Best Supporting Role (11 page)

“I haven’t gotten around to e-mailing his agent yet, but I will.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Jeez, why are you being so negative?”

“I’m not being negative. I wished you good luck.”

I harrumphed and let it go.

We took our mugs of tea and Aunty Shirley’s books to the dining
room table. Having run my own business, I wasn’t totally clueless when it came to reading a set of accounts, but I decided to leave Steve to it. After all, he was the expert. He ran his fingers over the columns, turned page after page, tutting and muttering as he went.

“I’m assuming it’s not looking good,” I said.

“It’s not just that. Her books are so chaotic. God knows what her accountant made of them.”

“Oh, she didn’t bother with an accountant.”

“That figures.”

“So what’s the bottom line?”

“Well, Aunty Shirley certainly wasn’t making a profit. Judging by her most recent figures, she was barely breaking even, but at least there appears to be no debt, which is something. Looks like she’s even paid her rent until the end of this year.”

He continued to pore over the pages. Meanwhile I turned my attention to the pile of mail I brought with me from the shop. I threw the junk into the kitchen bin and put the utility bills, invoices and payments in a pile. There was a brown envelope from Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs, which I assumed was another bill, but for some reason I decided to open it.

It took me a moment or two to take in what I was reading. “Blimey. Steve . . . look at this.”

“What?”

I handed him the letter. “Is this what I think it is?”

He started reading. “It most certainly is. It would appear that in the financial year twenty eleven to twelve the Inland Revenue overcharged your aunty Shirley to the tune of ten thousand three hundred and fifty-six pounds, thirty-two pence, and she’s due a rebate.”

“But she’s dead. Does that mean they get to keep it?”

“No. It will be paid to her estate. As her sole beneficiary, that means you get it.” Steve said that all I had to do was send the letter to her lawyer and he would sort it out.

“So what will you do with the money?”

I was in no doubt. “I’ll split it between the aunties. When I saw them, I got the definite impression that they hadn’t been paid in a while. Plus Aunty Shirley was desperate to give them something to say thank you for all their years of hard work. At least I’ll be doing something to make her happy.”

“You and your guilty conscience. You do realize that the money would pay for you to upgrade your car and take the kids on a decent holiday.”

“I know, but this is more important.”

After we’d eaten Steve’s magnificent lamb tagine, we took the wine bottle and our glasses to the sofa. Netflix had just got the latest Coen brothers movie, which had come out a few months ago and we’d both missed. We had started smooching and I was letting things take their course—and rather enjoying it—when something occurred to me.

“Of course you do realize what else I could do with the money?”

“What?” He carried on planting kisses on my neck.

“Well . . . I could give the aunties a couple of grand each to keep them going, use two to spruce up the shop and put the rest in the kitty.”

“What kitty?” The kisses stopped.

“Well, I’d need a kitty if I was going to get the business going again.”

“Hang on,” he said, pulling away. “You’re seriously thinking about taking over the shop?”

“I don’t know. Maybe ten grand—actually nearly eleven—changes things. Plus you said that Aunty Shirley had paid her rent until the end of the year.”

“Sarah, are you out of your mind? Ten or even eleven thousand pounds doesn’t even begin to change things. It’s nothing. It’s a drop in the ocean. It’s less than a drop in the ocean. First it would take twenty grand minimum to renovate the shop. It needs rewiring, replastering. God knows what state the plumbing is in. On top of that it needs a complete redesign and refit. Have you any idea what that costs?”

“But Aunty Shirley rented the shop. Surely the landlord is responsible for the upkeep of the actual building.”

“I’m sure he is. Sarah, your aunt was no fool. Don’t you think she probably tried to get money out of the landlord?”

“Possibly, but what if she didn’t try?”

Steve sat shaking his head.

“If I could get the landlord to update the wiring and fix the plasterwork, I could take care of the refit.”

“What, you can build units and shelves?”

“Of course not. I’d get somebody in, but I’ve got a bit of an eye for interior design, so I could plan it all. And I’m thinking that I could do a sort of shabby chic thing, which wouldn’t cost too much—lick of paint, some junk shop bits and pieces.”

“And you think that hipster chic is going to work in the West End? Please.”

“Depends how you do it.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Sarah, listen to me. Even if you
were able to fund the renovations, what makes you think you’d be able to compete with what’s her name . . . the Montecute woman? You’ve said yourself she’s got the market sewn up.”

“I know, but maybe we could at least attempt to take her on and then the aunties wouldn’t be left high and dry.”

“You’re not leaving them high and dry. You’re giving each of them five thousand pounds. They’ll be fine.”

“How long do you think they’ll last on five grand? These women don’t have families to look after them.”

“They probably have savings and they own their own homes. They’ll have to downgrade. Plenty of people do it.”

