Best Supporting Role Page 8

  At some stage a bony hand would reach out for mine. Sit down, darling. Now, tell me. How are you? A widow at your age, a person shouldn’t know of it. Such a tragedy, a young, talented man like Mike, struck down in the prime of life. What a thing. Still, these things happen and you’re young. Please God one day you’ll find somebody else.

  Around three, I would nip out to collect Dan and Ella from school. I’d take them for ice cream or a soda so that we could have some “us” time and then bring them back to Mum and Dad’s. Later on, when the rabbi and mourners arrived for evening prayers, I shooed the kids upstairs to watch TV.

  “So now that Aunty Shirley’s in heaven,” Ella said, “Daddy will have some company.”

  “Maybe he could even marry her,” Dan piped up.

  “There’s a thought,” I said.

  By eight o’clock the living room would be full and Dad and I would be handing out prayer books.

  Shirley’s “girls”—my “aunties”—came each night and were beside themselves, as they had been at the funeral. I hadn’t seen them for what—five years? Aunty Bimla’s hair was entirely gray now, but she still tied it in a long girlish plait that hung down her back. The chunky pink cardigan she wore over her salwar kameez probably wasn’t the same pink cardigan I remembered from my childhood, but it might as well have been. Sylvia appeared to have shrunk with age—both in height and substance. She’d always been tiny, but now she looked positively birdlike. The effect was to make her frizzy hair, which she dyed red and referred to as her Jew-fro, seem bigger than ever.

  Once the prayers were over, they would follow me into the kitchen and help with the tea. Before we got started, they would take it in turns to pull me to their bosoms.

  “Bubbie. We should only meet at celebrations.”

  “Poppet. What a fine kettle of fish. We are so down in the dumps.” I’d always loved the way Aunty Bimla spoke—like she’d swallowed the Oxford English Dictionary of Sayings, Maxims, and Proverbs.

  “When my Gerald got ill with his prostate,” Aunty Sylvia said one night as the three of us buttered bagels and arranged slices of cake, “Shirley was on the phone every day. She was more like a friend than an employer.”

  “Well, to me she was more like a sister. The day Parvez died, she dropped everything to come and be with me.”

  Aunty Sylvia shook her head. “She didn’t deserve what happened to her … the cancer … that bloody Montecute woman stealing all her business.”

  “It was the worst possible tragedy. Most definitely.”

  I wondered if Aunty Shirley had told the aunties about her plan for me to take over the shop. I wouldn’t have put it past her, bearing in mind she’d seemed so certain that I would agree to it.

  “By the way, did Shirley … ?”

  “So, poppet, what will you do with the shop, now it is yours?”

  “Ah, so she did tell you she was leaving it to me.”

  “She talked about little else,” Aunty Sylvia said. “How gifted you are, what faith she had in you, how she knew that you were the one who could turn the business around.” She touched my arm. “Look, Sarah … don’t take this the wrong way… . We don’t doubt that you are an extremely talented young woman, but the shop is on its knees. While that bloody Montecute woman remains the toast of the town, nobody can compete. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “But if I close it down, the two of you will be out of a job.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Aunty Sylvia said. “We’ve got our pensions and once Roxanne hits the big time in LA, I’ll have nothing to worry about. It won’t be long now. Yesterday, she phoned to tell me that she’s doing breakfast with this hotshot Hollywood producer who wants to make a film about a haunted refrigerator.”

  “And my nephew Sanjeev is about to sign a huge deal with a man from Paraguay. Please don’t worry about us, poppet.”

  Like that was going to happen.

  It was only going out to do the school run and chatting to Steve on the phone each night when the kids and I finally got home that stopped me going stir-crazy. By the end of the week I was actually excited about going to the summer fair planning meeting.

  • • •

  Back in the classroom, Tara turned to me. “You know, Sarah, you really should encourage Dan and Ella to start Mandarin Club. Cressida and Mungo love it and, as I keep telling them, businesspeople who speak Mandarin have such an advantage when it comes to tapping into the Chinese market.”

