Rescuing Rose Page 6

  ‘Too right.’

  ‘We’re not one person in two bodies,’ Bella pointed out vehemently, ‘but men treat us as if we were. And the stupid questions we get! I’m sick of men asking us whether we’re telepathic, or feel each other’s pain or if we ever swapped places at school.’

  ‘Or if we’d ever sleep with the same man!’ Bea snorted, rolling her eyes. ‘You can see what’s going through their pathetic little minds when they ask us that!’

  ‘Or they meanly flirt with both of us,’ said Bella crossly, ‘to try and cause a rift.’

  And there’s the rub.

  The twins may complain about their single status but I have long since known the truth; that although they both say they want a serious relationship, the reality is that they don’t; because they’re very comfortable and compatible and companionable as they are, and they know that a man would break that up…

  ‘Rudolph Valentino is speaking,’ I said, changing the subject. I took the cover off.

  ‘Don’t talk to me like that Ed!’ screeched Rudy. ‘Boo hoo hoo. Rose, let’s face it—you’re a mess! No, I have NOT done the washing up!’

  ‘God!’ Bea shuddered. ‘How ghastly. It’s probably been triggered by the stress of moving house.’

  ‘Rose you are WEIRD!’ Rudy screeched. ‘You need a SHRINK! No—you need an agony aunt!’

  ‘Now you know what it was like living with Ed!’ I said grimly as I gave Rudy a grape.

  ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘Imagine having to listen to all those vile and untrue things!’

  ‘You’ve got problems, Rose!’ Rudy squawked. ‘And will you stop stop STOP tidying up!’

  ‘Ridiculous!’ I said, as I reached for my Marigolds and began cleaning out his cage.

  ‘Er…you’d better not let prospective men hear him,’ said Bea carefully, as I disposed of the newspaper.

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘It might, you know, put them off.’

  Over supper—I’d bought a quiche and a bag of salad—the conversation turned to cash. The twins want to find a shop.

  ‘We need premises,’ said Bea. ‘They don’t have to be big, but that way we’ll get passing trade. We’re on the look-out in Kensington but it’s bloody expensive and we don’t have much cash.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ I said vehemently. ‘I’ve hugely over-extended myself. I got my first mortgage statement this morning—it’s going to be nine hundred quid a month.’

  ‘Christ, that’s a lot of money for one person,’ said Bella.

  ‘Yes.’ I felt sick. ‘I know.’

  ‘But you must have known that when you bought it?’ she added.

  ‘I was too distressed to give it much thought.’

  ‘Have you got the money?’ asked Bea.

  ‘Just about. It’ll be fine if I never eat anything, never buy anything, never have a holiday and never, ever go out. Nine hundred pounds,’ I groaned. ‘I’ll be totally broke. I could try and get another column,’ I mused.

  ‘No,’ said Bea firmly. ‘You work hard enough as it is.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to raid a bank. Or win the lottery; or get lucky with a premium bond.’

  ‘Or get a flatmate,’ suggested Bella. I looked at her. ‘Get a flat-mate and you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Yes, get a flatmate,’ said Bea. How weird—they were agreeing! ‘A flatmate would really help.’

  ‘But I couldn’t bear living with anyone else after Ed.’

  ‘You couldn’t bear living with Ed,’ Bea pointed out. ‘So how could a flatmate be worse?’

  ‘Rose,’ said Bella. ‘Get a lodger—you’ve got that big spare room on the top floor. You could find some nice girl.’

  ‘But I’m too old for flatsharing,’ I wailed. ‘Having to write “Rose Costelloe” on all my eggs, drawing up a rota for the washing up, bitching about who’s turn it is to hoover…’

  ‘You love hoovering!’

  ‘…and arguing about the phone! I’m just not prepared to live the student life again,’ I shuddered.

  ‘But, Rose,’ said Bea slowly, ‘you never did.’ This was true. I was set to read Art History at Sussex, but flunked my ‘A’ levels: as I say, I had a shock at eighteen.

  ‘We think you should get a flatmate,’ the twins repeated, in unison.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ I replied.

  The following morning I received this.

