Best Supporting Role

by Sue Margolis

  “Jolly good. Jolly good,” she declared. “Now then, you’ll have to excuse me, but I must fly. I’ve got an appointment with the doc. I’ve decided that menopause-wise, hormones are definitely the way forward. My memory’s got so bad, I’m practically having to write the boys’ names on Post-it notes.”

  She laughed her hearty laugh and strode off, not before making me promise to keep her in the loop Greg Myers–wise.

  I should have headed straight to work, but instead, almost without thinking I turned the car around and set off towards Aunty Bimla’s. Having spent the night angry and troubled as I dissected my relationship with Steve, suddenly I was high with excitement. I couldn’t wait to tell the aunties that I had decided to get the business up and running and they had their jobs back. I could have called them, but this was news that I wanted to deliver in person.

  On the way, I called Don at the nonemergency helpline. “Don, I’m really sorry, but something urgent has come up. I’m going to be an hour or so late; can you possibly manage without me?”

  “You all right, Sarah? Anything I can do?”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine. Something I need to sort out, that’s all.”

  “No worries. Everything’s quiet here. See you when we see you.”

  “Thanks, Don. I owe you one.”

  Aunty Bimla’s face lit up as she opened the front door. “Poppet, what are you doing here?”

  “I have news.”

  “Good, I hope … Come in, come in. Sylvia’s just got here. We haven’t quite finished the corsets for Così fan tutte. Another day or so and we will be done. I don’t want you to think we have been shilly-shallying.”

  “You honestly believe I’d think that?” I put my arm around her and gave her a squeeze.

  Aunty Sylvia looked up from her sewing machine. “Bubbie, what are you doing here?”

  “She has news,” Aunty Bimla said. “But she hasn’t said if it’s good or bad.”

  “It’s fantastic,” I said.

  Aunty Bimla clapped her hands. “In that case, I’ll make tea.”

  “And there’s still some of my homemade cheesecake left in the fridge,” Aunty Sylvia said.

  I explained that I didn’t have time for tea as I had to get to work. “I just popped in to tell you that things have changed and I’ve decided to reopen the shop after all.”

  “Really?” Aunty Sylvia said. I could hear the trepidation in her voice.

  “Really.”

  “Sit, poppet, and explain. What has happened?”

  Aunty Bimla pulled out a dining room chair. I sat. She did the same.

  “It’s Clementine Montecute,” I began.

  “What about her?”

  I reeled off the story.

  “So, her chickens finally came home to roost.” Aunty Bimla was rubbing her hands with satisfaction.

  “You know,” Aunty Sylvia said, “there was something about that Montecute woman I never liked.”

  “What was that?”

  “Skinny wrists. My motherin-law had skinny wrists. Evil woman—God rest her soul.”

  “So here’s the thing,” I continued. “With Clementine Montecute out of the picture, we’ve lost our main competitor. I don’t see any reason not to reopen the shop. What do you think?”

  The aunties looked at each other.

  “You know,” Aunty Sylvia said. “There are competitors besides Clementine Montecute.”

  “Yes, but are you telling me their seamstresses are in the same league as you and Aunty Bimla?”

  Aunty Sylvia shrugged. “Not quite as good maybe … But the shop is in such a terrible state. Where would you find the money to do all the repairs?”

  “I agree. Poppet, I hate to say this, but you’re living in cloud cuckoo land. Take my advice, let it go. There’s no point in flogging a dead horse.”

  “OK, what would you say if I told you that Aunty Shirley is due a ten-thousand-pound tax rebate—which now comes to me? This means I can pay you both up to date and have some money left over to do some work on the shop. I’m also going to ask the landlord for a contribution.”

  “Good luck with that,” Aunty Sylvia said with a sniff. “Old man Mugford’s so tight, he wouldn’t give you the steam off his piss.”

  “Sylvia, please. Do you have to be so crude?”

  “I speak as I find. The fact is Shirley never got a penny out of him.”

