Best Supporting Role (30 page)

“So what?” Aunty Sylvia said. “I’m old and I get lonely. Do I go around stealing? No, I don’t.”

“Well, for what it’s worth,” Rosie said, “I’m with Sarah. I would have done the same. He’s just a pathetic old man.”

Aunty Sylvia grunted.

“Well, one thing is for certain,” Aunty Bimla said. “My poppet has charity in her heart. If you haven’t got charity in your heart, you have the worst kind of heart trouble.”

“Who said that?” Rosie asked. “The Prophet?”

“Bob Hope.”

The toastmaster was inviting everybody to take their places for dinner. We headed to the banqueting room, where the aunties continued to marvel. This time at the giant silver candelabras, the intricate cake-icing plasterwork on the walls and ceiling, the lavish centerpieces.

I was sitting between Rosie and a plump, jolly curator from the V&A named Pru. It turned out that her main area of interest was the history of women’s underwear.

“Did you know,” she said, helping herself to sparkling water, “that women didn’t wear drawers until the very end of the eighteenth century?”

“Must have been drafty,” I said.

The aunties were sitting on the opposite side of the big circular table. At one point they called me over to meet their companion, an elderly trimmings manufacturer called Sid, who it turned out lived a couple of streets away from Aunty Sylvia.

•   •   •

B
y now, Pru, my nice lady curator from the V&A, was describing a pair of Victorian bloomers she’d just acquired. I assumed she meant for the museum rather than herself, but I couldn’t be certain. “You know my favorite word?” she said.
“Gusset.”

A loud screech of feedback. The red-liveried toastmaster was on his feet. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m pleased to introduce your host, Mr. Malcolm Healey. . . .”

Malcolm Healey was the CEO of the company that owned
The British Lingerie Review
. A Yorkshireman whose tone steadfastly refused to undulate, he proceeded to welcome us to this, the forty-seventh Bra Oscars ceremony. For the next twenty minutes, he outlined the history of the competition, its contribution to the lingerie industry, and thanked by name each member of “the team” without whose sterling efforts this event wouldn’t have been possible. “And let me say that despite the bean counters’ predictions of doom and gloom, it looks as if, moving forward, it’s going to be another banner year for the industry. . . .”

“How much longer?” Rosie muttered. “I’m aging here.”

“And so, in conclusion, just to remind you that tonight’s theme is ‘a gap in the market.’ Our hope is that by the end of the evening
that gap will have been identified and successfully closed. Thank you, everybody, and good luck.”

Because most people had zoned out, the applause took several seconds to kick off.

Dinner was gazpacho, roast lamb and lemon tart with berries. Of course it was sublime. This was the Savoy. Only Aunty Sylvia had reservations. “You don’t expect to come to the Savoy and be given cold soup. And such a small portion.”

Rosie just about managed to finish her lemon tart before the toastmaster asked if all the models would collect their pieces of lingerie from the judges’ table and make their way to the dressing room.

I said I would come with her, but she insisted that I would only make her more nervous.

“Good luck,” I said, giving her a hug.

“You, too.”

She blew a couple of kisses at the aunties and was gone.

•   •   •

T
he six female judges, each of whom worked for one of the major lingerie companies, sat at a table beside the runway. The models seemed to fall into two categories. First there were the six-foot, long-of-leg professionals who probably spent their days doing photo shoots on industrial sites in Gowanus. These girls tucked out their chests, lifted their knees and did their pony walk to “Barbie Girl” and “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.” The other models looked distinctly more down-market.

“And next up is Jade,” said the lady with the microphone. I took in the fake tan and trout pout. “She’s modeling an innovative backless bra, which comes courtesy of the Booby Trap in Manchester. . . .”

Lights flashed as the snappers snapped.

“Next we have Natalie from Accentuate the Positive in Bristol. . . .”

And so it went on. Sitting so far away in the audience, it was impossible to tell how well made Jade’s and Natalie’s bras were. The good news was that nobody else had attempted to make a nursing bra. Mostly it was new takes on old themes: corsets that created waists like no other, bras that lifted and separated like never before.

