Best Supporting Role (6 page)

The stone setting stirred up so many emotions in me—as I knew it would. In the days that followed, I felt pretty low. When Steve called for one of his regular chats, I found myself blubbing and telling him how miserable I was. He didn’t say as much, but he left me in no doubt that if I needed a shoulder to cry on, his was ready and waiting. The following week we met for coffee and I availed myself of his shoulder—with far greater zeal than I intended. Afterwards, I convinced myself that all my tears and soul baring had blown our friendship. But it hadn’t. Coffee led to dinner, which led to more dinners, which led to us dating.

“I know you weren’t expecting me until tomorrow,” he said as he stepped into the hall, “but I wanted to see how you were doing and check you were OK. I’m so sorry I wasn’t around to help you move in. I almost never have to work weekends. . . .”

“It’s been fine, honest. Mum and Dad have been great and we coped brilliantly.” I led him into the kitchen and put the champagne bottle down on the worktop. “So, what do you think of the place?”

He stood taking it in. “Very nice. Somebody’s done a really great renovation job.”

I went to find some glasses.

“So, what are you doing about security? In this neighborhood you need to be careful. Have you got window locks? What about an alarm system?”

“You sound like my mother. Yes, there are window locks and yes, there’s an alarm system. . . . Stop panicking.”

“I’m sorry. I worry about you, that’s all.

“Oh, and I have another small gift,” he was saying now. “Check your e-mail.”

“Another one? Honestly, the champagne was more than enough.”

On the other hand, a voucher for a full-body massage at the Sanctuary would be more than welcome. Right now my shoulders ached so much from all the lifting and lugging, I thought my arms might fall off. I picked my laptop up off the coffee table, went into my e-mail and clicked on the attachment Steve had sent. It took me a second or two to process what I was looking at. “Wow—you downloaded me an Excel Household Budget spreadsheet.”

“Yeah, when we’ve had a drink, I’ll show you how to use it.”

“You know, Steve, this is really thoughtful of you, but I’m not sure I need help budgeting. I’ve been doing fine since Mike died. I know you mean well, but it wasn’t me who got us into debt—Mike did.”

“True, but for a long time you chose to turn a blind eye.”

“I did, but my eye is very much on the ball now.”

“So you clip coupons, right?”

“Oh, come on . . . who can be bothered? Plus I can’t stand those people who hold up the queue in the supermarket while the checker goes through their two hundred coupons.”

“What about looking for offers and deals at the supermarkets?”

“I have a life.”

“But there’s so much you can do to save money.”

“I’m sure there is. I could save on laundry bills by declaring Wednesday Nude Day. Instead of turning on the lights, I could save on electricity by wearing night vision goggles. I could start haggling at the supermarket.”

He started laughing. “OK, I hear you. I’m being patronizing. I apologize.”

“Look, don’t get me wrong, after everything I went through with
Mike, it’s good having somebody worry about me for once, but I don’t need you hovering over me all the time.”

“Point taken. It’s just my way of showing that I care, that’s all.”

“I know.” I went over and gave him a hug. “Come on, let’s open that bottle.”

We took our drinks to the sofa. Steve put his arm around me and pulled me close. Affection, physical contact that didn’t come from my parents or the kids, was something else I was enjoying.

“If you like,” he said, “I could stay over tonight. I’d be gone before the kids woke up.”

I looked up at him. “I don’t know. . . . I’m still not sure I’m ready. I know it’s been over a year since Mike died, but . . .”

“Don’t worry. It’s OK. Take as long as you need. I’m not going anywhere.” He gave me a squeeze.

“And what if the kids woke up in the night and found you in bed with me? Can you imagine the effect that would have on them? They haven’t even met you yet.”

“You’re right. I wasn’t thinking. But what I don’t understand . . .”

“Is why I’m finding it so hard to move on?”

“Yes . . . after all, Mike put you through hell.”

“I’m not sure I understand it myself. All I know is that grieving is a long and complicated process.”

I couldn’t tell him that, despite everything Mike had done and even though I’d been planning to ask him for a divorce, I’d never stopped loving him. I still loved him, and when you loved a person, you didn’t cheat on them.

•   •   •

S
hirley’s nurse, Denise, told me to go on up. “She seems to have got some of her mojo back . . . been giving me hell since seven o’clock this morning. Her soft-boiled egg was too soft. . . . I forgot to cut her toast into soldiers. . . .”

