Best Supporting Role

by Sue Margolis

  “He might—assuming the money isn’t swallowed up in care home bills. And even if it’s not, I don’t want to be with a man who’s relying on his dead parents to support him.”

  “Does it really matter where the money comes from?”

  “Yes. To me, it does.”

  I could practically see Rosie shaking her head in frustration.

  “I know you think I’m being too hard on him, but …”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. I never had to live with Mike. That experience clearly had a profound effect on you. And why wouldn’t it?”

  The tears started falling down my cheeks. “Shit, Rosie, help me. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Sweetie, love you as I do, you know I can’t make this decision for you. It was the same with Steve. It has to be your call. All I’d say is this: think very carefully before you do anything you might come to regret.”

  • • •

  I’d just gotten the kids to bed when Hugh called.

  “I really think we need to talk. Can I come over?”

  He arrived ten minutes later. I took a couple of beers out of the fridge and suggested that as it was such a warm night, we take them into the garden.

  “Since you left, I’ve been doing some thinking,” Hugh said. “First of all I want to say I had no idea how you felt about being left while I went away. I wish you’d said something. I can’t promise that I’ll stop traveling, because apart from my relationship with you it nourishes me more than anything else I know. But I promise I’ll never ever go away for long stretches. How does that sound?”

  “That sounds great. Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

  “And as for long trips—we could do them together, with the kids. We can go away for a couple of months during the summer, the best part of a month at Christmas… .”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about us having fun.”

  “Look, first of all it will be years, if ever, before I can leave the business for more than a couple of weeks. And second, have you any idea what these trips would cost?”

  “Sarah, I don’t know what you want from me. My business is doing well; I’m not in debt. From where I’m sitting it feels like you want to change me simply because you’ve got some hang-up about having loads of cash in the bank.”

  “It’s not a hang-up. I’ve told you before, all I want is for you to start thinking about the future. Just put something aside for the future. Christ, it’s not asking the earth. It’s what most people do.”

  “OK, fine. So where are your savings?”

  “I don’t have any. I know you think I’m being a hypocrite lecturing you like this while I have nothing, but I promise you that the moment I have any spare cash, it will go straight into the bank. I will always make sure I have money for the children, money for me if I get ill or the business goes down.”

  “I can’t help it. I just feel like you’re bullying me. I had enough of that with my mother. She wanted me to become a banker and I stood up to her. My last relationship broke down because the woman I was with wanted me to give up acting and get a proper job. Being a builder didn’t work for her either, because the way she saw it, building was a trade, not a profession, and she wouldn’t be able to hold her head up among her banker friends. I had no choice but to walk away. I’m fed up to the back teeth with people trying to get me to do what they want. What about what I want?”

  “Hugh, read my lips. I’m not asking you to give up anything. All I’m asking is that you start putting some money aside.”

  He took a mouthful of beer. “Sarah, have you any idea how many hours I work in an average week?”

  “Of course I do. I also know that you drive yourself way too hard. I have no idea how you coped working on the shop during the day and doing The Producers in the evening. I don’t know how you didn’t get ill.”

  “I never get ill and that’s because I’m always planning my next trip. I can’t live without it.”

  “Then you’ll have to live without me.” I couldn’t believe what I’d said, but I made no attempt to take the words back. It didn’t feel like I was being irrational, but if I was, then that’s what being married to Mike had done to me and I felt powerless to fight it.

  “What? That’s it? You’re breaking up with me because I enjoy traveling?”

  “No, I’m breaking up with you because you refuse to compromise.”

  “Why does it all have to be about me? I don’t see you compromising. Shit, Sarah. Are you crazy? We love each other. We should be sitting here planning our future. Please don’t do this… . Look, I understand what you went through with Mike, but …”

  I was on my feet now. “You know what? You don’t understand. You don’t have the remotest idea. If you did, you wouldn’t be so dogmatic.”

