by Polly Young
“Uncle Tom Cobley?”
She ignored him. “Most of the action takes place in the school, with a couple of scenes in the newsagents and hospital.” She stared out to sea so he couldn’t put her off.
She sketched the synopsis: twins get bullied and skip school. One gets a job as a paperboy and one spends the day shadowing doctors. Then she described everything that happened to Sam and Emily in minute detail, ending with, “ ... after what they’ve learned in the ‘real world’ they become heroes.” She could almost touch the Oscar for best screenplay. Good Will Huntingstarted like this.
Angus gave nothing away. After a lifetime he spoke. “Are you serious?” At his tone, the boat veered sharply.
“Why?" she asked.
He studied her. “That is the most ridiculous, dangerous and, frankly, unbelievable storyline I’ve ever heard.”
She swallowed hard. His eyes glowed hazel in the sun. “What?” she said, her voice squeaky against the surf.
And he massacred her brilliant idea. On the basis that ten-year-olds acting a play about not going to school might think seriously about not going to school, ending cruelly with, “I know you fancy yourself at scriptwriting but you’re building castles in the sky.” His eyes flashed as the wind whipped his thick hair across his forehead. He reached over and snatched the tiller. “And watch where you’re going: it’s not a dodgem ride.”
Rosy felt a bubble of anger; fermenting for the last hour, rise slowly to the surface. How darehe? She was cross with herself, too: she didn’t have to stay in a boat with a moral-free man who insisted on insulting her. David would be excellent in a situation like this. She counted to three. The sands of Trewley Head lay less than twenty metres away.
She didn’t want to listen to another word Angus had to say and she didn’t have to. Passing the main sheet as if on autopilot, she took her shoes off and laid them side-by-side in the bottom of the boat.
“Well, Mr Hart, it’s been an adventure but if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to start somewhere with my castles.”
And she turned her back, looked briefly at the cloudy water and jumped in.
Chapter 8
Rosy lugged her suitcase off the train with what the French might call ‘l’air du idiotique’ and struggled along the platform. One of the wheels had given up and bounced into the road on the way to St. Pancras and the case limped, like a lame donkey, awkwardly along the quai. Did she need her passport? If so, where was it?
Was it really that long since she’d been to Paris?
She inhaled. The Gare du Nord buzzed with a sophistication London lacked. She checked her watch: right on time. David should be here. But there was no sign of him at the end of the platform where they had arranged to meet, or under the arrivals board. Pushing irritation aside, she decided to stretch her legs and marched hungrily through the station towards a kiosk.
Queuing, she reflected that David was one of those people who liked making you wait. She had been on tenterhooks last year as he’d teased her throughout the day with little presents, only to be told that ‘the best was yet to come.’
‘Best’ had turned out to be a night in bed when he’d pulled out all the stops. Great lovemaking, as far as David was concerned, depended on how much time you gave it. Hours of foreplay followed, including a massage with a Body Shop oil (half-price) and real champagne. Flattering and hugely enjoyable to begin with, unfortunately David had taken so long to reach her erogenous zones she’d nodded off, just as he started to move his tongue in long, languid circles across her stomach. He’d been furious, she remembered guiltily, and she’d ended up massaging his ego all night. Which seemed rather to defeat the point.
She bought a pain-au-chocolat and bit into it greedily. Wiping her mouth, she saw David striding over, carrying a bunch of fat roses. For the last couple of weeks, she’d pictured the moment, playing it over and over in her mind. She would blush and they’d break into grins and wide-armed runs, as fast as their legs would carry them, into a waiting embrace. She’d also imagined being able to guess whatever surprise he had planned just from his expression.
No such luck. The dysfunctional suitcase and chocolate pastry didn’t help but David’s expression was already more thunder than enlightening.
“We’ll be late! Finish that and hurry.” His urgency gave her hope; his rudeness did not.
“Nice to see you, too.”
He stopped. “Sorry, but we really have to get a move on,” he took the handle of her case. “Bloody hell!”
“It broke.”
