gave the kitchen a going over.” It was true. He had made an effort. I’d noticed fresh towels in the bathroom. Plus the basin had been freshly cleaned and green toilet gel
had been squirted into the lavatory bowl. Lined up against the wall was a pile of at least two dozen loo rolls.

“It’s just a bit blokey,” I said, noticing a crusty, charred oven glove. It was lying next to the gas stove—a model that I was guessing went out of production in the seventies.

“Which is a polite way of saying it’s the town dump.”

That made me laugh. “You could try getting some blinds and a few plants to brighten the place up a bit.”

“The only thing that would brighten this place up is a flamethrower.”

“Oh, stoppit. You’re a builder and decorator for crying out loud. Knowing how hard you work, you could sort it out in a couple of weeks.”

“I know. It’s just that since the place isn’t mine, I can’t really be bothered.”

He explained that he rented the flat from a mate of his who now lived in Manchester.

“Pete gives me a great deal on the rent. He even threw in the van. All I had to do was furnish it—which I did from the place in Waterloo. Don’t think I spent more than a hundred quid.”

“Huh—as much as that?”

“OK, I know I should make an effort—maybe give it a lick of paint—but I prefer to spend my spare cash on traveling. I just use the flat as a base.”

I was aware of making a mental note: doesn’t own flat or even his van. And this bothered me because? It wasn’t like I owned my house. And my car probably wasn’t worth more than five hundred quid. But bother me, it did.

Hugh’s risotto was excellent—creamy, but with just the right amount of bite. When we sat down to eat at the orange dining room table, he was at pains to point out that he’d laid it with matching plates and napkins.

“Should I feel honored?” I said, laughing.

“You bet.”

“I don’t get you,” I said. “Until now I’ve been under the impression that you were really into style and decoration. You were always coming up with great ideas for the shop.”

“I am interested, but I’m on my own and I spend so much of my time working. Like I say, this place is just a base.”

It was only after we’d eaten that I noticed that one of the living room walls was completely covered in framed photographs of Hugh’s travels.

I got up to take a closer look.

“Hugh, these are fantastic.” I was studying a black-and-white photograph of a group of elderly Chinese men playing cards in a smoke-filled basement.

“My new Hasselblad can take most of the credit. See, I do own some stuff . . . my laptop, my iPad, my iPhone, my posh music system . . . my season ticket to Chelsea.”

“Where did that come from?” I said. “I don’t care what you own or don’t own.”

“Really? Back there in the kitchen I thought you seemed a bit surprised when I told you that I didn’t own the flat.”

“Don’t be daft,” I heard myself say. “That would be pretty hypocritical of me, bearing mind I don’t own my place. Now come over here and talk me through the rest of these photographs.”

There were Icelandic landscapes, portraits of Nepalese monks—images of the Mumbai slums, which managed to be both brilliant and gut-wrenching.

“You’ve never seen such levels of poverty. India has its own space program and yet it isn’t tackling the poverty. And countries like the UK and the US still give them aid. Shit—I still give them aid.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, thirty quid a month. God knows what it gets spent on.”

“But you wouldn’t stop giving it?”

“Of course not. I mean, you can’t, can you?”

“You are a good man, Hugh
F
-fanshaw.”

“I do my best,” he said. “I even went out and bought new bed linen for tonight. Want to see?”

“Absolutely.”

He took my hand and led me to the bedroom. A dozen candles, dotted around the room, were flickering in the moonlight. Hugh wrapped his arms around me and began planting kisses on my face.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I’ve never been surer.”

I was experiencing something that I’d felt once before, many years ago: the knowledge and certainty that I was coming home.

I
was loading the kids’ lunch boxes, reliving how Hugh had undressed me, told me how beautiful I was, with particular reference to my breasts, how he had opened me, caressed me, causing me to whimper in ecstasy—when Dan and Ella came rushing into the kitchen and presented me with a good luck card made from the back of a Cheerios box. It had a picture of a pink frilly bra and panties on the front. “Aw—thank you, guys. That’s fabulous. I will keep it forever.” I gave them both a hug. While Ella was clearly delighted that I loved the card, Dan didn’t say anything. I was pretty sure that Ella had drawn the bra and panties and her brother had just signed the card—no doubt going, “Yuck . . . this is so gross” as he did so.

