Rescuing Rose Page 19

  ‘What thing?’

  ‘That because my photo and my words are in that paper,’ I croaked, ‘I feel that I’m being chucked away too.’

  ‘Oh. That is silly,’ he said. ‘In fact, it’s a bit weird.’

  ‘I know, but I can’t help it,’ I wailed.

  ‘Um, don’t you think you’re overreacting here?’ Bloody cheek!

  ‘No, actually. I’m not! I am not overreacting at all, Theo! ‘All right, all right—you’re not.’

  ‘I mean, did you overreact when your stepmother threw away the picture of your mum?’

  ‘But, Rose, that was the only one. Whereas there are millions of copies of this newspaper which means that you’re being thrown away all the time.’

  ‘Yes. But I’m being thrown away by people I don’t know, so it doesn’t matter; but I do know you—so it does. It’s like you were putting me in the bin as well!’

  Rudy, responding to the mounting agitation in my voice, began to shake his wings.

  ‘You need a shrink!’ he shouted in Ed’s voice as he bounced along his perch. ‘And that’s all from You and Yours. Goodbye!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Theo. ‘I didn’t mean anything. Here…’ he handed me the newspaper then put on his jacket. ‘Anyway, I’d better get next door.’

  ‘Yes you had! You’d better get next door right now and change Bev’s bloody lightbulbs—but I’ve got lightbulbs too you know.’

  ‘Rose,’ he said, as he paused in the doorway. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think that Rudy might be right.’

  ‘Well thanks very much!’ I yelled as he left the house. And I was standing there, speechless with rage, when the phone rang. If it’s my nuisance caller he’s going to get a right blasting this time I told myself as I picked it up.

  ‘Hello!!’ I barked.

  ‘Er…Rose?’

  ‘Oh, hi, Henry, it’s you.’

  ‘I…just wanted…to ask you something, um, actually…er…?’

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  ‘Rose…are you okay?’

  ‘No!’ I said. ‘I’m not! In fact I’m extremely pissed off! Rudy suggested that I needed a shrink and Theo agreed with him! Imagine the impertinence!’

  ‘Well…whatever made him say that?’ I told him about the incident with the newspaper. ‘Ah,’ he said, slowly. ‘I see.’

  ‘I mean, you never threw away my articles did you, Henry?’

  ‘Ooh no no no,’ he said. ‘In fact,’ he went on, ‘I think I’ve still got them all. In a special pile somewhere. Yes, I’m sure I have.’

  ‘Really, Henry? Oh that’s so sweet of you. But Theo just didn’t get it at all. Said I was “overreacting”. Insensitive moron. He’s really tactless you know.’

  ‘Er, I hope he can’t hear you, Rose.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘he’s gone to see Bev.’

  ‘Bev?’

  ‘Beverley, you remember, at the ball?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. The girl in the Degas costume.’

  ‘She lives next door. She and Theo get on like a house on fire,’ I said miserably.

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said feelingly, ‘they do. He’s always popping in. Any excuse. That’s where he is right now. Changing her lightbulbs if you please! Very Freudian. Screwing them in if you ask me! He’ll probably be moving in with her soon I shouldn’t wonder, and then I’ll be left all on my own. Henry, are you still there?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I just dropped my handbag that’s all.’

  ‘Anyway what was it you wanted to ask me?’

  ‘Well…er…what was it? Oh yes. I’m seeing Bea on Saturday,’ he explained. ‘I’m meeting her at the Imperial War Museum.’ That sounded like a barrel of laughs. ‘And I thought we’d have dinner somewhere afterwards and I was just wondering what sort of food she likes? That’s why I’m ringing you. To ask you that question.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I don’t really know.’

  ‘I mean, does she like Italian?’ he went on, ‘or do you think she prefers French? Does she go for Indian, or Thai? Maybe she’s into Chinese, or Turkish, or possibly even Polish?’ What was he talking about?

  ‘Henry,’ I said, ‘why don’t you ask her?’

  ‘Yes, that’s a very good idea. What an excellent strategy. I will. I’ll ask her myself. Maybe we could have dinner at the Army and Navy club,’ he mused. ‘They do jolly good profiteroles there.’

