Best Supporting Role

by Sue Margolis

  “I didn’t quite say that. I said it might be possible.”

  “OK, but even if we don’t win, it would be a chance to put the business on the map. I’d be more than happy to settle for that. I think we have to enter if we possibly can. Agreed?”

  The aunties looked at each other and shrugged as if to say, “What do we have to lose?” “Agreed,” they said.

  We clinked teacups. Then, for some reason, Aunty Bimla started checking out the entry form again. “Poppet, look. It says that on the night of the awards ceremony, there is to be a fashion show so that the audience can see all the entries and after that, the judges will make their final decision. Apparently contestants are expected to provide their own models.”

  “Well, that’s easy,” Aunty Sylvia said, waving a digestive. “Rosie. She’s gorgeous and with her top half, she’d be perfect.”

  Aunty Bimla agreed. “Rosie has the most perfect boobies.”

  “I wonder if she’d do it,” I said, draining my teacup.

  We all agreed that there could be no harm in asking. “I’ll pop in and see her tonight.”

  Aunty Bimla began gathering up empty cups.

  “By the way,” I said, “I called in on Valentina di Rossi.”

  “Poppet, what on earth possessed you? Didn’t you listen to a word we said?”

  “Of course I did, but curiosity got the better of me, that’s all.”

  “With all the aggravation we’ve got,” Aunty Sylvia said, “we need this like a hole in the head.”

  “Need what?”

  “Look, don’t get me wrong,” Aunty Bimla said. “We all feel sorry for Valentina, but she’s always had a temper. By crossing her you have reignited the dragon’s fury. I wouldn’t put anything past her.”

  “Oh, please. Maybe I should point out that this is not an episode of Game of Thrones.”

  “Game of what?” Aunty Bimla inquired.

  “Thrones,” I said. “It’s a fantasy drama on TV.”

  “About dragons?”

  “Dragons do appear, but it’s mainly about war and power struggles.”

  “Oh, I know,” Aunty Sylvia piped up. “It’s the one with the sexy midget.”

  Aunty Bimla was waving her finger. “You know it’s not at all politically correct to refer to somebody as a midget. The Guardian recently printed a glossary of the latest socially acceptable terms and I think they prefer dwarf or little person.”

  “Midget, dwarf, whatever. I’m telling you he’s really sexy. I’m not kidding. If I was thirty years younger and three feet shorter …” Aunty Sylvia cackled. Then she stopped. “So what’s an elf, then?”

  • • •

  When I got home, I called Mum in Spain to tell her about the Bra Oscars and to find out if she could throw any more light on the Valentina di Rossi affair.

  She thought entering the competition was a marvelous idea. She agreed that we didn’t need to win and that getting noticed would be enough.

  As far as Valentina di Rossi went, Mum knew about as much as the aunties. “Dad and I went to see her, too—you know, to explain that Shirley was in a terrible way and in hospital. Later we even offered to pay her the five thousand pounds, but by then her mother had died. She didn’t want to speak to us. She just told us to get out.”

  “Yes, she showed me the door, too,” I said.

  “I know for a fact that she still holds a terrible grudge and, to be honest, who can blame her? I came across her a few years ago. We happened to be standing next to each other in the taxi queue outside Waterloo station. I was in front of her, but the moment my cab appeared, she barged past me with such force that I almost fell backwards. As she got in, she let out some curse in Italian. I would have given anything just to sit down and talk to her. But she’s still too angry. Even though she was crazy, my sister did a terrible thing. You have to feel sorry for Valentina.”

  “Of course you do. The woman is clearly tormented, but at the same time she’s all mouth. Seriously … what’s she going to do?”

  • • •

  Hugh popped in after dinner on his way home from work. He’d been fitting a kitchen in a house a few streets away. I offered to put something in the oven for him, but he said he’d already grabbed a pizza.

  “Listen, hon,” I said before he’d even taken off his jacket, “can you watch the kids for a bit while I go next door? There’s something I need to ask Rosie. Oh, and don’t let them eat any more ice cream. They’ve already had loads. I don’t want them to get stomachaches. And Dan needs to finish his homework and they need to start getting ready for bed in twenty minutes or so.”

