by Sue Margolis
“OK, done,” Steve said. “I take it you’ve remembered the shop keys.”
I jingled them in front of his nose.
“OK. I was only asking.”
I’d gone round to Aunty Bimla’s a few days ago to pick up the keys. She and Aunty Sylvia had been bent over a pair of ancient Viking sewing machines—which they’d set up on the dining room table—working on an order for corsets for a Royal Opera House production of Così fan tutte. Now that Shirley was gone, neither of them could face going back to the shop. “I hope you don’t mind us working here, poppet,” Aunty Bimla said, “but the shop holds too many memories.” I told her that I was perfectly happy for them to work from home. I wasn’t about to add to their distress by insisting they go back to the shop for the few weeks it would take to finish the order.
We adjourned to the living room and Aunty Bimla served us milky tea and Bombay mix, which we ate in the traditional way, with a spoon. I’d been in this room once before, about ten years ago. Aunty Bimla’s husband had just died and Mum and I came to pay our respects. It was the same as I remembered it—the swirly royal blue and gold carpet, the giant color photograph of Mecca over the mantelpiece, the minaret-design sofa pillows.
The aunties asked after Mum and Dad. I asked how the corsets were coming along. They were coming along fine.
“So, poppet,” Aunty Bimla said, “you’ve definitely decided to close down the shop?”
“Pretty much, but first I thought I’d take a look at the books. I just want to check there isn’t a bit of extra cash lying around—enough to get the shop going again.”
“There’s nothing, poppet. We would have known if there was. You are definitely barking up the wrong tree. You mustn’t worry about closing the shop. All in all, it’s for the best.”
Aunty Sylvia put down her china cup. “It’s the end of an era, though. Forty years we’ve worked there. Where did the time go?”
“I haven’t the foggiest notion, but all good things come to an end.” Aunty Bimla placed her hand on top of Aunty Sylvia’s. They both had tears in their eyes.
“I hate doing this after everything you did for Aunty Shirley. She was so grateful and you know she thought the world of both of you.”
“It was mutual,” Aunty Sylvia said.
“But you must do what is right for you and your children, poppet. Put your best foot forward. Carpe diem—that’s what my father used to say. Seize the carp.”
I said that I would do my best.
As I drained my teacup, it occurred to me that Aunty Shirley might owe the aunties money. “By the way, when was the last time Shirley paid you?”
“A few days before she died,” Aunty Sylvia said.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” I saw her shoot Aunty Bimla a glance. I knew she wasn’t telling the truth.
“Look, you have to tell me if you’re owed money. If you are, I’ll see you get it.”
I would have no choice other than to borrow from Mum and Dad.
“Shirley owes us nothing,” Aunty Sylvia said. “Now let that be an end to it.”
“I agree,” Aunty Bimla said. “We are all square. You mustn’t give it another thought.”
Easier said than done. When it was time to say good-bye, they both hugged me until I couldn’t breathe.
“Thank you,” I said. “For everything.”
“It has been our pleasure, Bubbie.”
“See you soon, poppet, and don’t be a stranger.”
• • •
While Steve put money in the meter, I stood outside the shop, struggling to unlock the door. There were three keys and it took me a couple of minutes to work out which one fitted which lock.
Inside, envelopes and junk mail were sprawled over the mat. Once I’d gathered them up, I looked around. Jeez. To say the place was in need of a makeover was an understatement. The pale green carpet, which I remembered from my childhood, was worn and stained; ditto the matching green and gold brocade curtains draped across the changing rooms. The fake gilt trim was coming away from the white melamine counter. On the ceiling, the Styrofoam tiles were coming loose. Several had fallen off. I looked back at the counter and to the wall of wooden drawers behind it. They were dark and Dickensian. When I was a child, they had given me the willies. I’d called them “the brown drawers.” As I’d got older, I still couldn’t bring myself to think of the drawers as beautiful, but I began to appreciate their quality and that they had character. Attached to the drawer fronts were filigree label holders. These were in desperate need of a good going over with some Brasso. The slips of paper inside were yellow and torn. Written on each, in thick italic script, was a bra size. The smallest was 32A. The largest was 46JJ. Mother of God—and I thought I had big boobs.
“You know what this place needs?” Steve said as he walked in.
“What?”
“A flamethrower. How did your aunty Shirley let it get like this? The seventies will definitely be wanting that till back. And look at those drawers. Where did she find them—Uriah Heep’s Dumpster?”
“Well, I think they’re rather magnificent. Shirley was always talking about updating, but after Harry died, I think the spirit went out of her. Then, when business started to trail off, there wasn’t the money to do it.”
Steve carried on looking around. “The place needs total gutting. Have you noticed the ceiling? Look at the gaps where the tiles have fallen off.”
I looked up. There were deep cracks in the ceiling.
I suggested we take a look at the workroom. “Through the door and down the stairs.”
Steve opened the door. Inside was pitch-black. I fumbled for the switch. The fluorescent strip began to buzz and flicker. As I followed him down the steep, narrow stairway, he warned me to watch my step. “Have you seen how the carpet’s coming up? I’m amazed somebody hasn’t broken their neck.”
