Best Supporting Role (28 page)

It seemed that Sanjeev’s business deal had gone south. I looked at Rosie and rolled my eyes. “So, the excrement has finally hit the air-conditioning,” I muttered.

“He arrived at my place late last night,” Aunty Bimla sobbed. “He was in a terrible state. He’s lost everything. It turns out he’s been back from Paraguay for weeks, but he’s been too scared to say anything to me or his parents back in Pakistan. He’s been sleeping on friends’ floors. Now he’s asking if he can move in with me.”

“So what happened?” Rosie said. Like we didn’t know.

“It turns out that Paraguay has no coastline. The land he was sold wasn’t on the beach. It was an unusable swamp by a filthy lake. By the time he found out, he’d already handed over the money. He tried to get it back, but the people who sold him the land have disappeared. He took out a huge loan. The bank is chasing him for money. He’s sold his flat and his sports car to keep them off his back for a while, but beyond that, he has no idea what to do. And nor do I. We are up the creek without a paddle.”

“And what about the ten grand you gave him?” I said. “Is that gone, too?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t matter about me. Sanjeev worked so hard. These people are evil. He was like a lamb to the slaughter.”

“What? No, he wasn’t,” Rosie piped up. “He was a bloody idiot and part of me wants to say he deserved all he got.”

“What? How can you say that?”

“I can say it because he didn’t do his homework. What fool parts with his money before checking out the land he’s buying? He got greedy and fell flat on his face.”

“If you ask me, that boy is too flash by half,” Aunty Sylvia said. “He needs a smack on the tuchas, not you weeping all over him.” Aunty Sylvia was so enjoying this. She clearly hadn’t forgotten how Aunty Bimla had gloated when Roxanne lost her part in
Human Centipede 4
. Now it was her turn.

“So what should I do?”

“He needs to go out and get a job,” I said. “It’s time you stopped indulging him.”

Aunty Sylvia had her arms folded across her chest. “You’ve been killing that boy with kindness and look where it’s got him. It’s time to give him an ultimatum. He either gets a job or you tell him he can’t stay with you.”

“I couldn’t do that!”

“What choice do you have?” I said. “It’s for his own good, and one day, when he’s a bit older and wiser, he might even thank you.”

Aunty Bimla looked thoughtful. “I don’t know. It won’t be easy. But you’re right. It’s time for me to start playing the bad cop. I just hope I can do it.”

“You will,” I said. “Because you know how important it is.”

“I hope so.”

“So,” Rosie said, brightening up. “Come on . . . where’s my bra?”

Aunty Sylvia took it out of her desk drawer. The sections of ivory satin were roughly tacked together.

“Well, it certainly looks like a bra,” I said, laughing. I could only pray that it would fit.

The four of us trooped upstairs and squeezed into one of the fitting rooms.

“OK, Rosie,” Aunty Bimla said, “what you do is lean forward and just let your boobies fall into the cups. Excellent.” She fastened the back.

The aunties got busy with their pins, discussing darts, tucks and seam allowances as they went. Whether or not the bra fitted was down to my pattern. From what I could tell, it didn’t look too bad, but that didn’t stop me digging my nails into my palms as I waited for the aunties’ verdict.

“You have done an excellent job, poppet. It’s going to be beautiful.”

“She’s right,” Aunty Sylvia said through a mouthful of pins. “Shirley would have been proud of you. You’re a chip off the old block.”

“Really? You actually think I did OK?”

“You did more than OK,” Aunty Sylvia said.

“But it was such a struggle. I don’t feel like I’m anything approaching a natural at this.”

“You mustn’t let that trouble you, poppet. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. You learn and suddenly you turn into a natural.”

Later in the week, Rosie came in for a second and final fitting. After that, the aunties disappeared into the basement for two days to finish the bra. The sewing machine chattered. The kettle boiled. Deliberations turned into loud disputes. “OK, have it your way. I’ll unpick it. No, of course I’m not offended. Why should I be offended?”

I stayed upstairs, served the few customers who wandered in and kept out of the way.

Rosie’s bra was finished with time to spare. There were still twenty-four hours before we had to deliver it to the offices of
The British Lingerie Review
.

Rosie insisted on being there when the aunties unveiled it.

