Best Supporting Role (29 page)

“No, but I wasn’t thinking. I was being utterly selfish. I’ve been feeling so alone these past few years. You have no idea. I thought it would be a way of getting you back.” Charles turned to me. “What I did was inexcusable. I’m deeply ashamed. You have every right to report the matter to the police.”

Maybe. On the other hand, here was a lonely old man, crying out for his wife’s attention. He knew that he’d done a bad thing and I was pretty sure he wouldn’t shake off the guilt any time soon. Assuming I could get the bra to the
BLR
offices in time, no real harm had been done.

“I can’t see any need to involve the police,” I said.

Charles looked close to tears. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need to say anything. Please, just give me the bra.”

He stood up. “It’s in my study.”

“I’m so sorry for this,” Valentina said. “All I can say is that what Charles did is completely out of character. He’s right, though. I have neglected him. It happens when you’re running a business. It swallows you up. I had no idea quite how badly it was affecting him.”

“I can see that,” I said.

“Thank you for not going to the police. I cannot tell you what that means to me. My reputation would have been destroyed overnight.”

“That’s OK. And I guess I owe you an apology, too. I shouldn’t have accused you. It was very wrong of me.”

“I would probably have done the same in your position.” She paused. “Of course, under the circumstances, I will call the organizers and withdraw from the contest.”

“No. Don’t do that. After all, no real harm’s been done.”

“But I couldn’t possibly take part now. It wouldn’t feel right.”

“Look, this wasn’t your fault. You deserve to be in the competition.”

“That is very generous of you. I don’t know what to say other than thank you.”

It occurred to me that Charles’ act of madness meant that Valentina and I were now even. She’d been hurt by Aunty Shirley. Charles had hurt me. We were never going to be friends, but it felt like we could call a truce.

Charles came back with the bra. Valentina found me some tissue paper to wrap it in and a box.

•   •   •

I
stood on the pavement and looked at my watch. I had twenty minutes to reach the
BLR
offices. I saw a black cab with its light on and stuck out my arm.

“I don’t care what it costs,” I said to the driver. “But I need you to get me to Piccadilly in twenty minutes.”

“You ’avin’ a laugh? ’Ave you seen the roadworks along Bayswater Road? You’ll be better off tubing it.”

I sprinted to Queensway station. At the barrier I discovered my Oyster card needed reloading. Then there was a queue at the ticket machine. Finally I made it to the platform. I probably waited no more than three minutes for a Central line train, but it felt like thirty. I needed to pick up the Bakerloo line at Oxford Circus. As usual the station was thick with shoppers and tourists. I pushed and barged my way through. “Sorry. Excuse me. Emergency.” A Bakerloo line pulled in as I reached the platform. I made it to Piccadilly Circus with five minutes to spare. The
BLR
offices were on Shaftesbury Avenue. Another mad dash. I arrived at reception, a sweaty, breathless beetroot.

“Bra competition,” I said, virtually slamming the box on the desk. I grabbed a pen and began scrawling my details across the box lid.

The commissionaire looked at the clock. “I’m afraid it’s two minutes past,” he said. “I have strict instructions. . . .”

“Please,” Wheeze. “I’m begging you.” Wheeze. “Some woman
stole my bra and then when I got it back, I tried to get a taxi, but there were roadworks and my Oyster card needed reloading. . . .”

I was one batshit crazy, beetrooty woman. “Tell you what,” the commissionaire said. “Why don’t we say, for the record, that it’s five to two?”

“You could do that? Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“No problem,” he said. “If you can’t help a fellow human being from time to time, what’s the point of it all? That’s what I say.”

I leaned over the desk and planted a huge smacker on his cheek.

•   •   •

T
he awards ceremony was due to be held the following Friday. It was a convention going back decades that the judging shouldn’t be long and drawn out. I felt grateful and terrified at the same time.

Aunty Sylvia decided she was going to stop worrying about the competition—because it was giving her acid—and plutz about something else instead: what to wear. Aunty Bimla had no trouble making up her mind—a formal occasion always called for her embroidered silk
salwar kameez
. Aunty Sylvia couldn’t decide. “Maybe I should go for my navy two-piece. But I’m just not sure it quite says dinner at the Savoy. Perhaps my emerald would be better. It’s got a bit of sparkle. Unless I went for my cream silk. Then of course I’d have to buy new shoes.”

