Best Supporting Role (17 page)

As they trudged upstairs, Dan turned to glare at me. He was clearly furious with me for refusing to let him have a go at rolling down the stairs.

Betty turned to me. “You’re lucky,” she said.

“In what way?”

“The Lord may have taken your husband, but he left you with a house that’s filled with children’s laughter. Be thankful for that. One day they’ll leave home. If you’re anything like me, you could be a long time on your own.”

“I know, Betty. You’re right. Come on, I’ll find you those tea bags. Tell you what—why don’t you stay and have a cuppa?”

“Oh, that would be lovely. I’d like that.”

•   •   •

H
ugh said he could start work on the shop straightaway. Meanwhile I went in search of an antique shop counter. Even the one or two I came across in junk shops were way out of my price range.
Affordable
and
antique
seemed like a contradiction in terms. Then I found one online. It was a Victorian, seven-foot-long haberdasher’s counter—oak with wooden shelves and glass panels at the front. It would have been unaffordable had it not been covered in pea green gloss paint. The dealer said I could have it for three hundred pounds. We agreed on two twenty-five, so long as I came to his shop in Surrey and picked it up. I hired a van. Another fifty quid.

The dealer—an old hippie called Ken—helped me load the counter, which came apart and divided into three just about manageable sections. When I got back, Rosie was waiting to give me a hand.

We lugged the parts into the house and leaned them against the living room wall.

Rosie chipped off some of the green paint with her nail. “Wow, have you seen how many layers you’ve got here? I can see blue and white under the green. It’s a magnificent beast, but I reckon you’ll have your work cut out trying to restore it.”

That night I ordered a couple of books on restoring antique furniture.

When most of the paint came straight off with paint stripper, I decided that Rosie had got it wrong. This was going to be easy. That was before I noticed that the paint stripper hadn’t worked at all well on the areas of the counter that were carved. And there were a lot of heavily carved areas—particularly along the base. I set to work with wire wool and a putty knife, but getting into all the crevices took forever. In the end it took five days to strip off all the paint. Then came the sanding. The crevice issue again. Another three days. By the time I got to the best bit—the staining and varnishing—my fingers were stiff and the skin on my hands was raw and cracked. I’d tried wearing rubber gloves, but the thickness of the rubber got in the way and meant I had less control over the sandpaper.

When I showed Rosie the fully restored counter, she said it looked magnificent.

“What a transformation. It looks so elegant and grand.”

“Oh, come on. It still looks pretty beaten up.”

“But that’s part of its charm. You said you were going for hipster chic.”

“But the stain’s all patchy. And what about the varnish? Look how thick and streaky it is. I know I should have sanded it down
between coats, but in the end I got so tired and bored that I couldn’t be bothered.”

Rosie told me to stop obsessing and insisted the counter was going to look just the ticket and that nobody would notice.

I wasn’t convinced.

“Hon, you OK? You seem to have got yourself really worked up about this counter. It’s not like you. Is there something else going on?”

I let out a long breath. “I guess I’m just worried about money and getting the shop ready.”

“Nothing else?”

“Well, I suppose this Greg Myers thing is still at the back of my mind. I feel so bad about leaving Imogen hanging on like this, not knowing the truth. She’s a lovely woman. It’s not fair to her. I’ve got to come clean.”

“OK, but if you ask me, now isn’t the right time. You’re battling against the clock to get the business up and running, you’re worried about money and you’ve got the kids to think about. You’ve got too much on your plate. Imogen can wait another week or so. Send her an e-mail to say you’re still chasing Greg Myers. Then when the shop’s open and everything’s calmed down a bit, pop round and see her.”

“I dunno. Putting it off feels mean and cowardly. I really should bite the bullet.”

“OK, go ahead, but do you really think you can cope with the fallout from that along with everything else you’ve got going on?”

I thought for a few moments. If I confessed to Imogen, she would be sad and disappointed, but she wasn’t the type to get angry. “Chin up, chest out and carry on” was her motto. Tara and Charlotte were
the important issue. I could only guess at the humiliations they would unleash.

“OK. Maybe you’re right,” I said. “I’ll e-mail Imogen and hold off telling her the truth for a bit longer.”

The following day Rosie and I loaded the counter into another hired van and I drove it to the shop. This time it was Hugh who helped with the lifting.

“Wow,” he said when we’d reassembled and positioned it. “You’ve done a really good restoration job.”

I was forced to admit that the counter did look rather magnificent against the parquet floor and the “brown drawers.” But however good my restoration job had been, it didn’t compare with what Hugh had achieved in ten days. The man was certainly no slacker. He’d replastered the walls and ceilings, stripped and varnished the parquet floor. In the basement there were new spotlights, kitchen units and a loo. Painting the floorboards in the basement was pretty much the last job. Then we could start decorating.

