Read Online Best Supporting Role by Sue Margolis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sue Margolis
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Aunty Shirl.”
I made her jump. “Sahara! My favorite niece. What a wonderful surprise.” Her bony hand picked up the remote and zapped the TV. “Load of rubbish. Gets worse. Don’t know why I watch it.”
“So how are you?” I said as I reached the bed.
A shrug. “I’m dying. How should I be?” For a dying person, her voice was still pretty strong.
With an almighty effort, Shirley heaved herself off the pillows and gave me a kiss. I felt her cheekbone against mine, protruding through tight parchment skin. As she fell back onto the pillows, her blond, big-hair wig slipped and I caught a glimpse of the sparse, post-chemo regrowth underneath. It wasn’t the cancer that had caused Aunty Shirley to start wearing wigs. She’d worn them ever since I could remember. She owned several. They all had names. Today she was wearing her Alexis. Her Tina and her Dolly were draped over wig stands on her dressing table.
“Denise says you’re having a pretty good day today,” I said.
Aunty Shirley finished adjusting her wig. “Ach. What does she know?”
I was used to seeing Shirley in her false eyelashes and thick orange foundation. These days—although she still insisted on wearing her wigs—she couldn’t be bothered with makeup. I understood why she used to call it her “war paint.” Her lack of lippy and liner, not to mention her sallow, sickly face, made her look defenseless.
“Denise said that you ate breakfast. That’s good. You need to keep your energy up.”
“Since when did you need energy to die?”
What did you say to that?
“So, Sahara, still not wearing a decent bra, I see.”
“Again with the bra . . . You know, when somebody comes to visit, it’s customary to indulge in a little polite chitchat—at least for the first few minutes.”
“What is this,
Pride and Prejudice
? Plus as a dying person, I don’t have time for chitchat.”
“What’s meant to be wrong with my bra? I just bought a new one.”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it. Even with your clothes on, I can see it doesn’t fit. Tell me, what size do you think you are?”
“This one’s a thirty-eight D.”
Shirley rolled her eyes. “I get so cross with you. Why will you never do as I ask and come to the shop for a proper fitting?”
Aunty Shirley was directrice of Shirley Feldman Exclusive Foundation Garments
.
The shop, around the corner from Selfridges, was her whole world, the child she never had.
“Because whenever I come, you shout at me and tell me off.”
“Nonsense. When have you ever known me to shout?”
I gave her a look. “This from the woman who yelled at Princess Grace of Monaco.”
“She deserved it. The woman was such a diva . . . always changing her mind.”
“Then you fell out with Sophia Loren.”
“That was a misunderstanding. I still get a Christmas card. . . . So, are you done accusing me? . . . Good. Now listen. There is no way you are a thirty-eight. Looking at you, I’d say you’re a thirty-four, tops. . . . Your back is narrow. But your cup size . . . different matter. F to double F, depending on the make of bra.”
“Double F? That’s humongous. I’m never a double F.”
“I’m telling you that you are.”
“But how do you know? You haven’t even measured me.”
“Tape measures are for amateurs. I can take one look at a woman and tell her bra size—even when she’s wearing a coat.”
“But the one I’m wearing feels perfectly OK.”
“Sahara, you don’t get it. . . . A bra isn’t meant to feel just OK. It’s meant to feel wonderful. In fact if you’re wearing the proper-size bra, you shouldn’t be aware of it at all. Now then, take off your top.”
“What?”
“Oh, come on, it’s only us girls. Take off your top.”
I took it off. Shirley told me to go and stand in front of the full-length mirror.
“Now take a look at your bust. How many breasts have you got?”
“Er . . . that would be two?”
“Wrong. Try
I made her jump. “Sahara! My favorite niece. What a wonderful surprise.” Her bony hand picked up the remote and zapped the TV. “Load of rubbish. Gets worse. Don’t know why I watch it.”
“So how are you?” I said as I reached the bed.
A shrug. “I’m dying. How should I be?” For a dying person, her voice was still pretty strong.
With an almighty effort, Shirley heaved herself off the pillows and gave me a kiss. I felt her cheekbone against mine, protruding through tight parchment skin. As she fell back onto the pillows, her blond, big-hair wig slipped and I caught a glimpse of the sparse, post-chemo regrowth underneath. It wasn’t the cancer that had caused Aunty Shirley to start wearing wigs. She’d worn them ever since I could remember. She owned several. They all had names. Today she was wearing her Alexis. Her Tina and her Dolly were draped over wig stands on her dressing table.
“Denise says you’re having a pretty good day today,” I said.
Aunty Shirley finished adjusting her wig. “Ach. What does she know?”
I was used to seeing Shirley in her false eyelashes and thick orange foundation. These days—although she still insisted on wearing her wigs—she couldn’t be bothered with makeup. I understood why she used to call it her “war paint.” Her lack of lippy and liner, not to mention her sallow, sickly face, made her look defenseless.
“Denise said that you ate breakfast. That’s good. You need to keep your energy up.”
“Since when did you need energy to die?”
What did you say to that?
“So, Sahara, still not wearing a decent bra, I see.”
“Again with the bra . . . You know, when somebody comes to visit, it’s customary to indulge in a little polite chitchat—at least for the first few minutes.”
“What is this,
Pride and Prejudice
? Plus as a dying person, I don’t have time for chitchat.”
“What’s meant to be wrong with my bra? I just bought a new one.”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it. Even with your clothes on, I can see it doesn’t fit. Tell me, what size do you think you are?”
“This one’s a thirty-eight D.”
Shirley rolled her eyes. “I get so cross with you. Why will you never do as I ask and come to the shop for a proper fitting?”
Aunty Shirley was directrice of Shirley Feldman Exclusive Foundation Garments
.
The shop, around the corner from Selfridges, was her whole world, the child she never had.
“Because whenever I come, you shout at me and tell me off.”
“Nonsense. When have you ever known me to shout?”
I gave her a look. “This from the woman who yelled at Princess Grace of Monaco.”
“She deserved it. The woman was such a diva . . . always changing her mind.”
“Then you fell out with Sophia Loren.”
“That was a misunderstanding. I still get a Christmas card. . . . So, are you done accusing me? . . . Good. Now listen. There is no way you are a thirty-eight. Looking at you, I’d say you’re a thirty-four, tops. . . . Your back is narrow. But your cup size . . . different matter. F to double F, depending on the make of bra.”
“Double F? That’s humongous. I’m never a double F.”
“I’m telling you that you are.”
“But how do you know? You haven’t even measured me.”
“Tape measures are for amateurs. I can take one look at a woman and tell her bra size—even when she’s wearing a coat.”
“But the one I’m wearing feels perfectly OK.”
“Sahara, you don’t get it. . . . A bra isn’t meant to feel just OK. It’s meant to feel wonderful. In fact if you’re wearing the proper-size bra, you shouldn’t be aware of it at all. Now then, take off your top.”
“What?”
“Oh, come on, it’s only us girls. Take off your top.”
I took it off. Shirley told me to go and stand in front of the full-length mirror.
“Now take a look at your bust. How many breasts have you got?”
“Er . . . that would be two?”
“Wrong. Try
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