Rescuing Rose Read online

  ‘Hi sweetie!’ I heard Bev say. ‘It’s only me. Just ringing for a chat. Hope you’ve had a lovely Valentine’s Day! I’ve had a very nice one,’ she giggled. ‘Talk to you later darling! Byeee!!!’

  ‘End call?’ it enquired, so I pressed OK. My hand shook slightly as I put the phone down. Theo was Beverley’s ‘sweetie’ and her ‘darling’. Well…I don’t know why she’s bothering to deny that she’s interested—I mean, what’s the point of being coy? And obviously that Valentine she’d bought was for him, and now I wondered where it was. It wasn’t on his mantelpiece, or on his desk. I ran downstairs and looked, but there was no trace of it. Perhaps he was too shy to display it: perhaps he’d tucked it away in a drawer, or, quite possibly, Beverley had sent it to his office, to add to the fun and mystery. I was distracted from further speculation by the sound of my own phone ringing. I picked up the receiver and heard snuffling and heavy breathing at the other end. My stomach clenched—it was my nuisance caller—then I realised it was Bea, in tears.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I said.

  ‘Henry didn’t get me anything!’ she wailed. ‘That’s what. Not a card—not even one half-dead poxy red rose.’

  ‘Oh dear. Are you quite sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does it really matter?’

  ‘Well, it’s not a good sign,’ she sobbed. ‘Whereas Andrew—uh-uh—sent Bella a huge bunch of flowers.’

  ‘When are you seeing Henry again?’

  ‘Next week. We’re—uh-uh—going to a military tattoo.’

  ‘But he wouldn’t keep asking you out if he wasn’t interested, would he Bea?’

  There was a momentary silence, then a wet sniff. ‘I asked him,’ she croaked.

  ‘Oh. Well he wouldn’t go if he wasn’t bothered about you. He’d make some excuse.’ I heard her blow her nose.

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘I’m sure he likes you, otherwise he’d avoid you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I think he would.’

  ‘Oh, Rose,’ she said, audibly brightening, ‘you’re such a brilliant agony aunt. I feel so much better now. I was so mis because Andrew and Bella have gone off for a smoochy dinner somewhere and I haven’t even got a date. But you’ve really cheered me up. I’m not going to mope,’ she went on bravely. ‘I’m going to spend the evening reading Jane’s Defence Weekly, there’s this brilliant article on tube-launched tactical Tomahawk Cruise missiles. Then when I see Henry next time we’ll have heaps to talk about, won’t we?’

  ‘Of course you will,’ I agreed. I glanced at the clock. ‘Ooh, can’t chat; I’ve got my phone-in—the cab will be here in a sec.’ As I stood up, I realised I ought to tidy the cushions and sort out the old newspapers but I simply couldn’t be fagged; plus there was a layer of dust on the mantelpiece and the windows were filthy…I groaned. I heard the taxi pull up, so I ran out and climbed into the back; as I did so my handbag rang.

  ‘Rose!’ It was Henry.

  ‘That’s funny,’ I said as I shut the door. ‘I’ve just been talking to Bea.’

  ‘Really?’ he said suspiciously. ‘About what?’

  ‘About the…shop. It was really nice of you to help them find premises. Are you going to the opening party?’

  ‘I don’t know. Actually, Rose, there was something I wanted to ask you…that’s why I’m calling. I’ve been meaning to talk to you for some time.’ I leaned forward and shut the glass partition which separated me from the driver.

  ‘Okay, I’m all ears.’

  ‘It’s about Bea,’ he began slightly wearily as we chugged up Kennington Road. ‘I mean, she’s a super girl…’

  ‘Yes she is’ I said as I glanced out of the window onto the rain-swept streets.

  ‘But…I don’t, you know, feel it’s quite…right.’ My heart sank: Bea would be broken-hearted. I felt a stab of vicarious pain. ‘I do like her and everything,’ he went on, ‘but, well, the fact is…’ his voice trailed away.

  ‘Don’t you find her attractive?’I asked as we sped past the Oval.

  ‘Yes, but that’s not what it’s about. It’s just that I can’t see it going anywhere because well, you see, the point is…’

  ‘Look, you don’t have to explain,’ I interrupted. ‘I know why it’s tricky with Bea.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I simply can’t help the way I feel,’ he said as we drove round the Elephant and Castle.