  “Here we go again. It’s me who’s refusing to compromise. I’m the one being dogmatic. What about you? … OK, what do you want? Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

  He stood up, took a wad of fifty-pound notes out of his wallet and threw them onto the garden table. “Right, first thing tomorrow, we’ll take this lot to the bank and open me a savings account.”

  I shook my head.

  “Not enough? You want more? OK, I have more.” He found some more notes and slammed them down on top of the others.

  “Can’t you see? I want you to want to do it. I refuse to be the one forcing you, constantly nagging.”

  “I’m sorry, but that just isn’t me. It’s not who I am.”

  “I know.”

  “Christ. This is just so fucking stupid.”

  “Maybe to you.”

  “I need to get out of here.” He headed back into the kitchen. “I cannot believe this is happening.”

  Nor could I.

  • • •

  Part of me thought—or hoped—that he would call the next morning, admit that I was right and that he was living like an overgrown student. Then we’d sit down, have a sensible talk, the whole thing would be resolved and we’d have jungle makeup sex on the living room floor. But he didn’t. He didn’t call the next morning either. Or the one after that.

  I couldn’t sleep. Missing him was unbearable. The ache was almost physical. I lost count of the times I almost picked up the phone to say that I was sorry for being such an arse and please could we just go back to where we were. But I couldn’t do it. Rosie accused me of being impossible and stubborn and suggested I go back into therapy to deal with this anxiety over money that Mike had left me with. I took the point, but at the same time I didn’t think what I was asking of Hugh was outrageous. If we got back together, we’d be arguing again in minutes.

  I decided to say nothing to my mum. I couldn’t cope with all her angst. I suspected she was already fantasizing about her wedding outfit.

  My most important task right now was to finish the bra pattern. There was less than a week to go to the competition deadline. I would sit at my drawing board, compasses in one hand, flexi-ruler in the other—staring at my instruction manual. Next, extend the lines that “radiate” from the Point of Bust point to the edge of the cup and beyond. Number the lines 1 to 7 clockwise starting at the “cup apex,” as in the diagram.

  And now in English if you please. I would screw up another sheet of graph paper, aim it at the bin and miss. I was wading in paper balls. Then I would make coffee, open another KitKat and start thinking about Hugh.

  There was no room for error. It needed to be perfect. Given that this was my first attempt at making a bra pattern, perfection or anything close to it was unlikely. The aunties kept telling me not to panic. They were sure that my pattern would be perfect, and if it wasn’t, they would modify things. “Don’t forget, poppet, that Rosie will need two fittings. That gives us plenty of room to adjust.”

  Finally I handed over the pattern. The aunties insisted it would be perfect. I told them not to count on it. I was losing faith and enthusiasm, partly because I was tired and
frazzled and partly because I was missing Hugh.

  “For crying out loud,” Aunty Sylvia said. “Get off your high horse and phone him.”

  I’d thought twice before telling the aunties what was happening with Hugh and me. They liked him—that was never in doubt—but they still didn’t approve of my dating an actor. I wasn’t sure I could cope with all the we-told-you-sos. But seeing me so miserable, they’d had had a bit of a rethink.

  “No. He needs to grow up.”

  “I agree,” Aunty Bimla said. “He does need to grow up. That means you will need to give him time, but I promise you he will come around. He isn’t going to let a wonderful girl like you slip through his fingers.”

  I said it felt like I’d already slipped.

  Of course Dan and Ella wanted to know why they hadn’t seen much of Hugh lately. When I told them we’d had an argument, they got cross and said it was bound to be all my fault. Even though he had no idea what the argument was about, Dan called me “a fat bossy poo head.” Ella burst into tears and demanded to know what she was going to do now that she’d been chosen to sing a solo and had nobody to help her practice. Of course, I offered to help her, but she said she wanted the song to be a surprise.

  “A surprise for me?”

  She nodded. “Oh, darling, that’s so sweet. I don’t know what to say. Tell you what—maybe Grandma could help you.”