“Oh God, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry, I’m used to it. She’ll apologize later like she always does. And it’s a good sign. Your aunty Shirley may not be long for this world, but she’s putting up one hell of a fight.”

As I climbed the stairs to the bedroom, I could hear the sound of the Aussie soap
Neighbours
. Shirley loved the daft plotlines and wobbly sets.

I poked my head round the door. Shirley, wasted and pale, was lying in bed, propped up by a stack of pillows.

“Hey, Aunty Shirl.”

I made her jump. “Sahara! My favorite niece. What a wonderful surprise.” Her bony hand picked up the remote and zapped the TV. “Load of rubbish. Gets worse. Don’t know why I watch it.”

“So how are you?” I said as I reached the bed.

A shrug. “I’m dying. How should I be?” For a dying person, her voice was still pretty strong.

With an almighty effort, Shirley heaved herself off the pillows and gave me a kiss. I felt her cheekbone against mine, protruding through tight parchment skin. As she fell back onto the pillows, her blond, big-hair wig slipped and I caught a glimpse of the sparse, post-chemo regrowth underneath. It wasn’t the cancer that had caused Aunty Shirley to start wearing wigs. She’d worn them ever since I could remember. She owned several. They all had names. Today she was wearing her Alexis. Her Tina and her Dolly were draped over wig stands on her dressing table.

“Denise says you’re having a pretty good day today,” I said.

Aunty Shirley finished adjusting her wig. “Ach. What does she know?”

I was used to seeing Shirley in her false eyelashes and thick orange foundation. These days—although she still insisted on wearing her wigs—she couldn’t be bothered with makeup. I understood why she used to call it her “war paint.” Her lack of lippy and liner, not to mention her sallow, sickly face, made her look defenseless.

“Denise said that you ate breakfast. That’s good. You need to keep your energy up.”

“Since when did you need energy to die?”

What did you say to that?

“So, Sahara, still not wearing a decent bra, I see.”

“Again with the bra . . . You know, when somebody comes to visit, it’s customary to indulge in a little polite chitchat—at least for the first few minutes.”

“What is this,
Pride and Prejudice
? Plus as a dying person, I don’t have time for chitchat.”

“What’s meant to be wrong with my bra? I just bought a new one.”

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it. Even with your clothes on, I can see it doesn’t fit. Tell me, what size do you think you are?”

“This one’s a thirty-eight D.”

Shirley rolled her eyes. “I get so cross with you. Why will you never do as I ask and come to the shop for a proper fitting?”

Aunty Shirley was directrice of Shirley Feldman Exclusive Foundation Garments
.
The shop, around the corner from Selfridges, was her whole world, the child she never had.

“Because whenever I come, you shout at me and tell me off.”

“Nonsense. When have you ever known me to shout?”

I gave her a look. “This from the woman who yelled at Princess Grace of Monaco.”

“She deserved it. The woman was such a diva . . . always changing her mind.”

“Then you fell out with Sophia Loren.”

“That was a misunderstanding. I still get a Christmas card. . . . So, are you done accusing me? . . . Good. Now listen. There is no way you are a thirty-eight. Looking at you, I’d say you’re a thirty-four, tops. . . . Your back is narrow. But your cup size . . . different matter. F to double F, depending on the make of bra.”

“Double F? That’s humongous. I’m never a double F.”

“I’m telling you that you are.”

“But how do you know? You haven’t even measured me.”

“Tape measures are for amateurs. I can take one look at a woman and tell her bra size—even when she’s wearing a coat.”

“But the one I’m wearing feels perfectly OK.”

“Sahara, you don’t get it. . . . A bra isn’t meant to feel just OK. It’s meant to feel wonderful. In fact if you’re wearing the proper-size bra, you shouldn’t be aware of it at all. Now then, take off your top.”

“What?”

“Oh, come on, it’s only us girls. Take off your top.”

I took it off. Shirley told me to go and stand in front of the full-length mirror.

“Now take a look at your bust. How many breasts have you got?”

“Er . . . that would be two?”

“Wrong. Try six.”

“What? Where?”