  “Sure. Anything else? Move the house a little to the left, maybe?”

  “No, that’s it,” I said, grinning. I gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks. I won’t be long. Promise.”

  Rosie answered the door, cell clamped to her ear.

  “There’s clearly been some confusion,” she was saying. “I don’t do lesbian sex… . Why not? … I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’m straight and I can’t get into it… . Look, if you think I’m betraying the sisterhood, that’s up to you. If I could do it, I would. Believe me, I could use the money… . Maybe you’re right and I should be more bi-curious… . I’m sorry if you think I’m not doing enough for dyke visibility and yes, I will read Ellen DeGeneres’ autobiography. In fact I will do it now … as soon as I get off the phone. Yes, and snatch the day to you, too …”

  Rosie hit “end” and pulled a face at the phone. “God knows how she got hold of my number.”

  I told Rosie she looked like she could use a drink.

  “Too right.” She said that now she’d started weaning Will onto solids, she was buying wine again and that there were a couple of bottles of sauvignon blanc in the fridge.

  She led the way into the kitchen. “I’m so knackered,” she said, opening the fridge. “William’s rebelling against his new big-boy cot. He was just screaming for an hour. No sooner had I got him down than this bloke rang who wanted me to pretend I was Björk and kept complaining because I couldn’t do an Icelandic accent. He was followed by the crazy lesbian.”

  She handed me a glass of wine and went over to the oven. “Hope you don’t mind watching me eat,” she said, removing a foil container, “but I’m starving.”

  We sat at the kitchen table, Rosie eating lasagna out of the container. I asked her how she was feeling about Simon. She said she was finally starting to let go, albeit slowly.

  “You know what I need?” she said.

  “What?”

  “A new start. I have to ditch this bloody job. It’s so tedious and depressing.”

  “Actually, that’s why I’m here. I have a job for you. It’s only a one-off, but I think it could lead to other things.”

  “You know what, I’m not great at shop work. Plus the posh women customers you have to deal with would really piss me off. I’d end up telling them where to go.”

  I said it had nothing to do with working in the shop and explained about the competition. “Before the prizes are handed out, all the bras are going to be modeled and I thought—with your fabulous chesticles—you could model mine.”

  “So you’re asking me to get up in front of hundreds of people in my bra and knickers?”

  “Oh, come on. You of all people can’t have a problem with that.”

  She held her fork in midair. “I do when I know that the audience will be full of ogling men. I mean why would any man who wasn’t an A-list creep decide to go into the lingerie business? It’s the same with male gynecologists. I find the whole thing a bit pervy.”

  I said that sounded a tad harsh.

  Rosie said she thought I was being a tad naive.

  “OK,” I said. “If you’re not comfortable with it, that’s fine.”

  “And let’s face it, I’m way too old to start modeling. And you know I have all these self-esteem issues… .”

  “Oh please. You’re stunning and you know it. Despite what your mothe
r did to you, I’m guessing that deep down you always knew it. Come on, Rosie, you’re looking for a new start and this might lead to something really big.”

  She didn’t seem convinced. “It’ll lead to a load of pervs gawping at my tits, that’s where it’ll lead.” She paused, clearly mulling. “OK, do I get to keep the bra?”

  “You bet. It will have been specially made for you.”

  “And somebody would do my hair and makeup?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “In that case …”

  “You’ll do it?”

  “I admit I’m warming to the idea.”

  I got up and hugged her. “Thank you so much. You have no idea what this means to me.”

  “You’re welcome. I just hope I don’t fuck up.”

  “Don’t be daft. Of course you won’t fuck up.”

  I said that the theme was “a gap in the market.” “What are women looking for that they can’t find in the stores?”

  “Oh, come on. That’s easy.”

  “It is?”

  “Of course it is. What women want but can’t ever find is a decent nursing bra. It simply doesn’t exist. The things you buy in the shops are more like mammary hoists. No real support. Your breasts just jig around. Why is it so hard to make something that fits?”