  Dear Rose, I have a problem which is bothering me and I’m wondering if you can help. One of my most valued customers has greatly exceeded her overdraft. The debt is currently £3, 913.28 against agreed borrowing of £2,000. I don’t want to be too heavy about it because I know that she’s just moved house. But at the same time I feel that she ought to try and sort out her finances a bit. As you can imagine, I’m much too embarrassed to mention this to her myself so was wondering if you could help. Do you have any suggestions as to how this important client of mine might reduce her debt? Thank you so much for your advice in this delicate matter, Rose, and I look forward to your reply. Yours truly, Alan Drew (Branch Manager), Nat West Bank, Ashford. P.S. Please do not print.

  Holy shit! Nearly four grand! That did it. The twins were right.

  Dear Mr Drew, I wrote. Thank you for your recent letter and I’m so sorry to hear that you’ve been having this problem with such a valued customer. How thoughtless of her to let things get out of hand like that! As it happens I do have an idea which I’ll discuss with her, and I’m confident that her debt will soon be reduced.

  I sealed it, stamped it and posted it, then phoned the Camberwell Times.

  When I opened the paper on Saturday morning and turned to the House and Flatshare column I found that my ad had been condensed, like a Cortina in a car-crusher, into the impenetrable hieroglyphics of the classifieds.

  SE5. Lge O/R in lux hse nr trans/shps/pk.

  Suit prof sgle n/s M/F. £350 p.c.m. inc.

  Refs. Tel: 05949 320781

  I wasn’t at all sure that the ‘hse’ could honestly be described as ‘lux’. ‘Lux’ suggests marble floors and a gold-tapped jacuzzi, but the woman at the paper said I’d get a better response. And I was just reading the ad again, and wondering what kind of replies I’d get when I heard the clatter of the letter box. On the mat was a small parcel, addressed to Ms B.McDonald, so I went next door to drop it in. The McDonalds’ letter box however seemed to be slightly narrower than mine and I couldn’t get the thing to go through. I didn’t want to push too hard in case I damaged it, so I smoothed down my hair, then pressed the bell.

  Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw the curtain twitch, then suddenly the door opened. Standing there was a large yellow Labrador with paws like tea plates and a suspicious expression on its face. I shuddered slightly as I don’t really like dogs; and I was bracing myself for the thing to launch itself at me, barking and slobbering like Cerberus, when something quite different happened. It trotted up to me, took the parcel out of my hand, then went back inside, carefully shutting the door.

  Feeling first and foremost surprised, but also somehow vaguely rebuffed, I turned to leave. But as I put my hand on the gate I heard rapid tapping on the window pane, then the front door opened again. There was Gnasher once more, and behind him, in a wheelchair, a very pretty dark-haired woman of about thirty-five.

  ‘Hello, I’m Beverley,’ she smiled. ‘You’re our new neighbour aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I am. Thanks for the card by the way. I’m Rose.’

  ‘And this is Trevor,’ she said, indicating the dog. ‘Say hello to Rose, Trev.’

  ‘Woof!’

  ‘This is Trevor McDonald?’ I said, wonderingly. ‘Oh.’ Trevor wagged his tail. ‘I was just dropping in your packet,’ I explained. ‘It was delivered to me by mistake.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you come in? I promise we won’t bite—or at least Trevor won’t!’

  And before I could manufacture an excuse because I was sure she was just being polite, Trevor had nipped behind me, ushered me inside, and the
n jumped up to shut the front door. I followed Beverley as she wheeled herself down the carpeted hallway into the kitchen which, like mine, is large, with pale wooden units and a dining area covered by a glass conservatory roof. Beverley filled the kettle then asked me how I was settling in, and told me that she’d been ‘living in Hope’, as she put it, for three and a half years.

  ‘Do you live here on your own?’ I asked as she spun back and forth executing nifty three-point turns. I noticed that she was wearing cycling gloves and wondered why.

  ‘No, I live here with Trev. He’s my partner. Aren’t you darling?’ He reached up and licked her ear. ‘Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Er, coffee please.’

  ‘Get it will you, Trev?’ Trevor opened a lower cupboard by tugging on a cord attached to the handle, then, tail wagging, he pulled out a small jar of Nescafé, passed it to Beverley, then shut the door.

  ‘Do you know this area?’ she enquired as I stared at the dog who was staring, enraptured, at her.

  ‘Er, no, no I don’t actually,’ I replied absently. ‘I lived in Putney before.’

  ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘Blenheim Road.’

  ‘Ooh, that’s posh. Big, smart houses.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said ruefully. ‘They are.’

  ‘So what brought you to Camberwell?’

  ‘My…circumstances changed.’

  ‘You mean you’ve split up with someone?’

  ‘Ye-es…’

  ‘So what happened?’ What happened? The cheek!

  ‘Well, I…’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, laughing, ‘don’t tell me. I’m a Nosy Parker—it’s boredom you see.’

  ‘I don’t mind telling you,’ I suddenly said, disarmed by her candour. ‘My husband had an affair.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Yes. Oh dear. Exactly. So I’m separated, pending divorce.’

  ‘How long were you married?’

  How short, rather. ‘Erm…a bit less than a year.’

  ‘I see… So do you know anything about Camberwell?’ she asked, sensing my discomfiture.

  ‘Not much. I just liked the house.’

  ‘In that case I’ll give you the gen. Camberwell was so-called because it had lots of wells in the area, one of which was visited by the sick and crippled for a cure. Not that it’s done me much good!’ she exclaimed with a tinkling laugh. ‘In the eighteenth century it was just meadows and streams and it gave the Camberwell Beauty butterfly its name and it also inspired Mendelssohn’s “Spring Song”. But in the nineteenth century it became more and more built up and it’s been pretty much downhill since then. But it’s still got lots going for it. We certainly like it, don’t we, Trev? Milk? The up side,’ she added as Trevor passed her the carton, ‘is the lovely Georgian architecture and the parks. The downside is the lack of decent shops, the wail of police sirens and the incessant screaming of car alarms.’

  I found it hard to concentrate on what Beverley was telling me as I was still mesmerised by the dog. The washing machine, which had been spinning away, had now stopped. Trevor pushed on the catch with his nose, opened the door, and was now pulling out the damp clothes with his teeth.

  ‘Thanks, Trev,’ said Beverley as he dropped a white bra into a red plastic basket. ‘We’ll hang them up in a bit. If you want the gossip on Hope Street I know it all,’ she added with a laugh.

  ‘Oh no, not really,’ I lied.

  ‘Of course you do. You’re an agony aunt aren’t you? I recognised you. I read your column sometimes. Right, number four opposite—that’s Keith. He’s in computers and calls himself “Kay” at weekends. Number six is that reporter, whatsisname, from Newsnight and he’s getting divorced; number nine is a chartered accountant and his wife ran off with a priest. Number seventeen is a chiropodist and once did Fergie’s feet. Then number twelve—Joanna and Jane—they’re employment solicitors and they’re both gay.’

  ‘Right. Well, thanks,’ I said vaguely as I was still transfixed by the dog. ‘Trevor’s…clever isn’t he?’ I added feebly as he thrust his head into the washing machine again and emerged with a pink pillow case.

  ‘Trev’s a genius,’ she agreed. ‘But then he’s had special training. And in case you’re wondering, which I’m sure you are, I did a parachute jump and it went wrong.’

  ‘Oh, I…wasn’t,’ I lied as I took a proffered digestive.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind. It’s perfectly natural so I make a point of telling everyone, then that gets it out of the way. It happened two and a half years ago.’

  ‘I’m…sorry,’ I said feebly. Poor kid.

  ‘It was no-one’s fault—just one of those things: I took a risk, that’s all—I did a jump for charity and my chute opened late—I hit the ground with a bit of a crunch. The hilarious thing though,’ she added with a good-natured chuckle, ‘is that it was in aid of a new spinal injuries unit!’

  ‘Really?’ I said feebly. I mean—Christ!—did she expect me to laugh?

  ‘Ironic or what!’ she went on gaily. ‘Mind you I raised a lot. I presented them with the cheque from my hospital bed. I had ten months in Stoke Mandeville,’ she added, ‘then I had to get on with the rest of my life. I’m okay now about it—I really am—I’m okay—because I know it could have been far worse. For a start I’m alive and not dead; I’m para, not tetraplegic; I’m not catheterised any more, plus I can live independently, and I’ve been told I’ll still be able to have kids.’

  ‘Do you have a partner?’

  ‘No. After my accident he lasted nine months. I always knew that he’d leave,’ she went on cheerfully. ‘The minute I came round from theatre, I thought, that’s it: Jeff’ll be off—and he was. I do think it was mean of him to go off with my favourite nurse—but, hey—that’s life!’

