Best Supporting Role (24 page)

“So, which band do you think was best?” Hugh was saying now. “The Milkshakers were pretty good, but like I said, they’re going to cost you.”

I said that I’d get the bedpans appraised by an antiques expert. “You never know. One of them might be worth a fortune.”

“I promise you, they’re not. They’re worth what you paid for them.”

“Well, sixty quid’s better than nothing. I’ll just have to put the rest on my credit card. Not a great idea, I grant you, but I don’t have a choice.”

I sat down and e-mailed the Milkshakers, asking if they might be available to open the school fair and perform a two-hour set.

•   •   •

R
osie got back just after ten.

“So, how did it go with Simon?” I said.

She flopped into an armchair. “He says he loves me, that he always has, that he’s sorry for the way he’s treated me and wants to move back in. Plus some production company or other has bought his screenplay, so he can afford to pay his way.”

“Wow. So what did you say?”

“I said no.”

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you why. We spent two hours in the pub and he barely mentioned Will. I think he asked after him once. He’s simply not interested in being a dad. Even though he’s making money, he just wants somewhere cheap to hang out. He hasn’t changed.”

“That must have been hard.”

Rosie was close to tears. “Come on,” Hugh said. “Have a drink.” He took a Chinese beer out of the fridge.

For once, Rosie didn’t hesitate. She took a sip and tears began streaming down her face.

“On the upside,” Hugh said, “Sarah’s solved the Greg Myers problem by hiring a rockabilly band.”

“Great idea,” Rosie said, between sobs. “Everybody loves a rockabilly band.” She sniffed. The tears kept coming.

I whispered to Hugh that maybe this wasn’t the right time to be discussing rockabilly bands.

“Sorry, I was just trying to lighten the atmosphere, that’s all.”

“I know, but it isn’t working.”

“The thing is, I never stopped loving him,” Rosie sobbed. “I always lived in hope that one day he might change.”

I put my arms around her. “I know, hon, but hard as it was, you did the right thing.”

“I guess. I’m just so bloody sad, that’s all. I’m starting to think that nobody’s ever going to want me.”

“Stop it. For starters you’re a new mother and you haven’t exactly been on the dating scene. Second, you’re gorgeous and funny. Of course somebody will want you.”

“Hear, hear,” Hugh said. “Now, how’s about I make you a plate of Chinese? There’s loads left.”

“That would be nice.” Sniff. “Thank you.”

In the living room, Ella burst into song: “Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match. . . .”

T
wo weeks later, Mum called to say that she and Dad were missing the kids and me so much that they were coming home as soon as they’d finished their flamenco course. She was at pains to point out that the decision to finish the course was Dad’s, not hers. They’d been away the best part of two months and she was anxious to get back, but apparently Dad had almost mastered the
jaberas
—a tricky Málagan fandango—and wanted to see it through to the end.

By now, Hugh and I were spending a lot of time together, either in bed at his place or—since the kids were always around—not in bed at mine. He was working hard at making friends with them: “OK, Ella, I think you’ve finally nailed ‘Edelweiss.’ Why don’t we take ‘Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious’ again, from the top?” He’d taken Dan to football twice now. “We had such a great time,” he said one night over dinner at his place. “I think the two of us are really bonding.” He paused. “You don’t mind, do you? I mean, I’d hate it if you felt I was treading on your toes.”

“Mind? I couldn’t be more delighted. I love it that he’s got somebody to take him to a game. Dad takes him occasionally, but he’s never been a huge football fan.”

“Excellent. So you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve decided to buy Dan a season ticket to Chelsea. So now we’ll both have one.”

“Hugh, that’s incredibly generous and Dan will hero-worship you until the end of time, but season tickets cost a fortune, as you well know.”

Hugh shrugged. “I can afford it. Plus I’m going to do that trekking-in-Morocco trip I’ve been talking about.”

“When?”
The Producers
had finished its run, but as far as I knew, he had months of building work lined up.

“November. Things always go quiet in the run-up to Christmas. Why don’t you come with me?”

“I’d love to, but I’ve got the kids to think about, and I couldn’t even think about leaving the business.”

His mouth turned down at the corners. “I don’t want to go on my own.”

“Brilliant, so don’t go and put the money into a savings account.”

If I was honest, it wasn’t just the thought of him spending the money that troubled me. Maybe I was jumping the gun, but I couldn’t help thinking that if we decided at some stage to make our relationship permanent, he would still want to take these trips abroad—leaving me, not to mention the children, who already thought the world of him, alone for weeks or even months at a time. When it came to men, I’d never been the needy, clingy type and I had no problem with Hugh—or me, for that matter—taking short breaks. The occasional week apart could be good for a relationship.
Months were different. I’d lost Mike to the next world. I didn’t want to lose Hugh to this one.

“Why should I put the money in a savings account?” Hugh said. “I’ve got all I need.”

“Yes, for now, but suppose you got ill and couldn’t work.”

