Rescuing Rose Page 21

  On Tuesday we heard that yours truly has got through to round two of the Dogs of Distinction Award, so sighs of relief all round. Despite this Bev’s been a bit down in the chops, but I know the reason why. The poor girl’s fallen in love. She won’t tell me who the object of her affection is—but she’s got all the classic signs. She’s listless, she’s not eating, she doesn’t sleep well, and she snaps at the slightest thing. For instance, on Thursday, right, I was buying some pop sox for her in M and S and she completely lost it. ‘No, Trev!’ she yelled. ‘I distinctly said I wanted navy, not black!’ She even pointed to the shopping list to prove it: the whole shop was watching—I nearly died! It really bummed out my karma I can tell you: well, I felt my professionalism had been impugned. So I trotted back to Hosiery and got the right ones, but I was not a happy pup. And I wanted to say, hang on a mo, Bev, just chill out will you, and tell me what’s going on. You share, and I’ll care—but the silly girl won’t’ fess up. I keep putting my head on her lap and looking at her with as much fetching beseechingness as a dog can muster—always monitoring the slobber thing of course—but she just won’t spill the choccy drops. Maybe she thinks I’m going to blab about it to all my mates down the park—as if! I’d never bark about Bev’s private affairs—but she’s resolutely keeping schtum. We met one or two nice blokes at New Year, so it could be one of them, but Bev simply won’t say. But I don’t think it’s on. I mean, I told her about that nice little chocolate lab I had the hots for didn’t I? But I can’t force her to tell. All I know is we went shopping yesterday, and she bought someone a Valentine card. She thought I didn’t see—I made like I was engrossed in the soft toys, right—but my eyes swivelled to the back of my head. And I saw her pick out a large card with LOVE ME! in huge red glittery letters and I thought mmmmm…wonder who that’s for then?…

  ‘Trevor’s column is brilliant,’ I said to Linda. ‘I love the cliffhanger ending.’

  ‘Yes, he writes really well. We get tons of positive feedback from the readers and the ratings have really risen—that was a great contact, Rose. By the way, don’t forget to record your updated Helplines, will you: we’ve got to get them up and running by the end of the week.’ I winced—well it’s so embarrassing—but anything to keep Ricky off my back. So I went into the interviewing room I use for this purpose with my five new three-minute scripts.

  ‘Hello,’ I said warmly into the premium numbers recording line, ‘I’m Rose Costelloe of the Daily Post. Thank you for calling my helpline on How To Spice Up Your Sex Life. Now, has the sparkle gone out of your love-making?…perhaps the most exciting thing that happens in your bed is losing the TV remote…first admit that it’s a problem…don’t blame your partner…make an effort…relax…massage…intimacy…soft music…feathers and silk… Please write to me in strict confidence if you’ve any other problems, goodbye. Hello, I’m Rose Costelloe of the Daily Post. Thank you for calling my helpline on Sexual Fetishes. Now, this is nothing to worry about…’

  I emerged an hour later, with a deep sense of distaste. I mean, I really don’t think it’s my job to tell people what to do with rubber masks, whips and high heels: and my unease was compounded by the fact that I could imagine Colin listening to them, breathing heavily… The thought of it made me feel sick.

  ‘POST!!!’ The adolescent-looking mail-boy passed me in the corridor with the second delivery.

  ‘Ooh, anything for me by any chance?’ I said ironically as I looked at his trolley. I knew there’d be ten letters at least.

  ‘Yes, Miss Costelloe, just this.’ He handed me a solitary cream vellum envelope marked ‘Private and Confidential. To be opened by addressee ONLY.’ Suddenly I detected the distinctive aroma of Ricky’s b.o. and he loomed into view. He smiled warmly at me—he was clearly in a good mood about the circulation rise—so I decided to strike while the iron was hot.

  ‘Ricky, could I have a quick word with you please?’

  ‘Yeah,’ course you can, Rose. So what can I do for you?’ he said benignly as we went into his vast office. On the walls were industry awards he’d won, and framed front pages with a selection of his greatest headlines. There was the Moonie mass marriage ceremony headlined ‘CLUB WED!’ and a legendary one about the notorious rock star, Ozzy Gallagher, who’d been snapped punching an autograph hunter. ‘SHIT HITS FAN!’ it announced. There were also photos of the many neglected animals Ricky had rescued through his readers’ campaigns. There was an abused Spanish donkey, now in a sanctuary in Devon, and two seal pups he’d airlifted off the Canadian ice. There was a baby chimp, which he’d saved from a Bosnian zoo, and three kangaroos he’d redeemed from a cull.