“And now . . . from Valentina di Rossi—an example of the étagère or shelf bra.”

Not only did Valentina’s model look like Naomi Campbell’s younger sister, but the black bra gave her the most sensational cleavage. The cameras clicked faster than ever. I watched the audience, men in particular, exchanging glances. The aunties had warned me against entering an étagère on the grounds that everybody else would do it, but so far only Valentina had.

Rosie came on second to last. Troy had outdone himself. Her hair fell to her shoulders in soft loose curls. Her makeup was positively chaste. The bra looked great. Her strut was perfect. More clicking and flashing. The photographers couldn’t get enough of her.

When the show was over, there was a half-hour interval. So far I’d only glimpsed Valentina when India Fitzroy had raced off to speak to her. Now Valentina was crossing the room towards me. “I just wanted to come over and say hello,” she said. “I didn’t want you to think I was ignoring you. By the way, your bra looked wonderful. I wish I’d thought of something so clever.”

“Thank you, but yours looked amazing.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Who knows?”

Valentina returned to her table. A moment later, Malcolm Healey was back onstage. He was holding the familiar, tacky trophy.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.” The room went silent. I was standing between the aunties, gripping each of their hands. “I feel like my heart’s about to burst,” Aunty Bimla said. I just felt sick.

“In third place . . . it’s the Booby Trap.” Loud applause. A slightly crestfallen owner of the Booby Trap. “In second place, with her innovative nursing bra, Sarah Green.” I shouldn’t have been shocked—I’d always known that Valentina was the better designer and patternmaker—but I couldn’t help it. I’d worked so hard and prayed so much. “And the winner, with her magnificent étagère bra, is Valentina di Rossi.” People who weren’t already on their feet stood up. The room was filled with applause and whistles, which weren’t for me. I watched Valentina walk onto the stage to claim her prize. I looked around for Charles, but he wasn’t there to share his wife’s victory. I assumed that, knowing I was going to be at the event, he had felt too embarrassed to show his face.

Laughing, tears streaming down her face, Valentina held her trophy high in the air. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have been waiting over four decades to do this. Thank you to the judges. Thank you to my wonderful seamstresses and all my staff at La Feminista . . .”

Meanwhile I was wiping away tears. Aunty Bimla noticed and was quick to point out that I had no right to feel disappointed. “Listen to me. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, and you have covered nine hundred and ninety-nine of those miles. You came in second. That is good news. It is wonderful news.”

“She’s right, darling,” Aunty Sylvia said. “This is a victory.”

“But I let you down.”

“How on earth did you do that?” Aunty Sylvia said.

“You are the best seamstresses, but the judges could tell that my pattern wasn’t good enough.”

“You know what, maybe it wasn’t. But it was your first attempt. And even then you came second. You just wait and see what effect this has on the business.”

Rosie came tearing across and threw her arms around me. “Yay—second place. That is magnificent. From now on, you are so on the map.”

I called Mum and Dad and the kids. They all said the same. Second place was wonderful. I had every reason to be proud. First would have been great, but I was young. It would come.

They were right. With more hard work, it would come. Suddenly I did feel proud. Not so long ago, I’d been a grieving widow, a sad lost soul with no idea which way to turn. Look how far I’d come.

I called out to Rosie and the aunties. “OK—group hug . . . thank you for all your support and love and for being there . . . for everything. I don’t know what I would have done without you. I love you all.”

I texted Hugh, letting him know that we’d come in second and that we were extremely happy with that. I guess I could have called him, but I couldn’t face speaking to him again. He replied straightaway.
Result!!!! What a star. Hope you’re cracking open the bubbly.

I went over to congratulate Valentina. She was surrounded by a thicket of journalists, well-wishers and photographers. She caught sight of me and edged her way through the crowd.

“Well, the best woman won,” I said, shaking her hand. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you. This means so much to me. But I will never forget what you did to make it possible. It was the kindest, most generous thing anybody has ever done for me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Listen, would you mind if I called you next week—when all the fuss has died down? Maybe we could meet for a coffee.”

“Sure. I’d like that.”

I
reached out from under the duvet and began fumbling for the ringing phone.