While the aunties and I plutzed, Rosie spent dozens of hours practicing her catwalk strut. She’d taken to doing it in her back garden—using the long stone path as a runway. I would coach her over the garden fence.

“No, as you walk, bring your knees up more. You need to look more like one of those dressage horses. . . . That’s it.” Then she’d go and ruin it all by getting a stiletto caught in a crack in the crazy paving and falling on her face.

Troy—the hair and makeup artist who’d been recommended by Sylvia’s next-door neighbor’s daughter who worked as a fashion assistant on one of the glossies—came to Rosie’s to do a tryout. “OK, so I’m thinking that right now, ethereal is like majorly on trend.” His look of choice was bird’s nest hair, white lips and no eyebrows. Rosie was all for it and said we should dump the heels and go for army combat boots.

“Fabberlous,” said Troy. “You know I was at a show in Gowanus last week and Kate Moss was wearing them—in herringbone.”

I said that inspired as the concept was, maybe it need toning down, just a teensy bit.

“You see, Rosie’s going to be modeling a nursing bra and I’m looking for a look that’s more . . .”

“Say no more. I’m already in your headspace. OK, I’m thinking Madonna and child. . . . How’s about we forget the hair and cover her head with a nun’s veil? Then you juxtapose that with cheap hooker makeup and a giant crucifix.”

“Help me out here,” I muttered to Rosie.

“I think what Sarah’s trying to say is that she’s thinking more suburban chic.”

Troy took a moment to process this. “I . . . am . . . loving . . . it. That is like so übercurrent. We’ll keep it understated and natural—peach tones, hair long and loose, a few soft curls maybe.”

I patted his shoulder. “Troy, I think you’ve got it.”

•   •   •

I
dug out one of my taffeta rockabilly party dresses. It was dark green with a black shimmer. I’d worn it for my engagement party. It had always been one of Mike’s favorites.

I tried it on, along with the fat black net petticoat. Not only did it still fit—with all the stress of the last couple of weeks I must have lost weight—but although I said it myself, it didn’t look at all bad. I got it dry-cleaned and treated myself to a pair of peep-toe heels.

On the day of the ceremony I closed the shop early to give us time to go home and get ready. Mum and Dad were collecting the kids from school and taking them back to their place for the night.

I was sitting on the bed doing my makeup and enjoying the peace when the phone rang. “Mum, we’re just calling to wish you good luck and Dan wants to know if he sits on his hand all day, will it fall off and will he die? Oh, and Grandma says that you should break a leg, but I don’t want you to break a leg.”

No sooner had I gotten off the phone from my children and both parents than it rang again. I looked at the caller ID. Hugh. I felt a great surge of happiness and hope. He’d phoned to apologize, to tell me he’d rethought his crazy adolescent way of life and that he’d come up with a strategy. I hit “answer.”

“Hugh!”

“Have I caught you at a bad time?”

“No, not at all . . . I mean apart from the fact that it’s the Bra Oscars tonight and I’m in the middle of getting myself all dolled up.”

“That’s actually why I called. I just wanted to wish you good luck.”

“Aw, that’s really kind. Thank you.”

“So how you doing?”

“I’m good.”

“Kids?”

“Yep, they’re good, too.”

“Your mum and dad?”

“Both fine. So how are you? Anything going on?”

“Not really. Just the same ol’ same ol’. Working hard. You know me.”

“Sure.”

“Right, well . . . I should probably get going. . . .”

“Yep, me, too. Still got to dry my hair.”

“Anyway, good luck again.”

“Thanks. And thanks again for calling. I appreciate it.”

I fell back on the bed. Disappointment didn’t begin to describe what I was feeling.

•   •   •

“B
ut you could have made a move,” Rosie said as we waited outside for the taxi. “Told him how much you were missing him. He’d made the effort to call and wish you luck—the least you could have done was meet him halfway.”

“I can’t. That’s all there is to it. Now can we let the subject drop? Please?”

“You’re such an idiot, do you know that?”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You look beautiful by the way,” I said. “Your tits look amazing.”