  This rang a loud bell. Why hadn’t I thought of it? How often had I moaned about the nursing bras I bought when I was breast-feeding Dan and Ella? In fact they’d been so useless support-wise that I stopped wearing them. I told Rosie how I’d ended up modifying my ordinary bras. By cutting away part of the cup, I made a flap, which could be unhooked for feeding and reattached afterwards. Nursing bra manufacturers used the same method. The only difference was, I was starting with a decent bra. (At least I thought I was. At that stage I hadn’t had the benefit of being fitted by Aunty Shirley.)

  “Brilliant,” Rosie said. “So all you have to do is design me the perfect bra with an inbuilt breast-feeding modification.”

  “I wish it was that easy. The problem I’ve got—as the aunties keep reminding me—is that I’ve never designed a bra before, let alone made a pattern.”

  She asked me why the aunties couldn’t make the pattern. I said they’d never been taught.

  “But you studied fashion. Surely you’ve made patterns.”

  “Yes—for dresses and pants. Have you any idea how complicated a bra pattern is? I’ve seen them. They look more like blueprints for a suspension bridge.”

  “Well, I have every faith in you. I know you can do it. And when you do, all the mothers out there are going to love you, and the bra manufacturers will be offering you a fortune to roll it out. Take it from me, this is a real winner.”

  “I wouldn’t bank on it—not when I’m up against the likes of Valentina di Rossi.”

  “Isn’t she the woman who owns La Feminista? I’ve read about her. She’s a really talented designer.”

  “She is and that’s what scares me, but I know I have the better seamstresses. So we’ll just have to see… .”

  • • •

  By the time I got back, having told Rosie the entire Valentina di Rossi story over the rest of the sauvignon, the kids were in bed and Hugh had dozed off in front of the football. He woke as soon as I switched it off.

  “Hey, I was watching that.”

  “No, you weren’t,” I said, going over and planting a kiss on his forehead. “You were snoring.”

  “I was?”

  “Yep.” I sat down next to him on the sofa. “Sorry I was so long. Rosie and I got talking.”

  “No worries. I read to the kids. Oh, and Dan asked me if worms bleed.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him that according to the Boys’ Book of Facts which I was given for Christmas circa 1989, they most definitely did.”

  “I bet he was impressed.”

  “He was. The only problem was that Ella got stroppy and insisted the book should have been called The Children’s Book of Facts, since it wasn’t just boys who were interested in knowing if worms bleed.”

  I laughed. “Good for her. She’s got real spirit for a kid her age.”

  “I know. Like her mother.”

  We snuggled up. Hugh began playing with my fringe.

  “I’ve got something to tell you,” I said. “I’m afraid you won’t be seeing much of me over the next couple of weeks.”

  “How come?”

  I explained about the competition and why I’d gone to see Rosie.

  “I can certainly see why she’d be the perfect model. And just imagine if you won. How amazing would that be?”

  “I know, but we have a serious rival.” I told him about Valentina, how talented she was and the story of how she and Aunty Shirley had fallen out.

  “The woman’s clearly still furious. But you can see why she’s pissed off.”

  “I know. Don’t get me wrong. I feel really sorry for her.”

  • • •

  The following morning, Mum texted me from the tarmac at Heathrow: Wheels down. All come for dinner tonight and bring Hugh!!!

  I texted back: Tonight? You’ll be exhausted. Come to me instead.

  She replied: No effort to put chicken in oven. See you at seven.

  I called Hugh and said that if he wasn’t ready to meet my folks and in particular my crazy starstruck mother, I would understand.

  “On the other hand, her roast chicken is of the gods.”

  “Say no more. And since I have a crazy mother of my own, I’m sure I’ll manage.”

  • • •

  Mum and Dad looked better than I’d seen them in years. Dad said it was just the tan and his blood pressure was still up and down. “But mostly down,” Mum was quick to point out. She’d put on weight and she was laughing and full of bustle. The light that had gone out was shining again.