  ‘Well while you’re playing footsie with Bea I’ll be playing gooseberry with Bella. She wants me to meet her new man.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Henry. ‘Bea’s mentioned him—not in entirely complimentary terms…’

  ‘He’s a total wanker and piss-artist!’is what Bea had actually said. But then Bea was hardly going to go a bundle over him I thought as I went to meet Bella and Andrew on Saturday night. She and Bea have such an odd relationship. They’re like a pair of Theo’s binary stars, reluctantly locked into each other’s orbit—competitive yet cosy—co-dependency personified. And was their new business likely to succeed, I wondered? I had my doubts. Okay, Bella knows about money—she was a financial journalist—and Bea has artistic flair; but interior design is very recession-sensitive; at the first whiff of a slump they’ll be doomed. I mean, who’s going to want to have the walls crackle-glazed if the house is being repossessed?

  And now, as I rattled along on the Circle Line—I’d decided not to drive—I thought about Henry and Bea. As we left Victoria I tried to work out whether or not I minded that they were seeing each other: it’s the kind of thing I get letters about. But by the time we’d trundled through South Kensington I’d decided I couldn’t care less. If Bea and Henry want to ride off into the sunset, good luck to them—life was short. In fact life was getting distinctly shorter I realised—I had the big four oh coming up and I was increasingly aware that time no longer stretched before me like a vast prairie. But what would Bea make of Henry’s penchant for pretty frocks? To be honest, she’s very conservative and I don’t see her reacting well. Still, it’s up to him to tell her, isn’t it? Nothing to do with me. Now, as the tube train pulled into Paddington, I began to wonder what Andrew would be like. The fact that Bea wasn’t crazy about him was something I took with a big pinch of salt. She’d find fault even if he had the brain of Einstein, the looks of Brad Pitt and the business flair of Bill Gates. I was sure he’d be perfectly fine. And he must at least be quite interesting I decided as I alighted at Notting Hill. I mean, his choice of costume for a start—a squiggly Jackson Pollack suit—at least suggested imagination and style. We’d arranged to meet at the fashionable Pharmacy restaurant: I’d never been there before. But as I walked down the Gate I could immediately identify it by the burly bouncer standing outside.

  ‘I have a reservation,’ I said as I went through the purple rope. The automatic door slid back with a wheezy sigh then I walked into the thronged bar.

  ‘Rose!’ Bella squealed, waving like a game-show contestant. ‘Rose! Hi! We’re over here!’ Oh God, she was clearly over-excited—she was talking in exclamation marks. ‘Rose! This is Andrew! Andrew! Rose!’ Adrenaline leaked from every pore like honey out of a comb. But then, poor kid, she hasn’t had a proper boyfriend for over four years. I held out my hand and smiled.

  ‘It’s good to meet you, Andrew.’

  ‘Dee-lighted to meet you, Rose. Heard a lot about you,’ he added meaningfully.

  ‘Oh. Yes. Well, same here.’ I had only the vaguest recollection of Andrew at the ball. Tonight he was wearing a sixties style suit I could have cut myself on and a pair of Jarvis Cocker type specs. His slicked-back dark hair glistened with gel, and on his feet were a pair of pointy suede shoes. Meeting him now I decided that he was somehow both smooth and sharp.

  ‘We’re drinking cranberry vodkas, Rose,’ he said. ‘How about you?’

  ‘I’d like the same.’

  ‘Same again for you, Bunny?’ he said to Bella.

  ‘Ooh yes please!’ she said.

  ‘Bunny
?’ I repeated wonderingly while Bella sat there simpering.

  ‘That’s my name for her,’ he grinned.

  ‘Er, why?’

  ‘Because she’s so fluffy and lovely and she reminds me of my old pet wabbit, don’t you, Bunny?’ Oh for God’s sake! What a twat! ‘Love your column by the way, Rose,’ he added seriously, ‘I always read it.’

  ‘Really?’ I decided to suspend judgement for a while. ‘What an…unusual place,’ I added looking round.

  ‘I know!’ said Bella. ‘It’s a scream!’ It was like a superannuated chemist’s shop with huge bottles of pills everywhere. Lining the walls were shelf units stacked up with fake packs of prescription drugs. As Andrew made his way to the bar I peered at the names: Tagomet, Ventalin, Betnovate, Warfarin and oh, charming—Anusol. I idly wondered whether there was any Valium, for Bella, who was smiling at me with the manic enthusiasm of the chimp in the PG Tips ad.

  ‘We love it here,’ she said—using the ‘we’ word already!—but to be honest, I wasn’t mad keen. It was packed to the rafters with noisy twenty-somethings, which made me feel terribly old. As for the interior—I found its dispensary theme completely absurd. Whatever next I wondered? A restaurant called ‘Morgue’ complete with mortuary slabs in place of tables, and scalpels instead of knives?