At her despondency, David let go of his temper and the handle. The suitcase toppled painfully onto her toes as he took her hands. “I really am sorry. It’s great to see you. Good trip?”
What was she, his mother? “It was ok. I couldn’t wait to see you.” French lovers hugged, kissed and walked arm in arm around them.
“Come on,” he tugged her arm. “I’ve got a surprise.”
He led her through milling crowds to the taxi rank. Once they’d queued and settled in the back, David leant forward. “Parc des Princes, s’il vous plait.”
The name sounded familiar. Had she been there before? Not with David; she would have remembered. Maybe with her parents on her thirteenth birthday, but all she could really recall was buying a beret, going to Montmartre and it blowing off.
The taxi moved rapidly through the streets. It was warm for September; the trees still strung with rusty leaves. They passed stripy street cafes; men with silk scarves and women with beautiful coats; small dogs with long leads; children in coloured hats.
“Where are we going?”
David, growing visibly more excited with each turn, was now perched on the edge of the seat. “Nearly there. Put this on.” He proffered a red woollen hat.
We’re going for a walk, thought Rosy. Good: she could do with stretching her legs. Thoughtful of David to consider she might be cold. She pulled it on: it covered her face.
David laughed. “Great, babe! Keep it on until we get there.”
She giggled and started to relax. If it were a park, perhaps they’d have a picnic with amazing cheese. But David wasn’t carrying any bags, so he couldn’t have brought food with him ... but of course: no one picnicked in Paris, did they? They would be going for a meal. Somewhere chic and expensive. She snuggled into her coat, enjoying the dark, safe feeling. A glass of wine would go down well. She would have steak and crè,,me brulee — never mind the calories; they could work them off later.
They stopped. David paid the driver and escorted her to the boot. “We’ll dump the case first,” he said. “Come on.”
It seemed doubtful they were outside a hotel. She sensed they were surrounded by people, from the voices coming from every direction and the way David steered her expertly by the elbow. A powerful smell of onions, hotdogs and testosterone filled her nostrils as David strode purposefully on, swearing as the suitcase banged his knees. Rosy trotted blindly, trying to keep up.
“Hold on,” she panted; not finding the experience quite as pleasant as in the comfort of the cab.
His arm squashed her waist as he led her down steps. The din faded and she heard David’s smashed up French as he checked a bag in. Then up the stairs again, the noise growing deafening as they navigated the pavements.
“OK,” David said eventually. “I don’t think you’ll be allowed in with a hat over your head: they might mistake you for a terrorist.” He lifted the wool from her eyes and she blinked. Everyone was wearing red.
She was at a football match. A Manchester United football match. In Paris. On her thirtieth birthday.
Bald, blue-eyed Ian bounded up. He wore a Man U shirt, as did David, she noticed: he must have put it on in the taxi. Two girls flanked him.
“Rosy, meet Sophie and Jen,” David said proudly. Sophie, small and dark-haired, with enormous teeth, smiled broadly and stretched out her hand. Rosy took it, somewhat dazed. Jen, un-toothy and with the body of a supermodel, graciously offered a cheek. Rosy stoo
d on tiptoes for the air-kiss, which smelt of Chanel.
She missed Storm. At least with a dog she wouldn’t be alone in this crazy situation.
“Happy birthday!” David flicked his fingers with excitement.
Ian waved the tickets under her nose. “So how d’you like your present?” He did a little dance through the turnstiles.
“Speechless,” she managed.
They emerged at the top of the stands and she had to admit the view was incredible. Although Rosy had been to stadiums for concerts before, they were nothing compared to this. Led by David, they squeezed up the gangway to their seats. Finding herself between Ian and Jen, Rosy shot David a meaningful look, which he missed completely.
She turned to Ian. “Could we swap? I haven’t seen David for weeks.”
Ian shrugged and she nestled into position, reaching for David’s hand.
“Happy, babe?” he said breathlessly, staring straight ahead.
