Rescuing Rose Page 24

  I read it again in amazement, then looked up at Serena and grinned.

  ‘Hurrah and hallelujah!’ I declared. ‘I’ve just had some very good news.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ she replied bitterly.

  ‘Creepy Colin’s gone off. He’s disgusted with me because of the helplines—that’s made my day. I’ll make them really disgusting now,’ I added, vehemently, ‘just to make sure he never bothers me again. What could I do, Serena? Three-in-a-Bed-Sex, no, Six-in-a-Bed Sex; no Sixteen-in-a-Bed-Sex; Sex Toys; Sex Games; Same Sex Sex; Orgiastic Sex; Sexual Perversion; Spanking; How to Swing. What do you think, Serena?’

  ‘Well the new ones are certainly popular,’ she pointed out, slightly calmer now. ‘Accounts say we’ve had thousands of calls.’

  In which case Ricky can definitely up her pay a bit I reflected crossly. I’d go and see him again tomorrow and I would not take no for an answer—in fact I’d bawl him out. I calmed myself again with the happy thought of Colin taking himself off. No more creepy, kiss-covered letters, I reflected ecstatically. No more silent calls. No more worrying that he’d turn up at the house. No more Confettimail. I reread his letter. Forthwith…heretofore…hitherto… What a pompous little git. Right! I fired off a short sharp letter of my own, telling him how delighted I was at the prospect of never hearing from him again either by letter—or by telephone at home, I added meaningfully; then I flung it in the post tray as joyfully as I would skim a large, flat stone. Cheered, uplifted and invigorated I phoned my solicitor, Frances, to find out about the status of my divorce.

  ‘We haven’t had the Acknowledgement of Service back yet,’ she explained.

  ‘Well how long does it take?’

  ‘It has to be returned within eight working days. Apparently there was a two day post strike in Putney last week which means he won’t have got it until the eighteenth. So, taking account of fact that today’s Wednesday, we should have it by the twenty-seventh.’

  ‘Well if he doesn’t send it, presumably you’ll chase up his solicitor.’

  ‘He doesn’t have one—he’s doing it himself.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well because it’s all pretty straightforward and presumably he wants to save himself a few grand.’

  At lunchtime I didn’t go down to the canteen as I often do, but had a sandwich at my desk. Serena went out, which is unusual for her, but I imagined that with all her current stress she needed some air. And I was just chomping on my bacon and avocado ciabatta when Bea rang me on my mobile, in floods.

  ‘What’s the matter? Is it Henry?’ I whispered.

  ‘Oh no. It’s this bloody skiing holiday. I’m absolutely frantic: is Bella being selfish or what!’

  ‘She doesn’t mean to be,’ I said—I never take sides with the twins—‘it’s just that she’s not thinking straight. Her judgement’s temporarily shot to pieces.’

  ‘You’re telling me. How the hell am I going to manage on my own?’ Bea wailed. ‘It’s the launch party next week. I interviewed a temp this morning but she was an absolute moron. I need someone intelligent.’

  ‘I’d help you myself, Bea, if I wasn’t so busy here, but I could give you a hand tonight.’

  ‘Thanks, but it’s during the day that I need it. I don’t know which way to turn,’ she went on desperately. ‘I didn’t even have time to see Henry—he phoned up and suggested lunch. I was thrilled of course, but I’m just too busy, so we’ve postponed it for a few days. The painters are still here and I’ve got to make several trips to the cash and carry to get the booze for the party, plus I’ve got client meetings to attend. I need someone bright and responsible who’ll supervise the workmen for the next couple of days while I’m out and answer the phone. But who could I ask? I don’t know anyone.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ I said. Hang on! I’d love to go out to work. I get so lonely. ‘Oh yes I do—Bev!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Beverley would do it. She’s at home all day and she was saying only last week that it drives her round the bend. And she hasn’t got much teaching work at the moment. Why don’t you ask her to help?’

  ‘Do you think she would?’

  ‘Let me try her—I’ll ring you straight back.’ I got through to Bev in a flash—we have each other’s numbers on speed-dial—and explained. To my surprise she didn’t agree immediately, but seemed to hesitate: I could hear the air being drawn through her teeth.

