Best Supporting Role by Sue Margolis Page B

“And I take it he doesn’t have a son called Rupert.”
    “You take it correctly. I cannot tell you the extent to which no Jewish man is called Rupert. It was the first posh name I could think of. His real name’s Bradley.”
    Steve had dropped by for a drink on his way to the Chartered Institute of Accountants’ Annual Professional Development Dinner. (The children had gone to Mum and Dad’s for Friday night dinnerand were staying the weekend.) I’d offered to be his plus one, but he said it wasn’t a plus-one kind of do. He explained that Chartered Institute of Accountants’ Annual Professional Development Dinners involved five hundred accountants sitting down to eat rubber chicken and dessert topped in aerosol cream while they listened to long, dreary speeches on professional development.
    “OK,” Steve was saying now. “I understand that these women made you feel like a worm and that’s why you made up the Rupert story, but you have to come clean. Carrying on with this charade is only going to end in tears.”
    “So you’re saying that I have to admit that I lied? No way. Why would I humiliate myself like that?”
    “You don’t need to go as far as admitting you lied. You just say that you e-mailed Greg Myers and discovered he’s going to be out of the country on the day of the fair.”
    “I’d still look like a pathetic loser. Then Tara would call Marc Jacobs and save the day and people would be all over her.” I paused. “I know you think I’m making too much of this, but I can’t help it. Tara and Charlotte and the rest of their cronies are just so vile.”
    “So what’s your plan?”
    “I don’t have one.”
    “Great.”
    I sat raking my fingers through my hair. “OK . . . what about starting with the obvious? I’ll e-mail Greg Myers’ agent and ask if by any chance he’s available.”
    “Fine, but you won’t get anywhere.”
    “You don’t know that.”
    “Actually, I do,” he said.
    “Has anybody ever told you that you can be really self-righteous and pompous?”
    “Frequently,” he said, grinning.
    “And if I don’t get anywhere with his agent, I’ll ambush him one night as he leaves the theater. Then I’ll cry and beg.”
    “And end up with a restraining order. Good thinking.” He paused. “Sarah, please just do the sensible thing.”
    “I’ve told you, that isn’t happening.”
    “Your funeral,” he said.
    “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
    “I’m just being realistic. You need to approach this problem rationally and sensibly.”
    “I do wish you’d stop underestimating me. I can’t wait to see your face when I pull this thing off.”
    The corners of his lips were twitching. “You really are the most obstinate woman.”
    “Only when it comes to Tara and Charlotte.”
    “So,” he said. “What’s happening with the shop? Have you told the landlord you’re shutting it down?”
    “No, but I will. It’s just that it feels so final.”
    “Are you sure that isn’t guilt talking?”
    “Probably . . . But surely my decision to close it down should be based on hard financial facts?”
    “What are you talking about? Your decision
is
based on hard financial facts. The shop is practically bankrupt.”
    “But I don’t know that for certain. I haven’t had anybody go over the books.”
    Steve rolled his eyes. “Sarah, I know how upset you are abouthaving to let the shop go, but if there was even the remotest hint that the business was anything other than on the skids, don’t you think your aunty Shirley would have told you?”
    “I guess.”
    “OK, tell you what. Why don’t I take a look at the accounts? Would that make you feel better?”
    “Yes, but you’ve done enough pro bono work for me. I can’t let you do more.”
    “Sarah, I’m seriously not counting. The most important thing is that you get it into your head once and for all that the shop has no future and move on.”
    I told him that I was planning to go to the shop the