by Polly Young
Puppies! Like the Labradors on cards in the gift shop in Battersea and the ones in the dog’s home she’s seen without David. Rosy couldn’t help herself. “I’d love to see them.”
Cathy wrinkled her nose. “When you get through J-cloths like I do, they lose their charm.”
She’d always wanted a dog. Aged four, she’d visited a school friend of her mother, whose chocolate Labrador had a litter of ten. Long after the grown-ups had drifted away, Rosy had sat enchanted on the lawn as the puppies squirmed like fat guinea pigs. One burrowed its head in her lap and fell asleep. Determinedly, she tried to smuggle it under her jumper and when it was tersely extracted by Judy, wriggling, had wept silently all the way home from her first real heartbreak.
David’s view was more straightforward. “No space.” But she had it now.
“Are there any litters?”
“Penny Matton’s spaniel’s just had six. Or ask Stu — he always knows who’s spawned. Gosh, what a beautiful engagement ring — lucky you!”
They finished their drinks and Cathy left, promising to pass on Penny’s number. Rosy returned the glasses to Bernie, who greeted her like a long-lost friend. “Have a good night?”
“Yes, thanks.” Rosy felt positively glowing.
“No sign of Angus?”
She shrugged. “Something must have come up.”
“I bet it did,” Bernie winked cheerfully. “I’ll give him hell when I see him. ‘Bye gorgeous, see you soon!”
* * *
Walking home, Rosy breathed the heady scent of honeysuckle and roses. Summer nights smelled different here, that was for sure. The sky spread overhead like an indigo marquee and the road gleamed under a pearlescent moon. Silver-tipped trees stood eerily silent and still. There were no wailing police cars. No drunken bawling. London seemed very far away. A rabbit hopped across the road in front of her. Wobbling slightly, she navigated the bend where the van had come a cropper.
And there stood Angus’ Triumph, parked innocently in the drive. The lights in the house were out and all was still. She fought the urge to bang on the front door.
But manners were manners, and he had stood her up. She pulled a pen and the bar receipt from her bag and, leaning on the Triumph ’s still-warm bonnet, scrawled a note: “Lovely evening. Shame you couldn’t get involved.”
Carefully, she slipped the scrap of paper under the windscreen wiper. As an afterthought, she circled the pub name at the top and scampered away ... just too late to see the bedroom curtains twitch back into place.
Chapter 4
Rosy tripped across the burning sand to David, who lay on a Harry Potter beach towel roasting slowly. Ice cream dripped down her forearm into her elbow crease, attracting dithery, hopeful wasps. Her swiping slowed as she drew closer and saw her fiancé being buried alive.
“Hey!” she leapt into action, hurdling small camps of sun worshippers. Scudding sand into David’s face, she sank next to his half-submerged body and locked eyes with a porcine toddler in swirly pink pants. “What’s going on?”
Avoiding Rosy’s glare, the girl observed David calmly.
“Dead.”
He was fast asleep, covered up to his neck, with a copy of Why Plastic Surgeons Can’t Light Firesdraped across his face. “Not quite,” Rosy said, licking her wrist. David actually looked quite comfortable and was at least saved from sun damage. She decided to be merciful. “Mmm. Vanilla. What’s your name?”
“Kimmie.”
“He’s David. What are you doing to him?”
Kimmie explained enchantingly, but sand would play havoc with David’s eczema. The book slid sideways as his eyes opened.
“Good morning beautiful,” Rosy said brightly, “brush your teeth with this.” She dug out one of his hands and deposited a sticky cone. Crunching the last of hers, she set off with Kimmie to find her clan, leaving him blinking.
She returned to find him brushing sand off blindingly white shins and flopped down. “Kimmie’s shimmied. One minute longer, you’d have been entombed. Luckily for you I was there to distract the enemy.”
David smiled and shaded his eyes. “My hero.”
She was pleased with his mood. “Ready to go?”
She’d waited all day, to give David time to psyche himself. Her original suggestion of paragliding was out of the question: he’d balked at the Eiffel tower. Still, there’d be plenty of time for that soon.