“Not as happy as you,” she said truthfully. He gave her a one-armed squeeze and kissed her nose. She smiled, despite herself and pulled on her hat. This could be fun, she thought, and if you can’t beat them
* * *
Man U couldn’t. Half time, 2-1 down and French lager and chants had worked magic. Rosy had started a Mexican wave, joined in abuse with each French free kick and managed not to spill beer down her jumper. All these things she considered major triumphs and she had almost forgiven David for not laying on Lauduree. Ian was on his best behaviour, and the girls seemed relatively friendly too. Sophie had shared her chocolate. Jen had pointed out French players she fancied on the field. Noticing empty glasses and desperate for a pee, she volunteered the next round.
David opened his wallet and thrust fifty Euros at her. “Darling, it’s your birthday; it’s all on me.”
“Croque-monsiers aussi then!” she grinned, taking the wallet instead.
Fighting her way through the crowds, she smiled. Trust David to find the heart of London in Paris. She found the bar and crossed her legs as she joined the queue, realising how desperate she was for the loo. Damn, she should have gone first: how was she going to carry the drinks? But it was too late now; toilets were in the opposite direction.
She ordered five beers and dug around in David’s wallet. Where had she put that note? Not in the side pocket ... Delving into a small partition she pulled out a crackly slip of paper. A receipt. From Cartier?! And something expensive, too, if those noughts were right. So that explained his pretence at the tickets: of course there would be something else! How could she have doubted him? He must be waiting until they got back to his room, the romantic! Maybe it was a watch ... she’d hinted last year but maybe he’d been saving. Humming happily to herself, she paid, balanced the drinks and manoeuvred herself back through the scrum.
Keeping the cardboard tray steady as she entered the cubicle wasn’t easy. She placed it on the floor with a sigh of relief and closed the door. The second half was about to start: she’d better be quick. Whipping out her compact — the mirror outside the cubicles was chock-a-block with girls — she checked for makeup malfunctions. Satisfied, she bent to pick up the drinks again and heard a familiar voice through the door.
“ ... he just gave it to me. I didn’t know what to say! It’s amazing, don’t you think? I mean, I couldn’t say ‘no’, could I?”
“It’s so beautiful!”
“Mm. I can’t wait to thank him properly,” cue girlish Gallic giggles. Understanding more than her French GCSE suggested she might, Rosy opened the door and confirmed her suspicions.
Jen stood in the middle of the floor holding a small box in one hand. From the other dangled a twisted gold necklace of exquisite delicacy. A plastic bag hung from her wrist. It was dark red, Rosy noted with a strange sense of detachment. From Cartier.
She stepped straight into the tray of beer. Froth spilled over her foot and foam spread rapidly across the floor. Heads turned, including Jen’s and Sophie’s. She didn’t wait to see Jen’s mouth open in a wide ‘O’. Or hear Sophie gasp and cover a nervous giggle with her hand. Or listen to Jen shower excuses and platitudes and look pityingly through feathery lashes.
She ran blindly, hurling herself through milling fans returning to their seats, thoughts of Mike flashing like sirens, along with the feeling of humiliation from eight years ago. Her head was steaming. Somehow she found her way back to David and Ian who were engrossed in earnest discussion as she descended.
“Rosy, great! Where are the ..?” David tailed off, seeing her face.
“How DARE you?” she boiled, anger fuelling her indignance. “On my birthday, of all things. Making me wear a stupid blindfold and taking me to a crappy football match — which, I might add, I was just starting to enjoy. Letting me believe I had jewellery ...” her voice cracked, “from Cartier... and then I find out, in the most humiliating way possible, you’re seeing someone else.” She paused, the adrenalin coursing. David flinched.
People were staring. The match had started again.
“Goodbye,” she said. “Don’t try and follow me.”
She still had his wallet, so she might as well put it to good use. Ten minutes later she was in a taxi heading for the Ritz, blinded this time by tears.
SECTION TWO
Chapter 9
“More.” Rosy waved her empty glass, the biggest she’d been able to find, and slipped another inch down the sofa.
“You’ve had enough.” Vic patted Rosy’s hair from above, lolled backwards over the sofa arm and squinted. “What’s hot and what’s not?”