“Hey—it’s me.”

Rosie.

“OK—you have to guess what just happened.”

“Wha’ time is it?”

“After nine. Wake up. Listen—guess who just called me at half past eight on a Saturday morning.”

“I dunno.”

“Oh, come on. You have to guess. It’s no fun otherwise.”

“Fun for you maybe. I’m still asleep.”

“OK . . . you won’t believe this. I just got a call from Delphine.”

“Delphine who?”

“What do you mean, Delphine who? Delphine.
The
Delphine.
The lingerie company. They want to meet me.”

I sat up. “No.”

“Yes. They’re looking for new models, apparently.”

“See. I told you last night would lead to something. I didn’t think
it would be this quick, but I could tell the photographers loved you. Oh, Rosie, well done. So what’s the deal?”

“I don’t know exactly. I’ve got a meeting with a couple of their people next week. . . . So have any of the companies called you about the maternity bra?”

“No, but I’m guessing that after all that champagne we put away last night, most people are still asleep.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Listen, I gotta go. Will’s bawling.”

“’K . . . and congratulations again. It’s brilliant news.”

“Thanks, hon . . . and don’t worry, your phone will start ringing.”

But it didn’t. Nobody called over the weekend—not that I was expecting them to. Monday and Tuesday came and went. Still nothing.

“I don’t get it,” I said to the aunties. “Why isn’t anybody calling me? Women are crying out for decent nursing bras. Surely the manufacturers can see that.”

“You’d have thought so,” Aunty Sylvia said.

“Well, if they can’t or won’t see it, then we’re totally screwed. We may as well pack up and go home.”

“It will happen, poppet. These things take time. The most important thing is not to panic.”

But I was already panicking. On top of that, I was still pining for Hugh. Everybody kept telling me to call him, but I couldn’t see the point.

“Look at you,” Rosie said. “You’re depressed and miserable and still you won’t pick up the phone. I just hope you don’t live to regret this.”

“He needs to make the first move.”

Rosie said she gave up.

If that wasn’t enough, it was the school fete on Saturday. I was due to get up in front of the entire school and confess that I had lied about Greg Myers. This would result in my becoming a pariah, and I would probably have to take the kids out of school. It didn’t help that Ella was getting more and more nervous about performing her solo and was still blaming me because Hugh wasn’t around to coach her.

On Wednesday the phone did ring. It was Valentina. She wanted to know if I was around the following afternoon for a cuppa and a chat. I said that I was. We arranged to meet at the Old Tearooms in Kensington.

“I don’t know about you,” she said as we sat down, “but I’m still celebrating. Why don’t we go for the cream tea? My treat.”

“You’re on.”

“Actually it’s wonderful just to take the weight off for five minutes. We’ve been running around like headless chickens since the competition. Just between you and me, this morning, I had a call from Buckingham Palace. The Queen and the Duchess of Cambridge both want me to come and fit them for bespoke bras. The business has always done well, but winning this competition is going to launch us into the stratosphere.”

“Valentina, that’s fabulous news. I’m really pleased for you.” If I’m honest, my delight was tinged with more than a modicum of jealousy.

The waitress arrived with scones, homemade raspberry jam and golden clotted cream.

“Right,” Valentina said, spreading strawberry jam over half a scone, “I don’t believe in beating around the bush, so I’m going to
come straight to the point. Charles and I have been discussing our future. I’ve finally decided that the time has come for me to call it a day. I’ve neglected Charles terribly. I’m seventy-five. It’s time for me to retire and for the two of us to spend whatever time we’ve got left having some fun. So we’ve decided to kick off with a world cruise. That’s where you come in.”

“Me?”

“How would you feel about running the business?”

“You mean while you’re away?”

“No. I mean forever.”

“You want me to run La Feminista?”

“You’d be brilliant. You’re young, gifted, ambitious. You work hard. I can’t think of anybody’s hands I would rather leave it in.”

“It’s a wonderful offer, Valentina, but I couldn’t give up my own business. I’ve put so much time and energy into it. I can’t walk away now. I need to make something of it.”

