Best Supporting Role

by Sue Margolis

  As I predicted, the children did get bored. To their credit they lasted over an hour helping Rosie and me sandpaper the skirting board, but by about ten o’clock they’d had enough. It was Hugh who suggested I give them a break and take them for a quick wander around Selfridges’ toy department. “Later on they can come with me when I do the tea and coffee run. Do you guys like sticky buns?”

  It went without saying that the children strongly approved of both ideas. Under normal circumstances I would have shot down the Selfridges suggestion. Taking children to look around a toy department when neither they nor their mother had any money wasn’t my idea of fun. But since Dan and Ella were each in possession of a twenty-pound note—going-away money from their grandparents—Selfridges seemed like a plan.

  We returned—Dan with a robotic crab, Ella with a Fairy Dough Cookie Kit … the dough turns magically pink—to find that Hugh had sketched a huge seascape across one as yet unpainted wall. The idea was that the kids could color it in and add boats and sea creatures, using the sample paint colors that Hugh just happened to have in his van.

  The moment they saw it, Dan and Ella began jumping with excitement. They couldn’t wait to get started.

  “Hugh, thank you. This is really brilliant. It’s so going to keep them occupied… . Dan, Ella, what do you say?”

  “Thankyou-thankyou-thankyou.”

  “Can we start now?”

  “Hugh, please, please open the paint?”

  Hugh crouched down in front of them. “OK, if you could just calm down for a moment, there’s one thing you have to understand. I know that your picture is going to be fantastic, but eventually we will have to paint over it.”

  “That’s not fair,” Ella said, arms folded—offended that anybody would want to paint over her artwork.

  “But why can’t you keep it?” Dan said. “It could be a murial … you know, like the Romans had.”

  “I’m not sure,” Hugh said, “that a seascape would be quite right for this sort of shop.”

  “Yeah, dummy,” Ella shot back, seizing the opportunity to get one over her older brother, even if it meant relinquishing her own case. “It sells knickers. You’d have to have a knicker murial.”

  Time for me to butt in. “Ella, don’t speak to Dan like that. He was making a perfectly reasonable suggestion.”

  She mumbled her apology. Normally she would have argued rather than apologize, but the last thing she wanted was me confiscating her Fairy Dough Cookie Kit.

  “I know what we’ll do,” Hugh said, clearly anxious for this not to turn into a full-scale bickering match. “Before we paint over the wall, we’ll take some photographs of your art and you can take them to school. How does that sound?”

  They both shrugged, aware that they had no choice.

  • • •

  “Right,” Aunty Bimla was saying now, “break over. Time to get back to work. A rolling stone gathers no moss.” She opened a plastic trash bag and began collecting cups. When she headed downstairs to the kitchen, I followed her.

  “Aunty Bimla. Can I have a word?”

  “Of course, poppet,” she said, shoving the plastic bag into the trash can. “What is it?”

  “It’s just that I’m a bit worried about all this money you’ve given Sanjeev. Ten thousand pounds is a great deal of money. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not getting any younger. It’s money you’re going to need.”

  Aunty Bimla laughed. “You worry too much, poppet,” she said, stroking my arm. “Sanjeev is a bright boy. Very switched on. He knows you have to speculate to accumulate.”

  “I know but …”

  “No buts. It’s all going to turn out fine. Better than fine. Just you wait and see.”

  She shooed me back upstairs.

  “Don’t suppose any of you are good at hanging wallpaper?” Hugh was saying. “I could do with an extra pair of hands.”

  “I wallpapered Will’s nursery,” Rosie said. “I think I did an OK job of it.”

  “That works for me,” Hugh said.

  The one thing that still worried me was Rosie and Hugh not getting along. When I introduced them, Rosie had been polite, but until now she’d kept her distance. I was surprised at her volunteering to help Hugh.

  “Mum, Mum,” Dan cried, interrupting my thoughts. “Before you go back to sandpapering, you have to come and see our murial.”

  I went over to their wall, followed by the aunties.