  “Actually,” Charlotte ventured—she wasn’t nearly as self-assured as Tara—“I think learning the classics is just as important. So much of the English language is based on Latin and Greek. Ottilie has a tutor who comes in on a Saturday morning to teach her Latin.”

  “Really?” I said, for want of anything else to say. On the one hand I thought that women like Tara and Charlotte, who thought they could buy talent and intelligence for their children the same way they could buy a Mulberry tote, were idiots whose pushiness would come back to bite them on the ass when their kids burned out in their teenage years and developed eating disorders. On the other hand I was jealous that these wealthy women, like dozens of others in the school, could afford all these extra activities and I couldn’t.

  “Well,” Imogen said, “I’m afraid Archie spends his Saturday mornings sprawled on the floor in his pj’s watching cartoons. I did all that pushy parenting stuff with his older brother. What people don’t realize is that no matter what you do, one’s progeny still grow into moody, monosyllabic teenagers who lie in bed all day smoking marijuana and masturbating.”

  You couldn’t not love Imogen.

  Tara and Charlotte managed thin smiles. I don’t know what horrified them more, the thought of their children doing drugs or jerking off.

  “Good Lord,” Imogen was saying now. “Is it me or is it hot in here?” She reached into her bag, took out the Tommy Padstow spring catalog and began fanning herself. She was wearing the plum wrap dress featured on the front cover. The only difference being that hers was a size sixteen and dusted in dog hair.

  “I think it’s you,” Tara said to Imogen. “Before you arrived, we were all saying how cold it is in here. The caretaker must have turned off the heating.”

  “Must be a hot flush, then. I’m getting them all the time. If it’s not hot flushes, it’s mood swings. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I have recently been visited by the menopause dwarves—Bitchy, Moody, Sleepy and Sweaty.”

  Charlotte squirmed, as if menopause could be catching. “My mother’s about your age,” she said. “She swears by black cohosh.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” Imogen replied, apparently unaware that she had been insulted. “Perhaps I’ll give it a go.” She stood up. “Right, while we’re waiting for the stragglers, I think I’ll pop to the loo. Stress incontinence—that’s another of nature’s delights you have to look forward to. Instead of buying condoms you start bulk buying adult diapers.”

  With that she strode off.

  Tara watched her go. “I do wish Imogen wasn’t quite so toilety.”

  “By the way,” I said. “I just wanted to thank you both for having Dan and Ella over for so many playdates lately. I think it really is time for me to reciprocate. How are your lot fixed for next week? I thought I’d have all the kids at my place.”

  I saw a look pass between Tara and Charlotte.

  “That would be lovely,” Charlotte said, clearly forcing a smile. “But maybe we should wait a while … until it gets a bit lighter.”

  Tara nodded. “Yes, I think that would be for the best.”

  “Sorry. I’m not with you. How do you mean, ‘until it gets lighter’?”

  They both appeared to be scrambling for the right words.

  “It’s the streets… .”

  “Yes … very dark … and you never know… .”

  Ah. The penny dropped.

  “Do you mean the streets in general or just the streets where I live?”

  “Look, Tara and I don’t mea
n to be rude and clearly things haven’t been easy for you since Mike died and we do sympathize, but …”

  “At the same time you don’t know if you’re going to get mugged as you walk the six feet from the curb to my house. Or maybe some hoodie will stick a petrol bomb through the letter box while the kids are having tea? It’s OK. I get it.”

  “You must think we’re terrible snobs,” Tara said, running her hands through her five-hundred-quid highlights. “But we have to think about our children.”

  “Meaning that I don’t think about mine?”

  “No … of course you do. We didn’t mean that… .”

  By now Imogen had returned, followed by a gaggle of latecomers.

  “OK, chapesses, if you could all pull up a chair and make a circle, then we can get started.”

  Fiona—mother of Grace, who was in Ella’s year, and Tom, who had been telling Dan how dead bodies rot—arrived a few seconds behind the other mothers. She saw me, waved and came bounding over.

  “So, how are you doing?” she said, giving me a hug, followed by one of her pity looks.

  I responded to the look by switching my face onto full beam. “Not too bad, actually.”

