Best Supporting Role (25 page)

She directed me to the rail. I browsed the swimsuits and bikinis, which turned out to be far less exciting than mine and much more expensive. But I guessed that the kind of women who shopped here expected to pay a fortune. It was reassuring, made them feel that they were in safe, dependable hands.

I had just picked up a swimsuit and spotted that the stitching on one of the straps was coming loose when I saw a woman coming down the thickly carpeted staircase, half a dozen bras draped over her wrist. She was carrying a few extra pounds around her middle. Her face was heavily lined. There was no evidence of “work,” no attempt to disguise her age, which at a guess was north of seventy. But she wasn’t lacking in elegance. Her gray hair had been cut into a soft chin-length bob. Her simple gray shift had been set off with a jazzy
scarf and a long string of pearls. She must have seen me staring at her. “Can I be of assistance?” she said, smiling. Hint of an Italian accent. This was definitely di Rossi.

“Thank you, but I’m just looking.”

“Well, if you need any help, just shout.”

She turned to go, but by now curiosity had got the better of me. I wanted to talk to her, find out more about her relationship with Aunty Shirley, but I couldn’t think of a way in.

“Actually, I’m in the lingerie business,” I blurted.

“Really?”

•   •   •

“Y
es . . . I’m Sarah Green . . . Shirley Feldman’s niece. You probably heard that she died recently. I’ve taken over her shop.”

The smile vanished. “Yes, I knew she’d passed away.”

I waited for her condolence, but none was forthcoming.

“If you will excuse me,” she said. “I am very busy. We’re getting ready for the National Lingerie Awards.”

The National Lingerie Awards. I hadn’t heard those words in years. Better known as the Bra Oscars, the NLAs—which was a competition rather than a simple awards ceremony—used to be a huge deal. When I was a child, Aunty Shirley entered every year. Contestants—who had to work in the industry—were asked to design a piece of lingerie, usually a bra, basque or corset. There was always a theme. I remember once it was “itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny.” Every year, in the weeks leading up to the competition it was the same song and dance at the shop: Aunty Shirley and the aunties flapping, fussing and
fighting and staging all-nighters at the sewing machines. Shirley Feldman Foundation Garments won the itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny award. I could still see that half-cup black and pink polka-dot bra. In fact she won the competition a few times. There was no cash prize, just a tacky bronze statue of an impossibly thin and busty woman in her bra and panties. The real prize was coverage galore in the upmarket glossies, which had the A-listers flocking. Winning the Bra Oscars was one of the reasons that, back in the day, the business did so well. Then Shirley stopped entering. I had assumed the competition had been dropped. Clearly it hadn’t.

“Of course,” I heard myself say. “I understand how frazzled you must be. I’m the same. It’s always so stressful in the weeks leading up to the competition.”

What was I saying? I was clearly having another Greg Myers moment.

“You’re entering the competition?” Valentina di Rossi arched an eyebrow.

I swallowed hard. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I?”

I could think of several reasons why I wouldn’t. I hadn’t the foggiest notion what this year’s entrants were being asked to make or if I was capable of making it. . . . On the other hand, I did have the aunties. Finally, I had no idea of the closing date for entries. For all I knew, it could be tomorrow.

“By the way,” Valentina said, “I don’t know what you are doing here, but please don’t come again. You are not welcome. Please leave.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. After what happened between you and Aunty Shirley, I was curious to meet you, that’s all. It was wrong of me. I apologize.”

Having asked me to go, she wouldn’t let me.

“Do you know what Shirley did to me?”

“I do and I’m so very sorry.”

“Your aunt killed my mother. I hope her soul burns in hell.”

“Shirley was very ill. She didn’t know what she was doing.”

“My mother was ill. And she committed suicide. Now, please leave.”

I did as she asked.

T
he first thing I did when I got back to the shop was Google the National Lingerie Awards. It appeared that the competition had been struggling for a long time—mainly due to Clementine Montecute. She won the competition nearly every year, and the gossip was that she had the judges in her pocket. Last year, when fewer than a dozen people entered, there had been talk of the competition being dropped. All this explained why it had been off my radar for so long.

This year, though, things had changed. Clementine Montecute was no more, and for the first time,
The British Lingerie Review
—the dull but important trade magazine—was sponsoring the competition, with all new judges.

I went in search of the online entry form. This year’s theme was “a gap in the market.” The judges wanted entrants to design and make a piece of lingerie that women wanted but struggled to find in the stores. The closing date was July 2.

“Crap.”

“What is?” Aunty Sylvia had appeared, carrying a tray of tea.

I turned my laptop screen towards her. She put the tray down on the counter and started reading.

“The closing date’s in two weeks,” I said. “We’d never make it.”

“And why would we want to? Nobody goes in for the Bra Oscars anymore. It’s a fix. We haven’t entered for donkey’s years.”

“I know, but carry on reading. Now that Clementine Montecute’s gone, everything’s changed.”

By now Aunty Bimla had appeared with a plate of digestive biscuits.

“Bimla, take a look at this,” Aunty Sylvia said.

Aunty Bimla looked. “Well, I never . . . all new judges . . . And you’re really thinking of entering?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. You have to tell me honestly. Do you think we’d have a chance?”

“It’s possible,” Aunty Sylvia said. “Back in the old days, we won it three or four times. But you’re forgetting Valentina di Rossi.”

“Come on . . . who has the best seamstresses—me or Valentina? And you’ve beaten her before, right?”

“We have.”

“Right, then surely it’s a no-brainer.”

Aunty Sylvia said that she wasn’t so sure. “I admit that her most experienced seamstresses have retired and that perhaps the younger women she’s got working for her aren’t as good, but this competition isn’t simply about cutting and stitching. It’s about design. Sarah, you’d have to design a bra or a corset and make a pattern—something you have never done. Something Valentina has been doing for decades, and you can take it from me, the woman is extremely gifted.”

“She’s really that good?” It was a stupid question. Of course she was.

Aunty Sylvia nodded. “Every bit as good as Shirley was.”

“Crap,” I said again. I reached for a digestive and started munching.

“On the other hand if we came up with the right thing,” Aunty Bimla said, “something that really filled a gap in the market . . . who knows? Anything’s possible.”

That’s when the idea hit me. “OK, got it. What about the étagère bra? That’s never gone into mass-market production.”

Aunty Bimla was shaking her head. “Everybody who makes bespoke lingerie does a version of the étagère. I would bet you a pound to a penny that nearly all the contestants will try their hand at it. We need to find something different.”

“Great. But what?”

Nobody spoke. The aunties stood sipping their tea. I suggested we go away and think about it.

“Aunty Bimla’s right. With the right idea, we could actually win this competition. . . .”

“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?”

•   •   •

W
hen 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?”

•   •   •

H
ugh 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 mother 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. . . .”