“All it needs now,” Hugh said, regarding the counter, “is that antique cash register. I actually took a look on eBay for you.”

“You did? That’s so thoughtful. . . . So go on—how much?”

“I found a couple in the US. They were both around a thousand dollars.”

“I suppose I could always try an offer of twenty-five quid.”

“Don’t worry. You won’t always be this hard up.”

“I wish I had your faith,” I said, offering him a weak smile. “By the way, I just want to say again how amazing the place looks and how much I appreciate the effort you’ve put in. You’ve worked like a demon.”

“Protestant work ethic,” he said. “My parents thought shirking was the eighth deadly sin.”

“Wow, sounds jolly.”

“It was.” He grinned.

“Shame you weren’t born Jewish. We have a nap ethic. You work; you take a nap. You eat; you take a nap. You smite the Philistines; you take a huge nap. Then you eat again . . . colossal amounts of fried food that killed more Jews than Hitler. And so it goes. . . . You nap, you eat, you die.”

Hugh Fanshaw laughed. I couldn’t help thinking how cute he looked.

“Well, I’d better get back to work,” he said eventually. “That basement floor isn’t going to paint itself.”

What I wanted to say was: “Sod the floor. Let’s go over the road and get a coffee and swap notes about our crazy parents.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve been holding you up,” I said. “The kids finish school at half past three. I’d better get a move on, too.”

“I
’m pretty sure Viagra’s kosher,” Aunty Sylvia said in answer to Aunty Bimla’s inquiry. She carried on steering her paint roller back and forth along the tray of Jasmine White emulsion. “Except maybe at Passover when nothing’s meant to rise.”

The aunties hooted. So did Rosie and I. It wasn’t just the joke the pair of us was laughing at. It was more the sight of two respectable ladies of a certain age, one of whom was dressed in a
salwar kameez
, behaving like a couple of six-year-olds reveling in a poo joke.

It was Saturday, our first painting and decorating day. Rosie, the aunties and I were getting on with our assigned jobs, while Hugh, Dan and Ella were out doing a tea and coffee run. All week I’d been trying to persuade the kids to spend the day with Will at Rosie’s sister’s place, but they’d refused point-blank.

“No way,” Dan declared. “We don’t want to be with a boring baby. Painting walls will be fun. We promise we’ll be good—don’t we, Ella?”

“Yep. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

They wanted to feel part of the action. I couldn’t say no.

The aunties, who by now had finished the order for
Così fan tutte
,
had been equally enthusiastic about helping. When I suggested that at their age they might find the work a bit too much, they were most offended. “I’ll take it easy when I’m dead,” Aunty Sylvia informed me.

Grateful as I was that they wanted to help, I was still concerned. Aunty Bimla admitted she’d never held a paintbrush in her life. Aunty Sylvia said that the closest she’d ever come to decorating was painting her nails. “But how hard can it be?”

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Aunty Sylvia was saying now. “Great news. Roxanne didn’t get the part in the haunted refrigerator film.”

Aunty Bimla asked her why not getting the part was such great news.

“Because she’s landed a much bigger part in something else.” Aunty Sylvia began rolling paint over a section of newly plastered wall. “She’s so excited. It’s a children’s film. It’s all about this centipede. And each section of the centipede is a person.”

“Oh, that is so cute,” Aunty Bimla cooed.

“The centipede is good, but apparently there’s this very naughty doctor who wants to hurt it.”

“But why on earth would anybody want to hurt a centipede?” Aunty Bimla said.

Rosie, who was kneeling beside me, helping to sandpaper a length of skirting board, stopped sanding and gave me a nudge.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she whispered.

“I dunno. What are you thinking?”

“That this so isn’t a kids’ film.”

“I’m not with you. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“God, Sarah—you really need to get out more. . . . So, Aunty Sylvia . . . what’s this movie called?”

“
Human Centipede 4.
Apparently it’s just like the
Teletubbies
.”

“Huh. Is that right?” Rosie dug me in the ribs. “Are you with me now?”

“Ouch. Yes. Thank you. I get it.”

“Tell you what,” Aunty Sylvia went on. “As soon as it comes out on DVD, you should get it for William. By then he’ll be just the right age to appreciate it.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Rosie said.

“Bloody hell,” I whispered to Rosie, “the poor woman is going to be mortified when she finds out. How could Roxanne be so stupid? If she wanted her mother to think it was a kids’ film, why go and tell her the actual title? Take it from me, this isn’t going to have a happy ending.”

“And Sanjeev is also doing exceedingly well, too,” Aunty Bimla piped up. “His big business deal has gone through and he is now the proud owner of five thousand acres of land in Paraguay. He plans to start building holiday villas.”

“And he’s seen this land?” I said, quicker on the uptake this time.