“You know, sometimes you can be really callous.”

“I’m not being callous. I’m being realistic.”

“But what if I could make it work?”

By now, Steve was twitching with anger and frustration. He took a deep breath. “OK, let’s spool back a bit here. How many times have you insisted to me that all you want from life is financial security? How many times have you said that after living with Mike, all you want is an uncomplicated worry-free life? I’ve even heard you use the word ‘dull.’”

“I know all that, but despite everything, there’s this voice inside me that keeps nagging away, telling me that I would be a coward if I didn’t at least make an attempt to resurrect the business.”

“The only thing nagging you is guilt. It’s ridiculous and it has to stop. It’s making you behave irrationally.”

“It’s not just guilt.” I reminded him how I had given up my dressmaking business and lived to regret it. “I let one opportunity pass me by. Can I let another one go?”

“But this isn’t an opportunity. It’s a recipe for ruin.”

“Maybe, but if it came to it, Mum and Dad would always take me and the children in. We would always have a roof over our heads. And I’d just have to start over and get another job.”

“And that’s the example you want to set for Dan and Ella? You want them to know that they had not one but two irresponsible parents who gambled away their lives?”

I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. I sat staring at him. Then the anger kicked in. I stood up. “I can’t believe you just said that. God knows I made mistakes in the past and I’m not proud of that, but I am doing everything in my power to provide for my kids and be a good mother. That doesn’t mean I have to accept my lot and rein in my own ambition.”

He was standing in front of me now, his hands resting on the tops of my arms.

“I’m sorry. What I said was cruel. I don’t know where it came from.” I could see the contrition in his face, but I was furious. Tears of rage were welling up inside me. If he thought I was about to forgive him, he could think again.

“Yes, it was cruel.” I gathered up my coat and bag.

“Where are you going?”

“Home,” I said. “I need to think.”

“What about? The shop?”

“No. Us.”

I
was setting the table for dinner. It was Sunday evening and Mum and Dad were due back with the kids any minute and were staying for meat loaf—Dad’s favorite. The radio was on in the background. I don’t know what program I was listening to, but a group of women were discussing why they’d stayed so long in bad marriages. One woman’s story caught my attention. I turned up the volume.

“It took years for the penny to finally drop,” she was saying. “But in the end I realized that what I took to be concern for my welfare was actually more about his need to control me. People tend to think of controlling men as angry and violent—and that’s why I didn’t pick up on it. . . . My husband was always so gentle and kind.”

I carried on arranging knives and forks, but I felt unsettled. I was aware that my heart rate had picked up. Then the doorbell rang. The kids. I switched off the radio, switched on a smile and headed to the door.

“Mum, can your lips fall off?” Dan said by way of greeting. He came into the house and dropped his rucksack at my feet.

“And hello to you, too.” I picked up the rucksack, thereby reinforcing his belief that I was his personal maid, but I figured that since he was probably tired and wired, it made no sense to get into a fight about it.

“But can they?”

“What? No. Of course your lips can’t fall off.”

“That’s what Grandma said. So it really is true that they can’t. You promise?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good.” Clearly relieved, he ran off, making a beeline for the kitchen. I yelled at him not to fill up on junk, as dinner was almost ready.

“Why on earth would he think his lips could fall off?” I said to my mother, who was next in through the door. Dad was behind her, cradling a sleeping Ella.

“He’s been going on about it all weekend,” Mum said. “Apparently it’s a theory doing the rounds in his class. The things these kids get into their heads.”

Dad managed to lean over Ella and give me a quick peck hello. Then he followed us into the living room and laid her down on the sofa. “She dropped off about twenty minutes ago.”

“Our fault,” Mum said. “We let them stay up last night to watch
E.T.
”

“And Grandma and Granddad let us have gummy bears,” Ella mumbled, waking up now.

My mother looked down at her and smiled. “Traitor.”

Just then Dan reappeared, his hand deep inside a packet of potato chips.

“Dan, what did I tell you? You’ll spoil your appetite.”

“No, I won’t. I’m starving. Anyway, I’ve been thinking. . . . When I grow up, I want to be a chameleon . . . you know . . . who tells jokes.”

Of course we all burst out laughing. Even Ella joined in—clearly not wanting to be left out. Big mistake. Dan turned bright red and his eyes began to fill up. It was obvious that he felt he’d committed some unforgivable faux pas.

“Stop laughing,” he yelled, stamping his foot.

I put my arm around him. “I’m sorry, sweetie. It was wrong of us to laugh. It’s just that a chameleon is a lizard that changes color. You remember—we saw them at the zoo. People who tell jokes are called comedians.”

“I knew that.” He charged upstairs and slammed the bedroom door. I resolved to write out a hundred times “I must never ever humiliate my children.”

Mum called after him. “Please come down, darling. We’re all really sorry.”