“I don’t know,” he bleated. “It’s awfully choppy out there and we’ve only just eaten.”
The cerulean sea was perfect: glittering, warm and no current. Jet skis whizzed along the sapphire horizon. Waves bulged hypnotically. “Ice-cream doesn’t really count.”
He looked troubled. “OK. But ...”
“... we’ll stay near the beach, and keep an eye out for jelly fish,” she finished the sentence for him. “You sound like my mother.”
“Someone has to,” he opened his book in silent protest. “I don’t know what’s got into you this holiday. We’re supposed to be relaxing!”
“We’re not eighty,” she pleaded. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
Sprinkling sand over his book didn’t help. “Rosy!” he squawked. “We’re getting married soon. Stop behaving like a child!”
“Stop treating me like one.” But her voice softened. “This is stupid; there’s only a week before you go away. Let’s not spoil it.”
“OK fine,” he huffed. “I'll do it. I'll come paddling.”
* * *
Later, under a lazily whirring fan, they made love on bleached hotel sheets. Afterwards, Rosy stretched, turned over and kissed David, avoiding the scaly patch near his ear. At least his sunburn had eased sufficiently for their legs to entwine, though whether it was the heat or something else, she didn’t want to stay that way long.
She lay on her back and stared up at the ceiling fan as it motored slowly round. David shifted and draped an arm across her stomach. She stroked it absently and thought about the night he’d proposed.
* * *
Running to meet him after a vile day at work, she’d caught a heel and landed in a heap, scattering pigeons and possessions every which way. Friday night revellers were far too busy to stop to help and she’d limped about retrieving packets of tissues and rolling change. But panic mounted, as she was unable to find a small, carved stone pig, won at school for her first play script and carried since she was ten years old. Trying to remain calm, she’d rung David to explain. He was sympathetic but insistent she give up and meet at the agreed time.
She’d tried to listen as he babbled through the delicious Thai feast, but found it difficult to swallow and hadn’t eaten much. Devastated by her loss, she was subdued. David became progressively quieter and after coffee he’d suggested a walk through Trafalgar Square. The fountains sparkled and sung, but Rosy’s heart was arid. It was a warm night and she was barefoot; her one shoe tucked into David’s briefcase. On a fountain’s edge, David lifted her onto the wall; looking as serious as the night he’d explained Excel.
“I’m sorry about Storm,” he started, “ ... and for being such an awful pig.” She’d thought he’d noticed how upset she was and loved him for it. But then he took a breath and kneeled. And she’d thought, ‘this is it.’
Strangely, people kept walking.
Reaching into his briefcase, David pulled out a small red box. Inside was an exquisite ring, set with a huge ruby.
“A ruby for Rosy. Will you ..?”
“Of course!” Of COURSE!
And he’d stood up and hugged her so hard they’d nearly fallen in.
* * *
She squeezed David’s wrist at the memory and pushed away the possibility that, precious as it was, the piece of stone she’d been hoping to see that night was pig shaped.
* * *
With David snoring, she eased out of bed for a quick shower and reappeared, sucking a slice of watermelon.
“Cathy says if you cut a plug and fill it with vodka ... “ She pe
rched on the side of the bed.
“Who’s Cathy? Vodka gives me a headache.”
She sighed.
He looked wounded. “Rosy it’s a bit juvenile, don’t you think? We can’t behave like teenagers when we have kids.”
She stared back. “I’m not; I’m having fun. Or trying. Lately I just feel as though we’ve stopped enjoying ourselves.” She pushed a fingernail into the firm, green rind. “When Cathy turned thirty she felt younger than ever.”
“Cathy’s a mentalist.”
“Actually she’s extremely nice. And fun.” Not your type at all, she stopped herself from saying.
“You’re dripping all over the sheets,” he pointed out and stood to pull on his boxers.
If only. Rosy looked at him through long lashes. Her freckles were at their coquettish best on holiday and she knew full well with a light tan and surf-chick hair, David should be putty. Not for the first time she wondered if this was what marriage might mean: rough patches; a few arguments, but as long as you mixed in some nice sex and a few jokes and you didn’t actively dislike each other, you’d be ok. She rolled her eyes, hopped off the bed and soothed after-sun into her legs.