“I’m not asking you to walk away. I’m not looking for a shop manager—I’m looking for a partner. An equal partner. We would merge the two businesses.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Sarah, one thing you need to know about me is that I never kid. I’m deadly serious. I want us to go into business together. We’ll rename it Green di Rossi. How’s that? We’ll even put your name first.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

Valentina smiled. “
Yes
would be a start.”

“What about Aunty Bimla and Aunty Sylvia?”

“Believe me, I’m not about to let them go. They’re a major asset. I know that towards the end, Shirley was struggling to pay them a
decent wage. I also know how dedicated and loyal they were, so how’s about they come in as equity partners? And when they finally retire, we’ll provide them both with a generous pension.”

“That’s more than generous,” I said. “I couldn’t argue with that.” But I was aware that I still wasn’t saying yes. “The thing is, I’ve been waiting for somebody to show some interest in the nursing bra. If I sell the idea, it’s going to be worth a lot of money. Then I’d have enough to go it alone.”

Valentina didn’t say anything for a few moments. Then: “I’m not sure you’re going to sell it.”

“What do you mean? Whyever not? Women are crying out for nursing bras that fit properly.”

“You don’t have to tell me that. The point is that the bra manufacturers don’t need you to make a version of their own. Now you’ve given them the idea, there’s nothing to stop them producing a decent, well-fitting nursing bra. It’s the same with the étagère bra. I identified the gap in the market and put it out there, but nobody needs me to manufacture it.”

“So people will just steal the idea?”

“Yes, but you and I know that the high-street version won’t be up to snuff. My plan is to roll out the étagère bra myself—along with the best-fitting nursing bra on the planet.”

“Are you serious?”

“I just told you, Sarah. I don’t kid.”

“But what would we use for capital?”

Valentina grinned.

“You have that kind of money?”

“Absolutely. We’d need to acquire a factory, set the whole thing
up, but I’m sure that’s not beyond you. The point is, Sarah, the business would be effectively yours. You’d get to sign off on pretty much everything. I would just show up for the annual board meeting and advise on the really big decisions, but otherwise it would all be yours.”

“But how do you know you can trust me? This is huge. I don’t even know if I can trust me.”

“I trust you because you’re a good person. Your kindness and generosity—the way you let Charles off the hook after what he did—will stay with me forever. We will always be in your debt. Charles still hates himself for what he did to you. I’m not sure he will ever get over it.”

“Please tell him I don’t hold a grudge. I know it was just a moment of madness.”

“Maybe you would speak to him?”

I said that I would.

“Valentina, I’m truly bowled over by your offer, but it’s just so sudden. I need time to think.”

I could see the disappointment on her face. “Let me tell you the other reason I want us to be partners. I want to make amends. I carried all that hate inside me for too long. It’s time to let it go, rebuild. Can you imagine how your aunty Shirley would feel—the two of us in partnership?”

The thought brought a smile to my face. “I think I probably can,” I said.

“Please . . . Do it for her. . . . Now, tell me we have a deal.”

I let out a long breath. “OK . . . we have a deal. And thank you. I’ll do my best not to let you down.”

“That’s all I ask,” Valentina said. “Now come on and let’s finish these scones.”

•   •   •

“G
ather round,” I said to the aunties. “I have news.” I expected them to be beside themselves with delight, but Aunty Sylvia’s reaction in particular was surprisingly muted.

“It all sounds wonderful,” she said, “but I don’t know how I feel about working for Valentina. She hated Shirley. I don’t know if I can forgive her for that.”

“On the other hand, she has reached out to us,” Aunty Bimla said. “She wants to make peace. All that mutual loathing and animosity isn’t good for the soul. We must forgive and forget, let bygones be bygones. This is the chance for a new beginning.”

“I don’t know. It’s not that easy. It feels like we’re being disloyal to Shirley.”

“I disagree,” Aunty Bimla said. “If anybody wanted to make peace, she did. She tried so hard.”

“That’s true. . . .”

“And you get a share of the profits during your lifetime,” I said. “As well as a hike in salary and a pension.”

“Really?’ Aunty Sylvia said. “Valentina agreed to that?”