“It’s the scaffolding,” she said, referring to the seriously boned Vivienne Westwood she’d picked up at T.J. Maxx.

“And you’re clear about what time you’re due to go and get changed?”

She said she’d had a call from one of the competition organizers and apparently the toastmaster would announce it during dinner. A meeting room had been set aside for the models, where they could get ready and do their hair and makeup. The plan was for Troy to join her there.

“And I love that pink you’ve used on your nails,” I said. “It’s perfect.”

“You’re not going to get round me. I still think you’re an idiot.”

“OK, I’m an idiot. I’m also really, really nervous. Do you think we could have this conversation another time?”

“Sure.” She reached into her bag, pulled out two miniature Scotch bottles and handed me one. “Get this down you,” she said. “Oh—and you look gorgeous, too.”

•   •   •

W
e headed to the River Room, where predinner drinks and canapés were being served.

Everyone and anyone in lingerie was there, milling and mwahing and sipping Sea Breezes as the evening sun poured through French windows and a cellist played Bach in the background.

Rosie said the place had to be full of journalists from the glossies and that I needed to start working the room.

“What? I can’t just march up to people and barge in on their conversations.”

“Of course you can. You just introduce yourself and let them know that you’re this new hot-shit kid on the lingerie block.”

“You want me to say that?”

“Well, maybe not those exact words.”

“Hang on,” I said, noticing a blond woman in heavy tortoiseshell specs. “Isn’t that India Fitzroy?”

“Who?”

“You know. Writes for
Elle
. I recognize her from her byline picture.”

“OK, you have to go over and speak to her. Play your cards right and she might give you some publicity.”

India appeared to be on her own. What did I have to lose? I made my way over. Rosie was a couple of paces behind.

“India, how do you do. I’m Sarah Green. I’m one of the contestants.”

“Oh, right, yah.” She offered me a limp hand.

“I’m such an admirer of your work. I’d just like to say that I absolutely adored your piece on the return of denim.”

“It went away?” Rosie said. I dug her in the ribs.

“Thanks. Glad you liked it.”

“I really did. Anyway, I run Sarah Green Lingerie. It’s a new business—well, not totally new—my aunty Shirley used to run it. Then she died. . . .”

“Really. Great. Fabulous.” India was looking past me, clearly scanning the room for somebody more interesting to speak to.

“And this is my friend Rosie. She’s going to be modeling my entry.”

India gave a vague nod in Rosie’s direction. “Great tits,” she said.

Before Rosie had a chance to say anything, India was off. “Valentina, darling! How are you?”

“That went well, then,” I said.

“Brilliant . . . She liked my tits, though. So is she gay or what?”

“No, she’s just in the fashion biz. It’s how they are.”

•   •   •

T
he aunties had stationed themselves near the bar—not that they were drinking anything stronger than orange juice.

“Here they come,” Aunty Sylvia cried. “Oh, will you just look at the pair of them. Aren’t those dresses stunning?”

Aunty Bimla agreed and said that we were both the belles of the ball.

“And look at you two,” I said, giving them hugs. “Don’t you look gorgeous?”

Aunty Sylvia had gone for her emerald. Aunty Bimla was in peacock blue. There were dozens of bangles at her wrists. Dark blue crystals set in gold cascaded to her collarbone.

“Tell me honestly,” she said. “You don’t think it’s a bit too Aladdin’s mother?”

Rosie and I sipped Sea Breezes while the aunties oohed and aahed over the canapés, the flowers, the thickness of the carpets, the politeness of the waitstaff, the cellist and the difficulties of fitting such an enormous instrument between her legs while still managing to look ladylike. If they disapproved of anything, it was some of the women’s outfits. Aunty Sylvia was particularly vocal on the subject. “What does she look like? I wore more to give birth.”

“So, do we know how many contestants there are?” I said.

Aunty Bimla thought she’d overheard somebody say there were around sixty.

“There are so many unknown quantities,” I said. “It won’t just be Valentina we’re up against.”

“You know, poppet, not many people would have let that husband of hers get away with what he did. He’s a bad egg.”

“Hear, hear,” Aunty Sylvia muttered.

“Come on, Valentina did offer to take herself out of the competition. It was me who insisted she stay in. Charles isn’t bad. He’s just old and lonely.”