“Who else have you met in Lytton?”
Cheerfully, she filled him in on the night in the pub and it wasn’t until she finished that she realised someone was absent. David did, too. “What about that chap we met?”
She studied the bottle of lotion with interest, then raised her head and looked at him squarely. “We met in the shop but otherwise I’ve no idea. Too busy with Alison, I should think.”
“Did he say anything interesting?”
“No. Why?” Was she blushing?
“Just making small talk.”
She picked up her book. “I’m going to sit outside for a bit. Retsina?” She smiled and tripped out onto the balcony, where it was easier to breathe.
Chapter 5
Smattering Facebook with a few well-judged, sepia-tinted pictures was easy. Moreover, people expected it. Never mind that behind his grin, undercooked calamari clutched David’s intestines, giving him diarrhoea for days. Or that the stunning mountain view was preceded by a six-hour climb, blood sucking mosquitoes and vomit in Rosy’s new beach bag. The photos looked great. They’d had a Good Time: social network sights proved it.
Back in the UK, Rosy looked around her new office and a little part of her sighed. In London, Jackson-Taylor’s staff had the latest in ‘social networking’ furniture. Windows were shiny mirrors, ostensibly to give a feel of space; mostly used to spot co-workers’ nose picking. Rosy’s desk curved ergonomically; the wafer-thin, flat-screened computer perched atop like icing on a cupcake. Chairs sported faux-fur; the publicity department was marked out in smart leopard print. Other perks included still or sparkling water on tap, membership to a terrifyingly clean gym and a booze trolley that trundled gloriously through the aisles Friday afternoons.
But that was in London. Here, the furniture was not working.
‘Shabby chic’ was kind. The pink and blue flowered carpet, ancient drawers and filing cabinets belonged in a retro museum but the chairs and kitchen fittings were just plain tired. No one had thought to take down a ‘Happy Birthday’ banner hanging over the doorway, though shrivelled balloons implied the recipient might be on their way to the next one.
On the plus side there was space, which was a novelty, and people arriving wore smiles throughout the day rather than taking them off with their coats. Plus she was in charge of her own time for the first time ever, having negotiated conference calls with Deborah rather than regular London meetings. She squirmed uncomfortably on the hard cushion pad, dialled and waited to be put through to her boss who liked nothing better than to unbalance Rosy’s work life.
“Settling in ... sufficiently?” Deborah hissed down the phone.
She flicked a dead spider from her in-tray and it landed next to its cousin. “Everything seems in order.”
“Excellent. Get access to the tech. drive. Where are we with duck liver for bronchitis?”
“Author approval; waiting for society comments.”
“Oranges for libido?”
“Posted; embargoed for Thursday.”
“Good, that should get the glossies.” Deborah swallowed loudly. “I’m coming down next week ...” How could she forget? “... and I want coverage reports for coffee for persuasion and nightmares during surgery.”
After being issued six deadlines Usain Bolt would struggle with, Rosy signed off. Doing PR for scientific papers was a hundred times better away from Deborah. She thought of her fourteen-minute drive home and cheered inwardly. Switching off her computer at the wall (there were ‘save energy’ posters everywhere), she bade ‘goodnight’ to the cleaner, slipped on her jacket and left the building.
* * *
Driving through ochre shadows, Rosy thought about David. The bumpy patches of the holiday had been airbrushed with a couple of good nights’ sleep and they’d had an emotionally charged farewell. And Vic had warned her about the teething problems that came with living apart. They were bound to hit squalls; it was how you dealt with them that mattered. But she had to keep an eye on wild daydreams of the future: recent fantasies included summerhouses, spa weekends and ponies.
Vic was appalled.