“She didn’t simply agree to it. It was her suggestion.”

“Who’d have thought? I can’t believe it.”

By now they were both welling up. Their money worries were over—and so were mine. Valentina had offered me a large lump sum on signing the deal. I had already earmarked some of it for Steve—
for all the work he had done. I left the aunties in the shop and went downstairs to drop him an e-mail. He answered straightaway.

What wonderful news. So happy for you. Honestly you don’t need to pay me back and especially not with interest, but since you absolutely insist, see calculations below. And if you need an accountant, you know where to come. All good here. Have been dating lovely tax inspector. Planning to get engaged at Christmas.

Much love, Steve

A tax inspector. Perfect. I couldn’t have been happier.

I went back upstairs with a tray of tea. “I’ve been thinking,” Aunty Bimla said. “We should celebrate. What about lunch at my place on Saturday? Sanjeev is staying with me, Roxanne’s back home. It would be great for us all to get together.”

I said that it was a lovely idea, but I wouldn’t be able to make it because it was the kids’ school summer fair.

“I’ve got it,” Aunty Sylvia said. “Why don’t we come along to the fair and get together for tea?”

No! I didn’t want the aunties hearing my confession. The humiliation would be too much. They couldn’t possibly come.

“You’re more than welcome,” I heard myself say, “but will Sanjeev and Roxanne be up for it? I’m not sure that spending the afternoon at a school summer fair is exactly their thing.”

“Of course it is,” Aunty Sylvia said. “Who isn’t a sucker for cotton candy and the hook-a-duck stall?”

Oh, let them come, I thought. What the hell. Another few people discovering how feeble and dishonest I’d been wasn’t going to make much difference.

•   •   •

I
’d just given the kids supper and finished long phone conversations with my mum and Rosie, who were both delirious at my news and convinced that Aunty Shirley had orchestrated the whole thing from above, when the phone rang again. It was Valentina’s lawyer to say that he would have all the papers drawn up by the end of the week. I was learning something else about Valentina. Not only didn’t she kid around; she didn’t waste any time getting things done.

That night, on the spur of the moment, probably because I was feeling so upbeat, not to mention ever so slightly merry on supermarket bubbly, I decided to cave in and call Hugh. One of us had to come off their high horse. It might as well be me.

“Hugh, it’s me.”

“Sarah. That is so weird. I was literally just about to pick up the phone to you. How’s it all going?”

I told him the Valentina saga—including the bit about Charles stealing the bra—and how it had ended with her offering me a partnership in the business. He couldn’t have been more delighted.

“You are so on your way now. Everything you worked for is bearing fruit. This is sensational news. I am so proud of you.”

“Thank you. I’m not sure it’s quite sunk in yet. . . . Anyway, the thing is, I’ve been doing some thinking. . . .”

“So have I.”

“You have?”

“Yes and there’s something I need to tell you. Listen, is there any chance we could meet?”

“When?”

“Have you eaten?”

“Not yet.”

“OK, so how about now?”

Betty was only too glad to come and mind Dan and Ella. They were even gladder because it meant a game of gin rummy. “Mum,” Dan said. “Please don’t say anything to Grandma. I mean, we like it when she and Granddad come to babysit, but Betty teaches us card games and she’s said when we’re older, she’ll even teach us poker.”

Hugh and I met at a pizza place in Tooting. The moment I saw him, I could see he was bursting to tell me something. I’d barely sat down when he said:

“I have news. I’ve got a job. Not an acting job. A proper job. It even comes with a pension. What do you think of that?”

“I don’t understand. Why would you get a proper job?”

“Because I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you and if this is what it takes—”

“Whoa. Stop. We’ve been here before. You’re doing it again—putting all the responsibility on me. If you get a job, it has to be because that’s what you want—for you. I don’t want you doing it for me. That would make us both unhappy.”

“But I am doing it for me. This is a great job. It’s teaching theater studies at Guildford University. I think I’m going to love it. In fact, I know I will.”

“You’re absolutely sure.”

“Absolutely. I know I’m doing the right thing. It pays well. I’ll be able to start putting money aside. I’ve realized that I’m finally ready to grow up.”