by Sue Margolis
• • •
A month after the shop opened, business wasn’t picking up and I was starting to panic. Bills were piling up that I couldn’t pay. I’d used my credit card to pay the Milkshakers a hundred-quid deposit. I was making sales, but not enough. Theater orders were trickling in, but not flooding. I decided to hold a strategy meeting with the aunties to discuss our next move. I asked if they could come in half an hour early on Monday morning.
When I arrived, Aunty Sylvia was in tears. Aunty Bimla was doing her best to comfort her with platitudes, which didn’t appear to be working.
I put my arm around her. “Aunty Sylvia, what on earth is it? I know business is slow, but you mustn’t let it get to you. If we put our heads together I’m sure we’ll come up with a plan.”
“It’s not that.”
It turned out that Roxanne’s cute little centipede movie had been canceled and she was back working on the checkout in Target.
“I keep telling her that Roxanne will be fine,” Aunty Bimla said. “And that God never gives us more than we can handle.”
“It’s the second time this has happened to her,” Aunty Sylvia said, dabbing her eyes and ignoring Aunty Bimla. “A few years ago she got a part in a cable show that got canceled. She was so happy to have finally got her big break and now it’s all gone. I’m just beside myself.”
Yes, but nothing like as beside herself as she would have been if she’d discovered the true nature of Human Centipede 4. Now Aunty Sylvia wouldn’t have a stroke from the shock and drop down dead. As far as I was concerned, the film being canceled was a miracle.
“That’s Tinseltown for you,” Aunty Bimla said. “It builds you up and then it steals your dreams.”
Aunty Sylvia dabbed her eyes. “Did your father say that?”
“No, Heath Ledger.”
“It’ll work out, you’ll see,” I said to Aunty Sylvia.
“It won’t. Roxanne’s talking about leaving LA and coming home.”
“Is that such a bad thing?” I said. “Maybe it’s time she made a fresh start. And if you’re honest, I think you’d like nothing better than to have her home.”
“Yes, but not if she’s going to be unhappy.”
“And how happy has she been working in a supermarket? When she gets home, maybe she could go take a course, retrain maybe.”
A sniff from Aunty Sylvia. “You could be right. Perhaps she could work with animals. Roxanne’s always loved animals. When she was little, she kept stick insects. The other kids were really scared of them, so Roxanne would take them to school and put them in their lunch boxes.”
Part of me was glad that when I was growing up, my path and Roxanne’s had never crossed.
“You know,” Aunty Bimla said, “not a day goes by when I don’t thank the Almighty for giving me Sanjeev and turning him into such a successful entrepreneur.”
“Yes, well, not all of us can be as lucky as you,” Aunty Sylvia snapped back.
In an effort to ease the tension, I said I would put the kettle on.
“Just half a cup for me,” Aunty Sylvia said.
I got up and flicked the switch on the kettle. “Oh, guess what, I finally got those bedpans appraised by a dealer.”
“And?” Aunty Bimla said.
“He said they were worth the sixty quid I paid for them. I put them on eBay and they ended up going for seventy, but I forgot to ask the buyer to pay the postage. So I ended up exactly where I started.”
“Such a putz,” Aunty Sylvia said.
We all started laughing. The mood had lifted.
So, I said, “If we could focus on the business for a moment. Have either of you got any thoughts on how we could give it a bit of a kick start?”
There was no getting away from it; the big mistake had been my failure to set aside any money for advertising.
“Plus your Web site isn’t top-notch,” Aunty Bimla said.
Aunty Sylvia blinked at her. “What on earth do you know about Web sites?”
“Nothing at all, but I showed it to Sanjeev before he went to Paraguay. He said—and I quote: ‘The problem is you have no back end.’”
“Stop it, Sarah has a perfectly nice back end.”
I said that I knew what Sanjeev meant. My cheapo Web site was nothing more than a shop window. There was no way for customers to look at the products or buy online. “It was all I could afford. I can’t improve it until there’s some spare cash.”