  ‘What lovely photos,’ I said.

  ‘Oh yes, Rose. They are.’ Suddenly he stood up, went up to the wall and took down a photo of a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig. Its vast tummy scraped the ground and its eyes were obscured by thick rolls of fat. ‘This is Audrey,’ he explained quietly. ‘She’s my particular favourite.’

  ‘Was she named after Audrey Hepburn?’ I asked politely.

  He shook his head. ‘No. She’s just Audrey. That’s her name. She was bought when she was a tiny piglet, but became a problem when she grew too big. Her owners tried to sell her, but no-one wanted her because she ate so much. So they decided that there was only one thing for it and that they’d have to…’ his voice cracked. This was evidently difficult for him. ‘Can you imagine, Rose?’ he went on, his chin visibly puckering. ‘This poor little thing was destined for the frying pan? Can you imagine, Rose?’ he added, his voice faltering now, ‘the horror of eating your own pet pig?’ I suddenly realised that I was absolutely starving. I’d missed lunch. ‘Can you imagine, Rose?’ Ricky repeated, his eyes glistening.

  ‘Yes I mean, no. How cruel.’

  ‘It was totally inhuman,’ he agreed, swallowing hard. ‘Luckily a kind-hearted reader brought Audrey to our attention. So we raised the cash to buy her, then took her to a kids’ farm in Surrey where she can…’ his voice quivered again, ‘…run free. Where she’s happy, Rose, and where…’ he bit his lower lip, ‘…she’s loved.’ And as he put the photo back on the wall I thought, what a strange man. A man who could happily describe Paula Yates as a ‘celebrity stiff’; who could refer to the death of Princess Diana as a ‘fabulous news event’; and yet who could go into paroxysms of sentiment over the fate of a pot-bellied pig. Hard outside, soft centre, evidently: but then they say that Hitler adored his dog.

  ‘That’s a wonderful story,’ I said. ‘What a happy ending.’

  ‘It certainly is.’

  ‘You saved her bacon,’ I said genially.

  He allowed himself to smile. He sat down again, sniffing slightly, then composed himself. ‘Anyway, what can I do for you, Rose?’

  ‘Well it isn’t for me,’ I began, as he leaned back in his leather recliner. ‘It’s for Serena actually.’ I thought of her threadbare coat.

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point. Can you give her a pay rise please?’

  Ricky raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, because she works very hard and I feel she deserves it.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ he said with a laugh.

  ‘But she’s been loyal to this paper for fifteen years and I’d like to feel she had a bit more at the end of the month. Her family circumstances are such that…’—I wasn’t going to go into details about Rob’s work situation—‘…she’s under a lot of stress. She’s got three kids, the school fees—it’s not easy for her.’ I was careful not to add that she was clearly more than half way to a nervous breakdown—I don’t think Ricky’s compassion extends to human beings.

  ‘She gets her annual increment,’ he pointed out indignantly.

  ‘Yes, but it’s only three per cent. I feel she’s a deserving case for something else—maybe a long service bonus of some kind. Something which would make her feel wanted and appreciated. I know she’d never go to the union so I thought I’d take it up directly with you and—’

  Suddenly
one of the phones on Ricky’s desk began ringing and he picked it up. ‘Yeah…yeah…yeah,’ he said irritably. ‘No we’ve got the Posh and Becks too. What are they doing on Rod Stewart’s new bird? Well, find out—and what about that bloke who bonked the apple pie…? Right…right…yeah. Gay archbishop? Bor-ing. Martine McCutcheon? Done her to death. Geri Halliwell? She gets on my tits. Nah, I’m not bothered about Vanessa-Mae…’

  I knew instantly who Ricky was talking to—one of his ‘moles’ at our main rival, the Daily News. All the tabloids have plants in each other’s offices so that they can gazump each other’s stories—it’s well known. You never know who they are of course, but Ricky was obviously on the phone to one of his. His voice was becoming increasingly agitated and I could see the conversation would go on for a while. I suddenly remembered the letter I was holding in my hand. I decided I might as well read it while Ricky was gassing, so I slid my thumb under the flap, then removed the sheets of expensive vellum, all six sides of which were covered in an elegant, forward-sloping hand. I skimmed it quickly, and decided it was a marital crisis of the kind I see every day.