“Oh, this is outstanding,” I said, lifting it from the tissue-filled box. I ran my fingers over the seams, the satin cups, trimmed in Belgian lace, the bow and tiny diamond nestling on the bridge between the cups. “It’s sensational. To call you two ‘gifted’ is an understatement.”

Rosie said she’d drink to that. “Will you just look at this? It’s beyond beautiful. It’s a work of art.”

Rosie tried on the bra. It was a perfect fit. I tested out the breast-feeding modification. It worked perfectly. We high-fived, Aunty Sylvia burst into “Happy Days Are Here Again” and Aunty Bimla cracked open a plastic container of chocolate halva.

I
heard the commotion before I saw it.

“Stop her! Somebody stop her!”

I turned into the street. People were pausing to stare at the crazy old ladies—one in a pink overall, trying to run in patent sling-backs, the other in a
salwar kameez
, hair falling down around her face, her scarf billowing as she gave similarly ineffective chase—on account of her bunions. But nobody else made any attempt to go after the young woman escaping down the road.

The aunties were maybe twenty yards in front of me. I sprinted towards them. “It doesn’t matter,” I hollered. “Let her go.” I had macabre visions of the aunties’ hearts giving out and them collapsing in the street—all because they’d tried to stop some two-bit shoplifter.

As the woman’s lead increased, they were forced to give up. We stood on the pavement and watched her get into a taxi. The small crowd that had gathered started to melt away.

“My God,” Aunty Sylvia wailed. “What have we done? We let her get away.”

“It’s OK,” I said. “Don’t worry. These things happen. You did your best.”

The aunties were both so breathless that they could barely get the words out.

“You don’t understand, poppet. It’s gone. She took it.”

“Took what?”

“The bra.”

“OK . . . when you say
the
bra . . .”

Tears were tumbling down Aunty Bimla’s cheeks. “The competition bra. She came in and stole it.”

I felt sick. “What? How? We’ve had it locked in the safe. Only the three of us know the combination.”

“Poppet, we are so sorry.”

“But how could this happen? How?”

Then I thought about the aunties and all their exertions, how they could still collapse from heart attacks and didn’t need me adding to their stress by yelling at them.

“OK,” I said. “The first thing we need to do is get you two back inside.”

I put up the
CLOSED
sign, sat them down and got them each a glass of water. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

Aunty Sylvia said that the woman had come in about twenty minutes ago and asked to be fitted for a bra. “She tried on a few. In the end, she decided on the Prima Donna—the gunmetal gray with the pink trim. Looked lovely on her. She seemed like such a nice young woman. Polish. I told her about how my family had come over from Poland before the First World War. . . .”

Aunty Bimla was rubbing her bunions and rolling her eyes. “So
to cut to the chase . . . after she paid for the bra, she brought up the subject of the Bra Oscars. She said she was interested because she was a fashion student and that she was taking a bra-making module. She wanted to know if we were entering.”

“Of course we said yes,” Aunty Sylvia said. “Then she said that she would love to see our entry. She said she’d heard that the Queen wore bespoke bras and that she could only imagine the workmanship that went into one.”

By now my head was in my hands. “You showed her? You actually showed her?”

“It was stupid, poppet, but we were flattered. We allowed our vanity to get the better of us.”

“I don’t believe this. How could you be so foolish? So naive?”

“Anyway, she stood admiring it for a few moments,” Aunty Bimla went on, “and the next thing we knew, she was running out of the shop with it and tearing down the street.”

It was all my fault. If I hadn’t gone to Ella’s “Everyone’s a Hero” assembly this morning, I would have been at work on time. I would have been behind the counter, not the aunties, and none of this would have happened.

“Poppet, what are we going to do? The bra has to be delivered to the
BLR
offices by two.”

“What
we
do is
I
pay a visit to Valentina di Rossi.”

“She’s behind this?”

“Oh, come on. Who else? You said yourselves that I’d reignited the dragon’s fury. That woman stole the bra because Valentina put her up to it.”

“Not necessarily,” Aunty Sylvia said. “Maybe she’s another one of
our competitors and she wanted us out of the competition. Valentina isn’t our only rival.”

“Maybe not, but Valentina is the only one with an added agenda. She’s out for revenge. I just know it.”

•   •   •

I
marched into La Feminista, interrupted a saleswoman who was busy with a customer and demanded to know where I would find Valentina.