  My God—all these confessions! They popped up like ping pong balls in a bingo hall. It was like being on Ricki Lake.

  ‘Well, I’m…sorry,’ I said again, impotently.

  ‘But I decided to stay put. I loved this house, and being early Victorian it actually suits me quite well. No steps up to the front door and there’s no basement. I’ve got a downstairs loo. And the stair-lift gets me up to my bedroom—I’ve got another wheelchair up there. The house has been modified a bit. My kitchen worktops are slightly lower for example; but I haven’t had the internal doors widened—hence the gloves—because I don’t want to live in a “disabled” house. But I have a roll-in shower, and I had the patio doors changed to a slide system to make it easier to get outside.’

  ‘You’re amazing,’ I said, awestruck by her courage. ‘But I expect people often say that.’

  ‘I’m just resigned that’s all. I was bitter about it, but then six months ago I got Trevor from Helping Paw. He was a throw-out,’ she added. ‘He was found on a motorway at three months.’

  ‘Oh. Poor baby,’ I said. ‘Poor little baby,’ I repeated softly, although, as I say, I don’t really like dogs.

  ‘He used to be a Guide Dog,’ Beverley explained, ‘but it didn’t work out.’

  ‘In what way?’

  She glanced at Trevor, then lowered her voice.

  ‘He was hopeless at crossing the road. In fact, well, put it this way,’ she added darkly as Trev stared at the floor, ‘he’d had three previous owners before me. But being an assistance dog suits him much better—doesn’t it, Trevor?’

  ‘Woof!’

  And now I watched him gazing at Beverley, as he waited for his next command. It was as though she were a film star, and he her number one fan.

  ‘What devotion,’ I said. ‘He really loves you.’

  ‘Not half as much as I love him.’ Suddenly the telephone rang. Trevor trotted into the hall, returned with the cordless handset in his mouth, and passed it to Beverley. She spoke briefly, then hung up. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘It was the local radio station. They want to record an interview with us. I don’t mind as I’m never that busy and it helps to publicise Helping Paw. It’s a n
ew charity,’ she explained, ‘so they need some good press. And we don’t mind, do we, Trev? By the way, is it okay if I have your phone number,’ she added, ‘in case of emergency?’

  ‘Of course.’ I gave it to her, and she programmed it in, then Trevor put the handset back.

  ‘And what do you do for work?’ I asked as I got up to leave.

  ‘Telephone sex.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No! Just kidding!’ she laughed. ‘I teach English over the phone to foreign students. It’s mind-blowingly boring but it pays the bills.’

  ‘And is that what you did before?’

  She shook her head and, for the first time in an hour, her smile slipped.

  ‘I was a PE teacher,’ she said.

  So that solves the mystery of the hockey sticks I thought as I unlocked my front door a few minutes later. I felt simultaneously drained and inspired by my encounter with Bev though I was horrified to see I’d picked up some of Trevor’s hairs. I carefully removed every single one with a brush, and then tweezers, as I listened to my answerphone.

  ‘Hi! I saw your ad, my name’s Susan… Hi, I’m a pharmacist and my name’s Tom… Hello, this is Jenny and I’m a single Mum…’I’d only been out for an hour and I’d already had three replies. Over the weekend I had twelve more, of whom I arranged to see five.

  First was a lugubrious looking engineer called Steve. He inspected the whole house, opening all my kitchen cupboards—bloody cheek!—as though he were buying it, not renting a room. Then came Phil who sounded promising but who spent half the time staring at my legs. Then there was an actor called Quentin who was jolly, but he couldn’t stand birds and he smoked. After him came Annie, who was twenty-three, and who found everything ‘reely nice.’ The house was ‘reely nice,’ the room was ‘reely nice,’ and she worked in marketing and that was ‘reely nice’ too. After five minutes of this I wanted to stab her but instead smiled and said I’d ‘let her know.’

  ‘That would be “reely nice.”’ As I waved her off I realised that the anagram of Annie is ‘inane.’ Then there was Scott who was Born Again and who wanted to hold prayer meetings on Monday nights, and finally there was a student at the Camber-well Art School who wanted to bring her two cats. Disappointed with the respondents I went to the local gym I’ve just joined for a kick-boxing class.