I said it was probably best to give him some space and I’d go and talk to him when he’d calmed down.

We left Ella on the sofa watching
Annie
—which she still seemed to find comforting—and wandered into the kitchen. Mum and Dad took off their coats and draped them over kitchen chairs.

“Ooh, something smells good,” Dad said, sitting himself down.

“Meat loaf and roast potatoes.” I began pouring the wine.

“You look tired,” Mum said to me as I handed her a glass. “You feeling OK?”

My parents still didn’t know about Steve. Telling them that I was seeing somebody would have only made them worry: Was it serious?
Was I ready? Were the children ready? Telling them that I was seeing somebody, that we’d just had a falling-out and that I’d been up half the night fretting about our future together would have caused them real anxiety.

“I’m fine. I’ve got a few things on my mind, that’s all.” One of them was the story I’d heard on the radio. It had definitely touched a nerve.

Mum looked at me. “You’re not still thinking about taking over the shop, are you? Sarah, this is becoming an obsession. You have to let it go.”

“I would, but the situation has changed.” I told them about the tax rebate and how Aunty Shirley appeared to have paid the rent on the shop until the end of the year.

“So what?” Dad said. “Ten grand is nothing. The shop is falling apart. You’d need twice . . . three times that amount.”

“But surely the landlord is responsible for structural repairs.”

“Shirley was always trying to get money out of him,” Mum said. “He didn’t give a crap. Sarah, for the last time, you have to let this thing go. It’s madness. I’m starting to worry about you.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t stop thinking about it.”

I told them what I’d told Steve—how I’d lived to regret giving up the dressmaking business.

“I get that,” Dad said. “And there’s no doubt that you’re ready for a new challenge. Just not this one, eh?”

“Your dad’s right. I mean let’s suppose you did get the place spruced up. That still leaves you with one major obstacle: Clementine Montecute. What are you going to do, tell her this town ain’t big enough for the two of you and gun her down?”

Mum patted my hand. “Come on, sweetheart, let it go.”

I said that I would try.

“Actually,” Dad piped up, “your mother and I have some news. We’re going away for a few weeks.”

“Wow. That’s a fantastic . . . just what you both need.”

Mum shot Dad a look. “You see. I said it would be a problem—us not being around to help out with the children. We can’t possibly go. Now let that be an end to it.”

“But Sarah just said it was a great idea.”

“Yes, but she didn’t mean it—did you, Sarah?” She looked back at Dad. “Look, Sarah and the kids still need us. We can’t leave them and go gallivanting off to Spain.”

“Yes, you can. Go. Gallivant. I insist.”

“Your uncle Lou has said we can have his flat in Marbella,” Dad said. “He hardly uses it since the divorce. It’s just sitting there, empty. Seems like too good an opportunity to turn down.”

“Of course it is.”

“So you don’t mind?” Mum said. “Lou said we could come as soon as we like, so we’d probably be leaving in a week or so.”

“No problem. Stop worrying. I’ll be fine.”

And I meant it. Of course I would miss Mum and Dad being around to help with the kids, but Mum in particular needed a rest and maybe I needed some time on my own to work out where my life went from here.

•   •   •

W
hile Mum dished up, I went upstairs to make peace with Dan.

“Knock, knock. Can I come in?”

Grunt.

“I’m sorry, hon,” I said, perching on the edge of his bed. “We really didn’t mean to upset you. We shouldn’t have laughed at you. It was stupid and hurtful. Can you forgive us?”

He looked at me over his comic.

“What’s for dessert?”

“My homemade apple crumble.”

“Is there ice cream?”

I grinned. “Maybe.”

“Yess.”

All appeared to have been forgiven.

•   •   •

M
um and Dad left straight after dinner. Mum looked all in. I called to Dan and Ella to say they were leaving. They came thumping down the stairs, thanked their grandparents for having them.

“Our pleasure,” Mum said.

“So, let me know as soon as you’ve decided when you’re off to Spain.”

“Grandma and Granddad are going to Spain?” Ella said.

“Only for a holiday,” Mum said. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

Yays from both children.

“I’ll call you,” Mum said.

For once, when I announced that it was bedtime, the children didn’t put up a fight. They were both zonked—even Ella, who’d had a nap. Once they were in bed, I read them a few pages of
Matilda
, but they were both struggling to stay awake. As I tucked him in, Dan
rallied by asking me what starfish ate. I said I hadn’t the foggiest. “Other fish, I guess.” I prayed that he wouldn’t demand to get up and Google the answer.

“Tell you what, I’ll look it up and let you know tomorrow.”

“’K.” There was no talk of Googling.

I kissed them good night, but all I got by way of reply were grunts.

