Rescuing Rose. Isabel Wolff
he explained, his voice quivering. ‘I’d forgotten to give her my keys. To be honest, I find it painful even talking to her. I mean, I can see why she felt as she did. I can understand why we broke up. But understanding is different from feeling isn’t it?’ I nodded. It certainly is. ‘I’m still deeply attached to her. In fact,’ he added, with another swig of beer, ‘I do this silly thing. I –’ he lowered the bottle, ‘promise you won’t laugh?’
‘I promise.’
‘I sleep with one of her old nighties.’ Ah ha, I thought. So it wasn’t my Cross-Dressing leaflet he needed but Relationship Breakdown instead. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added with that lop-sided smile of his. ‘You hardly know me and here I am, showing you my emotional underpants.’
‘I don’t mind,’ I said, and I didn’t – people often tell me personal things. ‘Anyway, that’s my sad tale,’ he concluded with a grim smile. Then he suddenly said, ‘How about you?’
‘How about me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. You mean, my story?’ He nodded. ‘Well…do I have to?’ I added slightly irritably. ‘Yes,’ he said rather bluntly. ‘Fair’s fair.’ That was true enough, so I quickly gave him the bare bones.
‘So that’s why you’ve only been here a short time?’ he said as he poured in more olive oil.
‘Yes. I needed to make a clean break.’
‘But why do you think your husband had the affair?’ he asked as he got out a wooden spoon.
‘Because he felt like it I suppose.’
‘But there’s usually a reason,’ he said as an aroma of Mediterranean vegetables filled the air. ‘I mean people don’t just have an affair for nothing, do they?’ he added.
‘Oh I don’t know,’ I said.
‘You’re a fucking nightmare!’ yelled Rudy in Ed’s voice. ‘This marriage was a mistake!’ Shit.
‘That silly bird,’ I laughed as I pulled down the cover. ‘He probably got that from the afternoon play. Anyway, I’m sorry you’ve had so much unhappiness,’ I said.
‘Well, ditto, but life has to go on. That’s why I like cooking,’ he added. ‘It’s relaxing – it helps me unwind.’
‘So you like astronomy and gastronomy,’ I pointed out, and for the first time that evening, he smiled. ‘What are you making?’ I added.
‘Ratatouille – would you like some?’
‘Oh, no thanks.’
‘I’ve put some of my cook books on the shelf,’ he added, ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not,’ I said, ‘except…’ I went over to them and began shuffling them about…Jane Grigson…Sophie Grigson…Ainsley Harriot…there. Alastair Little…that was better: Delia Smith…Rick Stein.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ he asked.
‘I’m just tidying them up.’
‘But why?’
‘Because I like books to be in alphabetical order – and CDs – it’s better. Don’t you ever do that?’
‘Er, no.’
And I was about to point out the benefits of having a properly alphabetised system when I heard the clatter of the letter box. On the mat was yet another flyer from the Tip Top Tandoori House and two from Pizza Hut. I picked them up, and went to throw them in the waste paper basket by the hall table when a sound from next door made me stop. It was muffled at first, but becoming louder now. I stood there, rooted to the spot. For it was the sound of suppressed, but anguished weeping. My heart expanded. Poor Bev.
I stood there transfixed with pity, not knowing quite what to do. If I’d known Beverley better I’d have phoned her up, or made some excuse to go round. But I didn’t feel I could intrude, not least because whenever we’ve met she’s presented such a strong, cheerful face. If she knew I’d heard her crying she might well have been mortified. And then I’d felt awful in case doing the Daily Post feature had made her feel worse. Seeing it in black and white like that, with everyone reading about ‘Tragic Bev’ and her accident, and about her boyfriend leaving, and about what an outstanding sportswoman she’d been. Perhaps she’d regretted being interviewed. Perhaps that’s why she was in tears. That thought made me very depressed, but as it turned out, I was quite wrong; because the next afternoon she phoned me to say that Ricky had liked the piece so much he’d offered her a regular slot.
‘He called me this morning to tell me, Rose – on a Sunday! He wants me to write a weekly column – he thinks it’ll lift the Post’s circulation.’
‘It probably will.’
‘But I’m terrified, Rose, I’m not a journalist.’
‘So what? You’re very articulate. You’ll do it well.’
‘But he wants me to write it in Trevor’s voice.’ Ah. Now that could be hard to pull off. ‘Will you read the trial pieces before I submit them and tell me what you think?’
‘Sure.’
So the following Thursday evening we went down to the Bunch of Grapes at the end of the street and Bev showed me her two sample columns. I’d worried that the tone might be a bit twee or sentimental, but it wasn’t at all. Far from it. It was endearingly blokey. I thought they were great.
Bev’s pretty ropey in the mornings, but I’m quite chirpy, I read. I give her a lick to wake her up, maybe a bit of a cuddle, then root about under the bed to find her slippers, drag them out with a minimum of slobber, and we’re away.
‘This is brilliant,’ I giggled. ‘Ricky will love it.’
Bev goes down for breakfast in the stair lift, then I have a tiny snooze while she has her cup of tea. But I’m on red alert. I can be snoring my brains out but the second I hear her move, I’m up.
‘It’s wonderful,’ I said, ‘you’re a natural.’
‘But that’s just how he’d speak, isn’t it Trev?’
It wasn’t always like this, I read on. Ooh, no, to begin with it was dire. It was, ‘Trevor do this, and Trevor do that,’ and I’m like, ‘Sorry? What did your last slave die of?’ Drove me nuts. But then I felt a bit guilty because maybe I could have been a bit more helpful, but bless her, Bev’s a forgiving little soul and we’re mad about each other now.
‘If it comes off I’m going to give the fee to Helping Paw,’ Beverley added as we drank our Becks. ‘I got quite a big insurance payout after the accident so I don’t need the cash. And it’ll be a great opportunity to publicise the charity, speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to ask if you’ll come to our first big fund-raiser – it’s just before Christmas?’
‘Of course I’ll come,’ I said.
‘It’s a ball. Fancy dress,’ she added. Fancy dress? Oh shit! ‘But it’s not ordinary fancy dress,’ she explained as she slipped Trevor a pork scratching. ‘It’s in a marquee at the Courtauld, everyone comes as a work of art, and the best costume gets a prize. Fancy another pint?’
‘Wouldn’t say no to a half.’
‘Okay, Trev, our shout.’ She wheeled her chair to the bar, Trevor barked for service, then she passed him her purse. He stood up on his hind legs then placed it on the counter while the barman took the cash. Then Beverley carried each drink in turn back to our