Mum and Dad sent a huge bunch of white lilies to the shop. The note read:
All the luck in the world, darling. So proud of you. Love and hugs, M&D. xxx
There was a PS from Mum:
BTW Googled Hugh and noticed he’s been in several episodes of
Miss Marple
and
Downton
. Why didn’t you tell me he was famous? So excited. Can’t wait to meet him.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that he’d only had bit parts in both and that he really wasn’t very famous at all.

There was a possibility, though, that this could be about to change. When Hugh phoned early that morning to wish me luck, he had news. His agent had called a few moments before to say he’d just discovered that auditions were being held today for a new production of
The Importance of Being Earnest
and that Hugh should go along and try out for Algernon Moncrieff. “He thinks because I’m posh and was brought up among ‘those’ people, I’d be perfect and that it would hardly involve any acting. Blasted cheek.”

“Absolutely. The man is clearly a cad and you should dispense with his services henceforth and forthwith.”

Hugh laughed. “You’re on good form, bearing in mind it’s opening day.”

I assured him that I was feeling sick with nerves and this was only gallows humor.

He said to stop worrying and I’d be fine. I told him to break a leg.

“And I’ll see you later,” I said. We’d arranged that he would come round that evening with Chinese food and we’d have dinner with the kids.

“Great. Oh, and there should be a surprise waiting for you at the shop.”

Along with Mum and Dad’s lilies, there were red roses waiting for me when I arrived. These, along with my having been to see Hugh in
The Producers
, left the aunties in no doubt that the two of us were “courting.”

“OK, yes, we are dating,” I said, “but it’s early days yet. I don’t want you two getting carried away.”

The aunties couldn’t have looked less carried away. There were no overexcited hugs, just troubled faces. What was going on? A couple of weeks ago they couldn’t wait to get us together.

“What is it? Why the long faces? I thought this was what you wanted.”

“Poppet, Hugh is a lovely boy. Your aunty Sylvia and I think the world of him, but are you sure you’re doing the right thing? Acting is such an unreliable profession.”

“It’s true. Look how my Roxanne struggled until she got her big Hollywood break.”

“Come on, don’t you think you’re both overreacting? Hugh and I are dating, not planning our future together.”

“I know,” Aunty Sylvia said, “but suppose it gets serious? Granted, Hugh is a sensible boy and he has a trade to fall back on, but at the same time, an actor’s life is so haphazard. He probably doesn’t know what he’s doing from one week to the next.”

“After everything you’ve been through, poppet, we want you to find a man you can rely on, who will look after you and provide for you.”

I could only imagine what they would say if they discovered that Hugh owned little more than his laptop and a fancy camera and spent all his spare cash on traveling. As far as the aunties were concerned, when it came to a relationship, savings and owning property counted as foreplay.

Aunty Sylvia was nodding. “Bubbie . . . you need to find a banker with a big bonus.”

“Look,” I said, offering them a smile. “I know how much you both worry about me and I really appreciate it, but to be honest I’m done with relying on men. If life has taught me one thing, it’s that I have to start relying on me. That’s one of the reasons I need the business to work.”

“But suppose it doesn’t?” Aunty Sylvia said. “What then?”

“Please—this is opening day! I will not have defeatist talk today of all days. I have to make it work. I have no option.”

Aunty Sylvia looked sheepish. “Sorry, that was wrong of me. Of course you’re going to make it work.”

“Absolutely, poppet. Chin up, chest out, best foot forward. That’s the spirit.”

With that, the aunties disappeared to their workstation in the basement. A few minutes later they were back again. “Guess what,” Aunty Sylvia said. “We’ve just had an e-mail from the Duchess of Kent Theatre. They’re putting on a production of
Pygmalion
and they want half a dozen boned corsets. It’s not a huge order. . . .”