  “Really?” She either didn’t believe me or chose not to. “I think you’re being ever so brave.” She took my hand in both of hers. “I was wondering—have you considered Zumba?”

  “Zumba?” I said, extricating my hand.

  “Yes. It helps with grief, apparently. Takes you out of yourself. I read this marvelous piece in the Daily Mail on learning to live again after the death of a spouse. A couple of women interviewed spoke really highly of Zumba classes.”

  “Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind. But you know it’s been over a year since Mike died and I’m doing much better.”

  “Well, good for you.” Another pity look. “Take care. And remember if you ever need a shoulder, I’m here for you.”

  “Thanks, Fi. That’s good to know.”

  She rubbed the top of my arm and went in search of a chair. After she’d gone, Tara turned to me. “I can’t stand that woman. She hates it if she hasn’t got some lame dog to cluck over. It’s a power trip. Patronizing the rest of us makes her feel superior.”

  Before I had a chance to say I was sure that deep down Fiona probably meant well, Tara spied one of her cronies. “Emma—long time no CC. How are you?” Double kisses.

  “Not good. Freddie is stressing me out like you wouldn’t believe. He’s reacting really badly to the two-story glass conservatory we’re building on the back of the house. He says he doesn’t want the house to look different. I’ve told his therapist that I think change is a huge issue for him. Plus I’ve been keeping a log of how many playdates he’s had this term. I’m convinced he’s not as popular as he was last year.”

  “Oh, stop it,” Tara soothed. “Freddie’s a great kid. I’m sure you’re overreacting. What about the twins? How are they doing?”

  “They’re fine, but I still haven’t got over what happened to the poor little mites at Christmas. The girls are identical. What sort of a teacher gives the part of Mary to one and asks the other to be a sheep?”

  Just then I saw Louise Warburton started waving at me. I returned the gesture. “Hey Lou … haven’t seen you lately.”

  “Dom and I have been at the house in France. Left the boys with my mother.” Louise and her husband had just bought a wreck of a farmhouse in the Auvergne. It came with a dairy and Louise had decided to try her hand at making cheese. Her Fourme d’Ambert had gone down really well with the locals, but now she was working on that difficult second cheese. “All a bit of a struggle, but I’m sure I’ll get there in the end.”

  “Come on, everybody,” Imogen’s voice boomed above the chatter. “Do let’s settle down. Tempus fugit and all that.”

  “Better do as Imo says,” Louise said, grinning. “We don’t want to risk getting detention.”

  Once Louise had disappeared, Tara turned back to me. “What does Louise look like in that daisy smock? She used to be so chic—now she’s turned into Padstow Woman. I have to say I’ve never understood the whole Padstow thing. It’s so unspeakably dull and middle England. Last summer when we were in Cornwall, you practically had to wade through all the Breton tees and preppy polo shirts.”

  I suggested that one of the reasons people bought the tops and T-shirts was that they were practical.

  Tara shuddered. “The day I buy clothes because they’re practical is the day I die.” She crossed her legs and then, as if to emphasize her point, waved a foot clad in an impossibly high platform ankle boot.

  “I know, darling,” Charlotte said. “You’d go trekking in the Himalayas in a Hervé Léger bandage dress.”

  The two of them fell about laughing.

  I wasn’t about to tell Tara and Charlotte that these days part of me longed to be a Padstow woman. It wasn’t so much the splashy prints and chirpy chinos that I coveted as the lifestyle they represented. Padstow women were married to chaps called James or Alistair, solid reliable types who worked in the City or at the BBC. They raised their children without resorting to TV or sugar and fretted about when was the right time to have the big conversations about death and war. On the weekends, Padstow mummies and daddies hit the farmers’ markets with their big goofy dogs and children in their cozy gilets. The daddies filled their burlap bags with organic radish pods, artisan breads and pâté. Afterwards they all went home to their houses on the right side of the tracks to toast halloumi over an open fire.

