by Sara Craven
She wasn’t sure why she should need comfort. Her mother had been dead for five years when her father, David Craig, had met Molly, his second wife, herself a widow with a young daughter. Molly was attractive, cheerful and uncomplicated, and the transition had been remarkably painless. And Ros had never begrudged her father his new-found happiness. But inevitably she’d felt herself overshadowed by her new stepsister. Janie was both pretty and demanding, and, like most people who expect to be spoiled, she usually got her own way too.
For a moment Ros looked at her own reflection in the windowpanes, reviewing critically the smooth, light brown hair, and the hazel eyes set in a quiet pale-skinned face. The unremarkable sweater and skirt.
Beige hair, beige clothes, beige life, she thought with sudden impatience. Perhaps Janie was right.
Or perhaps she always felt vaguely unsettled when the younger girl was around.
Janie was only occupying Ros’s spare bedroom because their parents were off celebrating David Craig’s early retirement with a round-the-world trip of a lifetime.
‘You will look after her, won’t you, darling?’ Molly Craig had begged anxiously. ‘Stop her doing anything really silly?’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Ros had promised, but she had an uneasy feeling that Molly would regard responding to lonely hearts ads as rather more silly.
But what could she do? She was a writer, for heaven’s sake, not a nanny—or a minder. She needed her own space, and unbroken concentration for her work. Something Janie had never understood.
Ros had studied English at university, and had written her dissertation on aspects of popular fiction. As an exercise, she’d tried writing a romantic novel set at the time of the Norman Conquest, and, urged on by her tutor, had submitted the finished script to a literary agent. No one had been more surprised than herself when her book had sold to Mercury House and she’d found herself contracted to write two more, using her mother’s name, Rosamund Blake.
Her original plans for a teaching career had been shelved, and she’d settled down with enormous relish to the life of a successful novelist. She realised with hindsight it was what she’d been born for, and that she’d never have been truly happy doing anything else.
With the exception of marrying and raising a family, she hastily amended. But, unlike Janie, she was in no particular hurry.
And nor, it seemed, was Colin, although he talked about ‘one day’ quite a lot.
She’d met him two years ago at a neighbour’s drinks party, which he’d followed up with an invitation to dinner.
He was tall and fair, with a handsome, rather ruddy face, and an air of dependability. He lived in a self-contained flat at his parents’ house in Fulham, and worked for a large firm of accountants in the city, specialising in corporate taxation. In the summer he played cricket, and when winter came he switched to rugby, with the occasional game of squash.
He led, Ros thought, a very ordered life, and she had become part of that order. Which suited her very well, she told herself.
In any case, love was different for everyone. And she certainly didn’t want to be like Janie—swinging deliriously between bliss and despondency with every new man. Nor did she want to emulate one of her heroines and be swept off her feet by a handsome rogue, even if he did have a secret heart of gold. Fiction was one thing and real life quite another, and she had no intention of getting them mixed up.
Life with Colin would be safe and secure, she knew. He’d give her few anxieties, certainly, because he didn’t have the imagination for serious mischief…
She stopped dead, appalled at the disloyalty of the thought. Janie’s doing, no doubt, she decided grimly.
But, whatever her stepsister thought, she was contented. And not just contented, but happy. Very happy indeed, she told the beige reflection with a fierce nod of her head. After all, she had a perfect house, a perfect garden, and a settled relationship. What else could she possibly need?
She wondered, as she returned to her desk, why she’d needed to be quite so vehement about it all…
Usually she found it easy to lose herself in her work, but for once concentration was proving difficult. Her mind was buzzing, going off at all kinds of tangents, and eventually she switched off her computer and went downstairs to make herself some coffee.
Her study was on the top floor of her tall, narrow house in a terrace just off the Kings Road. The bedrooms and bathroom were on the floor below, with the ground floor occupied by her sitting room and dining area. The kitchen and another bathroom were in the basement.
On the way down, she looked in on Janie, but the room was deserted and there were a number of screwed-up balls of writing paper littering the carpet.