“What about twittering?” Aunty Bimla said. “Sanjeev says that in business it is most important to … now let me get this right … to hone your social media savvy. He also mentioned something called visibility. We should think about a mission statement and post it on Facebook. And what about giving customers loyalty cards—you know, like they do in coffee shops?”
Aunty Sylvia said the idea was far too down-market and I was inclined to agree.
“You know what I think we should be doing?” I said. “Checking out the opposition. I’ve just realized that now Clementine Montecute is out of the frame, I’ve no idea who our main rivals are or if they’re doing any better than us. If they are doing better, I need to find out why.”
“Obviously there are the department stores,” Aunty Sylvia said, “but none of them does a bespoke service. Then there are few small lingerie shops dotted about the West End. Oh, and of course … Valentina di Rossi.”
I knew the name at once. Valentina di Rossi owned La Feminista. She had a branch in Kensington and a few more in the well-to-do suburbs. The business went back decades and was hugely successful. Gossip had it that Valentina di Rossi had been the only thorn in Clementine Montecute’s side.
“I think I should pay La Feminista a visit,” I said.
“Poppet, don’t. The place is so chic and glamorous. It will only make you depressed.”
“Probably, but I need to take a look. I should have done it months ago.”
“OK,” Aunty Sylvia said, “but whatever you do, don’t announce yourself.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Go on. I’m listening.”
It turned out that way back, Aunty Shirley and Valentina di Rossi had been good friends. They’d managed this despite being business rivals. Then they had an enormous falling-out.
“It was back in our heyday, poppet—when we had so much work we were rushed off our feet. We didn’t know if we were coming or going.”
“When we were really up against it,” Aunty Sylvia broke in, “we would subcontract work. Shirley would give work to Valentina and vice versa. So one day Shirley asks if Valentina’s seamstresses can take on a big theater order that we can’t manage. They say yes. They do the work and Shirley refuses to pay up.”
“But why on earth would she do that?”
“Shirley said the work wasn’t up to standard, but it was. It was crazy—Bimla and I had to sit and remake all those corsets.”
“But that’s crazy. Aunty Shirley would never do something like that.”
The aunties explained that it had happened around the time that Uncle Harry was dying.
“Shirley went a bit crazy,” Aunty Sylvia said. “Actually she went a lot crazy. It was the stress of running the business and watching Harry die. She started having terrible panic attacks. She was on tranquilizers and antidepressants. Round about the time she refused to pay Valentina the money she owed, her doctor diagnosed a breakdown and she finally agreed to go into a psychiatric hospital. Bimla and I went to see Valentina to try to explain what was happening, but she didn’t want to know. She was too angry. When Shirley came out of hospital, Valentina threatened to take her to court, but in the end she gave up because her legal costs would have amounted to more than she was owed. Valentina never forgave her.”
“How much was involved?”
“Five thousand pounds,” Aunty Sylvia said. “And that was a long time ago. Apparently Valentina was desperate for the money. She needed it to pay for her mother’s eye surgery in Switz
erland.”
“But surely she could have gotten it from the bank? What about her husband?”
“He was an architect struggling to make a go of his new business. The bank refused her a loan because she’d just borrowed thousands to renovate the shop. Shirley—who was still loopy—accused her of making it all up, but a few months later her mother went blind and committed suicide. Once Shirley recovered, she realized what she’d done and wanted to repay her, but she could never afford it. Business had started to slow down and Harry left her with a mountain of debt. I think not being able to repay Valentina haunted her for the rest of her life.”
I thought back to the day before Aunty Shirley died and what she’d said to me about having regrets. This was what she was referring to.
“That’s awful. What a mess. Mum never told me anything about this. I suppose you can’t really blame Valentina for being angry. On the other hand, Aunty Shirley was a basket case.”
