Best Supporting Role (19 page)

He smiled. “No, but I’ve come close a couple of times.” He paused. “So come on, finish telling me your story. . . . What made you decide to open a bra shop?”

I told him about Aunty Shirley dying and leaving me the business, how it had been failing for years, and the Clementine Montecute saga.

“It was Clementine Montecute folding that gave me the final push, but I’m still scared stiff. I keep wondering if I’ve made the most terrible mistake.”

“I feel the same about acting.”

He explained that he’d been in the business for fifteen years. “I’m luckier than most. I get quite a bit of work. I’ve just finished a stint in
Richard III
at the Globe. I get the odd soap, the occasional half-decent role in the West End. I’ve even done odds and sods in Hollywood—playing dastardly Brits mainly, but I’m still a working actor. Actually I’m doing something right now. I’m in a revival of
The Producers
.”

“I love
The Producers
. My mum and dad took me to see it in the West End years ago when it first came out. But hang on—you mean after putting in a full day here at the shop, you’ve been doing a night shift at the theater? You’re really serious about this Protestant work ethic thing.”

He laughed. “It’s only two nights a week.”

“Still, that’s enough.”

I asked him where it was showing.

“Way out of town, I’m afraid . . . the Croydon Empire.”

“Who do you play?”

“Franz Liebkind, the mad Nazi pigeon fancier.”

“I remember. . . . He has that line about Hitler being a great painter.”

Hugh immediately snapped to attention, clicked his heels and raised his arm in a Nazi salute. “Hitler, zer vas a painter! He could paint an entire apartment in VUN afternoon! TWO coats!”

I burst out laughing. “That’s it. And what was his other famous line? Something about the Queen.”

“I swear my eternal allegiance to Adolf Elizabeth Hitler. . . .
Ja!
Not many people know this, but the Führer vas descended from a long line of English qveens.”

His Franz Liebkind was priceless. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed so hard. “Brilliant.”

“You’re most kind.”

“No, I mean it. So when can I come and see the show?”

The words were out of my mouth before my brain could process them. Now he’d think that I was coming on to him.

“Really?” he said. “You’d seriously like to see it?”

“I’d love to. But don’t worry, I’ll come, I’ll see the show and then I’ll go. I don’t want you to feel you have to look after me.”

“Oh.” He seemed disappointed. “Will you at least let me sort you out a complimentary ticket?”

“Only if you’re absolutely sure. I’m more than happy to pay.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “There are always a few freebies knocking around for friends and family of the cast.”

“OK . . . that would be great. Thank you.”

“And perhaps afterwards we could have a drink . . . or a bite to eat maybe . . . but it’s fine if you’d rather not.”

“No. I mean I would. I’d like that.”

A moment later the kids were calling down the stairs to say they’d just finished painting a giant sea monster and wanted us to come and take a look.

L
eo Bloom got wet and hysterical. Max Bialystock had a rhetorical conversation. Ulla flaunted it. The audience roared. By the end of the show they were on their feet whooping and applauding.
The Producers
at the Croydon Empire may have lacked famous names—or even vaguely well-known ones—and the sets may have looked like they’d been supplied by the local drama societies, but there was no lack of talent and energy. Hugh’s Franz Liebkind was magnificent. The moment he appeared onstage in his Nazi helmet and lederhosen, I was laughing. I carried on until I wept and my ribs ached. After the show, as the audience piled out of the theater, I was still wiping my eyes and humming “Springtime for Hitler.”

Hugh and I had arranged to meet in the pub down the road. I went to the bar, ordered a glass of house white and, since I knew that Hugh would be another ten minutes or so because he had to take off his makeup and get changed, I called Rosie. She’d been thrilled that I’d “got in there” and yet again had offered to come and mind the kids before I had a chance to ask. She picked up on the first ring.

“Hey, how’s it going?” I said.

“Great. The kids are fast asleep. And I’ve just managed to get Will down. He’s in his basket, so I’m having a cuppa and watching
Parks and Recreation
. . . . How was
The Producers
?”

“Fab. I’m in the pub waiting for Hugh.”

She asked me what I’d decided to wear in the end. “One of the posh dresses I still have from when Mike and I had money.” There were three or four. I hardly ever wore them, partly because I never went anywhere fancy enough and partly because I didn’t want them to wear out. This one was my favorite—black Lycra, scooped neck, three-quarter sleeves, clung in all the right places. I’d set it off with a wide patent belt and heels.

“I bet you look fab.”

“I don’t know about that, but I think I still scrub up OK.”

“So, are you going to make a move on him?”

“No way. I’m just going to wait and see how things pan out. These things need to happen organically.”

“I agree. So accidentally spill a drink into his lap and brush past his organ.”

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

“OK. Maybe it’s not very subtle.”

“You think?”

Just then Hugh appeared in the doorway. “Sorry, hon, gotta go.”

“He’s there?”

“Yep.”

“Bet he scrubs up well, too.”

“He sure does,” I said, taking in his tailored jacket and posh jeans. I’d never seen him in anything other than shorts and a tee. “OK, bye, see you later.”

“Text me if you’re not coming home.”