  ‘I’d like to help, Rose, not least as a favour to you, but to be honest, I’m not quite sure.’

  ‘But I thought you’d like to get out of the house.’

  ‘Yes, yes I would. But it’s not that, it’s just…’ I suddenly realised what it was. How slow of me. Beverley didn’t like Bea.

  ‘I know Bea can be a bit over-bearing,’ I anticipated, ‘but she’s really very kind and nice.’

  ‘Hhhm.’

  ‘She’ll pay you of course.’

  ‘Oh that’s not the point, Rose.’

  ‘And she’s desperate for help.’

  ‘I know…’

  ‘And just between you and me, Bev, she’s got boyfriend problems at the moment.’

  Now, this was very indiscreet of me I know: but I didn’t go into details, my aim being simply to elicit sympathy for Bea so that Bev would agree to help out.

  ‘She’s got boyfriend problems?’ Beverley echoed. ‘Oh, poor girl.’

  ‘Plus Bella’s just bogged off to Klosters,’ I added, ‘so it’s all been getting too much. She only needs you for a couple of days to mind things. Would you do it?’

  ‘Well, okay then. But where do I go?’

  ‘The shop’s in St Alban’s Grove just behind Kensington High Street. Bea will send a taxi to pick you up.’

  ‘Fixed!’ I said to Bea two minutes later. ‘Send a cab to three Hope Street at a quarter to nine tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Oh thanks, Rose,’ she sighed, ‘you’re a brick.’

  I went home that night feeling vaguely triumphant, and with a renewed sense of calm. I’d inadvertently banished Creepy Colin and I’d helped Bea out of a difficult spot. Beverley would enjoy getting out of the house, and I was on top of my mail-bag too. Added to which my divorce proceedings had finally started which meant that I could move forward to the next phase of my life. At last I felt I was getting over Ed. I’d taken my own advice, and I’d stuck to it. I was moving on. I felt strong. The only cloud on the horizon was Serena. She’d looked so sad as she said goodbye to me at six, the poor woman was clearly under terrible stress. As I got home I resolved to tackle Ricky again about some special long-service payment which might tide her over for a few weeks.

  As I opened the front door I was hit by the sweet, yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread. On the kitchen table were three brown loaves, still warm to the touch, and a scrawly note from Theo: Bea and I…no—Bev and I—are in the Bunch of Grapes. Join us! But I was tired, plus I didn’t want to get in their way. Theo and Bev are obviously really hitting it off. Why else would they spend so much time together? So I went to bed with the new P.D. James and didn’t see Theo until the next morning.

  ‘You look smart,’ I said as I ran water into the kettle. In fact he looked quite gorgeous.

  ‘Thanks. I’ve got a meeting this morning with my publishers and this is my only suit. Aren’t you going to eat anything?’ he asked suddenly as I sat down with my cup of black tea.

  ‘No, I can never be bothered. I’ll have a bagel when I get to work.’

  ‘Well you should bother, Rose,’ he said with typical forthrightness. ‘Here—’ he commanded. ‘Have this.’ He popped up the piece of brown bread he’d been toasting, buttered it thickly, slapped on some marmalade then handed it to me.

  ‘Thanks. Ooh, how delicious,’ I breathed as I chewed on the nutty, deliciously squidgy brown bread.

  ‘Why didn’t you come to the pub?’ he asked suddenly, almost accusingly.

  ‘Oh, well, I’d been working late…’

  ‘Surprise surprise.’


  ‘And…I didn’t want to play gooseberry with you and Bev.’ He smiled his lopsided little smile.

  ‘Oh it’s not like that, Rose,’ he said blushing. ‘We’re just friends, Bev and me.’ Oh yeah.

  ‘Is she happy about going to the shop?’ I asked. He nodded. ‘Good, because she wasn’t quite sure at first. But I know the reason why,’ I confided.

  ‘Do you?’ He looked surprised. ‘I didn’t think she’d told you. She’s only recently told me.’

  ‘No she hasn’t, not in so many words. But, reading between the lines, I agree that Bea’s not everyone’s cup of tea.’

  ‘Oh. Hmm.’

  ‘But I’m sure they’ll get on fine.’

