Best Supporting Role by Sue Margolis

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-makingcompetition. 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 thesedays 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