“I’d be entitled to benefits. I don’t need much to live on. I own a few nice boy toys. I could always sell them. Plus I’m used to eating potatoes and beans.”

“But what about other things . . . clothes, shoes, haircuts?”

He shrugged. “I’d get by.”

“OK, but what about now? If you had money saved, you could think about buying a flat or a car. I definitely want those things. I want to be in a position where I can buy the kids new clothes without having to stop and think if I can afford it. And I always want to have money in the bank—something to fall back on.”

“Fair enough, but just make sure you don’t end up the richest corpse in the cemetery.”

“That’s a mean thing to say. You make it sound like I’m obsessed with money.”

He reached out and touched my arm. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Of course you’re not obsessed with money. It’s just that I see too many people hoarding cash instead of getting pleasure from it.”

It was the first time we’d had anything approaching a cross word and it left me feeling troubled. There was no doubt in my mind that I was falling for Hugh, but I was worried that his attitude to money—not to mention his long absences—might become a thing.

•   •   •

A
month after the shop opened, business wasn’t picking up and I was starting to panic. Bills were piling up that I couldn’t pay. I’d used my credit card to pay the Milkshakers a hundred-quid deposit. I was making sales, but not enough. Theater orders were trickling in, but not flooding. I decided to hold a strategy meeting with the aunties to discuss our next move. I asked if they could come in half an hour early on Monday morning.

When I arrived, Aunty Sylvia was in tears. Aunty Bimla was doing her best to comfort her with platitudes, which didn’t appear to be working.

I put my arm around her. “Aunty Sylvia, what on earth is it? I know business is slow, but you mustn’t let it get to you. If we put our heads together I’m sure we’ll come up with a plan.”

“It’s not that.”

It turned out that Roxanne’s cute little centipede movie had been canceled and she was back working on the checkout in Target.

“I keep telling her that Roxanne will be fine,” Aunty Bimla said. “And that God never gives us more than we can handle.”

“It’s the second time this has happened to her,” Aunty Sylvia said, dabbing her eyes and ignoring Aunty Bimla. “A few years ago she got a part in a cable show that got canceled. She was so happy to have finally got her big break and now it’s all gone. I’m just beside myself.”

Yes, but nothing like as beside herself as she would have been if she’d discovered the true nature of
Human Centipede 4
. Now Aunty Sylvia wouldn’t have a stroke from the shock and drop down dead. As far as I was concerned, the film being canceled was a miracle.

“That’s Tinseltown for you,” Aunty Bimla said. “It builds you up and then it steals your dreams.”

Aunty Sylvia dabbed her eyes. “Did your father say that?”

“No, Heath Ledger.”

“It’ll work out, you’ll see,” I said to Aunty Sylvia.

“It won’t. Roxanne’s talking about leaving LA and coming home.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” I said. “Maybe it’s time she made a fresh start. And if you’re honest, I think you’d like nothing better than to have her home.”

“Yes, but not if she’s going to be unhappy.”

“And how happy has she been working in a supermarket? When she gets home, maybe she could go take a course, retrain maybe.”

A sniff from Aunty Sylvia. “You could be right. Perhaps she could work with animals. Roxanne’s always loved animals. When she was little, she kept stick insects. The other kids were really scared of them, so Roxanne would take them to school and put them in their lunch boxes.”

Part of me was glad that when I was growing up, my path and Roxanne’s had never crossed.

“You know,” Aunty Bimla said, “not a day goes by when I don’t thank the Almighty for giving me Sanjeev and turning him into such a successful entrepreneur.”

“Yes, well, not all of us can be as lucky as you,” Aunty Sylvia snapped back.

In an effort to ease the tension, I said I would put the kettle on.

“Just half a cup for me,” Aunty Sylvia said.

I got up and flicked the switch on the kettle. “Oh, guess what, I finally got those bedpans appraised by a dealer.”

“And?” Aunty Bimla said.

“He said they were worth the sixty quid I paid for them. I put
them on eBay and they ended up going for seventy, but I forgot to ask the buyer to pay the postage. So I ended up exactly where I started.”

“Such a putz,” Aunty Sylvia said.

We all started laughing. The mood had lifted.

So, I said, “If we could focus on the business for a moment. Have either of you got any thoughts on how we could give it a bit of a kick start?”

There was no getting away from it; the big mistake had been my failure to set aside any money for advertising.

“Plus your Web site isn’t top-notch,” Aunty Bimla said.

Aunty Sylvia blinked at her. “What on earth do you know about Web sites?”

“Nothing at all, but I showed it to Sanjeev before he went to Paraguay. He said—and I quote: ‘The problem is you have no back end.’”

“Stop it, Sarah has a perfectly nice back end.”

I said that I knew what Sanjeev meant. My cheapo Web site was nothing more than a shop window. There was no way for customers to look at the products or buy online. “It was all I could afford. I can’t improve it until there’s some spare cash.”