  “Wow, that is awesome,” I said, taking in the pea green man-eating sharks and giant, matte black beady-eyed squid.

  Aunty Bimla declared it to be “truly magnificent.” Aunty Sylvia said she wouldn’t fancy meeting Mr. Squid on a dark night.

  I knelt down beside the skirting board and got back to work. Every so often I glanced at Rosie and Hugh. I was waiting for Rosie to launch an attack, but none came.

  As they stood cutting and pasting wallpaper, they appeared to be getting along fine. More than fine, in fact. They were chatting away like old mates. Hugh was making her laugh and she was reciprocating by touching his shoulder… . Hang on? Were they flirting? I watched as Rosie threw back her head and let out a great gale of laughter. Another shoulder touch. They were so definitely flirting. I’d been so worried about Rosie disliking Hugh that it hadn’t occurred to me she might find him attractive. And from what I could tell, Hugh was definitely taken with Rosie. Why wouldn’t he be? Those green eyes that made Angelina Jolie’s look meh, the pouty lips, the magnificent breasts. What’s more, in her outsize painting shirt, skinny jeans and bare feet, her head scarf tied in a big floppy bow, Rosie gave every impression of being the epitome of feminine vulnerability. Any man would fancy her.

  When Hugh disappeared to get more wallpaper paste from the van, Rosie came sidling over. “OK—hands up. I was wrong. He’s great—nothing like I expected. And do you know what, he didn’t bat an eyelid when I told him what I did for a living.”

  I stopped sandpapering. “Blimey—talk about being up-front.”

  “He asked me,” she said. “I wasn’t going to lie.”

  “But you’ve only known him for two minutes. How do you know you can trust him with information like that?”

  “You trust him, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, that’s good enough for me. Hugh’s a good guy, you can just tell. Plus he loves babies—always a good sign in my book. Turns out his sister has a little girl the same age as Will. He was telling me about her christening and how she disgraced herself by pooing all over the vicar. He’s such a funny bloke. We really clicked.”

  “Yeah, I could see that.”

  “And he’s rather cute, don’t you think?” she said. “Lovely smile.”

  “Do I get the sense that somebody’s smitten?”

  Rosie’s eyes widened. “Me? God, no.”

  “Oh, come on. I’ve just been watching the pair of you. You’ve both been flirting like crazy.”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong. I was laughing at his story about his pooing niece, that’s all. I don’t fancy him. He’s not remotely my type. In case you hadn’t noticed, I go for dark, brooding men like Simon who end up letting me down.” She paused. “For your information, I was actually thinking that Hugh might be more up your alley.”

  “Mine?”

  “Oh, come on. He’s gorgeous. Don’t say it hasn’t occurred to you.”

  “OK, perhaps I have thought about it, but it’s you he fancies. He was definitely coming on to you.”

  “No, he wasn’t. There wasn’t a hint of a sexual vibe. We were just laughing about babies.”

  “Well, that’s not how it came across.”

  “Sarah, I do telephone sex—you have to trust me on this.”

  “I dunno… .”

  “So you do like him, then,” Rosie said.

  “Possibly.”

  “Do you want me to ask him if he fancies you?”

  “What? No! How old are you, fifteen? Don’t you dare say anyt
hing.”

  Rosie grinned. “OK.”

  “No, seriously. I mean it.”

  “Take it easy. Of course I won’t say anything.”

  “Good.”

  “So, come on,” Rosie said, “when are you going to make your move?”

  “Me? It’s up to him to make the first move.”

  “Sarah, stop being so damned conventional and get in there. Men like Hugh—they’re like Louboutin heels on the first day of the Harrods sale. They don’t hang around for long.”

  Rosie rearranged herself so that she was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall. “Oh, by the way, getting back to Simon. He’s moving to France—with the actress-model. Says he thinks the Côte d’Azur will inspire him. Truth is her dad’s got a yacht moored in Cap d’Antibes.”

  “So that means he’ll see even less of Will.”

  “Yep. But the child support’s arriving regularly now, so I suppose I should be grateful.”

