Free Best Supporting Role by Sue Margolis Page B

explained that on her death the house would go to her stepchildren. She had married her late husband, Harry, in her fifties. He had been a widower with grown children. After the wedding, she moved into the house that he had bought with his first wife. Shirley and Harry agreed that if he died first, she would be allowed to carry on living in the house. On her death, his children would inherit the property.
    “OK, so maybe you could sell the business and give the aunties something from the proceeds.”
    She laughed. “You’re joking. The business itself is worth zip. The premises I rent.”
    “But surely the aunties must have family who can help them financially.”
    “Actually they don’t. Sylvia’s only relative is that dotty daughter of hers. The last I heard, she’s still in LA trying to break into movies. A few years back she got a bit part in a soap on some cable channel, but it got canceled and since then she’s worked in Target. Bimla’s family are all in Pakistan. The only person she has over here is this wheeler-dealer nephew. She always refers to him as ‘my nephew the property tycoon.’ I’ve met him. Drives a flashy Italian sports car, usually got some blonde draped over him. He’s always after Bimla for money to help finance this or that new project. He’s clearly some cheap huckster, but she won’t hear a word against him.”
    Shirley picked up a glass of water from the nightstand. As shetook a sip, her hand shook. “Tell me, Sahara, are you happy in your job with the police?”
    “I wouldn’t say I’m happy exactly, but it pays the bills.”
    “So you don’t see yourself doing it forever?”
    “God no. That’s a really depressing thought. At some stage I’d like to get back into fashion and run my own business again.”
    “Why not do it sooner rather than later?”
    “Because I have no start-up cash and no reputation to build on. It could take years before I turned a profit.”
    She nodded. “I can see how that would be a problem. . . . But I’ve had an idea. How would you feel about taking over the shop?”
    She handed me the water glass and I put it back on the nightstand.
    “Are you serious? Me? Running a bra shop? You just spent ten minutes telling me I know nothing about bras.”
    “Maybe not, but you could learn. You trained in fashion. And remind me, you graduated where?”
    “Top of my class, but that doesn’t mean anything.”
    “Of course it does. It means you have huge potential. And you proved it. Before you married Mike, you were selling your dresses to that place in Carnaby Street. Later on you had Evie Sparrow chasing you. You’re a gifted young woman. You also need a new start.”
    “But the shop is on the verge of collapse.”
    “So rebuild it.”
    “But how? You’ve worked yourself into the ground trying to compete with Clementine Montecute. What makes you think I could do any better?”
    “Simple. You’re younger and more talented than me. And you would have the girls to help you. Not only do they know the lingerie business inside out—they are the best bra and corset makers in London. They’re in a different class from anybody that Montecute woman has working for her. I owe the girls so much. When Harry was dying and I needed to be with him, they took over the running of the shop. Without them, the business would have gone under. I can’t bear the thought of them being left high and dry after I’m gone.”
    “I get that, but if I tried to rebuild it, where would I start?”
    “Honestly? I don’t know, but I suspect you’re more resourceful than you give yourself credit for. After all, you’ve had experience running a business.”
    “Hardly. Mine was tiny and I only ran it for a couple of years.”
    “You will have learned a hell of a lot more than you think. Come on. What do you say?”
    “I’m sorry . . . I have to say no.”
    “But I’m a dying woman,” she said, full of mock indignation. “You can’t refuse a dying