“What about twittering?” Aunty Bimla said. “Sanjeev says that in business it is most important to . . . now let me get this right . . .
to hone your social media savvy
. He also mentioned something called
visibility
. We should think about a mission statement and post it on Facebook. And what about giving customers loyalty cards—you know, like they do in coffee shops?”

Aunty Sylvia said the idea was far too down-market and I was inclined to agree.

“You know what I think we should be doing?” I said. “Checking out the opposition. I’ve just realized that now Clementine Montecute is out of the frame, I’ve no idea who our main rivals are or if they’re doing any better than us. If they are doing better, I need to find out why.”

“Obviously there are the department stores,” Aunty Sylvia said, “but none of them does a bespoke service. Then there are few small lingerie shops dotted about the West End. Oh, and of course . . . Valentina di Rossi.”

I knew the name at once. Valentina di Rossi owned La Feminista. She had a branch in Kensington and a few more in the well-to-do suburbs. The business went back decades and was hugely successful. Gossip had it that Valentina di Rossi had been the only thorn in Clementine Montecute’s side.

“I think I should pay La Feminista a visit,” I said.

“Poppet, don’t. The place is so chic and glamorous. It will only make you depressed.”

“Probably, but I need to take a look. I should have done it months ago.”

“OK,” Aunty Sylvia said, “but whatever you do, don’t announce yourself.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Go on. I’m listening.”

It turned out that way back, Aunty Shirley and Valentina di Rossi had been good friends. They’d managed this despite being business rivals. Then they had an enormous falling-out.

“It was back in our heyday, poppet—when we had so much work
we were rushed off our feet. We didn’t know if we were coming or going.”

“When we were really up against it,” Aunty Sylvia broke in, “we would subcontract work. Shirley would give work to Valentina and vice versa. So one day Shirley asks if Valentina’s seamstresses can take on a big theater order that we can’t manage. They say yes. They do the work and Shirley refuses to pay up.”

“But why on earth would she do that?”

“Shirley said the work wasn’t up to standard, but it was. It was crazy—Bimla and I had to sit and remake all those corsets.”

“But that’s crazy. Aunty Shirley would never do something like that.”

The aunties explained that it had happened around the time that Uncle Harry was dying.

“Shirley went a bit crazy,” Aunty Sylvia said. “Actually she went a lot crazy. It was the stress of running the business and watching Harry die. She started having terrible panic attacks. She was on tranquilizers and antidepressants. Round about the time she refused to pay Valentina the money she owed, her doctor diagnosed a breakdown and she finally agreed to go into a psychiatric hospital. Bimla and I went to see Valentina to try to explain what was happening, but she didn’t want to know. She was too angry. When Shirley came out of hospital, Valentina threatened to take her to court, but in the end she gave up because her legal costs would have amounted to more than she was owed. Valentina never forgave her.”

“How much was involved?”

“Five thousand pounds,” Aunty Sylvia said. “And that was a long
time ago. Apparently Valentina was desperate for the money. She needed it to pay for her mother’s eye surgery in Switzerland.”

“But surely she could have gotten it from the bank? What about her husband?”

“He was an architect struggling to make a go of his new business. The bank refused her a loan because she’d just borrowed thousands to renovate the shop. Shirley—who was still loopy—accused her of making it all up, but a few months later her mother went blind and committed suicide. Once Shirley recovered, she realized what she’d done and wanted to repay her, but she could never afford it. Business had started to slow down and Harry left her with a mountain of debt. I think not being able to repay Valentina haunted her for the rest of her life.”

I thought back to the day before Aunty Shirley died and what she’d said to me about having regrets. This was what she was referring to.

“That’s awful. What a mess. Mum never told me anything about this. I suppose you can’t really blame Valentina for being angry. On the other hand, Aunty Shirley was a basket case.”

“You’ve no idea how ill she was,” Aunty Bimla said. “Your poor mother was beside herself with worry.”

It was typical of my mother that at the time she had shielded me from her distress.

“So, like I say,” Aunty Sylvia said. “Go if you must, but don’t introduce yourself. You won’t be welcome.”

I had no intention of making myself known to Valentina di Rossi. I imagined her yelling and swearing at me in Italian and chasing me out of the premises.

I asked the aunties to mind the shop and took the bus to Kensington. La Feminista was just off High Street.

The shop still had its original Georgian bow window. There were no mannequins in the window. Clearly Valentina thought that models draped in lingerie—no matter how expensive—looked trashy. It occurred to me that my window display could be turning customers off.

Outside, deep window boxes were bursting with garish geraniums and petunias. Gray marble steps led up to the door. A perfectly manicured bay tree stood at either side. I opened the glass door and felt my heels sink into the carpet. Assistants in black skirts and white blouses hovered. Women with impossibly young faces sat reading the glossies as they waited to be fitted.

One of the black-skirted assistants approached me and asked if she could be of help. “Oh . . . um . . . yes, I’d like to look at your swimwear.”