Rosy ruminated fondly on her friend as she passed through the only set of traffic lights on the way home. Vic’s incapacity to adopt trends could be frustrating: Tweeting, to Vic, was only relevant to her enormous predatory cat Midget and her inability to use Facebook the bane of Roger’s life. She just didn’t ‘do’ technology. Which was odd, because Vic worked for the Themsrow Times’picture desk. But, in the true spirit of regional papers, most of the time this involved captioning images of gypsy inhabited copses and briefing photographers on yet another shot of a local soccer ‘hero’ lying in the grass resting his chin on a ball. She’d have no idea how ‘now’ summerhouses were.
But Rosy would need somethingto look forward to for after the honeymoon. She was sure she’d read somewhere that post-wedding depression could kill. Your environment mattered.
As did the people you shared it with. Steering over the humpback bridge that straddled the millstream, her heart plummeted as she spied Hope Winthrop dawdling in the hedgerow, snatching at cow parsley. Rosy slowed up and wound down.
“Beautiful,” she said respectfully. “Anything special?”
Hope was red and shiny in all the wrong places. She tugged valiantly at a bra strap and beamed like the sun, struggling with her floral load.
“Rosy dear. How wonderful; I was just thinking about you.” She lurched out of the shallow ditch and clutched the car for balance. “Thought I might spruce the hall up a bit. Heading home? How lovely. What a jolly evening.”
She blew her nose and peeped over her hanky. “I don’t suppose you’ve a spare minute? Reverend Scott will be there. He’s giving a talk on poverty in Chad tomorrow: he likes everything set up properly.” She shot Rosy a look. “You’ve met the Rev?”
She hadn’t so Rosy opened the passenger door and Hope hopped in. Five minutes later they arrived at the village hall.
The low-roofed building was spotless thanks to disinfectant and Godliness. The herringbone floor shone with polished love. Rosy smelled old school benches and stewed tea as she gazed up at velvet green curtains that swathed the stage. In the middle of the platform, Reverend Scott stood wrestling with a microphone stand. He was a short man, whose plumpness was a direct result of the widow brigade having nothing better to do than feed him cake. A spearhead for ‘good causes’ in Africa, he had a large fan base with Hope at number one.
Hope bustled over and he smiled tightly at his clergywoman. “What delightful foliage; thank you.” The microphone squealed. Rosy was introduced.
“Charmed. You’ll be wanting to hold the reception in the village hall?”
She bit the bullet and shook her head. “Gonover House.” The Rev looked unhappy and they moved to the edge of the stag
e where Rosy sat wedged, feeling like a slice of processed cheese between two slices of wholemeal.
“So when’s the wedding?” Even unamplified, the Reverend’s voice reverberated around the hall: the acoustics were certainly impressive.
“Ten months away.”
As though it were her own nuptials, Hope’s trembling excitement was palpable. “So exciting. So exciting. So much to look forward to,” her jaw almost cracked with the effort.
“And when might I meet the lucky fellow?” the Rev asked.
Good question. “... so Christmas, I’m sure,” she explained and as two pairs of eyes gazed at her mournfully she thought she might laugh.
“Oh, well. We’ve only just met you, really.” Hope brightened. “Such pretty hair. A Duchess of Cambridge?” They continued dissecting the minutiae of her trousseau but when Hope’s vocal appreciation of her tentative hymn choices verged on the hysterical, Rosy changed the subject firmly.
“Cathy Coaxham seems terribly nice. Wonderful, in fact.” And to throw her off wedding scent further, Rosy then told Hope about Storm. Although she’d weighed the pros and cons, she told her, she was under no illusions that bringing up a puppy and holding down a job would be easy but thank goodness her mother and father would be on hand to help.
Hope nearly burst. “Does that mean what I think?”
“What’s that?”
“That you and David are ready for the ... ” Hope lowered her voice and blushed, “patter of tiny feet?”
“Christ, no!” Rosy leapt up, toppling the Reverend. What a ridiculous thought. Dogs were nothing like babies. Nothing could be further away from the truth.
* * *
Vic’s car was the opposite of its owner: squat, dull and a hopeless runner.
“I’m outside. Can’t risk turning off the engine.”
On their way to Cathy’s house, Rosy had been close to hyperventilating. “Just think. I can take it to work, feed it, play with it, teach it to swim ... ”
“They can do that.”