  “No. I want Hugh.”

  I didn’t want to tell Mum and Dad about breaking up with Hugh. The inquisition would be endless, but if I kept quiet, I risked their hearing it from the kids. So one night after they’d gone to bed, I made the call.

  Mum picked up on the first ring. “Hi darling. I’ve just been sitting here thinking about you. I’m just so excited about the bra competition. I’ve got this feeling you’re going to win. You’re so gifted. Plus you’ve got two of the most talented seamstresses in the country helping you. What shouldn’t you win?”

  “Because I know almost nothing about how to make a bra pattern and Valentina di Rossi is entering as well.”

  Mum wasn’t having it.

  “You’ll be fine. You’ve got your aunty Shirley looking over you. She’s probably collaring the Almighty right now and having a quiet word in his ear.”

  The image made me smile. For a moment I forgot why I’d called.

  “Mum, there’s something I need to tell you. Hugh and I have stopped seeing each other.”

  “Oh, darling. No … I’m so sorry. The pair of you seemed so together. What happened?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Don’t tell me. He’s found somebody else. Funny, though. He didn’t strike me as the type. Mind you, I suppose all actors are the type. I mean when you move in those glamorous circles. It’s a different world. There’s temptation at every turn.”

  I assured her that there was nobody else.

  “Then what is it?”

  The rest of the story came tumbling out. “I love him,” I said finally, “but after Mike …”

  “I know, darling. You don’t have to tell me.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “Keep talking. Keep yelling and fighting if needs be. Thrash it out. If you love each other, you’ll work it out.”

  “I thought we could do that, but it’s just not happening.”

  “Then one of you has to climb down.”

  “But which one?”

  • • •

  The following morning there were more tears. This time, from Aunty Bimla. Rosie had just arrived for her fitting and she and I were sitting in the basement having a cup of tea with Aunty Sylvia. It was well after nine thirty and Aunty Bimla hadn’t arrived.

  “It’s so unlike her,” Aunty Sylvia said. “Maybe I should give her a call.”

  “She’ll be fine,” I said. “She’s probably stuck on the tube.”

  But she wasn’t fine. A moment later, Aunty Bimla appeared, her eyes red from crying, her face puffy with exhaustion.

  “What on earth is it?” Aunty Sylvia said, putting her arm across Aunty Bimla’s shoulders.

  “It’s Sanjeev.”

  “Has something happened to him?”

  “No. Nothing like that. He’s fine, but it is all such doom and gloom.”

  It seemed that Sanjeev’s business deal had gone south. I looked at Rosie and rolled my eyes. “So, the excrement has finally hit the air-conditioning,” I muttered.

  “He arrived at my place late last night,” Aunty Bimla sobbed. “He was in a terrible state. He’s lost everything. It turns out he’s been back from Paraguay for weeks, but he’s been too scared to say anything to me or his parents back in Pakistan. He’s been sleeping on friends’ floors. Now he’s asking if he can move in with me.”

  “So what happened?” Rosie said. Like we didn’t know.

  “It turns out that Paraguay has no coastline. The land he was sold wasn’t on the beach. It was an unusable swamp by a filthy lake. By the time he found out, he’d already handed over the money. He tried to get it back, but the people who sold him the land have disappeared. He took out a huge loan. The bank is chasing him for money. He’s sold his flat and his sports car to keep them off his back for a while, but beyond that, he has no idea what to do. And nor do I. We are up the creek without a paddle.”

  “And what about the ten grand you gave him?” I said. “Is that gone, too?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t matter about me. Sanjeev worked so hard. These people are evil. He was like a lamb to the slaughter.”

  “What? No, he wasn’t,” Rosie piped up. “He was a bloody idiot and part of me wants to say he deserved all he got.”

  “What? How can you say that?”

  “I can say it because he didn’t do his homework. What fool parts with his money before checking out the land he’s buying? He got greedy and fell flat on his face.”