  My feelings towards my husband had started to change…begun growing apart…the unique stresses we’re under…the constant pressure of being in the public eye. Oh. Many temptations in my industry…very attractive.. magnetic pull…just couldn’t resist.

  ‘Nah, don’t give me that crap,’ I heard Ricky say. ‘What we want is something big. Something that will put on at least 300 grand. We want a lap-dancing woman priest; we want Fergie running off with the Dalai Lama; we want Liz Hurley marrying Steve Bing. In short we want an A1-Five-Star-Copper-Bottomed-Prime-Time-Sure-Fire-Weapons-Grade SCOOP…!’

  I read on, avidly, my eyes devouring the words. I had a lurching sensation in my stomach and a prickling feeling on my scalp. Got myself in such a mess…it’s so lonely at the top…friends have betrayed me before…didn’t know which way to turn…you give such great advice, Rose…thought that maybe you could help.

  ‘Look,’ said Ricky, ‘I want something mega. No, I don’t fucking well want Charlotte Church. Why? Because they’ll all have that. Get me an exclusive you little git! I will talk to you like that—I pay you enough don’t I?—so just get your scrawny arse into gear!’

  I looked at the signature, just to check that I was right, then I turned back to read the rest. As I read the final page, I thought my eyes would drop out of my head. I’ve never been involved with a woman before…she’d written.

  ‘EXCLOOOSIVE!!!’ I heard Ricky shout.

  But she’s just so good for me—for the first time in years I feel truly alive. Writing to you is a huge risk, Rose, but I somehow know, instinctively, that I can trust you—that’s why I’m placing myself in your hands.

  ‘EXCLOOOOOSIVE!!! GOT THAT???!!!! shouted Ricky again. Then he slammed down the phone.

  I stared disbelievingly, again, at the signature on the letter, then looked at the address. That’s definitely where she lives.

  That’s her Jacobean country mansion, I’ve read articles about it in Hello! It’s near Moreton-in-the-Marsh—it cost her five million. Fucking hell!

  ‘What’s the matter, Rose?’ said Ricky. ‘You look a bit peaky. Anything up?’

  ‘Ooh, no, no, no,’ I said quickly folding the letter with trembling hands and putting it back in the envelope. ‘Anyway, where were we?’ I added as I slipped it into my handbag. ‘Oh yes, Serena’s rise.’

  ‘Serena’s rise?’ he echoed. ‘Look, I’m not in the mood right now. I’ve got other things on my plate. I’ll e-mail you later with my decision, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ I was too shocked by what I’d just read to pin him down on the matter: I simply wanted to get out of there—fast. As I walked, heart racing, back to my office I knew, of course, what I ought to do. As an employee of Amalgamated Newspapers, there was no question that I should tell Ricky about this fabulous scoop. But my primary loyalty is to my readers—whomsoever they be—so that was something I would never do.

  How unbelievable, I thought again as I walked through the newsroom. Electra! She could buy her own agony aunt. Electra, with all her money and glamour, had written to me—to me!—because she believed that I could help. I was filled with a renewed sense of purpose and I felt my heart expand. How incredible I said to myself for the fiftieth time. Hang on… Maybe it is. Maybe it is incredible. Literally. Maybe the whole thing’s a hoax…

  I did some deep breathing and some hard thinking. It was all too easy to imagine a disgruntled employee stealing a pad of her headed paper and concocting something like this. But on the other hand I get enough fake letters to be able to sniff them out. It’s easy to do this because a hoax is always so over the top. I get a letter from someone purporting to be, say, ‘Ricky Soul’; and it will say that they’ve got terrible BO and acne and bad breath and everyone hates them and they haven’t had a girlfriend for fifteen years… And the idea is that I write back to the real Ricky, saying, Dear Mr Soul, I’m so sorry to hear about your terrible BO and your acne and your bad breath and piles, and the fact that everyone hates you and that you haven’t had a girlfriend for fifteen years…and they’re incredibly embarrassed. This didn’t feel like a hoax to me: but the handwriting would give it away. I’d seen examples of Electra’s handwriting in a newspaper article—all I’d have to do is compare. I sat down at my pod, still feeling sick and trembly, and locked the letter away in my desk. This was one that wasn’t going to be date-stamped and filed in the normal way. It was going to be read, answered and then immediately shredded—by me—when everyone else had gone home.