  ‘And I don’t think Bea will react well,’ I pointed out.

  ‘You’re dead right,’ he sighed. ‘She won’t.’

  ‘I mean, cross-dressing is just not her thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your cross-dressing,’ I repeated as we drove through Southwark. ‘She won’t like it. She’s much too strait-laced.’

  ‘Oh. Hmm,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So maybe it’s best to be honest. I mean, it’s entirely up to you whether you tell her about…Henrietta,’ I said delicately, ‘but if you’re not interested in her, you really shouldn’t drag things out. Ooh, sorry!’ I giggled. ‘But you know what I mean.’ There was a moment’s silence during which I was aware only of the swish of the tyres on the road.

  ‘You’re right, Rose,’ Henry sighed as we crossed Blackfriars Bridge. ‘The last thing I want to do is mess her about. Especially with this big party they’re having. She keeps telling me how much she’s looking forward to all her friends meeting me, but I don’t feel comfortable with that. And she sent me this Valentine card.’

  ‘Did she?’ I asked disingenuously.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I recognised her handwriting on the envelope. But I didn’t send her one.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘You’re right, Rose,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to grasp the nettle. I’ll do it before I go back to the Gulf in March. How’s your flat-mate?’ he asked suddenly, as we turned into City Road.

  ‘Theo? Oh he’s fine. He and Beverley are terribly secretive but it’s Valentine’s cards and sweet nothings all round. Ooh I’ve arrived. Sorry, I can’t chat any more, I’m on air in ten minutes. But do be honest with Bea, Henry, and that way you’ll hurt her less.’

  ‘Yes. Yes…’ he said distractedly. ‘You’re right.’

  As I climbed out of the cab I suddenly remembered Bea’s confident prediction that Bella was ‘heading for a fall’. Rather ironic in the circumstances, and Theo had got things wrong too. In his diary he’d written that Henry was ‘very keen on Bea’. No stars for observation there. But then they clearly haven’t quite got that knack I have of being able to read between the lines.

  For some reason—the knock-on effect of the burglary, perhaps, or, more likely, too much hospitality plonk—I found I wasn’t really in the mood for my phone-in. I was in a funny, flippant frame of mind.

  ‘Welcome to London FM if you’ve just tuned in,’ said a very pregnant Minty, ‘and a Happy Valentine’s Day to you all. You’re listening to our regular phone-in, Sound Advice, with Rose Costelloe of the Daily Post. And now it’s Tanya from Tooting on line one.’

  ‘Hello, Rose!’

  ‘Hi, Tanya, how can I help?’

  ‘Well I’ve got a tricky problem in that I’d like to dump my boyfriend but the problem is he hasn’t called me recently.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, this is a tricky one, Tanya,’ I replied, with another sip of Frascati. ‘I find it’s always best to have a man’s undivided attention when attempting to give him the boot.’

  ‘Should I phone him and tell him it’s over then?’

  ‘No. That’s much too crude. What I’d do is get him to come round to your place on some pretext—to help get your car started, say, or to clear the drains. Then, when he’s done that, thank him effusively and tell him what a wonderful guy he is. Then “break it to him” as gently as you can that you’re afraid you won’t be seeing him any more. This will simultaneously con
fuse and annoy the hell out of him, leaving you feeling great. And now I see we have Janice from Hampstead on line two.’

  ‘My problem is my best friend’s husband,’ she said. ‘He’s such a bore.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He insists on sprinkling his conversation with foreign words to show how clever he is. He talks about how he’s an “aficionado” of Mexican cinema for example—I mean an “afithionado”’ she corrected herself. ‘He goes on about how “langlauf ” is his favourite sport; and how he prefers his salad “au naturel”; he lets drop that Oxford was his “alma mater” and that he’s into “gestalt” psychology. It’s pathetic,’ she concluded vehemently.

  ‘It is: it’s also “bourgeois” and “arriviste”. Next time he does it, politely point out to him that English is the international language, “par excellence”—on the other hand, Janice, “chacun à son goût”.’

  ‘And now,’ said Minty, ‘we have Alan from Acton, whose problem is that his wife is a heavy smoker.’

  ‘Really? How much does she weigh?’

  ‘She’s on forty a day,’ he explained. ‘It’s absolutely disgusting, but she won’t give it up. I keep telling her about the health risks but she just ignores me, what can I do?’