  “Well, I thought I’d give him a call anyway. But that’s not the main issue. The point is that you two are brilliantly talented seamstresses. If I’m to get the shop up and running again, I need to be able to offer the bespoke service. That’s what the shop has always been known for. If I let it go, all I’ll have is just another lingerie shop.”

  Aunty Sylvia turned to Aunty Bimla. “So what do we think?”

  “Well, far be it from me to toot my own horn, but I think the child is right. We do know our stuff and I don’t know about you, but the thought of retiring gives me the willies.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I’m thinking that maybe we should say yes.”

  “OK,” Aunty Sylvia said. “It’s a yes from me and it’s a yes from her. Let’s see if we can’t make this work.”

  They said they wouldn’t take a penny in payment until the business was on its feet. It appeared that money-wise their boats were about to come in. Sanjeev’s big deal with the Paraguay people was on the point of going through and Roxanne had landed the part in the haunted refrigerator movie.

  “That would appear to leave us at stalemate,” I said. “Because I’m not prepared to even think about getting started until you’re both paid up to date.”

  The aunties conferred and said that they would be more than happy with five hundred pounds each. I said that wasn’t nearly enough and offered them two thousand each. They came back with a counteroffer of a thousand and we settled on fifteen hundred.

  Aunty Bimla made us all high-five. Then she insisted I stay for tea and a slice of Aunty Sylvia’s cheesecake.

  • • •

  After I left the aunties, I sat in the car, spooling through my e-mail. Viagra deals. Amazon offers. Twenty percent off on a funeral. The usual. I was about to hit “delete” one last time, when my brain did a double take. Marcus Winkworth Featherstone had replied—or at least Winkworth’s PA had. Please God, please God … please let Greg Myers have said yes. I opened the e-mail.

  Hi Sarah, Greg Myers asked me to thank you for your kind invitation to open your school fair. Sadly, due to his busy work schedule, he won’t be able to attend. He thanks you for thinking of him and wishes you all the very best… .

  Crap. Not that I was remotely surprised. Now what did I do? I thought back to my conversation with Steve during which we’d discussed what I would do if Greg Myers said no. Back then I’d been so full of bravado. Did I really have the balls to put my plan B into action and ambush him outside the theater? At any other time, I might have. But this wasn’t any other time. I was at the point of opening a business. Even though it stood almost no chance of becoming a success, I wasn’t entirely devoid of hope. I couldn’t risk my future reputation by getting arrested for stalking Greg Myers.

  On the other hand, what choice did I have?

  I decided to hold that thought and call Mum and Dad to tell them my news about reopening the shop. My fingers were hovering over the keypad when the phone rang. It was Dad to say that he’d read about the Clementine Montecute scandal and wanted to know if I’d heard.

  “I have … and I’ve made a decision.”

  “Let me guess. Now that she’s gone, you’re definitely reopening the shop.”

  “Dad, I can’t let this opportunity go. Suddenly, it feels like all the planets are in alignment.”

  Dad laughed. “I suspect your aunty Shirley had a hand in that. I wouldn’t put it past her.”

  “So you’re not angry with me?”

  “Of course I’m not angry with you and nor is your mum. We’ve been discussing it and we’re both agree
d that now you’ve got the tax money and there’s no Clementine Montecute to worry about, reopening the shop doesn’t sound like such a daft proposition. That’s not to say we aren’t worried, but there are times in this life when you have to take risks.”

  “Wow. I never thought I’d hear you say that. I really appreciate it. Having you and Mum behind me means such a lot.”

  “Hang on … your mother wants a word. I’ll pass you over.”

  “Now then, darling, you’re not to worry about a thing. Your father and I have decided not to go to Spain.”

  “What? No. You absolutely have to go. You need a rest. I won’t hear of you staying.”

  “But how can we go and leave you with so much on your plate? For a start, you’re going to need extra child care… .”