  ‘Serena,’ I said. She looked up from her copy of the Financial Times—she was anxiously checking share prices—‘I’m giving a talk about graphology…’

  ‘Are you?’ she said. ‘Oh you didn’t tell me that. Who for?’

  ‘For…the…Hackney W.I.’

  ‘What date?’ she enquired, as she got out the desk diary.

  ‘Um, February the thirtieth,’ I replied. ‘I, er, need to read that article on celebrity handwriting the Post did a few months ago. Would you mind going down to the library and digging it out for me? Thanks.’

  Serena returned with the cutting twenty minutes later, and I went into the interviewing room so that I could be alone. Electra had begged for my ‘total discretion’ and she was going to get it two hundred per cent. I looked at the article under a strong light, then studied the letter. I couldn’t compare the pressure on the paper of course, but I could see that the handwriting was exactly the same. The shape of each letter was identical, so was every up-stroke and down-stroke and loop. The size of the letters was uniform, and so were the crosses and dots. There was no doubt about it—it was the genuine article. Now what the hell did I do?

  I wanted to write to her from home; but what if I was mugged with the letter in my bag?—I’d just been burgled after all. So I left it locked away, and decided I’d stay late and deal with it then.

  At five I came back to my desk from the ladies’ loo to find a new e-mail on the screen, from Ricky, headed Serena’s Pay Rise. Sorry, he’d written, no can do. I resolved to ask him again, in a few days’ time, when I’d have less pressing things on my mind. It wasn’t purely altruism which prompted me, it was self-interest—Serena needed to feel happy to do her job well. In any case I wasn’t taking no for an answer because I knew it was something that Ricky could afford to do. The Daily Post makes a huge profit, and Serena is loyal and hard working—she deserves it. At six-thirty she put on her coat.

  ‘I’m off, Rose. I’m going home. Are you working late?’ she added solicitously.

  ‘Yes I am. You know how it is.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be on my way then. See you tomorrow,’ she added, then she left the office, along with most of the Features team. Now that everyone had gone I relaxed. I left the letter locked in my desk—only I have keys—then went down to the canteen to get something to eat. By the time I came back up half an hour later, I’d worked out what to say.


  To my surprise, I found it very easy to be firm. I refused to be fazed by the fact that Electra’s a mega-star: she was simply a reader who needed my help. So I told her—well, obviously confidentiality prevents me from telling you what I told her; but suffice to say that I indicated that her infatuation with her female backing singer was extremely unlikely to last. I also asked her to consider the effect on her kids—poor lambs. I could imagine little Cinnamon’s tear-stained face, not to mention baby Alfie’s cries. I typed it up, sealed it, then fed her letter into the shredder. As the strips were extruded I caught them, and cut them widthways, several times. Then I went into the ladies’ and flushed the confetti-sized fragments down the loo. I did not, of course, leave my reply in the office out-tray—too risky: I stamped it and posted it on my way home.

  As I walked to the bus stop I reflected on how much that letter had been worth. A fortune. It was like having a five-carat diamond in my hand. And you might think that I should have given it to Ricky, but to me being an agony aunt is like being a priest. Write to me in strictest confidence it says on my page; and my readers know that they can. The secrets they tell me will go to my grave. Edith Smugg would have been proud of me.

  Chapter 12

  The knowledge that someone as famous as Electra had placed her trust in me buoyed me up in the run-up to Valentine’s Day. I was dreading starting my divorce proceedings because it would mean contact—indirectly—with Ed. But I had only to think of his heartless indifference to my readers’ suffering to strengthen me in my resolve. How would he have characterised Electra I wondered wryly: ‘Glum of Gloucestershire’? ‘Crestfallen of the Cotswolds?’; ‘Miserable of Moreton-in-the-Marsh’? I imagined that titchy bitch, Mary-Claire Grey, smothering him with Valentine’s kitsch—a chocolate heart with his name on quite possibly, or a ‘cute’ teddy with outstretched paws: or one of those cheap red satin cushions emblazoned with I Luv U! Well the only billet-doux he was going to get from me was a divorce petition, on tasteful cream vellum, citing his adultery. I’d already signed it, ready for Frances to send: it was like a cruise missile, primed for launch.