The basement was pretty cramped. The only daylight came from a small window at one end. Funny, as a child I’d thought the room was huge. I used to love coming down into this secret cave with its boxes of lace and ribbons, tiny teardrop pearls and dainty satin rosebuds with actual diamonds in the center. I knew they were real because the aunties told me. The aunties always let me choose some lace and a length of ribbon to take home.
The first thing I noticed now was the cork floor tiles curling up at the corners. Then I found myself wondering if it had always been this untidy. Piles of boxes, old order books and rolls of satin were stacked against the walls. Two sewing machines, which Aunty Shirley had bought a few years ago to replace the old Vikings (which now lived with Aunty Bimla), sat on a couple of battered postwar utility desks. Every surface, including the floor, was littered with underwires and trimmings.
Steve began to sneeze. It was the dust. He had sensitive sinuses.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” I said. There was a tiny alcove kitchen area at one end of the workroom, along with a loo. Steve looked at the tea stains in the sink and pulled a face.
“Don’t panic,” I said. “The cups are perfectly clean.” I picked one up and wiped my finger around the inside. “Bit dusty, that’s all. I’ll give it a good rinse.”
But he wasn’t having it. Steve wanted a “decent” espresso and insisted on fetching one from the Italian place a couple of doors down. I made myself a cup of Taylors Yorkshire.
He returned with his coffee and two enormous chocolate éclairs. We sat devouring the éclairs, dripping cream over the workbenches.
“So where’s the computer?” Steve said.
“Computer?”
“Yes. Remember … I’ve come to look at Aunty Shirley’s accounts. And I’m assuming you know her password.”
I carried on chewing. “She didn’t have one.”
“What? Who in their right mind doesn’t have a password?”
“No—I mean she didn’t have a computer.”
“No computer,” he repeated.
“That’s right. She was a complete technophobe
. She did her accounts the old-fashioned way. If I remember rightly, she kept the books in the safe.” I directed him to the cupboard under the sink. “The safe’s to your left … at the back.”
He was kneeling down, his head inside the cupboard. “Christ, I can hardly see it. So what’s the combination?”
“She didn’t bother. Give the door a tug. It’ll be open.”
A few moments later he was upright again, clasping three old-fashioned, leather-bound ledgers and brushing a cobweb off his sweater.
I suggested we take the books back to my place and go over them there. “Maybe we could order a curry later and watch a movie.” I was putting the first part of my seduction plan into action.
“Or we could go back to mine. I’ve got a lamb and apricot tagine in the oven.”
“Yours it is,” I said. “Give me a lamb tagine and I’m anybody’s.”
“That’s always good to know.”
Steve had been in his flat just over a year. It was in a brand-new development not far from his office in Tower Bridge. He believed in buying new property because it always came with a ten-year guarantee.
He’d bought the show flat, complete with furniture, because he found decorating a chore. And the beige and cream color scheme was neutral and inoffensive.
“So how’s your campaign to snare Greg Myers coming along?” he said as we chatted in the kitchen, me making tea, him checking on the tagine, which smelled divine.
“I haven’t gotten around to e-mailing his agent yet, but I will.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Jeez, why are you being so negative?”
“I’m not being negative. I wished you good luck.”
I harrumphed and let it go.
We took our mugs of tea and Aunty Shirley’s books to the dining room table. Having run my own business, I wasn’t totally clueless when it came to reading a set of accounts, but I decided to leave Steve to it. After all, he was the expert. He ran his fingers over the columns, turned page after page, tutting and muttering as he went.
“I’m assuming it’s not looking good,” I said.
“It’s not just that. Her books are so chaotic. God knows what her accountant made of them.”
“Oh, she didn’t bother with an accountant.”
“That figures.”
“So what’s the bottom line?”
“Well, Aunty Shirley certainly wasn’t making a profit. Judging by her most recent figures, she was barely breaking even, but at least there appears to be no debt, which is something. Looks like she’s even paid her rent until the end of this year.”
He continued to pore over the pages. Meanwhile I turned my attention to the pile of mail I brought with me from the shop. I threw the junk into the kitchen bin and put the utility bills, invoices and payments in a pile. There was a brown envelope from Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs, which I assumed was another bill, but for some reason I decided to open it.
It took me a moment or two to take in what I was reading. “Blimey. Steve … look at this.”
“What?”
I handed him the letter. “Is this what I think it is?”
He started reading. “It most certainly is. It would appear that in the financial year twenty eleven to twelve the Inland Revenue overcharged your aunty Shirley to the tune of ten thousand three hundred and fifty-six pounds, thirty-two pence, and she’s due a rebate.”
“But she’s dead. Does that mean they get to keep it?”
“No. It will be paid to her estate. As her sole beneficiary, that means you get it.” Steve said that all I had to do was send the letter to her lawyer and he would sort it out.
“So what will you do with the money?”
I was in no doubt. “I’ll split it between the aunties. When I saw them, I got the definite impression that they hadn’t been paid in a while. Plus Aunty Shirley was desperate to give them something to say thank you for all their years of hard work. At least I’ll be doing something to make her happy.”