Ros retrieved one and smoothed it out. “‘Dear Lonely in London”,’ she read, with a groan. “‘I’m also alone, and waiting to meet the right person to make my life complete. Why don’t we get together and—”’ A violent dash, heavily scored into the paper, showed that Janie had run out of inspiration and patience at the same time.
Ros sighed as she continued on her way to the basement. She could only hope that ‘Lonely in London’ would indeed be swamped by replies, so that Janie’s would go unnoticed.
In the kitchen she found the debris of Janie’s own coffee-making, along with the remains of a hastily made sandwich and a note which read, ‘Gone to Pam’s’.
Ros’s lips tightened as she started clearing up. Pam was a former school buddy of Janie’s, and equally volatile. No wise counsels would be prevailing there.
Well, I can’t worry about it any more, she thought. My whole working day has been disrupted as it is.
Nor would she be able to work that evening, because she was going out to dinner with Colin. Which was something to look forward to, she reminded herself swiftly. So why did she suddenly feel so depressed?
‘Darling, is something the matter? You’ve hardly eaten a thing.’
Ros started guiltily, and put down the fork she’d been using to push a piece of meat round her plate.
‘I’m fine, really.’ She smiled with an effort. ‘Just not very hungry.’
‘Well, I know it couldn’t be the food,’ said Colin. ‘This must be the only place in London where you can still get decent, honest cooking at realistic prices.’
Ros stifled a sigh. Just for once, she mused, it might be nice to eat something wildly exotic at astronomical prices. But Colin didn’t like foreign food, or seafood, to which he was allergic, or garlic. Especially not garlic.
Which was why they came to this restaurant each week and had steak, sauté potatoes, and a green salad without dressing. Not forgetting a bottle of house red.
‘I hope you’re not dieting,’ he went on with mock severity. ‘You know I like a girl to have a healthy appetite.’
Whenever he said that, Ros thought, wincing, she had a vision of herself with bulging thighs and cheeks stuffed like a hamster’s.
‘Colin,’ she said suddenly. ‘Do you think I’m dull?’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ He put down his knife and fork and stared at her. ‘I wouldn’t be here if I thought that.’
‘But if you saw me across a roomful of people would you come to me? Push them all aside to get to me because you couldn’t stay away?’
‘Well, naturally,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘You’re my angel. My one and only. You know that.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Ros bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry. I just have a lot on my mind at the moment.’
Colin snorted. ‘Don’t tell me. It’s that girl causing problems again, I suppose?’
‘She doesn’t mean to,’ Ros defended. ‘She’s just a bit thrown at the moment because she’s split with Martin and—’
‘Well, that’s a lucky escape for Martin.’ Colin gave a short laugh. ‘And I hope a lesson for Janie. Maybe she won’t rush headlong into her next relationship.’
‘On the contrary,’ Ros said, needled. ‘She spent the entire afternoon replying to an ad in t
he Clarion’s personal column. “Lonely in London”, he calls himself,’ she added.
‘She’s mad,’ Colin said. ‘Out of her tree. And what are you thinking of to allow it?’
‘She’s over twenty-one,’ Ros reminded him levelly. ‘How can I stop her? And it doesn’t have to be a disaster,’ she went on, Colin’s disapproval making her contrary for some reason. ‘A lot of people must find happiness through those ads, or there wouldn’t be so many of them.’
‘Dear God, Ros, pull yourself together. This isn’t one of your damned stupid books.’
His words died into a frozen silence. Ros put down her glass, aware that her hand was trembling.
She said quietly, ‘So that’s what you think of my work. I’d often wondered.’
‘Well, it’s hardly Booker Prize stuff, angel. You’ve said so yourself.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But that doesn’t necessarily mean I want to hear it from anyone else.’
‘Come on, Ros.’ He looked like a small boy who’d been slapped—something she’d always found endearing in the past. ‘It was just a slip of the tongue. I didn’t really mean it. Janie makes me so irritated…’
‘Oddly enough, she feels the same about you.’ Ros leaned back in her chair, giving him a steady look.