  We managed to get all the hugs and missed-yous out of the way before Hugh got there. He arrived with flowers for Mum, which hit just the right note. Dad pumped his hand and immediately started giving his views on the acting profession, opining that it wasn’t what it was, particularly since the likes of Gielgud, Olivier and Redgrave were no more. This hit slightly less than the perfect note, but to his credit Hugh didn’t seem remotely put out and even had the good grace to agree.

  Mum, who was taking Dad’s remarks in slightly less good humor, suggested it was time to give everybody their presents from Spain.

  There were sombreros, maracas and painted fans for the kids—olive oil and cured ham for me. Dad presented Hugh with a bottle of sherry. “Now, this isn’t any old sherry,” Dad said, as if he were presenting Hugh with some ancient Egyptian artifact. “It’s a Manzanilla. While we were in Spain, I became something of a Jerez aficionado. The Manzanilla is a jewel among sherries. You’ll find it’s quite yeasty with woody and roast almond top notes and a nutty finish. Very different from the oloroso, which has an almost cheesy aroma and a more complex finish.”

  Hugh thanked him and said he couldn’t wait to try it. Meanwhile Mum was giving Dad a look that said, “Enough with the tutorial already.”

  “Hugh, do help yourself to another Gruyère spiral,” she said. “So, tell me about Downton. What was Dame Maggie like to work with? They do say she can be a bit prickly.”

  “I was only playing a footman. We didn’t actually have any scenes together, but people said she could be pretty demanding.”

  “She’s got such a presence and such an amazing face—those steely eyes that look everybody up and down. And of course when you were in Jane Eyre, you got to meet Dame Judy.”

  “Again, I played a footman, so I only saw her from a distance.”

  “I’m never too sure about her short hair. I can’t help thinking that at her age, it might soften her features if it were a bit longer.”

  I was in no doubt that Mum was capable of carrying on like this for hours, and we hadn’t even sat down to dinner yet.

  “And when you were in Hollywood, I don’t suppose you g
ot to meet Claire Danes. I love her.”

  “Actually, no, I didn’t.”

  “So, come on, Dad,” I piped up. “Aren’t you going to show us your fandango?”

  “What’s a fandigo?” Ella said.

  “It’s a fandango,” Dad explained. “And it’s a kind of dance they do in Spain.”

  “Yes, come on, Granddad, do your dance. We want to see.”

  “No, I haven’t practiced for days and I’d need to get changed.”

  “Go on, then,” Mum said. “Go and get changed.”

  “All right, but it isn’t going to work very well on the carpet.”

  Mum said he could perform in the kitchen, which had a wood floor.

  Dad disappeared upstairs and returned five minutes later wearing a puffy-sleeved shirt, a waistcoat and a black hat with pom-poms. A red sash was tied around his potbelly. Then I noticed the stacked heels. A small, corpulent Jewish man of a certain age on his way to a fancy dress party. Dan and Ella were beside themselves.

  We got up and moved into the kitchen.

  “Right, what you need to understand,” Dad said, “is that a fandango is meant to be a dance for two people and there should be a guitar accompaniment… .”

  “Come on … just get on with it.” Mum started clapping out a rhythm—the palmas, she called it.

  Dad pulled himself up to his full five foot seven and a half—eight and a half if you included the heels. Hands on hips, he lifted his triple chin in an effort to reveal a chiseled jaw. This didn’t materialize on account of it being cloaked in jowl. “The stance needs to be proud and self-important,” he said.

  Mum said he looked more like somebody had just shoved a poker up him.

  More hysterics from the children.

  Dad began stamping his stacked heels so fast that I was blinking in amazement. Then he started strutting and clapping with such skill and poise that I actually felt my mouth fall open. The rest of us started following Mum’s clapping rhythm. Dan and Ella were yelling, “Go, Granddad!” More exotic hand flourishes, swaggering and prancing from Dad. Then he fell backwards over a kitchen stool and managed to knock a cup of cold coffee off the counter.

  Hugh rushed to his aid, but the rest of us were paralyzed with laughter. All except Mum, who was tutting because the coffee had gone over the cream roller blind. While she made an emergency dash for the biological detergent, the rest of us told Dad how brilliant he was. “Tell you what—we should get you to do a turn at the school summer fair.”