“She’s upstairs in the office, but you can’t go barging . . .”

I took the stairs two at a time and burst into her office.

Valentina was at her desk, on a call. She looked up, startled. A moment later her face had become a glare.

“Something’s come up,” she said into the phone. “I’ll call you right back.” She hit “end.” “Who the hell do you think you are, barging into my office like this?”

“Let’s dispense with the fake indignation. Just hand over the bra.”

“What bra?” She seemed bewildered. I had to give it to her—the woman was a good actress.

“The bra I’m entering for the
BLR
competition—the one you just stole—or hired somebody to steal.”

“I haven’t stolen anything.” More self-righteous fury. “How dare you accuse me. You’re crazy. Now get out or I’m calling the police.”

“I’ll be more than happy to leave, as soon as you return the bra.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I leaned on the desk, brought my face close to hers.

“An hour ago, a woman came into my shop and stole my entry. You are the only person with a motive to do something like this.”

“How dare you accuse me! I would never stoop to something so cheap.”

“Of course you would. This is your way of getting your revenge on Aunty Shirley.”

“Rubbish. If I’d wanted revenge, I would have got it in her lifetime.”

“OK, so why did you steal it, then? Is it just because I’m a threat and you want me out of the competition?”

Valentina leaned back in her chair and laughed. “Sweetheart, do you really think I feel threatened by an upstart like you? I was designing bras and making patterns while you were still in nappies. I intend to win this competition—but I also intend to win it honestly. I am not the sort of person who gets pleasure from eliminating the opposition. I’ve heard enough of this nonsense. Now, do as I say and get out.”

I stood there, shaking with fury. “I’m not leaving until you give me the bra.”

She picked up the phone. “I’m calling the police. They can escort you off the premises.” She began stabbing the keys.

I realized that leaving was my only choice. I had no evidence that Valentina had stolen the bra. The police wouldn’t be interested in hearing my side of the story. They would inform me that it was a civil matter and that if I wanted to pursue it, I should consult a lawyer.

“Don’t worry. I’m going.”

I slammed the door shut behind me and stood on the small landing, weeping with rage. This woman had ruined my chance of success, of even getting noticed in the industry. There was no way I would come back from this. I was about to head downstairs when I
noticed the loo across the landing. It occurred to me that I could hide out in there until Valentina left her office. Then I would go back and search it. I was so angry that I didn’t give a damn that I was about to commit burglary—or close to it.

Fifteen minutes later I heard her door open. I prayed she didn’t need to pee. I opened the door a crack and watched her disappear down the stairs.

There wasn’t much furniture in the office. There was Valentina’s desk, a couple of old-fashioned metal filing cabinets and a floor-to-ceiling cupboard in the alcove. I started with the desk drawers. Laptop, hand cream, folders, a couple of packets of tights. The filing cabinets were open, but empty. Probably due to be thrown out. The alcove cupboard turned out to be a wardrobe. There was a black cocktail dress hanging up, a pair of evening shoes, a clutch bag and a pashmina. Presumably Valentina was due at some kind of glitzy gathering tonight. I stood on a chair to get to the top shelves, but all I found were more files. No bra.

I snuck down the stairs and darted out of the shop, praying that nobody noticed me. After a few seconds I looked back to see if anybody was coming after me. No one was. I crossed the road, turned into a side street and called the shop. Aunty Sylvia picked up.

“Valentina’s denying she stole it,” I said. “I managed to search her office, but it’s not there.”

“It could be in the workroom downstairs or in the shop itself—maybe in a drawer.”

“I doubt it. Not secure enough. I think that the woman who stole it might have had instructions to take it to Valentina’s home.”

“Unless of course she hasn’t handed it over yet and still has it.”

“In which case we’re totally screwed. We have to just pray it’s at Valentina’s place. Don’t suppose you know where she lives?”

Aunty Sylvia knew her address from years ago, but couldn’t be certain she was still living there.

“Give it to me anyway.”

Bayswater. Just up the road. I flagged down a cab. It was nearly midday. Two hours left.

The cab dropped me outside a Victorian mansion block. Aunty Sylvia hadn’t been sure of the actual number. I checked the brass plate. Trellforth/di Rossi. Number seven. I pressed the buzzer. A man’s voice. Elderly.