“No, but it’s definitely a start.”

“Indeed it is, poppet. To quote my father: ‘A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.’”

“You sure it was your father who said that?” I inquired. “And not some famous Eastern philosopher?”

“No, no. My father definitely said it first.”

At ten on the dot, I unlocked the front door. Then I went to check the fitting rooms—for what, I had no idea. After that, I tidied displays that didn’t need tidying. Once or twice I stood at the window and watched the people on the street—some scuttling, some strolling, but none of them stopping. Then one of them did. The door opened. My first customer. I was gripped by the sudden urge to celebrate her entrance with a trumpet fanfare.

“Excusing me,” she said. “Which is truthful position for Victoria’s Albert Museum?”

I directed her to the number 10 bus stop. For this she offered me many thankings.

The second customer only wanted to buy a pair of Spanx
,
but what the heck, I thought as she left—I’d made my first sale. We’d only been open for half an hour and already we’d received an order from one of the West End theaters and I’d sold a pair of Spanx. The next customer wanted to know if we stocked breast pads for nursing mothers. I said we didn’t and directed her to Boots. After that, one of the workmen who’d been repairing a burst water main down the street came in and asked if we stocked edible undies.

“I’m afraid we don’t.”

He scratched his head. “OK, what about crotchless panties? Bras with tassels?”

“’Fraid not.”

“You see, I’m looking for something for the wife’s birthday.”

“OK—let me show you some of our pretty lace lingerie.”

“Nah. I was thinking of something a bit more racy. Not to worry. She probably wouldn’t wear it anyway. Maybe, on second thought, I’ll get her a giant jigsaw.”

Around lunchtime a harassed thirty-something woman came in. “I’ve been to all the department stores for a bra and they have absolutely nothing in my size. I need cleavage. For tonight. Can you help me?”

I said that I was sure I could and led her into a fitting room.

When the woman got undressed, I could see the problem. Two teensy torpedoes. My breasts hadn’t looked like that since I was thirteen. I didn’t need a tape measure to tell me she was no more than a 30A—if that. I asked her what sort of dress she was wearing. Strapless. I left her for a few minutes while I went to check out our strapless bras.

I came back with three—all of which were padded. Each time she tried one on, her face fell. “You see, this is what happens,” she said after I had fastened her into the last bra. “They give me a bigger bust, but no cleavage.” She placed her hands under the cups and hiked up her breasts. A passable cleavage appeared.

I needed something to prop up her breasts so that they sat higher in the cup. “OK, I have an idea.” I asked her if she’d mind slipping off the bra.

I could see what was needed. The cup needed to be three-quarters filled with a solid piece of foam. This would rest against her chest wall. Her breast would sit on top of the foam and some of it would spill over the top of the cup to make cleavage. I took the bra over to the counter, found some tissue and stuffed it hard into the cups.

“But I couldn’t wear it like this,” the woman said when I presented her with the bra. “It’s stuffed with tissue. It would be terribly uncomfortable.”

I explained that if the idea worked in principle, we could make something permanent to fill the cup. She tried on the tissue-filled bra. Presto. Cleavage.

I went down to the basement, explained the woman’s problem to the aunties and how I thought it might be solved.

“I am most impressed,” Aunty Bimla said. “You are spot-on. This modification is known as the ‘étagère.’ It means shelf. We’ve actually been doing it for years. Most women just shove tissue or stockings underneath the breast to give it a lift, but it isn’t satisfactory—always ends up lopsided.”

The aunties came upstairs and went into the fitting room. To make more space, I stood outside. I watched as they fussed over the
customer and flattered her, told her how much they envied her handspan waist. Where was she going this evening? Claridge’s? How grand. As pins were pinned and tucks and folds made, the woman began to relax.

“OK,” Aunty Sylvia explained, “what we’re going to do is fill the cup with foam, which we will cover in satin. Nobody will see it and you can wash the bra as normal.”

“Fantastic. When can you have it ready?”