  “Meanwhile he’s missing out on being a father and Will’s missing out on having a dad.”

  “Simon’s loss, but Will’s going to be fine. I’ll make sure of that.”

  By now Hugh had returned with more wallpaper paste. “Better get back,” Rosie said, smiling. “Don’t want to get on the wrong side of the boss.”

  An hour later they had finished papering the wall behind the counter. Hugh said he had some paper left over and asked me if I was certain I didn’t want to put some in a couple of the alcoves. I said I was sure. An excess of bucolic romping would have been overwhelming—particularly as I’d bought the matching fabric, which the aunties had already made up into curtains for the fitting rooms.

  “Looks really great,” Hugh said, using a wallpaper brush to smooth over a couple of areas that had started to bubble.

  Everybody stopped work to look at the romping nymphs and garlanded milkmaids.

  “Fabulous,” Rosie said.

  “You don’t think it’s a bit flamboyant?” Aunty Sylvia asked.

  “Ah, but that is the entire idea,” Aunty Bimla said. “It’s what’s known as ironical ostentation. I read all about it in my Sunday Times Style supplement. When you look at this wallpaper, you have to put speech marks around it.”

  “Speech marks?” Aunty Sylvia repeated.

  “Yes. Isn’t that right, Sarah?”

  “It is.”

  Aunty Sylvia waved a hand in front of her. “Ach, what do I know from speech marks around wallpaper? I’m sure it’s all very modern. Very nouvelle cuisine.”

  “Oh, by the way,” Hugh said, looking at me, “I nearly forgot. We still need to discuss what type of locks you want for the basement window.”

  I suggested we go downstairs to take a look. In the end, we agreed that locks alone wouldn’t be enough. The window was just about big enough for a person to crawl through. It needed bars. Hugh said he would order some. “Shouldn’t cost too much.” He slid his metal tape measure from its housing and laid it across the window.

  “So I guess that’s it,” I said. “The work’s pretty much done.”

  “Yep. We should have the decorating finished by the end of the week.”

  A few more days and he would be gone. I was suddenly aware of how much I was going to miss him.

  “I know I keep on thanking you,” I said, “but I don’t know what else to say. You’ve been an absolute lifesaver.”

  “A decent review is all I ask.”

  “Five stars. Guaranteed.” I paused. “There’s something else I’ve been wanting to say. I’ve been feeling a bit guilty.”

  “Guilty? Why?”

  “When you came here that first time to look at what needed doing, I was a little rude. I want to apologize.”

  “You were? I didn’t notice.”

  “Now you’re just being polite. The truth is I had you down as one of those flashy gentlemen builders. You know the sort: ex–City boys who think they can charge an arm and a leg.”

  He frowned. “Really? Why would you think that?”

  “Oh, come on … Fanshaw has to be one of the top ten poshest surnames. Then there’s the BBC voice. You don’t exactly come across as your average builder.”

  He smiled. “Point taken. And, er, actually it’s Fanshaw with two f’s.”

  “No. You mean you’re actually F-fanshaw? That has to be the most aristocratic thing ever.”

  “Yeah, but the first F’s silent.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Next you’ll be telling me that you’re awfully good chums with Bertie Wooster.”

  “No, but my great-grandmother used to invite Noël Coward to her house parties.”

  Of course she did.

  “So what happened? How does an F-fanshaw end up as a builder?”

  “I need to earn a living.”

  “And you chose the building trade as opposed to the law or going into the City.”

  “OK—I admit that building isn’t my primary career.”

  Now we were getting somewhere. “Oh, I get it. You’re studying.”

  “Nope. I’m actually an actor.”

  “An actor?” The voice. I should have guessed. “I can’t believe that I’ve known you for nearly a month and I’ve only just discovered this crucial piece of information.”

  “Sorry. I tend not to mention it because people lose interest when they find out I’m not famous and I don’t know Claire Danes.”

  I laughed. “So I guess that means you don’t know Greg Myers either.”

  “Uh-uh. Why?”

  I told him the tale.