“You’ve got the two you were born with. Then you’ve got two more spilling over the top of your bra and two more spilling out at the armpits. That makes six. Women like you, with large breasts, always make the mistake of buying bras that are too big in the back, when in fact what they need is a larger cup.”

I looked. She was right. I was spilling out of the bra. And maybe it did feel a bit loose at the back.

“Now then, stretch—like you’re reaching up to a high shelf.”

I stretched. “OK, you win. It’s riding up.”

“Huh! Of course it is. OK, now take a look under the bed.”

“What? Why do you want me to look under the bed?”

“You’ll see. Just take a look.”

I bent down. There must have been half a dozen clear plastic crates, packed with bras.

“It’s surplus stock from the shop. There isn’t room to store it all. Right, look in the box marked
Ophelia
and see how many thirty-four double Fs you can find.”

I rummaged through the box of black and white lace bras and found three.

“OK, let’s try one on. Take off your bra.”

I hesitated.

“Oh, come on. Get on with it. I’m dying here.”

I did as she barked.

“Right—put the straps over your shoulders and let your breasts fall into the cups. That’s the correct way to put on a bra. Now fasten it. What do you think?”

I adjusted the straps and went to look in the mirror again. My breasts were fully enclosed and supported. “Blimey. I don’t know
what to say. That’s amazing. And it’s really comfortable.” I began moving and stretching. The bra didn’t budge.

“What did I tell you? So how many breasts do you have now?”

“Just the regulation two.”

Aunty Shirley said I should keep the three bras.

“And don’t you dare start offering to pay for them. Think of them as your inheritance,” she said.

I pulled on my top; then I went over and gave her a hug.

“Thanks, Aunty Shirl. I don’t know what to say. That’s really generous of you.”

She harrumphed and said she was still cross with me for never letting her fit me before.

“So . . . look at me,” she went on. “What do you think? I finally made it to a size zero. That’s the one good thing about cancer—the weight loss. You remember how fat I was before I got ill? I used to sit in the bath and the water level would rise in the toilet.”

I sat back down on the bed and took her hand. “How do you manage to keep laughing?”

“I’ve done my crying. I’m nearly eighty. I’ve had a good life and now I’m ready to meet the guy upstairs. The question is . . . is he ready to meet me?”

“Possibly not,” I said.

“Do you think God speaks English? ’Cos I’m telling you, if I get to heaven and find I have to point at pictures on menus, I’m going to be seriously pissed off.”

Now we were both laughing. “You know what?” I said. “I think I can safely say I’ve never had this much fun talking to a dying person.”

“I wish I could joke around like this with your mother. She just weeps and wrings her hands the whole time.”

“She doesn’t want to lose you.”

“I get that, but it’s not like I have any say in the matter.” She paused and started to look thoughtful. “Sahara, I’m glad you came, because I want to talk to you about the shop.”

“What about it?”

“As you know, it hasn’t been doing so well these last few years.”

The truth was it hadn’t been doing well these last few decades. The heyday it had enjoyed while it was being patronized by Hollywood royalty, not to mention actual royalty, had ended in 1992. In March that year, Clementine Montecute, a young lingerie designer, who just happened to be the Queen’s third cousin, returned from Paris—where she had been designing bras and corsets for the likes of Chantelle and Pérèle—to open her own Mayfair atelier.
Vogue
,
Tatler
and
Elle
attended the launch along with dozens of A-listers and a sprinkling of minor royals. Claudia Schiffer cut the satin ribbon. Shirley Feldman’s reign as queen of British lingerie was over.

It was the theater and opera companies that kept the business afloat. Period costumes required the correct foundation garments and Shirley’s “girls”—the corsetieres and bra makers who worked for her—were experts at creating the perfect Edwardian S-shaped corsets and bust bodices. But since the recession, theaters couldn’t afford to put on lavish, costume-heavy productions and orders were falling off.

“The thing is, I’m worried about the girls. I don’t know what’s going to happen to them when I’m gone. They’re pushing seventy.
They’re both widows. They depend on me for their income. Who’s going to take them on? I can’t leave them high and dry. I just can’t.”

I’d known Aunty Shirley’s “girls” since forever. When Mum needed new bras, she would always drag me along to the shop. “One day you’ll be a woman and have boobies like Mummy. For a while they will be firm and perky, but then after you have babies, they’ll sag and move independently and you’ll need a really decent bra that lifts and supports.”