  ‘It’s great,’ I lied. ‘What a fun place.’

  ‘We come here a lot. Andrew’s got a fabulous flat round the corner.’ I smiled. ‘Don’t you think he’s gorgeous,’ she whispered.

  I looked at him. ‘Hhmm. Not bad. How old is he—thirty-seven?’

  ‘No, forty-seven.’ Good God!

  ‘Well he’s obviously been drinking the right brand of coffee.’

  ‘I know,’ she giggled. ‘He does look young; and luckily,’ she went on, sotto voce, ‘he’s never been married!’ Uh oh.

  ‘Oh that is lucky,’ I lied. ‘And what does he do again?’

  ‘He’s in advertising.’ Of course. What else? ‘He’s really wellconnected,’ she added admiringly. This certainly seemed to be true. For as he stood at the bar, Andrew was greeting the other punters as energetically as a politician on polling day. ‘He knows so many people,’ Bella said happily as Andrew genially slapped backs and pressed flesh. ‘Ooh, he’s coming back!’

  ‘Sorry about that girls!’ he said, rolling his eyes with mock-exasperation. ‘I’ve got a lot of friends here tonight. Well—cheers! Nice to meet you, Rose! Down the hatch!’

  As we sipped our drinks I realised that Andrew’s ‘friends,’ unless they were just as preternaturally youthful-looking, seemed to be a good twenty years younger than he. I felt like a pensioner at a school disco, but Andrew was clearly at home.

  ‘I love this place, Rose,’ he said. ‘It’s so buzzy, and it’s very handy.’ Not for Camberwell, I thought.

  ‘Bella says you live nearby.’

  ‘Yes, Rose. Just off the Portobello Road. Great area, Notting Hill Gate. What I like about it, Rose, is that it’s full of real people—they’re really real—you know what I mean?’

  ‘Hhm. And you work in advertising?’ I went on pleasantly.

  ‘Yeah, Rose. That’s absolutely right.’

  ‘On the creative side?’

  ‘What I do’s very creative.’

  ‘And which agency are you with?’

  ‘I’m not with an agency, Rose, I’m in TV.’

  ‘He works for Channel 37,’ said Bella helpfully.

  ‘It’s very demanding, Rose, but I’ve got a great team.’ Team?

  ‘Funnily enough,’ I said, ‘my assistant’s husband, Rob Banks, works for Channel 37. But he’s on the tele-sales side so I don’t suppose you’d know him.’

  ‘Rob Banks? He works for me. He’s a cretin,’ said Andrew, with casual cruelty. ‘He’s no good; he’s on the way out.’

  ‘So you’re in advertising sales,’ I said, ignoring his outrageous indiscretion. ‘You sell air-time.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m in advertising. Like I said.’ Now I knew why he kept using my Christian name. ‘Oh hi, Kim!’ he said leaping to his feet and air-kissing a slender blonde. ‘You’re looking great, darling,’ he said appreciatively. ‘Yeah, we’ll do lunch some time. Sorry about that,’ he said to us, rolling his eyes. ‘It’s all go in here tonight. That was Kim Medcalf by the way—you probably recognised her—she’s in EastEnders. Right, shall we go up and eat?’

  Dinner, needless to say, was purgatorial. Between mouthfuls of polenta Andrew dropped enough names to fill a telephone directory. We heard about his ‘fun’ drinks at Bafta with ‘Kate’ (Winslet) and ‘Joan’ (Collins) and about his recent lunch with ‘Martine’. He expatiated upon the romantic prospects of ‘Jerry’ (Hall)—‘a really lovely lady, Rose’—and revealed his familiarity with ‘Tara’ (P-T). He told us that he had ‘a lot of time’ for Guy (Ritchie)—‘a lot of time, actually, Rose’—and that he was on ‘very’ friendly terms with Sting. And as he burbled away I was struck again by his suspiciously youthful-looking countenance, especially round the brow. This man was pushing fifty, but his forehead was as smooth as a billiard ball: and where on earth were his crow’s feet? Something wasn’t quite right. Andrew had that slightly glassy look I’ve seen before on women who…oh yes, of course. Men have it as well, don’t they? Botox. Or maybe he’d been under the knife… And now, as he held forth about some party at the Groucho where he’d been ‘gassing’ with Graham Norton (‘a really witty guy actually, Rose’) I realised two things: a) that he had evinced no interest whatsoever in Bella or in me all evening and b) that in describing Andrew as a ‘total wanker and piss-artist’ Bea had seriously under-sold this guy. He was, in fact, a tiny-minded, self-pleasuring, narcissistic, starfucking, fifth-rate, pretentious little prat. And I looked at Bella, as she threw back her head and laughed at his leaden bon mots, and mentally yelled. ‘I know you’re desperate, “Bunny,” but what the HELL are you DOING with this JERK???’ Instead of which I just smiled at them both benignly. And now as the rather pretty waitress cleared our plates, I noticed something else—that Andrew’s eyes swept up from her feet to her head, then lingered appreciatively over her breasts.