“Only photographs, but it looks most picturesque. It’s right by the sea.”

“Wow. Sounds lovely.” I turned back to Rosie and whispered, “That nephew of hers is such a schmuck.”

“Why?”

“Duh. Paraguay’s landlocked. He’s been conned. God knows how much money he’s lost.”

“Mazel tov,” Aunty Sylvia said. “He’s going to be a rich man, that nephew of yours.”

“This is what I am thinking, so when Sanjeev asked me if I would like to invest some of my own money, I didn’t hesitate. In business,
the early bird catches the worm. You have to strike while the iron is hot. Sarah would agree with me on that, wouldn’t you, Sarah?”

“So how much did you invest?” I said, evading her question.

“Ten thousand. Sanjeev says I will triple my money by the end of the year. He says it’s a surefire slam dunk.”

“Shit,” Rosie muttered.

I felt sick.

Just then Hugh walked in with Dan and Ella. Hugh was holding the cardboard drinks tray while each child clutched a carton of juice and a sticky bun. “OK, elevenses, everybody. Come and get it.” Hugh put the tray down on the pasting table.

We’d been working since half past eight. Nobody needed telling twice. A moment later we were all gathered around the table. While Aunty Bimla passed around chunks of carrot halva, Aunty Sylvia tempted us with her homemade honey cake. I’d made it clear to Rosie and Hugh that in order to avert hard feelings, they should accept whatever foodstuffs the aunties offered them and rave about them in equal measure.

“Fabulous honey cake,” Hugh announced. “And this halva—wow—just melts in the mouth.”

“Doesn’t it?” Rosie said. “They’re both to die for.”

“Have some more,” the aunties cried in unison.

Rosie and Hugh protested that they were full. Like that was going to put the aunties off.

“But sugar is good for your breast milk,” Aunty Bimla informed Rosie.

“Come on, Hugh, another piece won’t hurt you,” Aunty Sylvia said. “You’re skin and bone. You could do with fattening up.”

“And you’re still growing,” Aunty Bimla added.

Hugh grinned. “I’m thirty-eight. I think I probably stopped growing a while ago.”

“Well, for your information,” Aunty Bimla said, “that’s not entirely true. I read in the
Reader’s Digest
that a person’s nose and ears continue to grow throughout their life.”

Clearly realizing there was no escape, Hugh helped himself to more halva and honey cake. Rosie did the same. I followed their example. Normally the aunties would have tried to force-feed Dan and Ella, too, but they were still busy chomping their way through their sticky buns.

“So, Hugh,” Aunty Bimla said, “you’re thirty-eight. You’re handsome. You run your own business. . . . Why aren’t you married?”

“Don’t embarrass the boy,” Aunty Sylvia hissed. “For all you know he might be gay . . . or pansexual. That’s a thing now apparently.”

I shot Hugh an apologetic look, but he was smiling. “Actually I’m not gay or pansexual.”

“I knew you weren’t,” Aunty Bimla said. “You have such broad, masculine shoulders. So do you have a young lady?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Ree-ally,” the aunties cried, looking at me.

They could have looked at Rosie. By now they knew all about Simon and how he’d walked out on her, but they’d known me all my life, so matchmaking-wise, I was top of their to-do list.

“You know, Hugh,” Aunty Bimla said, “Sylvia and I are most highly impressed by the work you have done. What a transformation. It is nothing short of a miracle.”

“She’s right,” Sylvia said. “Look at this beautiful floor. I had no idea
there was parquet under that tatty old carpet. And what about the antique counter? My father had one just like it in his tailor’s shop.”

“And the toilet. You’re forgetting the toilet.”

Aunty Bimla hadn’t stopped marveling at the new loo. It had one of those electronic flush buttons that was activated by the slightest touch. Aunty Sylvia said she wasn’t sure about the color—turquoise. I explained that the color was the reason I’d gotten it half price.

Like everybody else I was thrilled and amazed by what Hugh had done to the interior, but my pride and joy was the new sign that hung outside. I’d splurged and hired a signwriter, who’d removed
SHIRLEY FELDMAN FOUND GARMENTS
and put up a new sign. I hadn’t been able to make up my mind whether to go for minimalist lowercase lettering or something swirly and over the top. Hugh reminded me that since I’d just bought four rolls of knockoff French wallpaper depicting bucolic scenes from le Petit Trianon, maybe minimalist lettering wouldn’t be in keeping. I agreed. Ostentation was required. Gold swirls and curlicues were so much more Marie Antoinette.

The sign read:
SARAH GREEN LINGERI
E
. The aunties and Rosie had persuaded me to add “UK” in brackets to encourage me to think big. The day it went up, I took a photograph and sent it to Mum and Dad, who called back straightaway to say how proud of me they were and that they’d forwarded it to all the family.