  “Mum, stop fussing. I’ll manage. I’ve made friends with my new neighbor, Rosie. She’s lovely and I’m sure she won’t mind helping out from time to time.”

  “But surely she goes out to work.”

  “No, she has a new baby—although she does do a bit of work from home.”

  “Oh, what does she do?”

  Why had I opened my big mouth? “She’s … um … She’s in the hospitality business.”

  “Nice. Your cousin April works in hospitality. Maybe she knows her. You should get them together. It’s always good for people in the same industry to network.”

  “Good idea.”

  “OK … Well, if you’re absolutely sure you can cope …”

  “I’m sure.”

  “And you promise you’ll call if you need money. Remember, there’s no shame in failing. You and the kids can always move in with us.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  But there was no way I was going to let that happen. I wasn’t a kid. I was a mother with two children. In a few years I’d be forty. I refused to fall back on my parents. I had to do everything in my power to make the business work.

  “And you’ll stay in touch?”

  “When have I ever not stayed in touch? Mum, please, you have to stop worrying.”

  She said that asking her to stop worrying was like asking her to stop breathing.

  Mum and Dad left for Spain two days later.

  Chapter 8

  “Great, so you’re going to start stalking Greg Myers?” Rosie said after I’d told her the saga.

  “I’m not going to stalk him. I’m merely going to ambush him. And I was wondering if you’d mind babysitting while I did it.”

  “No problem. And if you get arrested and sent to jail, I can adopt Dan and Ella if you like.”

  “Very funny,” I said. “You sound like Steve. Why would I get arrested? All I’m going to do is hover outside the stage door after the show along with the autograph hunters and ask Greg if I can have a quick word with him. It’s pretty straightforward.”

  “It sounds pretty straightforward. I still think it’s a risk.”

  “This from the woman who is concealing from the entire neighborhood that she gets paid to do phone sex.”

  Rosie said she took the point.

  I called the theater box office and was told that Death of a Salesman finished at ten. For no reason other than fear that I’d get there late and my quarry would get away, I got to the theater at nine. After I’d located the stage door, I went to sit in the bubble tea café around the corner. I ordered melon and vanilla. I calculated that it would probably be half an hour or so before Greg Myers emerged. If I were back at the stage door at ten, sharp, I would be in plenty of time.

  When I got there, three girls—American, late teens, high on booze and anticipation—were already there.

  “Omigod, do you think he’s just as hot in real life as he is on TV?”

  “Do you think he’d autograph my boob?”

  “Are you crazy? Of course he won’t autograph your boob.”

  “What about my panties?”

  “With you wearing them?”

  “Sure.”

  “Nah, he’d be way too embarrassed.”

  “What if I took them off?”

  “Might work—but not in ballpoint. He’d need a Magic Marker.”

  “So when we meet him, what do we say?”

  “The Brits all say ‘how do you do.’”

  “How … doo … you … doo.”

  “I think it’s more ‘how d’ya do’—and then you talk about the weather.”

  The stage door opened and Greg Myers appeared—tailored jacket, smart jeans, open-neck shirt. As he came down the steps to the pavement, he waved and smiled at the girls. I took in the blue-eyed chiseled symmetry, the little-boy grin. He was definitely as hot in real life. As he reached the pavement, the girls surged forward, and surrounded him, squealing “Oh, Greg we love you.” They were stroking his hair, kissing him, reaching for his hands.

  “Greg … Greg, please will you autograph my boob?”

  “Will you sign my panties if I take them off?”

  “Say something. We just adore your Briddish accent.”

  “Was the school you went to just like Hogwarts?”

  Greg Myers was doing his best to keep smiling as he tried to make his escape. Every time he moved a few paces forward, the girls were all over him again. I could see he was flustered, but he kept smiling. Then he lost it.

  “Madam,” he yelled. “Will you please control your daughters.”

  I looked around for the girls’ mother, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  “They’re completely out of control. Will you please take them and deal with them?”