  ‘Any desserts?’ she asked. I shook my head.

  ‘And Bunny’s watching her weight. Aren’t you, Bun?’ he added giving Bella a playful prod. She blushed and giggled while I tried very, very hard not to stab Andrew with my pudding fork.

  ‘Bella has a lovely figure actually,’ I said censoriously. ‘She doesn’t need to slim.’

  ‘’Course you do, don’t you, Bunny?’ he said, as he coochicooed her cheeks. And now, at long last the evening was nearly over; I’d done my duty and could go. I realised with a sinking heart that I had a long haul back to Camberwell. And it’s not as though I’m flush enough to splash out on a cab, I’d have to go by tube: and as Andrew paid the bill—‘I can get this on expenses, Rose, as you’re media,’ he explained gallantly—I thought, why the hell did we have to come here? I’d suggested we met up in W1 but Andrew had insisted on Pharmacy. At first I’d assumed it was out of laziness, but that wasn’t it at all. It was because if we’d met on neutral ground, he’d have been unable to show off his social ‘success’. He’d wanted me to see him Meeting and Greeting in a fashionable watering hole in W11. For as we got up and walked through the restaurant he was at it again; nodding at diners and saying ‘Hi!’ then rotating his right index finger in a little pantomime of dialling and answering—it was like a fake social semaphore.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I’ll give you a bell,’ he mouthed. ‘Give us a buzz—we’ll do lunch.’

  ‘Thanks for coming, Rose,’ said Bella. I looked at her pityingly.

  ‘It was lovely to see you,’ I said. ‘And very interesting meeting you, Andrew. Thanks for supper.’

  ‘My pleasure, Rose—we’ll do it again.’

  No we bloody well won’t, I said to myself crossly as I trailed home on the tube. All the way round on the Circle Line to embankment then down the Northern Line, and then a long, cold wait at the Ov
al for the number thirty-six, and then a ten minute schlep to the house. I glanced at my watch. It was five to twelve. Beverley’s lights were still on downstairs, but my house was silent and dark. As I opened the door I couldn’t see Theo’s jacket on its hook—he was obviously still next door.

  Hmm…So I left the chain off so that he didn’t ring the bell and wake me, then I covered Rudy’s cage and went to bed.

  Because of the vodka I slept fitfully, waking in the small hours with a raging thirst. I was dimly aware of a faint noise downstairs, but didn’t panic as I had at Christmas because I knew that it was only Theo coming in. And I wondered how his evening with Beverley had gone, then I drifted off again, working out, just before I lost consciousness, that the anagram of Andrew is Warned…

  I felt a bit bleary when I awoke at seven and went downstairs to make some tea. Theo seemed to have made a bit of a mess coming in, things had been disturbed. The hall table drawer was open—he’d obviously been rummaging for a pen—and one of my pictures was askew on the wall. And—oh shit!—the front door! Not only had he not put the chain on, the naughty boy, he’d actually left it ajar! How bloody irresponsible! I shall have to have words with him about this I said crossly as I went to close it. And I was just trying to work out how I might put it—because I don’t want to fall out with him—when something in the sitting room caught my eye. I looked in. It was a shambles. I knew Theo was untidy but what on earth had he been doing? A small table was overturned, and my CDs were strewn on the floor; my bureau had been opened and the contents pulled out, and what the hell…? Oh. Fuck. For now I saw that there was a conspicuous gap where the TV used to be.

  ‘SHIT!’ I shouted. ‘I’ve been BURGLED!’

  ‘Rose! Are you all right?’ I heard Theo thunder down the stairs then he rushed into the sitting room with only a white towel wrapped round his waist.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said sheepishly, ‘I was in the bathroom—what’s up?’

  ‘I’ve been bloody well burgled!—that’s what!’

  ‘Oh no!’ He looked stricken.

  ‘Oh yes! And the reason they broke in was because you left the chain off the bloody door!’