“And you’re looking after yourself?” Mum said. “You’re eating properly?”

“Yes, I’m looking after myself. Yes, I’m eating.”

“And what about the children?”

“They’re eating, too.”

“And money?”

“I’m fine for money.”

“You sure? Sarah, if you need money, you mustn’t hesitate to ask. I can’t bear to think of you and the children suffering.”

“Mum, I promise you we’re not suffering. We’re absolutely fine. I’d tell you if we weren’t. . . . So how are things in Marbella?”

The sun was glorious. Uncle Lou’s flat was fabulous—although there had been a significant grease buildup on top of the cooker hood. The complex had not one but two pools. On the downside, it was next to a main road, but you couldn’t have everything. All in all they were having a great time and, despite the main road, Mum was getting lots of rest.

•   •   •

I
’d been worried that today was going to turn into chaos. The children were my main concern. Once they got bored with painting—which would take about fifteen minutes, if that—they would start charging around the place demanding to be entertained.

As well as fretting about the children, I’d been worried about Hugh and Rosie. I was convinced that they wouldn’t hit it off. By now I didn’t have a single doubt about Hugh’s integrity, but Rosie was still suspicious.

“I’m just worried that when he presents you with his bill, it’s going to be full of hidden extras.”

On top of that, the aunties’ lack of decorating skills still bothered me. I was in no doubt that they would do their best, but neither of them had any experience. I imagined their streaky, patchy paintwork and how it would make more work for Hugh instead of less.

I shouldn’t have worried.

Both aunties proved to be remarkably proficient with a paint roller. Earlier this morning, Aunty Bimla had caught me watching her. “Don’t worry, poppet, it isn’t rocket science, you know.” She stood back so that I could get a look at her handiwork as well as Aunty Sylvia’s. “We are cutting the mustard, wouldn’t you say?”

“Definitely. Not that I ever doubted you.”

“Of course not,” Aunty Sylvia said, grinning.

I felt like an idiot. These women were two of the most talented seamstresses in the country. Manual dexterity was in their genes. As if they wouldn’t be able to handle a paint roller.

As I predicted, the children did get bored. To their credit they lasted over an hour helping Rosie and me sandpaper the skirting board, but by about ten o’clock they’d had enough. It was Hugh who suggested I give them a break and take them for a quick wander around Selfridges’ toy department. “Later on they can come with me when I do the tea and coffee run. Do you guys like sticky buns?”

It went without saying that the children strongly approved of both ideas. Under normal circumstances I would have shot down the Selfridges suggestion. Taking children to look around a toy department when neither they nor their mother had any money wasn’t my idea of fun. But since Dan and Ella were each in possession of a twenty-pound note—going-away money from their grandparents—Selfridges seemed like a plan.

We returned—Dan with a robotic crab, Ella with a Fairy Dough Cookie Kit . . .
the dough turns magically pink
—to find that Hugh had sketched a huge seascape across one as yet unpainted wall. The idea was that the kids could color it in and add boats and sea creatures,
using the sample paint colors that Hugh just happened to have in his van.

The moment they saw it, Dan and Ella began jumping with excitement. They couldn’t wait to get started.

“Hugh, thank you. This is really brilliant. It’s so going to keep them occupied. . . . Dan, Ella, what do you say?”

“Thankyou-thankyou-thankyou.”

“Can we start now?”

“Hugh, please, please open the paint?”

Hugh crouched down in front of them. “OK, if you could just calm down for a moment, there’s one thing you have to understand. I know that your picture is going to be fantastic, but eventually we will have to paint over it.”

“That’s not fair,” Ella said, arms folded—offended that anybody would want to paint over her artwork.

“But why can’t you keep it?” Dan said. “It could be a murial . . . you know, like the Romans had.”

“I’m not sure,” Hugh said, “that a seascape would be quite right for this sort of shop.”

“Yeah, dummy,” Ella shot back, seizing the opportunity to get one over her older brother, even if it meant relinquishing her own case. “It sells knickers. You’d have to have a knicker murial.”

Time for me to butt in. “Ella, don’t speak to Dan like that. He was making a perfectly reasonable suggestion.”

She mumbled her apology. Normally she would have argued rather than apologize, but the last thing she wanted was me confiscating her Fairy Dough Cookie Kit.

“I know what we’ll do,” Hugh said, clearly anxious for this not to turn into a full-scale bickering match. “Before we paint over the wall, we’ll take some photographs of your art and you can take them to school. How does that sound?”

They both shrugged, aware that they had no choice.

•   •   •

“R
ight,” Aunty Bimla was saying now, “break over. Time to get back to work. A rolling stone gathers no moss.” She opened a plastic trash bag and began collecting cups. When she headed downstairs to the kitchen, I followed her.