by Sue Margolis
I leaned over the desk and planted a huge smacker on his cheek.
• • •
The awards ceremony was due to be held the following Friday. It was a convention going back decades that the judging shouldn’t be long and drawn out. I felt grateful and terrified at the same time.
Aunty Sylvia decided she was going to stop worrying about the competition—because it was giving her acid—and plutz about something else instead: what to wear. Aunty Bimla had no trouble making up her mind—a formal occasion always called for her embroidered silk salwar kameez. Aunty Sylvia couldn’t decide. “Maybe I should go for my navy two-piece. But I’m just not sure it quite says dinner at the Savoy. Perhaps my emerald would be better. It’s got a bit of sparkle. Unless I went for my cream silk. Then of course I’d have to buy new shoes.”
While the aunties and I plutzed, Rosie spent dozens of hours practicing her catwalk strut. She’d taken to doing it in her back garden—using the long stone path as a runway. I would coach her over the garden fence.
“No, as you walk, bring your knees up more. You need to look more like one of those dressage horses… . That’s it.” Then she’d go and ruin it all by getting a stiletto caught in a crack in the crazy paving and falling on her face.
Troy—the hair and makeup artist who’d been recommended by Sylvia’s next-door neighbor’s daughter who worked as a fashion assistant on one of the glossies—came to Rosie’s to do a tryout. “OK, so I’m thinking that right now, ethereal is like majorly on trend.” His look of choice was bird’s nest hair, white lips and no eyebrows. Rosie was all for it and said we should dump the heels and go for army combat boots.
“Fabberlous,” said Troy. “You know I was at a show in Gowanus last week and Kate Moss was wearing them—in herringbone.”
I said that inspired as the concept was, maybe it need toning down, just a teensy bit.
“You see, Rosie’s going to be modeling a nursing bra and I’m looking for a look that’s more …”
“Say no more. I’m already in your headspace. OK, I’m thinking Madonna and child… . How’s about we forget the hair and cover her head with a nun’s veil? Then you juxtapose that with cheap hooker makeup and a giant crucifix.”
“Help me out here,” I muttered to Rosie.
“I think what Sarah’s trying to say is that she’s thinking more suburban chic.”
Troy took a moment to process this. “I … am … loving … it. That is like so übercurrent. We’ll keep it understated and natural—peach tones, hair long and loose, a few soft curls maybe.”
I patted his shoulder. “Troy, I think you’ve got it.”
• • •
I dug out one of my taffeta rockabilly party dresses. It was dark green with a black shimmer. I’d worn it for my engagement party. It had always been one of Mike’s favorites.
I tried it on, along with the fat black net petticoat. Not only did it still fit—with all the stress of the last couple of weeks I must have lost weight—but although I said it myself, it didn’t look at all bad. I got it dry-cleaned and treated myself to a pair of peep-toe heels.
On the day of the ceremony I closed the shop early to give us time to go home and get ready. Mum and Dad were collecting the kids from school and taking them back to their place for the night.
I was sitting on the bed doing my makeup and enjoying the peace when the phone rang. “Mum, we’re just calling to wish you good luck and Dan wants to know if he sits on his hand all day, will it fall off and will he die? Oh, and Grandma says that you should break a leg, but I don’t want you to break a leg.”
No sooner had I gotten off the phone from my children and both parents than it rang again. I looked at the caller ID. Hugh. I felt a great surge of happiness and hope. He’d phoned to apologize, to tell me he’d rethought his crazy adolescent way of life and that he’d come up with a strategy. I hit “answer.”
“Hugh!”
“Have I caught you at a bad time?”
“No, not at all … I mean apart from the fact that it’s the Bra Oscars tonight and I’m in the middle of getting myself all dolled up.”
“That’s actually why I called. I just wanted to wish you good luck.”
“Aw, that’s really kind. Thank you.”
“So how you doing?”
“I’m good.”
“Kids?”
“Yep, they’re good, too.”
“Your mum and dad?”
“Both fine. So how are you? Anything going on?”
“Not really. Just the same ol’ same ol’. Working hard. You know me.”
“Sure.”
“Right, well … I should probably get going… .”
“Yep, me, too. Still got to dry my hair.”
“Anyway, good luck again.”
“Thanks. And thanks again for calling. I appreciate it.”
I fell back on the bed. Disappointment didn’t begin to describe what I was feeling.
• • •
“But you could have made a move,” Rosie said as we waited outside for the taxi. “Told him how much you were missing him. He’d made the effort to call and wish you luck—the least you could have done was meet him halfway.”
