Best Supporting Role

by Sue Margolis

  “Darling, there was no way I was going to cry. Have you any idea what I pay for mascara?”

  “Your poor motherin-law couldn’t stop weeping. I have to say, she looked dreadful.”

  “Yes, but she was no oil painting to start with. I always think that plain people are lucky in many ways. Ugliness lasts so much longer than beauty. Wouldn’t you agree, Imogen?”

  I found myself thinking how dreadful it was that we lived in a world where it was socially unacceptable—not to say illegal—to slap women like Tara.

  But Imogen hadn’t been listening. She was too busy reading a text.

  “Good Lord, they’re releasing Mummy from Grantanamo Bay while they refurbish. She’s coming to stay for a whole month. I love Mummy to bits, but the old dear is completely batty… .”

  “Darling, just book her in at the Ritz,” Tara said. “Let them take care of her. It’s what Margaret Thatcher’s family did, so they’re clearly used to looking after old trouts.”

  Imogen said she wasn’t sure she and her husband were quite up to the five hundred quid a night it cost to stay at the Ritz. Tara said she was sure Imogen would think of something.

  “So,” Tara said, turning to me. “How is your little bra shop coming along?”

  “Very well, thank you. We open on Monday.”

  “You’re opening a bra shop?” Imogen said. “I had no idea. Well, good for you. The country needs more female entrepreneurs. Let me be the first to wish you the best. I’d come along for a fitting, but it isn’t really worth it since I don’t possess much more than a couple of fried eggs.”

  Tara grimaced and turned back to me. “So, Greg Myers all signed up for the summer fair?”

  Whereas I’d been prepared to tell Imogen the truth, there was no way I was about to admit my failure to Tara and Charlotte, who would take such delight in tormenting and ridiculing me.

  “Absolutely,” I heard myself say.

  “We’re so looking forward, aren’t we, Charlotte?”

  “Oh, definitely.”

  By now the children were coming out of school. Tara and Charlotte took their leave and went in search of their offspring, who—naturally—had also been chosen to sing for the old people. I could see Ella and some friends. I could also hear them. They were belting out “Hello, Dolly!”

  “So,” Imogen said, “you said there was something about Greg Myers that you needed to discuss.”

  “No, it’s fine. It was just to firm up timings on the day, but it can wait.”

  “Good, good.”

  The kids clambered into the car and demanded to know what the weird things were on Hugh’s lap.

  “Victorian bedpans,” he said.

  “What are bedpans?”

  I turned to Hugh. “Maybe I should take this,” I said. “OK … sometimes if you’re ill in hospital and can’t get out of bed, you have to poo and wee into a bedpan.”

  “Aaargh. Gross. Stink.”

  When she’d got over being grossed out, Ella burst into, “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair.”

  “Those songs are stupid,” Dan said. “I wish I hadn’t been chosen.”

  “Aw, don’t say that. You got chosen because you have a nice singing voice.”

  “Yes, but why can’t the boys put on a football match for the old people?”

  “Because most of them would probably prefer a sing-along.”

  Dan grunted. Ella kicked off with “Edelweiss.”

  “Ella, shuddup.”

  “You shuddup.”

  “No, you shuddup.”

  I started yelling, which only made things worse.

  “I suggest you both calm down,” Hugh said. “Otherwise, I’m not going to show you my surprise.”

  “What surprise?” Dan said.

  “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise. Now, just sit quietly and wait until we get home.”

  There wasn’t another word from either of them.

  • • •

  When we got home, I put the lasagna in the oven and started on the salad. Hugh asked the children to come and sit at the kitchen table so that he could show them his surprise.

  “OK, here you go,” he said, handing them each a paper wallet. “I printed off the photographs of your murial. Each of you has a set to keep.”

  “Wow. Cool. Thanks.”

  “You know, the murial really was very good,” Hugh said.

  The kids sat examining the photographs.

  “My shark was the best.”

  “My octopus was better.”