  “If you ask me, that boy is too flash by half,” Aunty Sylvia said. “He needs a smack on the tuchas, not you weeping all over him.” Aunty Sylvia was so enjoying this. She clearly hadn’t forgotten how Aunty Bimla had gloated when Roxanne lost her part in Human Centipede 4. Now it was her turn.

  “So what should I do?”

  “He needs to go out and get a job,” I said. “It’s time you stopped indulging him.”

  Aunty Sylvia had her arms folded across her chest. “You’ve been killing that boy with kindness and look where it’s got him. It’s time to give him an ultimatum. He either gets a job or you tell him he can’t stay with you.”

  “I couldn’t do that!”

  “What choice do you have?” I said. “It’s for his own good, and one day, when he’s a bit older and wiser, he might even thank you.”

  Aunty Bimla looked thoughtful. “I don’t know. It won’t be easy. But you’re right. It’s time for me to start playing the bad cop. I just hope I can do it.”

  “You will,” I said. “Because you know how important it is.”

  “I hope so.”

  “So,” Rosie said, brightening up. “Come on … where’s my bra?”

  Aunty Sylvia took it out of her desk drawer. The sections of ivory satin were roughly tacked together.

  “Well, it certainly looks like a bra,” I said, laughing. I could only pray that it would fit.

  The four of us trooped upstairs and squeezed into one of the fitting rooms.

  “OK, Rosie,” Aunty Bimla said, “what you do is lean forward and just let your boobies fall into the cups. Excellent.” She fastened the back.

  The aunties got busy with their pins, discussing darts, tucks and seam allowances as they went. Whether or not the bra fitted was down to my pattern. From what I could tell, it didn’t look too bad, but that didn’t stop me digging my nails into my palms as I waited for the aunties’ verdict.

  “You have done an excellent job, poppet. It’s going to be beautiful.”

  “She’s right,” Aunty Sylvia said through a mouthful of pins. “Shirley would have been proud of you. You’re a chip off the old block.�
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  “Really? You actually think I did OK?”

  “You did more than OK,” Aunty Sylvia said.

  “But it was such a struggle. I don’t feel like I’m anything approaching a natural at this.”

  “You mustn’t let that trouble you, poppet. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. You learn and suddenly you turn into a natural.”

  Later in the week, Rosie came in for a second and final fitting. After that, the aunties disappeared into the basement for two days to finish the bra. The sewing machine chattered. The kettle boiled. Deliberations turned into loud disputes. “OK, have it your way. I’ll unpick it. No, of course I’m not offended. Why should I be offended?”

  I stayed upstairs, served the few customers who wandered in and kept out of the way.

  Rosie’s bra was finished with time to spare. There were still twenty-four hours before we had to deliver it to the offices of The British Lingerie Review.

  Rosie insisted on being there when the aunties unveiled it.

  “Oh, this is outstanding,” I said, lifting it from the tissue-filled box. I ran my fingers over the seams, the satin cups, trimmed in Belgian lace, the bow and tiny diamond nestling on the bridge between the cups. “It’s sensational. To call you two ‘gifted’ is an understatement.”

  Rosie said she’d drink to that. “Will you just look at this? It’s beyond beautiful. It’s a work of art.”

  Rosie tried on the bra. It was a perfect fit. I tested out the breast-feeding modification. It worked perfectly. We high-fived, Aunty Sylvia burst into “Happy Days Are Here Again” and Aunty Bimla cracked open a plastic container of chocolate halva.

  Chapter 15

  I heard the commotion before I saw it.

  “Stop her! Somebody stop her!”

  I turned into the street. People were pausing to stare at the crazy old ladies—one in a pink overall, trying to run in patent sling-backs, the other in a salwar kameez, hair falling down around her face, her scarf billowing as she gave similarly ineffective chase—on account of her bunions. But nobody else made any attempt to go after the young woman escaping down the road.