“You’ve no idea how ill she was,” Aunty Bimla said. “Your poor mother was beside herself with worry.”
It was typical of my mother that at the time she had shielded me from her distress.
“So, like I say,” Aunty Sylvia said. “Go if you must, but don’t introduce yourself. You won’t be welcome.”
I had no intention of making myself known to Valentina di Rossi. I imagined her yelling and swearing at me in Italian and chasing me out of the premises.
I asked the aunties to mind the shop and took the bus to Kensington. La Feminista was just off High Street.
The shop still had its original Georgian bow window. There were no mannequins in the window. Clearly Valentina thought that models draped in lingerie—no matter how expensive—looked trashy. It occurred to me that my window display could be turning customers off.
Outside, deep window boxes were bursting with garish geraniums and petunias. Gray marble steps led up to the door. A perfectly manicured bay tree stood at either side. I opened the glass door and felt my heels sink into the carpet. Assistants in black skirts and white blouses hovered. Women with impossibly young faces sat reading the glossies as they waited to be fitted.
One of the black-skirted assistants approached me and asked if she could be of help. “Oh … um … yes, I’d like to look at your swimwear.”
She directed me to the rail. I browsed the swimsuits and bikinis, which turned out to be far less exciting than mine and much more expensive. But I guessed that the kind of women who shopped here expected to pay a fortune. It was reassuring, made them feel that they were in safe, dependable hands.
I had just picked up a swimsuit and spotted that the stitching on one of the straps was coming loose when I saw a woman coming down the thickly carpeted staircase, half a dozen bras draped over her wrist. She was carrying a few extra pounds around her middle. Her face was heavily lined. There was no evidence of “work,” no attempt to disguise her age, which at a guess was north of seventy. But she wasn’t lacking in elegance. Her gray hair had been cut into a soft chin-length bob. Her simple gray shift had been set off with a jazzy scarf and a long string of pearls. She must have seen me staring at her. “Can I be of assistance?” she said, smiling. Hint of an Italian accent. This was definitely di Rossi.
“Thank you, but I’m just looking.”
“Well, if you need any help, just shout.”
She turned to go, but by now curiosity had got the better of me. I wanted to talk to her, find out more about her relationship with Aunty Shirley, but I couldn’t think of a way in.
“Actually, I’m in the lingerie business,” I blurted.
“Really?”
• • •
“Yes … I’m Sarah Green … Shirley Feldman’s niece. You probably heard that she died recently. I’ve taken over her shop.”
The smile vanished. “Yes, I knew she’d passed away.”
I waited for her condolence, but none was forthcoming.
“If you will excuse me,” she said. “I am very busy. We’re getting ready for the National Lingerie Awards.”
The National Lingerie Awards. I hadn’t heard those words in years. Better known as the Bra Oscars, the NLAs—which was a competition rather than a simple awards ceremony—used to be a huge deal. When I was a child, Aunty Shirley entered every year. Contestants—who had to work in the industry—were asked to design a piece of lingerie, usually a bra, basque or corset. There was always a theme. I remember once it was “itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny.” Every year, in the weeks leading up to the competition it was the same song and dance at the shop: Aunty Shirley and the aunties flapping, fussing and fighting and staging all-nighters at the sewing machines. Shirley Feldman Foundation Garments won the itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny award. I could still see that half-cup black and pink polka-dot bra. In fact she won the competition a few times. There was no cash prize, just a tacky bronze statue of an impossibly thin and busty woman in her bra and panties. The real prize was coverage galore in the upmarket glossies, which had the A-listers flocking. Winning the Bra Oscars was one of the reasons that, back in the day, the business did so well. Then Shirley stopped entering. I had assumed the competition had been dropped. Clearly it hadn’t.
“Of course,” I heard myself say. “I understand how frazzled you must be. I’m the same. It’s always so stressful in the weeks leading up to the competition.”
What was I saying? I was clearly having another Greg Myers moment.