  The only thing they agreed on was that they would both take the prints to school for show-and-tell.

  “So, Hugh,” Dan said eventually. “What board games do you like? We’ve got Monopoly, checkers, Operation, Scrabble.”

  “I have to admit that I’m rather partial to a game of Scrabble,” Hugh said.

  Dan didn’t need any more encouragement. He disappeared and came back with the Junior Scrabble box.

  “I should warn you,” Hugh said. “I’m rather good.”

  “Not as good as me,” Ella piped up.

  They drew lots. Ella went first with a three-letter word.

  “Bum,” Dan said. “That is so lame.”

  “OK …” She added an E and an R.

  “I think you’ll find there are two Ms in bummer,” Hugh said.

  “Yeah, ignoranus,” Dan piped up.

  “Has it occurred to you,” I said to Hugh, “that there’s been a definite arse theme running through today?”

  Before we sat down to eat, Hugh nipped out to buy some wine. He also got candy bars for the kids.

  “Wow, Mum never lets us have chocolate,” Dan said.

  “That is so not true. I just don’t let you have it every day.”

  “Yeah, Dan,” Ella said. “You’re such a liar.”

  “Well, at least I’m not an ignoranus.”

  • • •

  Once the kids were asleep, Hugh and I took our glasses and a second bottle of wine into the living room and snuggled up on the sofa.

  “This is a lovely house,” Hugh said. “And you’ve managed to make it really warm and comfortable. It’s a proper home.”

  “I’ve done my best. After everything the kids have been through, I needed to provide them with some kind of a sanctuary.”

  “And you have. Right now they probably don’t appreciate what you’ve done for them, but one day they will and they’ll thank you.”

  I laughed. “You reckon?”

  “I know it.” He took a sip of wine. He didn’t say anything for a moment or two. There was clearly something on his mind. “So,” he said eventually. “Are we dating, then?”

  “Yes. I think we are.”

  “Good … how’s about you come to my place tomorrow and I’ll cook for you?”

  “Oh, Hugh, I’d love to, but there’s nobody to mind the kids. I can’t keep asking Rosie. She’s been great, but I don’t want her to feel like I’m using her.”

  “No, of course not. I get that.”

  “Sorry,” I said, kissing him on the cheek. “You could always come here again.”

  “I know, but I was thinking that we could do with some time alone with no risk of interruptions.”

  “That would be nice,” I said.

  He moved in to kiss me. “Stop it! The children might come down.” But his lips were already on my neck, the tops of my breasts. I heard myself letting out tiny moans of delight.

  “I thought you wanted me to stop.”

  “No … please don’t stop… .”

  But he pulled away. “Maybe we should. Before we really get carried away. Listen, are you sure you can’t make tomorrow?”

  “I don’t see how. Right now I can’t afford proper babysitters.”

  He looked at me. “It’s OK. We’ll sort something out.”

  “Sure.”

  “Sarah, you sure there isn’t something else bothering you? You’ve slumped all of a sudden.”

  He was r
ight, I had. Just when I thought I’d shoved it to the back of my mind, the summer fair issue was haunting me again.

  “I know I’m being a coward, but the thought of Tara and Charlotte reveling in my failure is just too much to bear.”

  “In which case, I’d say you have only one option.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Blackmail.”

  “Brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Come on—the playground bleeds gossip. You must have something on one of these women.”

  “Hugh, stop it. I’m being serious.”

  “So am I,” he said, grinning. “I bet one of them’s playing away.”

  “Funnily enough, it just so happens that Tara is cheating on her husband… .”

  “Aha!”

  “What’s ‘Aha’ supposed to mean?”

  “OK, here’s what you do… .” He was laughing now. “You go up to her, tell her straight out you couldn’t get Greg Myers and that if she dares to even think of making trouble, you’ll tell her old man that she’s cheating on him.”

  “Yeah and maybe I should put a couple of bullets in her kneecaps as well, just to make sure she keeps her mouth shut.”