“You and your guilty conscience. You do realize that the money would pay for you to upgrade your car and take the kids on a decent holiday.”
“I know, but this is more important.”
After we’d eaten Steve’s magnificent lamb tagine, we took the wine bottle and our glasses to the sofa. Netflix had just got the latest Coen brothers movie, which had come out a few months ago and we’d both missed. We had started smooching and I was letting things take their course—and rather enjoying it—when something occurred to me.
“Of course you do realize what else I could do with the money?”
“What?” He carried on planting kisses on my neck.
“Well … I could give the aunties a couple of grand each to keep them going, use two to spruce up the shop and put the rest in the kitty.”
“What kitty?” The kisses stopped.
“Well, I’d need a kitty if I was going to get the business going again.”
“Hang on,” he said, pulling away. “You’re seriously thinking about taking over the shop?”
“I don’t know. Maybe ten grand—actually nearly eleven—changes things. Plus you said that Aunty Shirley had paid her rent until the end of the year.”
“Sarah, are you out of your mind? Ten or even eleven thousand pounds doesn’t even begin to change things. It’s nothing. It’s a drop in the ocean. It’s less than a drop in the ocean. First it would take twenty grand minimum to renovate the shop. It needs rewiring, replastering. God knows what state the plumbing is in. On top of that it needs a complete redesign and refit. Have you any idea what that costs?”
“But Aunty Shirley rented the shop. Surely the landlord is responsible for the upkeep of the actual building.”
“I’m sure he is. Sarah, your aunt was no fool. Don’t you think she probably tried to get money out of the landlord?”
“Possibly, but what if she didn’t try?”
Steve sat shaking his head.
“If I could get the landlord to update the wiring and fix the plasterwork, I could take care of the refit.”
“What, you can build units and shelves?”
“Of course not. I’d get somebody in, but I’ve got a bit of an eye for interior design, so I could plan it all. And I’m thinking that I could do a sort of shabby chic thing, which wouldn’t cost too much—lick of paint, some junk shop bits and pieces.”
“And you think that hipster chic is going to work in the West End? Please.”
“Depends how you do it.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Sarah, listen to me. Even if you were able to fund the renovations, what makes you think you’d be able to compete with what’s her name … the Montecute woman? You’ve said yourself she’s got the market sewn up.”
“I know, but maybe we could at least attempt to take her on and then the aunties wouldn’t be left high and dry.”
“You’re not leaving them high and dry. You’re giving each of them five thousand pounds. They’ll be fine.”
“How long do you think they’ll last on five grand? These women don’t have families to look after them.”
“They probably have savings and they own their own homes. They’ll have to downgrade. Plenty of people do it.”
“You know, sometimes you can be really callous.”
“I’m not being callous. I’m being realistic.”
“But what if I could make it work?”
By now, Steve was twitching with anger and frustration. He took a deep breath. “OK, let’s spool back a bit here. How many times have you insisted to me that all you want from life is financial security? How many times have you said that after living with Mike, all you want is an uncomplicated worry-free life? I’ve even heard you use the word ‘dull.’”
“I know all that, but despite everything, there’s this voice inside me that keeps nagging away, telling me that I would be a coward if I didn’t at least make an attempt to resurrect the business.”
“The only thing nagging
you is guilt. It’s ridiculous and it has to stop. It’s making you behave irrationally.”
“It’s not just guilt.” I reminded him how I had given up my dressmaking business and lived to regret it. “I let one opportunity pass me by. Can I let another one go?”
“But this isn’t an opportunity. It’s a recipe for ruin.”
“Maybe, but if it came to it, Mum and Dad would always take me and the children in. We would always have a roof over our heads. And I’d just have to start over and get another job.”
“And that’s the example you want to set for Dan and Ella? You want them to know that they had not one but two irresponsible parents who gambled away their lives?”
I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. I sat staring at him. Then the anger kicked in. I stood up. “I can’t believe you just said that. God knows I made mistakes in the past and I’m not proud of that, but I am doing everything in my power to provide for my kids and be a good mother. That doesn’t mean I have to accept my lot and rein in my own ambition.”
He was standing in front of me now, his hands resting on the tops of my arms.
“I’m sorry. What I said was cruel. I don’t know where it came from.” I could see the contrition in his face, but I was furious. Tears of rage were welling up inside me. If he thought I was about to forgive him, he could think again.
“Yes, it was cruel.” I gathered up my coat and bag.
“Where are you going?”
“Home,” I said. “I need to think.”
“What about? The shop?”
“No. Us.”
Chapter 6
I was setting the table for dinner. It was Sunday evening and Mum and Dad were due back with the kids any minute and were staying for meat loaf—Dad’s favorite. The radio was on in the background. I don’t know what program I was listening to, but a group of women were discussing why they’d stayed so long in bad marriages. One woman’s story caught my attention. I turned up the volume.
“It took years for the penny to finally drop,” she was saying. “But in the end I realized that what I took to be concern for my welfare was actually more about his need to control me. People tend to think of controlling men as angry and violent—and that’s why I didn’t pick up on it… . My husband was always so gentle and kind.”