“I can’t. That’s all there is to it. Now can we let the subject drop? Please?”
“You’re such an idiot, do you know that?”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You look beautiful by the way,” I said. “Your tits look amazing.”
“It’s the scaffolding,” she said, referring to the seriously boned Vivienne Westwood she’d picked up at T.J. Maxx.
“And you’re clear about what time you’re due to go and get changed?”
She said she’d had a call from one of the competition organizers and apparently the toastmaster would announce it during dinner. A meeting room had been set aside for the models, where they could get ready and do their hair and makeup. The plan was for Troy to join her there.
“And I love that pink you’ve used on your nails,” I said. “It’s perfect.”
“You’re not going to get round me. I still think you’re an idiot.”
“OK, I’m an idiot. I’m also really, really nervous. Do you think we could have this conversation another time?”
“Sure.” She reached into her bag, pulled out two miniature Scotch bottles and handed me one. “Get this down you,” she said. “Oh—and you look gorgeous, too.”
• • •
We headed to the River Room, where predinner drinks and canapés were being served.
Everyone and anyone in lingerie was there, milling and mwahing and sipping Sea Breezes as the evening sun poured through French windows and a cellist played Bach in the background.
Rosie said the place had to be full of journalists from the glossies and that I needed to start working the room.
“What? I can’t just march up to people and barge in on their conversations.”
“Of course you can. You just introduce yourself and let them know that you’re this new hot-shit kid on the lingerie block.”
“You want me to say that?”
“Well, maybe not those exact words.”
“Hang on,” I said, noticing a blond woman in heavy tortoiseshell specs. “Isn’t that India Fitzroy?”
“Who?”
“You know. Writes for Elle. I recognize her from her byline picture.”
“OK, you have to go over and speak to her. Play your cards right and she might give you some publicity.”
India appeared to be on her own. What did I have to lose? I made my way over. Rosie was a couple of paces behind.
“India, how do you do. I’m Sarah Green. I’m one of the contestants.”
“Oh, right, yah.” She offered me a limp hand.
“I’m such an admirer of your work. I’d just like to say that I absolutely adored your piece on the return of denim.”
“It went away?” Rosie said. I dug her in the ribs.
“Thanks. Glad you liked it.”
“I really did. Anyway, I run Sarah Green Lingerie. It’s a new business—well, not totally new—my aunty Shirley used to run it. Then she died… .”
“Really. Great. Fabulous.” India was looking past me, clearly scanning the room for somebody more interesting to speak to.
“And this is my friend Rosie. She’s going to be modeling my entry.”
India gave a vague nod in Rosie’s direction. “Great tits,” she said.
Before Rosie had a chance to say anything, India was off. “Valentina, darling! How are you?”
“That went well, then,” I said.
“Brilliant … She liked my tits, though. So is she gay or what?”
“No, she’s just in the fashion biz. It’s how they are.”
• • •
The aunties had stationed themselves near the bar—not that they were drinking anything stronger than orange juice.
“Here they come,” Aunty Sylvia cried. “Oh, will you just look at the pair of them. Aren’t those dresses stunning?”
Aunty Bimla agreed and said that we were both the belles of the ball.
“And look at you two,” I said, giving them hugs. “Don’t you look gorgeous?”
Aunty Sylvia had gone for her emerald. Aunty Bimla was in peacock blue. There were dozens of bangles at her wrists. Dark blue crystals set in gold cascaded to her collarbone.
“Tell me honestly,” she said. “You don’t think it’s a bit too Aladdin’s mother?”
Rosie and I sipped Sea Breezes while the aunties oohed and aahed over the canapés, the flowers, the thickness of the carpets, the politeness of the waitstaff, the cellist and the difficulties of fitting such an enormous instrument between her legs while still managing to look ladylike. If they disapproved of anything, it was some of the women’s outfits. Aunty Sylvia was particularly vocal on the subject. “What does she look like? I wore more to give birth.”
“So, do we know how many contestants there are?” I said.
Aunty Bimla thought she’d overheard somebody say there were around sixty.
“There are so many unknown quantities,” I said. “It won’t just be Valentina we’re up against.”
“You know, poppet, not many people would have let that husband of hers get away with what he did. He’s a bad egg.”
“Hear, hear,” Aunty Sylvia muttered.
“Come on, Valentina did offer to take herself out of the competition. It was me who insisted she stay in. Charles isn’t bad. He’s just old and lonely.”
“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.
• • •
By 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.
• • •
The 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.”