My turn to speak. I hadn’t the foggiest what to say. Crap. I didn’t have a plan.

“Hello . . . er . . . Is Valentina at home?”

“No. I’m afraid she’s at the shop.”

“The thing is, I’m one of her business associates. I was just passing by with a selection of samples. Would you mind if I dropped them off?”

“Not at all. Come on up.”

He buzzed me in.

The only thing I had in my bag that could pass for samples was a Marks & Spencer carrier containing Dan’s dirty PE kit, which he’d given me to wash. I removed the sneakers and flattened the plastic.

The man standing in the doorway had to be in his seventies, but he was tall and slim. Still striking. I took in the cropped gray hair, the charcoal cashmere, the well-cut jeans.

I needed an excuse to get into the flat. I decided to ask if I could use the loo.

“Don’t suppose you fancy a cuppa,” he said, making my plan redundant. “I’ve just made a pot of coffee.”

“Thank you. I’d love one.”

“I’m Charles by the way—Valentina’s husband.”

“I’m Lacy,” I blurted. “Lacy Cagney.”

“Lacy—that’s not a name I’ve come across.”

He led me along the passageway: white walls, abstract paintings, expensive wood floor. Fancy, schmancy kitchen. German. A grand for a tap. I only recognized it because Tara had the identical units and fittings. Charles invited me to sit down at the granite breakfast bar and asked me how I took my coffee.

“So, what are these samples you have for Valentina?”

“Oh . . . right . . . they’re backless bras. The company I work for has come up with a revolutionary new design.”

“And you’d like her to stock them.”

“That’s the idea.”

We drank our coffee and chatted. Charles told me that before he gave up work, he’d been an architect—which I already knew from the aunties. He hated being retired, he said. There were only so many films to watch, books to read. The days dragged. He wished that Valentina would give up the shop and then he would have some company. “But she refuses. I think being at home with me all day would drive her dotty, but I’m working on her.”

The next moment we heard the front door open. “Surely that’s not Valentina,” Charles said. “At this time of day.”

A moment later she walked into the kitchen. She put her bag and keys down on the countertop.

“I knew you’d come here,” she said, ignoring her husband, who
was looking more than a little startled. “What were you planning to do? Search my home like you just searched my office? You left all the drawers and doors open. Not very professional.”

“Of course I was going to search here. Do you think I wouldn’t?”

“Pardon me,” Charles said, “but could one of you please tell me what’s going on? I have to confess to being completely baffled.”

“This woman is Sarah Green—Shirley’s niece.”

Charles looked at me. His face had gone white. “You’re Sarah? But you told me your name was Lacy.”

“I’m sorry. I came into your home under false pretenses, but only because your wife stole the bra I was about to enter into the
BLR
competition.”

“And I’m telling you,” Valentina broke in, “that I did not—repeat—did
not
steal it. I will not stand here and be accused. Why are you persecuting me like this?” She had started to cry.

“I’m persecuting you?” I cried, tears in my eyes now. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this. Have you any idea what you’ve done to me? I’m trying to rescue a business that has been dying on its feet for years. I’ve sacrificed every penny I possess. My husband died. I’ve got two kids to support. This was my last hope of making a success of my life and you’ve taken it from me. Whatever Shirley did to you, you have no right to do this.”

“I didn’t do it. Do you hear me? I didn’t do it.”

Charles sat down. “No,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I did.”

To put it mildly, that took the wind out of my sails.

Valentina swung round. “You did? Don’t be ridiculous. Why on earth would you even say a thing like that?”

“Because it’s true.”

“Charles, I understand if you’re trying to protect me, but there’s really no need.”

“I’m not trying to protect you. I stole the bra. Or at least I paid the au pair downstairs to steal it.”

“But why?” Valentina and I said in almost comic unison.

“You’d been going on for so long about how much you wanted to win this damned competition, and how you’d discovered on the grapevine that Sarah was entering and that she had Shirley’s seamstresses working for her. You said that winning the competition would be your last hurrah and that then you might think about retiring. This was going to be my secret gift to you—to us—making sure you had no real opposition.”

I should have been just as furious and outraged with Charles as I’d been with Valentina, but he looked so pathetic sitting there, I couldn’t find it in me.

Valentina sat down next to him. “How could you do such a despicable thing? Do you honestly think that’s how I would want to win?”