“You’re entering the competition?” Valentina di Rossi arched an eyebrow.
I swallowed hard. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I?”
I could think of several reasons why I wouldn’t. I hadn’t the foggiest notion what this year’s entrants were being asked to make or if I was capable of making it… . On the other hand, I did have the aunties. Finally, I had no idea of the closing date for entries. For all I knew, it could be tomorrow.
“By the way,” Valentina said, “I don’t know what you are doing here, but please don’t come again. You are not welcome. Please leave.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way. After what happened between you and Aunty Shirley, I was curious to meet you, that’s all. It was wrong of me. I apologize.”
Having asked me to go, she wouldn’t let me.
“Do you know what Shirley did to me?”
“I do and I’m so very sorry.”
“Your aunt killed my mother. I hope her soul burns in hell.”
“Shirley was very ill. She didn’t know what she was doing.”
“My mother was ill. And she committed suicide. Now, please leave.”
I did as she asked.
Chapter 13
The first thing I did when I got back to the shop was Google the National Lingerie Awards. It appeared that the competition had been struggling for a long time—mainly due to Clementine Montecute. She won the competition nearly every year, and the gossip was that she had the judges in her pocket. Last year, when fewer than a dozen people entered, there had been talk of the competition being dropped. All this explained why it had been off my radar for so long.
This year, though, things had changed. Clementine Montecute was no more, and for the first time, The British Lingerie Review—the dull but important trade magazine—was sponsoring the competition, with all new judges.
I went in search of the online entry form. This year’s theme was “a gap in the market.” The judges wanted entrants to design and make a piece of lingerie that women wanted but struggled to find in the stores. The closing date was July 2.
“Crap.”
“What is?” Aunty Sylvia had appeared, carrying a tray of tea.
I turned my laptop screen towards her. She put the tray down on the counter and started reading.
“The closing date’s in two weeks,” I said. “We’d never make it.”
“And why would we want to? Nobody goes in for the Bra Oscars anymore. It’s a fix. We haven’t entered for donkey’s years.”
“I know, but carry on reading. Now that Clementine Montecute’s gone, everything�
�s changed.”
By now Aunty Bimla had appeared with a plate of digestive biscuits.
“Bimla, take a look at this,” Aunty Sylvia said.
Aunty Bimla looked. “Well, I never … all new judges … And you’re really thinking of entering?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. You have to tell me honestly. Do you think we’d have a chance?”
“It’s possible,” Aunty Sylvia said. “Back in the old days, we won it three or four times. But you’re forgetting Valentina di Rossi.”
“Come on … who has the best seamstresses—me or Valentina? And you’ve beaten her before, right?”
“We have.”
“Right, then surely it’s a no-brainer.”
Aunty Sylvia said that she wasn’t so sure. “I admit that her most experienced seamstresses have retired and that perhaps the younger women she’s got working for her aren’t as good, but this competition isn’t simply about cutting and stitching. It’s about design. Sarah, you’d have to design a bra or a corset and make a pattern—something you have never done. Something Valentina has been doing for decades, and you can take it from me, the woman is extremely gifted.”
“She’s really that good?” It was a stupid question. Of course she was.
Aunty Sylvia nodded. “Every bit as good as Shirley was.”
“Crap,” I said again. I reached for a digestive and started munching.
“On the other hand if we came up with the right thing,” Aunty Bimla said, “something that really filled a gap in the market … who knows? Anything’s possible.”
That’s when the idea hit me. “OK, got it. What about the étagère bra? That’s never gone into mass-market production.”
Aunty Bimla was shaking her head. “Everybody who makes bespoke lingerie does a version of the étagère. I would bet you a pound to a penny that nearly all the contestants will try their hand at it. We need to find something different.”
“Great. But what?”
Nobody spoke. The aunties stood sipping their tea. I suggested we go away and think about it.
“Aunty Bimla’s right. With the right idea, we could actually win this competition… .”