‘Indeed?’ he said stiffly. ‘I fail to see why.’
‘Well don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘From now on I’ll keep her vagaries strictly to myself.’
‘But I want you to feel you can confide in me,’ he protested. ‘I’m there for you, Ros. You know that.’ He swallowed. ‘I’m booked to go with the lads on a rugby tour next week, but I’ll cancel it if you want. If I can help with Janie.’
Ros smiled involuntarily. ‘I appreciate the sacrifice, but it isn’t necessary. I think the two of you are better apart. And the rugby tour will do you good.’
It will do us both good, was the secret, unbidden thought that came to her.
He looked faintly relieved, and handed her the dessert menu. ‘I suppose you’ll have your usual crème caramel?’
‘No,’ she said crisply. ‘Tonight I’m having the Amaretto soufflé with clotted cream.’
He laughed indulgently. ‘Living dangerously, darling?’
‘Yes,’ Ros said slowly. ‘I think maybe I will. From now on.’
‘Well, don’t change too much.’ He lowered his voice intimately. ‘Because I happen to think you’re perfect just as you are.’
‘How strange,’ she said. ‘Because I bore myself rigid.’
She smiled angelically into his astonished eyes. ‘I’d like brandy with my coffee tonight, please. And, Colin, make it a double.’
The days that followed were peaceful enough. Ros saw little of Janie, who was either working or at Pam’s house, but nothing more had been said about ‘Lonely in London’, so she could only hope that the younger girl had thought again.
Colin departed on his rugby tour, still expressing his concern, and promising to phone her each evening.
‘There’s really no need,’ she’d protested, a touch wearily. ‘We’re not joined at the hip.’
We’re not even engaged, the small, annoying voice in her head had added.
‘And I think we could both do with some space,’ she’d gone on carefully. ‘To help us get things into perspective.’
‘Good riddance,’ was Janie’s comment when she heard he’d departed. ‘So, while the cat’s away, is the mouse going to play?’
‘The mouse,’ Ros said drily, ‘is going to work. I’m behind schedule with the book.’
‘You mean you’re going to stay cooped up in that office all the time?’ Janie was incredulous.
‘It’s my coop, and I like it,’ Ros returned. ‘But I am going out later—to get my hair cut.’ She laughed at Janie’s disgusted look. ‘Face it, love. You’re the party girl, and I’m the sobering influence.’
Janie gave her a long, slow stare. ‘You mean if a genie came out of a bottle and granted you three wishes there’s nothing about your life you’d change?’ She shook her head. ‘That’s so sad. You should seize your opportunities—like me.’
‘By replying to dodgy newspaper ads, no doubt,’ Ros said acidly. ‘Have you had a reply yet?’
‘No,’ Janie said cheerfully. ‘But I will.’ She glanced at her watch and gasped. ‘Crumbs, I’m due in the West End in half an hour. I must fly.’ And she was gone, in a waft of expensive perfume.
Ros turned back to her computer screen, but found she was thinking about Janie’s three wishes rather than her story.
More disturbingly, she was questioning whether any of the wishes would relate to Colin.
A year ago I’d have had no doubts, she thought sombrely. And Colin is still practical, reliable and kind—all the things I liked when we met. And attractive too, she added, a mite defensively.
He hasn’t changed, she thought. It’s me. I feel as if there’s nothing more about him to learn. That there are no surprises left. And I didn’t even know I wanted to be surprised.
It was the same with the house, she realised, shocked. She hadn’t needed to do a thing to it. It looked and felt exactly the same as it had when Venetia Blake was alive, apart from some redecoration. But that had been her choice, she reminded herself.
She found herself remembering what the will had said. ‘To my beloved granddaughter, Rosamund, my house in Gilshaw Street, and its contents, in the hope that she will use them properly.’
I hope I’ve done so, she thought. I love the house, and the garden. So why do I feel so unsettled?
And why am I so thankful that Colin’s miles away in the north of England?