As I picked up their dirty socks and underwear and dropped them into the laundry basket, it occurred to me that even though Ella still needed to watch
Annie
, the kids were talking less about death and dying. Judy had said it would happen eventually, but I’d never quite believed her.

I went into the kitchen, made another cup of tea and took it to the sofa. My laptop was lying open on the coffee table. First, I bashed out a letter to Aunty Shirley’s lawyer, enclosing the letter from HMRC and asking if he could arrange for the tax rebate to be sent to me. Then I went onto Google to look for Greg Myers’ London agent. It turned out to be a company called Marcus Winkworth Featherstone. It wasn’t possible to e-mail Marcus, Winkworth or Featherstone in person. Instead I had to e-mail the publicity department. Apparently my request would be passed to the relevant person. I didn’t hold out much hope, but I wrote the e-mail anyway. Style-wise, I opted for Imogen Stagge upper-class sychophancy and gush.

Hello—a thousand apologies for contacting you out of the blue, but our school is holding its annual summer fair on Saturday July 16th and since we are all such ardent—dare I say fanatical—Greg Myers fans, we were wondering if he might do us the honor of opening it.

This is the most important fund-raising event of the year. The money goes only partly to the school. We also sponsor an orphanage in India, which is home to some of the most wretched and deprived children in the country.

I realize that Greg must be inundated with similar requests, but if he felt able to give us an hour or two of his time and work our fund-raiser into his hectic schedule, we would be forever in his debt.

After the opening, we would be delighted if he would join us for tea and scones in the main tent.

Yours,

Sarah Green

I read over the e-mail. Perfect. The Honourable Imogen might have written it herself. I hit “send.”

In my head I heard Steve reminding me that I was wasting my time and that I was bonkers if I thought I’d hear anything back.

I hadn’t realized until last night, as I’d lain awake smarting and furious with him for calling me irresponsible, just how often Steve tried to undermine. Whenever I took him to task about it, he always apologized. Then, just like the husband of the radio woman, he assured me that he only did it because he worried about me and he wanted to look after me. Her account of living with somebody who sold his controlling behavior as kindness was still troubling me. It echoed what I’d been thinking for a while, but hadn’t had the courage to articulate.

Now, as I stared at the screen saver blobs floating and morphing,
I was starting to voice my fears—albeit in my head. Although part of me relished having a man around who wanted to take care of me—who wanted to be sure that my new house was fitted with window locks and a burglar alarm, who was prepared to give up his Saturday afternoon to look over Aunty Shirley’s accounts—maybe Steve’s behavior wasn’t as benign and benevolent as I thought. Perhaps he wasn’t as concerned for my welfare as he made out. Did he behave the way he did because it was a way of controlling me?

All the time I’d known him, he’d been cagey about his previous relationships with women, but he had admitted to being dumped several times. “I don’t know what it is. I just seem to attract these insane women.” Maybe he found himself drawn to strong women, but once he was in a relationship with them, he felt threatened and found himself needing to dominate them. They dumped him, not because they were insane, but because they refused to tolerate his behavior.

On the other hand, Steve (not to mention Mum and Dad) was right about the shop. The idea of me taking it over was bonkers. But last night when I tried to explain my reasons for wanting to take over the business and suggested that my life wouldn’t end if the venture failed, he’d got so angry. He was furious with me for attempting to defy him. It occurred to me that this was a man who would never stop chipping away at my spirit and determination. I was now prepared to admit that the reason I hadn’t had sex with Steve had little to do with my feelings for Mike. The reality was, I didn’t trust him.

I wanted to pick up the phone to Judy. “Hey, Judy,” I’d say. “Here’s the thing: I’ve been seeing this guy for a while and I thought I really liked him, but now I’m having second thoughts. You see, I heard this
woman talking on the radio about her controlling husband and it got me thinking. . . .”

I wished the kids and I hadn’t stopped seeing Judy, but in the end it had been one expense too many. Right now, I was really missing having her as a sounding board. I was trying to figure out if my finances could stretch to a one-off session, when there was a tap at the door. It felt late, but a glance at my watch revealed that it was barely half past eight. I went to the door and looked through the spy hole. Rosie.

“Hey,” she said, standing in front of me now—her face on full beam. “Don’t suppose you feel like joining me in a celebration? Wonder of wonders, I just got a child support check from Simon. Only five hundred quid out of the ten grand he owes me, but it’s a start.” She was carrying a sleeping Will in his Moses basket. At his feet lay her cell phone and a bottle of prosecco.

“Love to,” I said, standing back to let her in. “I could really do with a drink.” I was forgetting that I’d knocked back a couple of glasses of wine over dinner. “Not to mention a bit of a natter.”

“Sounds ominous. You OK?”

“It’s this bloke I’ve been seeing. . . .”

“Giving you trouble, is he? Fear not, your aunty Rosie’s here.”