  ‘Well, don’t bawl her out about carcinogens—that’s clearly never going to work—I suggest that you lie instead. Simply tell her that new research shows that smoking gives women fat ankles: I guarantee she’ll stop like a shot.’

  It was ten to twelve and I was terribly tired by now: I had another swig of white wine.

  ‘And now,’ said Minty, ‘we have Martine on line four. What would you like to ask Rose.’

  ‘Oh I don’t want to ask her anything,’ she said. ‘I just want to thank her, for giving me some great advice.’

  ‘Remind us of the story will you?’ said Minty. But I’d already remembered. I don’t forget these ones.

  ‘Well, I was distraught because I can’t have kids,’ Martine began, ‘so I wanted to adopt. But my husband wouldn’t agree to it because he was adopted, but now, thanks to Rose, he has.’

  ‘Well, that’s just wonderful,’ said Minty warmly.

  ‘You see,’ Martine went on, ‘his problem was that he’d never really faced up to the pain he’d felt all his life at knowing that he’d been given up.’ I fiddled with the stem of my wine glass. ‘Psychologists call it the “Primal Wound” don’t they, when a baby is taken away from its mother. But, on Rose’s advice, my husband had counselling from someone at NORCAP about it, and it just seemed to—set him free. It was as though he’d been liberated,’ she went on, her voice quivering, ‘and this enabled him to search for his mum.’ I raised the glass and had another large sip of wine: this was more than I wanted to know. ‘And the amazing thing is that he actually found her—just ten days ago.’ Oh God. ‘He found his mother,’ she repeated, ‘and he phoned her; it was as though a wall in his mind had come down.’ My face was suddenly uncomfortably warm and I felt the familiar ache in my throat. ‘They met last week for the first time in thirty-seven years,’ I heard her say. ‘And now he understands why she did what she did.’ I stared at my pad, and saw, with a kind of detached interest, that my scribbled notes had begun to blur. ‘He’d carried this hatred around in his heart for so long, but now, at last, it’s gone…’ A tear dropped onto the page with a tiny splash and the black felt tip began to bleed. ‘…so I just wanted to say a huge thank you to Rose because now I’m hoping to be a mum.’

  There was a moment’s silence, then I heard Minty say, ‘That’s a lovely story. Isn’t it, Rose?’ She pushed a tissue across the padded table.

  ‘Yes,’ I croaked. ‘It’s great.’

  ‘Well, thanks to everyone who’s called in tonight,’ she added warmly. ‘Do join Rose and me again on Thursday but, until then, goodbye. Are you okay, Rose?’ she added solicitously as the signature tune played us out.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Oh. I’m fine.’

  ‘It was a very moving story,’ she said quietly as we left the studio. ‘I was close to tears myself. It must be great though, knowing how much you can help other people with their problems.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I agreed with a sniff. ‘It is. It’s…wonderful,’ I murmured, my throat aching. I just wished that someone could help me with mine.

  I went slowly down the stairs, Martine’s words still ringing in my ears as I waited for my cab. Never really faced up to it… Primal wound…carried this hatred around. The rain was falling like stair rods as I pushed on the door and stepped outside. Saw his mum for the first time in thirty-seven years…as though a wall in his mind had come down. As we sped south through the City, the buildings spun past the window in a blur of raindrops and strobing lights. I distractedly wiped away the film of condensation with the back of my hand. At last he understands why she did what she did. It’s as though he’s been set free. I stared straight ahead, aware only of the metronomic sweep of the windscreen wipers, and the surprising heat of my tears.

  Chapter 13

  If just one more person thanks me for ‘helping’ them with their lives, I am going to puke! It happened again this morning. There I was, on the number thirty-six, enjoying the crossword, temporarily stuck on thirteen down: ‘Big trouble, sis! Tread with care’—an anagram of ‘sis’ and ‘tread,’ clearly—when Bella phoned oozing gratitude.

  ‘It’s thanks to you that I met Andrew,’ she gushed as we trundled along. ‘Because without you I wouldn’t have gone to that ball.’

  ‘In that case you should thank Beverley,’ I pointed out as we drew up at a bus stop. ‘After all, it was her gig, not mine.’

  ‘Yes, but you invited me, Rose: and little did I realise as I got ready that night, that I was about to meet my Fate! I’m so glad I met him,’ she went on ecstatically as I showed the conductor my travelcard. ‘Did I tell you we’re going skiing the day after tomorrow. Klosters. You know, where Prince Charles goes.’