  Padstow men didn’t gamble, or if they did, it was only once a year on one of the big races like the Grand National. If they happened to die prematurely—a rare event since they cycled to work and watched their carbs and cholesterol—they didn’t leave their wives on the verge of bankruptcy. This was on account of the substantial life insurance policies they took out the moment their wives got pregnant with their first child. If Padstow was dull, I didn’t care. I yearned for dull. I craved dull.

  I was so lost in my reverie that I was only vaguely aware that the meeting had started.

  “Right—first item on the agenda … ,” Imogen was saying. “I’m looking for people to run stalls. A few of you have already volunteered… . So far the tombola, face painting and hoopla are covered, but more bodies are needed. If you’re prepared to help—even for a couple of hours—then please sign up at the end of the meeting. OK … moving swiftly on. The auction. The plan is to hold it after the principal announces the results of the cake-making competition. I’m looking for items to go under the hammer. Any thoughts?”

  Cheryl—nickname Cheryl Tan—who owned a chain of spas with her husband, a part-time male model, said she would donate three “spa day, pamper yourself” experiences.

  “If that woman’s makeup fell off,” Tara hissed, “I swear it would be heavy enough to kill the cat.”

  Cheryl’s friend, whose name I didn’t know, but who was wearing the biggest diamond crucifix you ever saw, said that her husband was part of the Stones’ management and that she had six tickets for the band’s August gig at the O2.

  A Padstow woman whose husband was a City lawyer volunteered him for twelve hours’ legal advice. Somebody who ran her own catering business said she would auction her services and prepare a dinner party for six.

  Charlotte, who was PA to the director of a swanky interior design company that had done work for the likes of Madonna and the Paltrow-Martins, announced that her boss was prepared to offer a one-hour Skype consultation. Not to be outdone, Tara, who worked for the company that handled Marc Jacobs’ PR, said that a couple of his evening dresses—unworn and with the tags on—had recently come her way and that she was more than happy to auction them. Charlotte asked her why on earth she didn’t want them.

  “Darling—a size six simply swims on me.”

  By now my thoughts were drifting back to Aunty Shirley’s proposal. If making ends meet weren’t an issue, if I didn’t have Dan and Ella to think about, maybe I could have risen
to the challenge and had a go at getting Aunty Shirley’s business back on its feet. But these days I was done with gambling. I wanted to keep life uncomplicated, worry free and predictable. Like I said, I craved dull.

  “Right, I think that’s pretty much it,” Imogen was saying. “Apart from one thing. We don’t have anybody to open the fair. We were so lucky to have Ewan McGregor last year—thanks to his cousin Morag, who sits on the board of governors. I’m thinking perhaps another star of stage and screen.”

  Cheryl Tan raised her hand. “Kim and Kourtney both come to the spa when they’re in town. I have their e-mail.”

  Imogen frowned. “Kim and Kourtney?”

  “Kardashian.”

  “I’m not with you, I’m afraid. It sounds like something Armenians would serve as a starter.”

  There were a few titters.

  “The American reality show?” Cheryl persisted. “The Kardashians?”

  “Nope. Sorry, means nothing to me.”

  “Plus they’re totally naff,” one of the Padstow women sniffed. There was a chorus of hear-hears.

  “Surely somebody must have some ideas. Sarah, you’ve been quiet. Anybody spring to mind?” Imogen was getting hot and bothered and had begun fanning herself again with the Tommy Padstow catalog.

  All eyes were on me.

  “Er … I’m not sure… .”

  “Come on—Mike worked in advertising and what with so many celebs doing voice-overs, you must have rubbed shoulders with a few of them.”

  “Not really.”

  “I suppose I could give Marc a call,” Tara said. “But he lives in Paris and his schedule is always totally manic. I’m not sure… .”

  Charlotte offered to call Gwyneth. “But I know she’s really up against it trying to finish her new cookbook. Or maybe I could try Catherine. I heard she’s going to be over again in the summer, but it’s such a huge ask, dragging her all the way from Wales.”

  “My hairdresser does P. Diddy when he’s in town.” It was the crucifix woman.

  “P. Diddy,” Imogen said, frowning. “Isn’t he that rapper chappie? Rather tacky, don’t you think?” She lowered the catalog to her cleavage.