  What? He thought they were mine? That I was their mother?

  “No … you don’t understand. They don’t belong to me.”

  By now he had barged his way through the girls, who were chasing him and still begging him to autograph their boobs and panties. “You call yourself a mother? These girls are drunk. Shame on you.”

  “No, no … You don’t understand. They’re not mine. I was waiting for you because I wanted to ask if you’d be available to open our school summer fair.”

  He ignored me, barged past and flagged down a taxi.

  “I’ll take that as a no, then,” I called out after him. “And FYI, I’m only thirty-seven.”

  • • •

  “He thought you were their mother?” Rosie said. “That is hysterical.”

  “No, it bloody isn’t. It’s terrible. OK, tell me honestly, do I look old enough to have eighteen-year-old daughters?”

  “Of course you don’t. But it was dark. He only got a glimpse of you and he just assumed you were their mother. But if you insist on wearing those long cardigans and Crocs …”

  “Funee.”

  “OK,” Rosie said. “So where do you go from here?”

  “Nowhere. The show finished its run tonight. After Greg got in the taxi, I spoke to those girls. They seemed to know his every move. They said he’s flying back to LA and he’s not due back here until July thirteenth, when he starts shooting a period drama at Pinewood.”

  “Brilliant. So ambush him again.”

  “Two days before the fair? Plus he’ll be busy filming. I don’t think so.”

  “So that’s that it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  • • •

  I gave a week’s notice at the nonemergency helpline. It should have been a month, but the lovely Joyce in HR said she could see that I needed to get away as soon as possible and promised to pull a few strings.

  On my last day, Maureen brought in a homemade coffee-and- walnut cake. She’d covered it in thick coffee-butter icing and piped “Good luck Sarah” on the top. That evening—having demolished the cake—we all went out for a curry. Tony the Fascist ordered egg and chips. We all got a bit pissed and Don put his arm around Maureen, which she didn’t seem to mind.

  When the waiter came with the bill, I took out my credit card to pay my share, but everybody insisted I put it away. When I protested, they shouted me down. By now it was nearly midnight and I’d told Rosie, w
ho had offered to babysit again, that I’d be home by eleven. “I can watch your TV as easily as I can watch mine,” she’d said. “Will’s in his basket. It hardly matters where I am.” Nevertheless, I’d insisted on ordering her Chinese takeout to say thank you.

  “I’m really sorry, guys, but I have to get going. I should have been back an hour ago. I just want to say, thank you for a wonderful evening. Maureen, thank you for the fabulous cake.”

  I hugged everybody good-bye. They wished me luck with the shop and said how much they were going to miss me.

  “And I’m going to miss you lot, too—not to mention all the daft callers.” By now there were tears in my eyes. I promised to stay in touch and let them know how the business was going.

  As I headed for the door, wiping a tear from my cheek, I heard Maureen say: “She’s a lucky girl. What I wouldn’t give to be twenty years younger and have the chance of a fresh start.” The rest of them agreed.

  Maureen was right. Risky as this project was, I was lucky to have been given such a great opportunity. Then, as I walked back to the car, texting Rosie as I went, the reality of what I was about to take on hit me. Until this moment, I’d been full of excitement and derring-do. Suddenly I was petrified. It was all I could do to stop myself racing back to Don, Maureen and the others, announcing that I’d been in the grip of some mental aberration and that I’d finally come to my senses and changed my mind.

  • • •

  The following day, derring-do restored after a night’s sleep, I called Mr. Mugford, the landlord.

  “Mugford,” he barked down the phone.

  I was determined not to let this man intimidate me. I put my case politely but firmly. “Nothing to do with me,” Mugford shot back. “Structural repairs are your responsibility.”

  “Mr. Mugford, you know as well as I do that’s not the case. I’ve been over the lease with my solicitor and you are obliged by law to carry out all necessary building works.”

  He mumbled something about needing to speak to his own lawyer. “I’ll get back to you.”

  The hell he would.