“Will you behave?” I hissed. Then I hit “end.”

“Wow,” he said. “You look amazing.”

“Wow, yourself,” I said. “Nice jacket.”

“Shucks. This old thing? I’ve had it for ages.”

I was already laughing.

He sat himself down on the stool next to mine. “The show was fantastic,” I said. “I loved every minute and you were absolutely brilliant. I cried with laughter. Look . . . my mascara’s all gone streaky.”

“Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it. It’s actually had a couple of decent reviews in the nationals. It’s not often that the papers take an interest in a small out-of-town production.”

“Maybe you’re about to hit the big time,” I said.

Hugh laughed. “I’m not holding my breath.”

He ordered a pint and another glass of wine for me. We looked around for a table, but they’d all been taken. The entire audience appeared to have rolled out of the theater and into the pub. I asked him how long the show had left to run. He said another three weeks.

“So, what then?”

“I don’t know, but I try not to let it bother me. Something usually crops up. No point becoming an actor if you’re going to panic every time a job ends. I’ve got the building work to fall back on, but I have to admit that since the recession, jobs have been harder to come by.”

“But don’t you worry about how you’re going to pay your bills?”

“I’ve never actually been broke . . . although there was a time, a couple of years back, when I lived on baked beans for a month.”

“And it didn’t worry you?”

“Not really. It’s different when you’ve only got yourself to think about.”

“So when did you decide to become an actor?”

“I was five.”

“Five?”

He nodded. “Our class was performing ‘The Three Little Pigs’ as part of the school’s end-of-year concert. I was asked to play straw.”

“What, all of it?”

“Yup. I think it was because the teacher knew we had rather a lot on the farm and that my mum would have no trouble making me a costume. Anyway, after that I was hooked. All the other kids got stage fright, but I loved getting up and performing in front of an audience. Then, much later on—when we did
Oh What a Lovely War
at secondary school—a couple of my teachers said they thought I had real talent and suggested I think about applying to drama school after uni. So that’s what I did.”

“And you stuck with it. Unlike me. I wanted to be a fashion designer. After art school I even opened my own business. I was just starting to make a name for myself when the kids came along.”

“So you gave it up?”

“Being a mum was more important . . . but I’ve often thought about . . .”

“. . . what might have been.”

“Yes . . . Then after Mike died, having a career was the last thing on my mind. All I could think about was putting food on the table. I eventually found a job with the police—working on the nonemergency crime helpline.”

“Not exactly a bundle of laughs.”

I said it had its moments.

When we’d finished our drinks, Hugh asked if I fancied a curry. “Don’t know about you, but I could murder a saag chicken.” He said that there was a place around the corner that wasn’t at all bad. I hadn’t had a curry since my party after leaving the helpline. “Lead on,” I said.

We were both starving, so we made the mistake of ordering far too much: onion bhajis, samosas—meat and vegetable—saag chicken, lamb passanda, chapatis and two giant peshwari naan packed with coconut and sultanas. Hugh insisted we order rice as well. It turned out we both had a thing for sweet Indian rice.

“You do know it’s meant as a dessert,” Hugh said.

I said that I did. Aunty Bimla had set me straight years ago.

“And you know that the waiter will snigger when we order it.”

“I do and I don’t care,” I said.

“Great. Nor do I.”

As we tackled the mountain of food and downed pints of Cobra, the conversation turned to the traditional first-date topics. For me at least, this seemed a bit odd since we already knew so much about each other’s personal lives. But there were still gaps that hadn’t been filled. So we talked about our favorite books, films, places we’d been, places we wanted to go. It turned out that Hugh had done a lot of traveling—India, China, South America, the Australian outback. He said that every time he finished a long run in the theater or a big building job, he rewarded himself with an adventure. Trekking in Morocco was next on his to-do list.

I discovered that he loved tinned spaghetti sandwiches and that his pet hate was building Ikea furniture. I told him about this kid in
third grade called Deborah Lukover who used to bully me, and how I got her back by sneaking into the cloakroom and squirting my mother’s Miss Dior over her salt beef sandwiches.

“And what’s more, none of the teachers found out and my mum never discovered that I’d
borrowed
her perfume. I think it’s still my proudest moment.”

Hugh said his proudest childhood moment was beating his grandmother at Scrabble with a seven-letter word.

“What was it?”

“Farting.”

I laughed so hard I nearly choked on my sweet rice.

Eventually the conversation went back to films—him trying to convince me that
2001
was a masterpiece and a work of genius, me saying I’d seen it twice and each time it had bored me stupid. “The music was nice, though.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Tell you one film I absolutely love,” I said. “
To Kill a
Mockingbird
.”

“Great film,” he said.

“Scout has this line that always makes me smile. . . . ‘There was to be a pageant representing our county’s agricultural products. . . .’”

“‘I was to be a ham,’” we said in unison. Then we started laughing.

“No . . . I can’t believe you know that line,” I said.

“Of course I do. It’s wonderful. It’s the way she says it—like it’s perfectly normal to dress up as a ham.”

Precisely.