Aunty Sylvia asked if three o’clock would be soon enough.

“Absolutely. You can really have it done by then?”

“No problem. And when you come, bring your dress, so that we can check everything is perfect.”

Aunty Bimla worked on the bra and had it finished by half past two. The woman returned with her dress. When she tried it on with the bra, some of the lace cup was peeking over the top. Aunty Bimla returned to her sewing machine with the bra. In a matter of minutes she had fixed the problem.

Before she left, the woman hugged both aunties and me and promised faithfully that she would be back and that she would recommend us to her girlfriends.

We agreed that a celebratory cuppa was called for. I put the kettle on and Aunty Bimla produced some halva from her bag.

At four o’clock I called to see how the kids were doing. A few weeks ago, I’d asked Fiona—she of the pitying looks whose son, Tom, had taught Dan how bodies rot—if she could possibly help me out. I explained about the new business and that I didn’t have anybody to pick the children up after school or on a Saturday.

“Say no more,” Fiona said. “It would be my pleasure. After
everything you’ve been through, you poor soul, it’s the very least I can do. I’ll pick them up and give them tea, so they’ll be fully fed and watered when you come to collect them.” She was also up for having them on a Saturday. “When the kids have friends to play, it keeps them occupied and they stop nagging me.”

“Are you absolutely sure?” I stressed that it would only be for a few weeks until my parents got back from Spain. (My mother had made it clear that she couldn’t wait to get back to her role as deputy carer.)

“Positive. But I do worry that the stress of setting up a new business might be too much for you. Tell me, did you ever get around to trying Zumba like I suggested?”

I confessed that I hadn’t.

“Well, you must. Grief . . . stress . . . They say it works for everything.”

“In that case, I really must give it a go. . . . Now, as far as money is concerned . . .”

“Sarah, please. I wouldn’t dream of asking you for money. I know you’d do the same for me if the situation was reversed.”

It was true. I would in a heartbeat. Fiona could be irritating, but, like Imogen, she had a good heart.

•   •   •

N
ow Fiona was telling me how Dan and Ella had just demolished a huge helping of textured protein nuggets and turnip fries and that all was fine.

My kids had “demolished” textured protein and turnip fries? I wanted to ask Fiona how, exactly, she defined “demolished.” Instead
I thanked her again for stepping into the breach and said I’d be there just after six thirty to pick them up.

No sooner had I put the phone down than Rosie called. “Hey, how’s it going?”

“Well, we’re not exactly overwhelmed with customers, but I guess it’s only the first day.”

“You have to give it time. Let the word get out.”

“I know. I just wish I’d had some money to spend on advertising, that’s all.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll happen. I have every faith in you, Sarah Green. This business is going to be huge.”

I laughed. “Just keep telling me.”

“Listen, I need to talk to you about something. You got a moment?”

I said that I would have to ring off if the Duchess of Cambridge appeared, but for the time being I was all ears.

“OK, here’s the thing. . . . I bumped into Betty across the street and she says you’ve been asking her to babysit your kids.”

“That’s right. I have.”

“OK, but up to now you’ve asked me and I was wondering why you’d stopped. I promised I wouldn’t take calls from punters at your place and I didn’t. Honest. I don’t want you to think that you can’t trust me.”

“Of course I trust you! It’s nothing like that, really. It’s my fault. I should have explained. I asked Betty to babysit because I didn’t want to keep taking advantage of you, that’s all. I don’t want our friendship to be based on me constantly asking you to help out with my
kids. It’s also why I asked one of the mums from school to pick the kids up each afternoon until Mum and Dad get back.”

“But you know I would have them. I love your kids. They’re no trouble and I’m right next door.”

“I know, but Fiona from school has two kids, Tom and Grace, who are the same ages as Dan and Ella. It probably works better for them.”

“OK, I suppose that makes sense.”

“I really didn’t mean to upset you. I’m so sorry.”

Rosie said there was no need to apologize and that she was sorry she’d jumped to conclusions.

“So how are things going with you and Hugh? Have you done the deed yet?”