  ‘You’re going skiing? But what about the shop?’

  ‘Oh we’re only going for a week,’ she said airily.

  ‘But how will Bea manage on her own?’

  ‘She’ll be fine. She does most of the organising as it is, Rose, she likes it that way—you know her. And to be honest I’ve realised that my personal happiness is far more important than my business success.’ As Bella droned on about Andrew and about how ‘gorgeous’ he was I glanced down at the crossword clue again. ‘Sis! Tread,’ anagrammatised. What was it? S, i, s, t, r…

  ‘There was just one other thing I wanted tell you, Rose,’ I heard Bella add.

  ‘Oh, what’s that?’

  ‘Well, you know your assistant, Serena’s husband, works for Andrew.’

  ‘Yes, Rob,’ I said as I glanced out of the window at the clumps of daffodil buds in the park.

  ‘The thing is, well it’s rather unfortunate, but I’m afraid he’s had to be sacked.’ Had to be sacked?

  ‘But they’ve got three young kids,’ I pointed out hotly.

  ‘I know,’ she sighed, ‘it’s very sad. But apparently he was useless at his job. Now the reason I’m telling you is in case Serena mentions it, because if she does, she’ll probably portray Andrew in a negative light, and obviously I wouldn’t like that at all.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Bella,’ I said calmly. ‘Whatever Serena said to me about Andrew couldn’t possibly affect my opinion of him in any way.’

  ‘Oh that’s such a relief,’ she breathed. And I was tempted to tell her just what my opinion of Andrew really was when she added, ‘well must dash. Got to get my skates on—or skis rather!—see you at the party, Rose. Byeeee!’

  I looked at thirteen down again. Sis, tread, anagrammatised. Got it! ‘Disaster’. How apt.

  When I got to work I saw that Serena was on the phone. She was still wearing her coat, which was odd, and she was whispering and looked very distressed. She glanced up, then saw me and slammed the receiver down as though it
were red hot.

  ‘Hi, Serena!’I said with a cheerfulness so bright I risked damaging her retinas. ‘How are you today?’

  ‘Oh I’m fine,’ she replied nervously. ‘I’m fine. Yes, yes, yes…yes. I’m fine. I’m fine, I’m fine,’ she gibbered, unable this morning to summon a single cheery cliché with which to console herself. ‘Of course I am. I’m fine. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Er, because I always do, that’s why.’

  ‘Well I’m absolutely fine,’ she repeated, ‘I’m fine. Absolutely. I’m… Right,’ she said, grabbing the pile of mail, ‘let’s get down to work.’

  She started ripping open the letters, her hands visibly trembling, her eyeballs practically swivelling in her head. Poor Serena: this latest blow about Rob’s job could send her right over the edge. But she clearly didn’t want to confide in me about his dismissal, so I pretended I had no idea. As she date-stamped the letters I sent Ricky another urgent e-mail about her pay rise and got a nasty one straight back. Rose, if you don’t stop banging on about this I will not renew your contract when it comes up in March. For your information the Daily Post is a national newspaper, not a charity for life’s losers. R.

  Serena and I turned to the day’s mail—acne, bedwetting, blushing, male menopause, snoring and thinning hair. There was also another letter from Colin Twisk. I recognised his rather feminine, loopy handwriting and took a deep breath. What would it contain today? Another shower of Confettimail? An invitation to dinner? More absurdly lavish praise?

  Dear Miss Costelloe, I read. I am writing to tell you how disappointed I am in you. Oh…I cannot believe that a woman for whom I have always had the highest regard can behave in such a depraved way. What??? When I saw the new Helplines on your page I was shocked to my core—and revolted. ‘How to Spice Up Your Sex Life? Sexual Fetishes?’ I could not at first believe that you could be responsible for such unadulterated filth. But I have since discovered not only that you had recorded these frankly pornographic pieces, but that you had actually composed them yourself! Notwithstanding the excellent advice you once gave me—which, may I say, has led to my happy association with my new friend, Penelope Boink—I have to inform you that, as from today, I will no longer be reading your page. I am henceforth switching to one of your rivals, June Snort, at the Daily News. I am also discontinuing forthwith what had heretofore and hitherto been a very pleasant epistolary association with you. Yours in disgust. C.Twisk.