  “Good idea. Where do you keep your sawed-off shotgun?”

  “Idiot. Come on, you’ve had too much to drink. I’m calling you a cab.”

  I was watching him climb into the cab when the thought occurred to me. I ran into the street and got him to wind down his window. “Tell you what, maybe there is a way I could come to your place tomorrow. Leave it with me. I’ll call and let you know.”

  • • •

  The next morning, just after nine, I was standing on Betty’s porch, ringing the bell.

  “Hi Betty … Look, you’ll probably think this is a huge cheek, but I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could do me a massive favor?”

  When I asked if she could babysit, she looked at me as if she’d just won the jackpot at bingo. At one point I thought she might hug me. “Me? You’d like me to look after the children?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind?”

  “Mind? I’d be delighted. Did I ever tell you that when I was younger, I was really good with kiddies? They seemed to really take to me. Heaven knows why.”

  “Yes, I think you did mention it. But my kids can be little blighters. You might not be so delighted if they give you a hard time.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they won’t. They’re lovely children—a real credit to you… . So where are you going?”

  “Well … actually …”

  Betty smiled. “I know… . You don’t need to say another word. You’ve got a young man, haven’t you?”

  “Actually, I have.”

  “Good for you. Don’t make the mistake I made and end up a lonely old widow. Now then, what time do you want me?”

  “Seven if that’s OK, and I’ll leave you all dinner in the oven.”

  She said that sounded perfect.

  I told the children to promise not to give Betty a hard time. “She’s getting on and old people tend not to appreciate pranks and jokes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they don’t always see the humor.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’ve slowed down.”

  “Why?”

  “Because older brains don’t produce as many new cells as young ones.”

  “Why?”

  “OK … that’s enough. Just do as I tell you. Be kind and polite and tidy up after yourselves. Do not expect Betty to run around after you.”

  Ella said she would sing her some songs from My Fair Lady. I said that sounded like an excellent idea.

  “So is Hugh your boyfriend?” Ella said. She and Dan were sitting on the bed, watching me get ready.

  “Well, it’s early days yet, but I think you could say he’s my boyfriend.”

  “Is he going to be our new dad?” Dan said.

  I sat on the bed and put an arm around each of them. “Listen, there might come a day when I decide to get married again, but believe me, nobody will ever take the place of your dad.”

  “No, but Hugh’s great. He’d be a good dad. He even supports Chelsea.”

  Just then the phone rang. Dan reached over and picked up. “Hi Grandma … Yeah, we’re fine… . Mum’s got a boyfriend.”

  “Dan! Give me that phone.”

  “What?”

  “Just give it to me.”

  “Hello Mum. How are you? … Yes, I have started seeing somebody. His name’s Hugh. He’s an actor. What? No, of course it’s not Hugh Grant. Don’t you think I’d tell you if I’d started dating Hugh Grant? … Yes, he’s done a bit of TV. No, he doesn’t know Claire Danes… . His surname’s Fanshaw… . OK, good idea, you Google him and get back to me. Actually, Mum, I’m getting ready to go out. Can we speak tomorrow? … OK … fine, when you and Dad get back from your flamenco class … Hang on, you’re learning flamenco? … No, of course I’m pleased you’ve got a hobby. It’s just that neither of you ever had one before and you’ve certainly never shown an interest in any kind of dancing. I’m just a bit surprised, that’s all… . What? Yes, of course I’ve got somebody to mind the children. Look, I really have to go. Speak soon … Yep, love you, too.”

  • • •

  There was no polite way of saying it. Hugh’s flat was a dump. Clearly all his furniture—the tatty leather sofa, the orange Formica table and chairs, the office swivel chair plonked in front of the TV—had come from the Waterloo auction house. But it wasn’t just the worn-out, bad-taste furnishings that depressed me. There was stuff everywhere—books, CDs, newspapers and magazines. Then there were his collections: his James Bond cars, the eighties cell phones that looked like bricks, his reel-to-reel tape recorders, some of which were really big and were taking up floor space because there was nowhere else for them. Then there were his work tools. I found two spanners on the sofa, a set of drill bits on top of the toilet cistern.