  “Bloody hell, you’ve really got yourself into a pickle.”

  “Just a bit.”

  “But it’s really funny—Greg Myers thinking you were the girls’ mother.”

  “You’re as bad as Rosie. It’s not funny. At the time, it really hurt.”

  “But thank God you managed to get over it.”

  I poked his arm. “Stop teasing. I was severely traumatized.”

  “Maybe you should have thought about counseling.”

  “Behave.”

  We fell about laughing.

  “So where do you go from here?” Hugh said.

  “Eventually, I’ll have to come confess, but I’m such a coward, I keep putting it off. Meanwhile I keep praying for a miracle—like I bump into Greg Myers in Starbucks, we fall into conversation, he just happens to be free on July sixteenth and has spent his entire life dreaming of opening a school summer fair.”

  Hugh laughed. “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Not to me they haven’t.” A beat. Then: “So, you do the building and decorating between acting jobs?”

  “I do. Everybody thinks I’ve got some huge trust fund to fall back on, but I haven’t. I need to work.”

  “So the F-fanshaws aren’t landed gentry, then?”

  “I actually dropped the double F when I left school,” he said. “People kept taking the piss. As far as being landed gentry goes, until the seventies the family was one of the biggest landowners in the country. Right now there isn’t one of us with—as my mother so delightfully puts it—‘a pot to piss in.’ Actually Mum and Dad aren’t that hard up, but that’s not how she sees it.”

  “What happened?”

  “My paternal grandfather gambled it all away—the manor house, works of art, thousands of acres. Mum and Dad worked on the estate and lived in one of the houses rent free. They lost their home, their income and Dad’s inheritance.”

  “I guess that must have been hard for your dad, particularly when you’ve been raised with that sense of entitlement.”

  “Actually it wasn’t that bad. After my grandfather went bust, but before the receiver marched in, he gave Dad a painting. It was a Turner seascape. Grandpa had been hiding it in the wine cellar. With the proceeds, Mum and Dad were able to buy a small farm in Sussex and pay for my education and my sister’s. So we didn’t suffer too much.”

  I asked him how his parents felt about his becoming an actor.

 
; “Dad’s OK, but Mum isn’t keen. She kept nagging me to go into banking. She feels that Dad’s family let me down and that I was deprived of my birthright. She’s desperate for me to get back to what she sees as my rightful position in life.”

  “And you?”

  “Well, suffice it to say I don’t give a damn about my ‘rightful position.’ My mother, bless her, is a terrible snob and that’s her problem. When I was at RADA, I decided I needed a trade to fall back on, so I got a part-time job with a building company. Mum was furious when she found out. Apparently people like us should never stoop to going into trade.”

  “She’s right. When gentry fall on hard times, they’re meant to become governesses or go into the church.”

  Hugh said he didn’t think he was cut out for the church. “I’m not sure they take atheists.”

  “Actually I have a fair idea what your family must have gone through with your grandfather,” I said. “Mike, my husband, was a heavy gambler. When he died, we were on the point of going bust—not that we stood to lose a stately home or great works of art—just a regular house.”

  “Bloody hell … And you had kids. It must have been terrifying.”

  “It was. Then he died. And along with all the other emotions, I felt this huge sense of relief.”

  “Funny … my grandmother said the same after the old man died.” He paused. “So, what happened? I mean how did your husband … Oh, God, sorry, I’m prying. I have no right to ask. It’s none of my business.”

  I told him I didn’t have a problem talking about it and gave him the bullet points.

  “The thing that made the grief almost unbearable was that I’d been about to divorce him.”

  “Because of the gambling.”

  “Yes. I was at my wit’s end. I couldn’t take any more.”

  “I don’t know how you coped as long as you did.”

  “I think a bit of you just goes on automatic pilot… . So what about you? You ever been married?”

  He smiled. “No, but I’ve come close a couple of times.” He paused. “So come on, finish telling me your story… . What made you decide to open a bra shop?”

  I told him about Aunty Shirley dying and leaving me the business, how it had been failing for years, and the Clementine Montecute saga.