  Theo looked at me through slightly narrowed eyes, and nodded slowly, then we heard the diesel chug of a cab.

  ‘That’ll be her taxi,’ he said putting down his mug. ‘I’ll go and give her a hand.’

  As I left the house five minutes later, I saw Theo helping Beverley into the cab then he handed her Trevor’s lead. Beverley looked very smart, though a little apprehensive, but I was sure she’d be fine. And in any case she wouldn’t see that much of Bea as she’s out on site half the day.

  ‘I’ll ring you at lunchtime!’ I called as I waved at her. ‘Have fun!’ She pulled a wry face. And I’d just shut the gate and was on my way down the street when I heard Theo call out.

  ‘Rose! Your phone’s ringing. I can hear it.’ Blast.

  ‘They can call me at work!’ I yelled. I didn’t want to turn back: I wanted to go forward. I was in a positive frame of mind. The recent storms had swept away leaving the sky a pure, squeaky-clean blue. The gardens blazed with golden forsythia and the sticky buds were showing slivers of green. For the first time since I’d moved to Camberwell I felt positive and upbeat. Thanks to Theo’s rent I’d been able to keep within my overdraft limit, and my job was going well. I’d made some good friends in the area and I’d coped with the stress of my breakup with Ed. There were, however, still one or two flies in my ointment. My fortieth birthday for starters—the very thought made my heart thud. Plus I was still upset about Rudy; and then there was that other issue of mine…I caught my reflection in the Spar window, with my ‘beanpole’ figure and my ‘mad’ hair. Yes, there’s still that other issue of mine.

  ‘But things could be a lot worse,’ I muttered to myself as I stopped at the newsagent’s. And I was just bending down to pick up a Times to do the crossword when suddenly a tabloid headline hit me in the eye.

  ‘ELECTRA SHOCK!’ it screamed on the front of the Daily News. ‘STAR BETRAYED BY AGONY AUNT OVER LESBIAN AFFAIR! Exclusive! See pages 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 12, 19, 28 and 43’ it announced beneath.

  As my hand reached for a copy I felt simultaneously red hot and ice cold.

  Electra…marriage in crisis…attractive backing singer, Kiki Cockayne…husband Jez seen leaving Cotswold mansion…tearful star blames the Daily Post’s agony aunt…‘I trusted Rose Costelloe…felt vulnerable…but she cynically betrayed me.’ And there, taking up the top half of page 2 was a facsimile of Electra’s letter to me. But how? Suddenly my mobile phone started to buzz—it was lucky I noticed; I must have pressed the ‘vibrate’ button by mistake. I fumbled in my bag, noticing as I answered it that I’d had six missed calls overnight.

  ‘ROSE!!!’

  ‘Yes?’ Oh shit. It was Ricky.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you since two o’clock this morning!’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You will be sorry.Very sorry. I want you in my office. NOW!’

  ‘HOW?’ he demanded half an hour later.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied. I glanced at the framed headline on the wall, ‘SHIT HITS FAN’. Too right. ‘I simply can’t explain how it happened,’I said impotently. ‘It’s a dreadful breach of trust.’

  ‘You’re telling me,’ said Ricky. ‘It’s a dreadful breach of trust between you and the Daily Post!’ His face was puce and droplets of sweat pearled his gleaming brow. ‘How come the opposition have got this fucking great scoop and not us!’ he demanded as he jabbed his finger at the Daily News. ‘You get a letter from Electra about how she’s got the hots for a woman and you don’t bring it to me?’

  ‘No,’ I replied firmly.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It was a matter of conscience.’

  ‘A matter of conscience?’ He looked at me as though I were sick. His mouth opened and closed twice with cod-like non-comprehension. ‘Who do you think you are—a priest?’ He’d been shouting at me so much that the room was filled with the sour stench of his sweat.

  ‘I just don’t know how it happened,’ I said again miserably.

  ‘Well I think we’ve got a little mole, haven’t we, Rose? Or maybe it’s you!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Maybe you sold the letter to the Daily News.’

  ‘Why the hell would I do that?’

  ‘Because it must have been worth at least eighty grand to whoever did do it, because that’s precisely what I would have paid. Got money problems have you, Rose?’