We talked more about our families. My Jewish parents who plutzed and kvetched and monitored my childhood bowel movements. His Protestant ones who didn’t.

“Mum and Dad weren’t big on affection or showing their emotions,” he said. “But heaven forbid I flunked a test or was dropped from the rugby team. Then all hell broke loose. The pressure was unbearable.”

“Rosie’s mum was the same,” I said. “She gave Rosie hell. And in the end she rebelled, just like you. You have a lot in common.”

“Sounds like it.” He took a mouthful of beer.

“And she’s very beautiful,” I went on. I was testing him. Even though Rosie had insisted that there was no chemistry between them, I needed to find out for myself. “I really like Rosie and you have to admire her—doing what she does to put food on the table.”

“You really do. She’s got more balls than most men I know.”

“But to look at, she’s like a lot of those model types.”

“I dunno. I always think there’s something a bit sexless about physical perfection.”

“Really? So you’re telling me that you prefer a woman with a broken nose and a squint.”

“Squints not so much,” he said, grinning, “but I’m a sucker for a unibrow.”

I slapped him playfully on the hand. “Idiot.”

“And dark, almond-shaped eyes,” he said, holding my gaze and making me blush.

At half past eleven we were still in the restaurant, drinking coffee. “You know, I really should get going,” I said. “Rosie’s babysitting. She said she doesn’t mind what time I get back, but I don’t like to take advantage of her. She’s still getting up in the night to feed Will.”

Neither of us had brought a car, so we decided to share a taxi home. It would drop me off first, and then take Hugh on to his place in Tooting, a mile or so farther on.

“Dan and Ella must miss their dad,” Hugh said at one point.

“They do, but these days their emotions aren’t quite so raw. They struggled in the beginning. I felt so useless. I couldn’t make it better. All I could do was love them.”

The next thing, there were tears streaming down my face.

“Sarah. Are you all right? I really didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s OK. You haven’t. I’m just tired, that’s all, and I’ve had too much to drink. It’s made me maudlin. I’m sorry.” I rummaged in my bag for a tissue and began dabbing my eyes. “The thing is, it was so awful . . . the gambling, our marriage, his death.”

I kept apologizing, but the words and tears refused to stop. Unlike Steve, who was always uncomfortable around my emotions, Hugh didn’t seem at all fazed.

“After my grandfather died,” he said, “my grandmother was desperate for somebody to talk to. She tried opening up to my parents, but they weren’t interested—told her there was nothing to be gained by raking over the past. So she tended to turn to my sister and me. I got to be quite a good listener.”

“Steve was like your parents . . . always telling me not to ‘dwell’ and to ‘move on.’”

“Steve?”

“This guy I started seeing after Mike died. It’s been over a while.”

“Well, Steve sounds like a jerk.”

“He meant well,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’ve made a complete fool of myself. I don’t know what you must think of me. I’m not usually this needy. Honest.”

He smiled. “I’ve seen you in action these past few weeks. You don’t have to tell me.”

Finally, the taxi turned into my street. “I’ve really enjoyed tonight,” Hugh said. “How would you feel about doing this again?”

“I’d love to and I promise faithfully not to blub.”

“I don’t mind. Feel free to blub away.”

“That’s very kind of you, but I think it would make for a pretty miserable evening.”

“Never,” he said. “So, I’ll see you at the shop tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

As I reached for the door lever, he leaned towards me. Before I knew it, his lips were on mine and I was kissing him back.

“Sleep tight,” he said.

“You, too.”

“And stop worrying about Greg Myers. Something will work out.”

“I doubt it. I’m a dead woman walking.”

He laughed. I thought how sweet it was of him to be concerned about my stupid problem with the summer fair.

•   •   •

I
took off my jacket and went into the living room. Rosie was sitting on the sofa, feeding William.

“Sorry to be so late,” I said. “Hugh and I were talking and we lost track of time.”

“So, it went well, then?”

“Really well. The show was great. We went out for an excellent curry. Oh . . . and I got maudlin about Mike and wept most of the way home.”

“Smart move.”

“I couldn’t help it. It was the booze.”

“How did Hugh take it?”

“He was great—didn’t seem remotely perturbed.”

“Huh—lucky for you. Some men would have run a mile. He’s clearly a sucker for a vulnerable woman. So was there any kissing?”

“There was. And he’s asked me out again.”

“See—he finds you irresistible. Blubbing is your superpower.”

“Mummee, is that you?” It was Ella calling from upstairs. “Can I have a glass of water?”

I went out into the hall. “OK, hon. Give me a moment. I’ll be right up.” I picked up a bottle of wine that I’d left on the hall table.

“This is for you,” I said to Rosie, “to say thank you for sitting with my kids.”

“Come on . . . you really didn’t need to. It was a pleasure to sit with them—honest. They’re great kids.”

“Well, thank you anyway.”

By now William was back in his Moses basket. Rosie tucked the wine under her arm and took hold of the wicker handles. “I’d better get going. If I’m lucky, I might get a few hours of sleep before his next feed.” She turned to go. “Oh, by the way, you’re out of Marmite. And crumpets. And cheese. Oh, and marshmallows. The kids and I snacked.”