Free Best Supporting Role by Sue Margolis Page A

royals. Claudia Schiffer cut the satin ribbon. Shirley Feldman’s reign as queen of British lingerie was over.
    It was the theater and opera companies that kept the business afloat. Period costumes required the correct foundation garments and Shirley’s “girls”—the corsetieres and bra makers who worked for her—were experts at creating the perfect Edwardian S-shaped corsets and bust bodices. But since the recession, theaters couldn’t afford to put on lavish, costume-heavy productions and orders were falling off.
    “The thing is, I’m worried about the girls. I don’t know what’s going to happen to them when I’m gone. They’re pushing seventy.They’re both widows. They depend on me for their income. Who’s going to take them on? I can’t leave them high and dry. I just can’t.”
    I’d known Aunty Shirley’s “girls” since forever. When Mum needed new bras, she would always drag me along to the shop. “One day you’ll be a woman and have boobies like Mummy. For a while they will be firm and perky, but then after you have babies, they’ll sag and move independently and you’ll need a really decent bra that lifts and supports.”
    This was how my mother bonded with me at age six.
    When we arrived at the shop, Shirley would be standing behind the counter looking glamorous in her red nails and big blond do. (Back then I didn’t know it was a wig.) She would call down to the workroom. “Girls . . . Faye and Sahara are here. Come and say hello.”
    My mum and the “girls” would exchange kisses and do the “look at you—you’ve lost so much weight” thing, after which Mum would prod me. “Sarah, come on—say hello to Aunty Sylvia and Aunty Bimla.”
    I knew that Aunty Bimla in particular couldn’t be my aunty. She spoke with a strange accent and wore pajamas.
    “Hi, Aunty Bimla.”
    “Sarah, my poppet. My, how you’ve shot up. And look at you—so beautiful. Just like your mother. You are two peas in a pod.”
    Aunty Bimla came from Pakistan. That’s why she spoke with a strange accent. Once I asked Dad where Pakistan was and he showed me on my globe that lit up. It was even farther away than Majorca—where we always went on holiday.
    “Hi, Aunty Sylvia.”
    “Bubbie!” She would pinch my cheek. “Isn’t she gorgeous? Couldn’t you just eat her?”
    Even though Aunty Sylvia called me “Bubbie” and wanted to eat me, just like both my grandmothers, I knew that she couldn’t be my real aunty either. She never came to family teas at our house or to those big parties held in halls and hotels that my mother called
affairs
.
    I remember asking Mum why I had to call Aunty Sylvia and Aunty Bimla “aunty,” when they weren’t really my aunties.
    Mum said that they thought the world of me and it was a way of returning their affection. I thought about this and realized that I was rather fond of these women who called me pet names and hugged me until I could barely breathe. Plus Aunty Sylvia fed me Fox’s Glacier Mints, which she kept in the pocket of her nylon smock alongside the bra cups and underwire. With Aunty Bimla it was carrot halva, which I adored even though it was rich and made me feel sick if I ate too much. I agreed to carry on calling them Aunty.
    Aunty Bimla and Aunty Sylvia had worked for Shirley for more than forty years. While Shirley ran the shop, fitting customers with ready-made bras, the aunties did alterations and created made-to-measure pieces. All week they sat at their sewing machines, in their cubbyhole of a workroom, stitching bras, basques and corsets for period stage productions or for the few individual clients who hadn’t deserted them for the upstart Montecute.
    When Shirley got ill, Aunty Bimla and Aunty Sylvia took turns working upstairs in the shop.
    •   •   •
    “B ut, Aunty Shirl, this house is huge,” I was saying now. “It must be worth a fortune. Surely you can leave Aunty Sylvia and Aunty Bimla some money.”
    Shirley