  When I arrived at Hugh’s place, he was in the middle of making chicken risotto. We stood in his kitchen drinking wine and taking turns to stir the risotto.

  “Sorry the place is such a mess,” he said. “I did clean the bathroom in your honor, though, and gave the kitchen a going over.” It was true. He had made an effort. I’d noticed fresh towels in the bathroom. Plus the basin had been freshly cleaned and green toilet gel had been squirted into the lavatory bowl. Lined up against the wall was a pile of at least two dozen loo rolls.

  “It’s just a bit blokey,” I said, noticing a crusty, charred oven glove. It was lying next to the gas stove—a model that I was guessing went out of production in the seventies.

  “Which is a polite way of saying it’s the town dump.”

  That made me laugh. “You could try getting some blinds and a few plants to brighten the place up a bit.”

  “The only thing that would brighten this place up is a flamethrower.”

  “Oh, stoppit. You’re a builder and decorator for crying out loud. Knowing how hard you work, you could sort it out in a couple of weeks.”

  “I know. It’s just that since the place isn’t mine, I can’t really be bothered.”

  He explained that he rented the flat from a mate of his who now lived in Manchester.

  “Pete gives me a great deal on the rent. He even threw in the van. All I had to do was furnish it—which I did from the place in Waterloo. Don’t think I spent more than a hundred quid.”

  “Huh—as much as that?”

  “OK, I know I should make an effort—maybe give it a lick of paint—but I prefer to spend my spare cash on traveling. I just use the flat as a base.”

  I was aware of making a mental note: doesn’t own flat or even his van. And this bothered me because? It wasn’t like I owned my house. And my car probably wasn’t worth more than five hundred quid. But bother me, it did.

  Hugh’s risotto was excellent—creamy, but with just the right amount of bite. When we sat down to eat at the orange dining room table, he
was at pains to point out that he’d laid it with matching plates and napkins.

  “Should I feel honored?” I said, laughing.

  “You bet.”

  “I don’t get you,” I said. “Until now I’ve been under the impression that you were really into style and decoration. You were always coming up with great ideas for the shop.”

  “I am interested, but I’m on my own and I spend so much of my time working. Like I say, this place is just a base.”

  It was only after we’d eaten that I noticed that one of the living room walls was completely covered in framed photographs of Hugh’s travels.

  I got up to take a closer look.

  “Hugh, these are fantastic.” I was studying a black-and-white photograph of a group of elderly Chinese men playing cards in a smoke-filled basement.

  “My new Hasselblad can take most of the credit. See, I do own some stuff … my laptop, my iPad, my iPhone, my posh music system … my season ticket to Chelsea.”

  “Where did that come from?” I said. “I don’t care what you own or don’t own.”

  “Really? Back there in the kitchen I thought you seemed a bit surprised when I told you that I didn’t own the flat.”

  “Don’t be daft,” I heard myself say. “That would be pretty hypocritical of me, bearing mind I don’t own my place. Now come over here and talk me through the rest of these photographs.”

  There were Icelandic landscapes, portraits of Nepalese monks—images of the Mumbai slums, which managed to be both brilliant and gut-wrenching.

  “You’ve never seen such levels of poverty. India has its own space program and yet it isn’t tackling the poverty. And countries like the UK and the US still give them aid. Shit—I still give them aid.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, thirty quid a month. God knows what it gets spent on.”

  “But you wouldn’t stop giving it?”

  “Of course not. I mean, you can’t, can you?”

  “You are a good man, Hugh F-fanshaw.”

  “I do my best,” he said. “I even went out and bought new bed linen for tonight. Want to see?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He took my hand and led me to the bedroom. A dozen candles, dotted around the room, were flickering in the moonlight. Hugh wrapped his arms around me and began planting kisses on my face.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”