I’m lucky to have this house, she told herself fiercely. And lucky to have Colin, too. He’s a good man—a nice man. And I’m an ungrateful cow.
Janie bounced into the kitchen that evening, triumphantly waving a letter. ‘It’s “Lonely in London”,’ she said excitedly. ‘He wants to meet me.’
‘I didn’t know you’d had any mail today.’
‘Actually I used Pam’s address,’ Janie said airily. ‘Covering my tracks until I’ve checked him out. Good idea, eh?’
‘Wonderful,’ Ros said with heavy irony. ‘And here’s an even better one—put that letter straight in the bin.’
Janie tossed her head. ‘Nonsense. We’re getting together at Marcellino’s on Thursday evening and he’s going to be carrying a red rose. Isn’t that adorable?’
‘If you like a man who thinks in clichés,’ Ros returned coolly. She paused. ‘What about Martin?’
Janie shrugged. ‘He’s called on my mobile a couple of times. He wants us to meet.’
‘What did you say?’
‘That I was getting my life in place and wanted no distraction.’ Janie gave a cat-like smile. ‘He was hanging round outside the store tonight, but I dodged him.’
‘I just hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘I know exactly. Now all I have to do is write back to “Lonely in London” telling him I’ll see him at eight—and pick out what to wear. I’ve decided to go on being “Looking for Love” until we’ve had our date.’ She paused for breath, and took a long, surprised look at Ros. ‘Hey—what have you done to your hair?’
‘I said I was having it cut.’ Ros touched it self-consciously. But it hadn’t stopped at a trim. There’d been something about the way the stylist had said, ‘Your usual, Miss Craig?’ that had touched a nerve.
‘No,’ she’d said. ‘I’d like something totally different.’ And had emerged, dazed, two hours later, with her hair deftly layered and highlighted.
‘It’s really cool. I love it.’ Janie whistled admiringly. ‘There’s hope for you yet, Ros.’
She vanished upstairs, and Ros began peeling the vegetables for dinner with a heavy frown.
This is all bad news, she thought. Janie may be using an alias, but Pam’s address is real, and in an upmarket area. And I’m ready to bet that old ‘Lonely’ would prefer to target someone from the more
exclusive parts of London.
This is not a game. It could have serious implications. But, apart from locking her in her room next Thursday, how can I stop her?
Janie threw herself headlong into the preparations for her blind date. She spent a lot of time at Pam’s, coming back to Gilshaw Street only to deposit large boutique carrier bags. When she was at home she was having long, whispered telephone conversations, punctuated by giggles.
There was another communication from the wretched ‘Lonely’, which Janie read aloud in triumph over breakfast. It seemed her letter had jumped out from the rest, and convinced him they had a lot in common.
A likely story, thought Ros, sinking her teeth into a slice of toast as if it was his throat.
But when Thursday came Janie’s shenanigans were not top of her list of priorities. She’d sent off the first few chapters of her book to her publisher, and had been asked to call at their offices to discuss ‘a few points’ with her editor.
She returned, stunned.
‘Frankly, it lacks spark,’ Vivien had told her. ‘I want you to rethink the whole thing. I’ve got some detailed notes for you, and a report from a colleague as well. As you see, she thinks the relationship between the hero and heroine is too low-key—too humdrum, even domesticated. Whereas a Rosamund Blake should have adventure, glamour—total romance.’ She had gestured broadly, almost sweeping a pile of paperbacks on to the floor.
‘You mean it’s—dull?’ The word had almost choked Ros.
‘Yes, but you can change that. Get rid of the sedate note that’s crept in somehow.’
‘Maybe because I’m sedate myself. Stuck in a rut of my own making,’ Ros had said with sudden bitterness, and the other woman had looked at her meditatively.
‘When’s the last time you went on a date, Ros? And I don’t mean with Colin. When’s the last time you took a risk—created your own adventure in reality and not just on the page?’
Ros had forced a smile. ‘You sound like my sister. And I doubt if I’d recognise an adventure even if it leapt out at me, waving a flag. But I’ll look at the script again and let you have my thoughts.’