“Hot ... me,” Rosy slurred, trying to keep her eyes on the celebrity rag. “Not ... cheating fiancés.” She rolled through chocolate wrappers and gazed up at the mantelpiece where smug Vics and Rogers looked back.
“You’re so lucky,” she whispered.
It was a week since she’d left David. Although leftseemed a decisive word for something so shambolic. Since then, he’d rung forty nine times, petering from a daily ten to four. There was probably some significance there, she thought ruefully. He would know, with all the science papers he pored over. All had gone unanswered, of course. The thought he might stop calling made her almost unbearably sad but she was damned if David would have the satisfaction of knowing it. She twiddled her engagement ring on its chain of relegation and plunged into another pool of self-pity.
Four years ago, only work could keep them apart. And, despite David’s long, gruelling hours, he’d always found time for little surprises: her favourite milkshake made just the way she liked it; bracelets made of sweets wrapped around the lamppost outside the house on her way home. The private game of ‘switch’ they played in the middle of the night when she’d wake, whisper the word, then one would go up and the other under so they were on different sides of the bed.
Silly girl. Storm licked her salty face and she sniffed and sat up.
Vic pulled herself up on to an elbow. “That’s better. Now, what to do?”
God knew. To fight or forgive? “Did you and 007 go through anything like this?” She steeled herself for Vic’s matronly look before she said something like, “oh no; Roger would never ...”
“Yep.” Vic blushed. “I’m not proud. I was at college, young and I had no clue about ... boundaries.”
Rosy perked up for the first time in days as Vic smoothed her hair back as if at communion. “Kirsty in his biology class. It was obvious she fancied him. She used to leave bits of frog in his locker.” Rosy screwed her eyes up, remembering a mousey girl with glasses.
“One day I was supposed to meet Roger, but had really bad cramps so I left my lesson and walked up to the café early. I saw him heading down the hill with Kirsty. They were laughing and I hid behind a skip.” Vic reached for the bottle. “Then he took her bag and carried it. And as they went past, I was so furious; so absolutely seething, I ...”
She paused. Rosy was agog.
“... went up to the café and when Roger came in, I moped about period pains, leapt
up feigning agony and knocked hot chocolate into his lap.”
“You’re joking.”
“Was it terrible?”
Rosy looked like she’d sat in something wet. “It’s the most pathetic story I’ve ever heard.”
Vic popped a Quality Street. “Then I slept with his best friend.”
Silence.
“Did he find out?”
“I don’t think so. But I’ll have to tell him.” Vic sighed.
Rosy longed for the parallel to continue and for Vic to say, “before we get married,” but she didn’t. Vic and Roger would not be; a fact that baffled Rosy. But Vic longed for children: horses for courses. For the first time in days, Rosy felt her own problems fade.
“That would be silly,” she said seriously. “You love each other; it should stay in the past."
Vic yoga-ed her feline body while Storm snored, free of human trials and tribulations.
“You shouldn’t have secrets. Whether or not you forgive David, give him the chance to tell the full story,” Vic said, stitching Rosy to her chest with her eyes. “Jealousy made me do something I’ll always regret. Don’t do the same.”
Mike again. Everyone’s idol. A smooth-talking, good-looking, gum-chewing God. Life with Mike was electrifying. Unlike David, work didn’t motivate him. In fact, not much motivated Mike. During the first year, they hung out in cafés, flew kites and walked by the river. Rosy followed him faithfully to every gig and watched, pathetically proud as his fingers moved deftly over the vinyl, wielding records like knives, spinning her head with his trance-y, nineties beats. Life was pretty much perfect. The ‘golden couple’, people called them. His declaration of love had left her euphoric.
Until he’d cheated on her. The trust obliteration was bitter; the confrontation rupturing any lingering hope of reconciliation. It was all too much. First Mike, then David. You thought you knew someone and then ... her thoughts cycloned back to Angus. Who was she kidding? She may have jumped overboard but he was doing a fair job of rocking her boat.