  ‘Nothing that would ever make me stoop to something so low. In any case why would I want to jeopardise my career? I love my job, and I’m good at it, Ricky—that suggestion is completely absurd.’

  ‘No, I’ll tell you what’s absurd,’ he said. ‘The idea that you’re going to stay in your job after this. I’ve spoken to personnel: your contract’s up in ten days and you can kiss any chance of a new one goodbye.’

  I was in a state close to catatonia as I returned to my desk. My face was all over a national tabloid and I was going to lose my job. My legs were weak and my cheeks felt hot and my breath came in ragged gasps. How the hell did it happen I wondered for the thousandth time. I’d guarded that letter like Cerberus guarding Hades: I’d taken such care. But someone had got hold of it, and copied it, and sold it. I think we’ve got a little mole… But who?

  As I walked through the newsroom, aware of eyeballs swivelling discreetly in my direction, I mentally re-enacted what I’d done that day. The letter had been in my sole possession, and had been shredded personally by me. No-one else had seen it: it had been with me all the time. Except…I remembered I’d gone down to the canteen for half an hour, but I’d locked the letter away in my drawer. No-one else has the keys to my desk, and my own ones were in my bag. But in any case, how could anyone have guessed at the importance of that one letter when I get so many every week? Whoever it was must have had some reason for suspecting that there was something of special interest inside…

  Linda smiled at me sympathetically as I passed by her desk—maybe it was her. Psychic Cynthia sent me a compassionate look—maybe she’d intuited what Electra had written. Or maybe that whey-faced post-boy who’d handed it to me had x-ray eyes.

  Now I thought about Electra, who’d been publicly humiliated and betrayed. The whole world would now know about her silly infatuation, poor woman: I heaved a painful sigh. As I sat down at my pod I looked at the Daily News again. Rose Costelloe…gross incompetence…agony aunts in a position of trust… Then there was a pious quote from June Snort, saying that she would never do that. My readers know that they can write to me in total confidence, she wrote priggishly—ha! At the agony aunts’ lunch she’d been trying to convince us that she’d had a letter from Kylie Minogue!

  The Daily News, delighted to have such a large stick with which to beat the Daily Post, claimed, vaguely, that Electra’s letter had ‘fallen into their hands’. There was no suggestion that I’d leaked it to them, but my reputation was in shreds. ‘How could Ms Costelloe have let this highly sensitive letter, with its heart-rending sentiments, out of her grasp?’ it enquired pompously. The accusation of professional misconduct was seared on my brain like a flaming brand. There was a photo of me, of course, and a potted biography in which the journalist questioned how a woman whose marriage had lasted ‘a mere seven months’ could possibly advise others on their matrimonial affairs. The rest
of the coverage was devoted to the story itself. There was a grainy shot of the backing singer at her window, and several photos of Electra on her last tour. There was a photo of her actor husband, Jez, looking grim as he left their huge house with an overnight bag. There was a piece by the paper’s showbiz editor, Bazza Bomberger, evaluating Electra’s career. And there was the expected expatiation upon other lesbian celebrities—notably Sophie Ward and Anne Heche.

  I glanced at the clock, it was ten to ten. My mail was sitting in a huge pile in my in-tray: for a fraction of a second I was tempted to walk out of the office, there and then. If I was being sacked in ten days then what the hell—why not go now? The high drama of it momentarily appealed to me but then reason prevailed. It would be totally unfair on Serena, who already had quite enough on her plate. It would also be quite wrong of me to flounce out when I still had work to do. Just because I had problems didn’t mean I could neglect those of everyone else. When you’re an agony aunt you have a huge responsibility to your readers, and I wasn’t about to shirk mine. I ripped open the first envelope which was an internal one. Inside it was a letter, marked Personal addressed to me in a hand I thought I recognised.

  Dear Rose, I read. I’m writing this to you because I owe it to you and because I’m sorry. I know you don’t deserve this, but things have been so hard for me lately: and when I saw Ricky’s e-mail to you yesterday morning, I’m afraid it was just the last straw. I’d already had a tip-off about Electra’s letter, and when I saw that e-mail I decided to act. But I sincerely hope that you suffer no bad consequences yourself and that you’ll be able to forgive me one day.