by Polly Young
“It’s ... er ... for Rosy,” he said, luckily, since at the same moment Judy turned the box over to see Rosy’s name printed above the address. “She likes Steph Gables to the point of obsession.” So far, so true.
The front door banged again and Charles’ gentle whistling wafted over them as he took off his coat in the hall. The handkerchief became a wodge in Judy’s fist.
“Hello?” he called, sounding tired but cheery. He swept into the kitchen and recoiled, as if seeing a spectre.
“What’s he doing here?” he was ominously quiet and looked thinner. So did his hair. Seeing him in this condition was so shocking that, forgetting the status quo, David sprang up and offered Charles a seat.
“What the bloody hell’s going on? Judy? You are notwelcome in this house,” he said with a face like Thor.
“He just turned up. Be kind. There are two sides to every story.”
Charles turned puce and fished a bottle from the wine rack. Searching for a glass produced a lot of unnecessary crashing and clattering. “He knows, I presume?” he said, slugging and swigging quickly. “Easy, darling,” Judy laid a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “He won’t say a word. Will you, David?”
“Any secret is safe with me.”
“As my daughter has found to her cost!” Charles exploded.
“That’s enough! Darling, whatever you have to say to David, wait until your health improves.”
“I’d better be going,” David backed down the hall, fumbled for the latch and let himself out.
“I think that would be wise.” Charles shut the door firmly.
* * *
As he sat inside the café outside Queen’s Park watching his best mate eat pizza with a gusto normally seen in ravening wolves, David wondered how on earth Ian had managed to climb the dizzy heights of law to a position where he had his own office over the Thames, a penthouse in Islington and a fit secretary. He waited patiently while Ian swallowed the last mouthful and wiped ketchup off his chin.
Trans-fats calmed Ian the way milk did a baby. Grease smoothed his hyperactive brain, enabling him to concentrate.
When he was quite sure the feasting had ended, David moved any distracting crusts and delivered an update on the latest developments. This took long enough for Ian to demolish two slices of chocolate tart and decide against a Magnum ‘for the road’.
“Valentine’s Day didn’t go as planned then,” Ian stuffed his paper napkin into an empty coffee cup. “Sounds like someone beat you to it on the present front anyway. That Angus bloke?”
David’s anger rose like liquid in a syringe and he leant forward. “We’ve been friends a long time, right?”
Ian burped confirmation.
“And you’re my best man?”
“If this bloody wedding ever happens.” Ian looked perplexed. “For God’s sake, David, it’s not rocket science. Talk to the girl!”
David hit the table. “I’ve tried: she won’t listen.”
“Don’t take your frustrations out on me.” Ian was offended but pressed, had to concede that his ‘love-life’ consisted of joining the new Playboy club website.
“I can’t talk to her ...”
“.... so you have to do something else.”
Finally, the penny seemed to have dropped. David outlined the bare bones of his plan while Ian picked his teeth with a gold pen lid.
“I’m not sure ...”
David pounced. “Do it and I’ll pay.” Ian’s was so tight he’d dig his own grave.
“But I do have a reputation to uphold. So it’d better work,” Ian said and set off for the freezer.
Chapter 15
Angus’ loafers scuffed the carpet as he loped down the corridor for the second time that week.
He came to a stop. ‘President’ read the Bakelite sign on the door, but there was no need. It was framed with rousing news about regattas, sailing courses and instructors and topped with a fearsome photograph of Nicholas Sidcup with the mayor, at the opening of the sailing school’s training yacht. For all his aggression, Nick had an open door policy and liked to present visitors with symmetrical wall art. Angus hovered on the threshold, smelling wine gums and expensive coffee. Mr Sidcup rose from his desk looking powerful, his widow’s peak cresting like a bird.
“What’s this about, Nick?
“Straight to the point as always,” he smiled thinly. “I like to think you and I have always been able to talk frankly, Angus.” Mr Sidcup folded his arms and looked sad. “There’s been a complaint. About your behaviour.”
Angus frowned. “What?”
“From a parent. Of a sexual nature.”
“Towards a child?!”
Mr Sidcup looked pained. “Towards their mother.”
“Who?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
Angus waited a second or two and then fired a furious tirade at Mr Sidcup’s pink tie.
A formal complaint meant a formal investigation. Horror stories of people in authority crippled by years of false accusation-induced depression wood-peckered his thoughts. Mr Sidcup opened a jar of boiled sweets and calmly selected a green one.
“What now?” Angus asked icily.
“Let’s get one thing clear,” Mr Sidcup templed long fingers after he’d outlined the procedure. “This is nota witch-hunt.”
“Right,” Angus said bitterly.
“You are one of my most valued members of staff. But an accusation has been made and, unfortunately, you do have a certain — ah — reputation.”
“You mean my relationships with ... older women?”
Mr Sidcup pressed the side of his nose in acquiescence.
“Which makes me guilty?”
“Don’t be like that, Angus.”
Angus found it difficult to know how to be and said so.
“The thing is, Angus, we took you on good faith. You realise, I’m sure, that if Crabham was not on the, ah, preferred list for the private school sector, your paperwork would perhaps not have stood up to, ah, scrutiny. I suggest you go back to work,” said Mr Sidcup evenly. “I merely had to make you aware of the situation. I’ll inform the woman in question that you deny it. I don’t believe she has approached the police ...”
“POLICE?!”
“ ... but it is on her mind. She says you were rather — um — violent.” Mr Sidcup stood. “That’s all, Angus. I am sorry about the matter, of course.” He sat down again.
“Of course.” Angus crossed the room to leave. “Just one thing.”
The paper shuffling stopped.
“When did this supposedly take place?”
“Christmas. Outside club grounds.”
The mists began to clear. “And you believe this ... nonsense.”
“It is my job to hunt out the truth.”
And torture, kill and dispose of it without trace, Angus thought grimly.
* * *
Rosy waited for his Royal Sulkiness to return from the bathroom.
Toying with the menu, she wondered what was up. It was Angus’ suggestion to go somewhere ‘neutral,’ which suited her fine: the effort of holding inters in front of her parents was becoming almost impossible. She allowed a fat drop to slide while no one was looking.
When had her Superman father turned mortal? This wasn’t supposed to happen. She’d had the ‘grown up’ talks; wills, won’ts, wants ... but these were conversations based on the flimsiest vagaries of reality. They had no urgency. Not like ... her brain check-mated and she shivered as she remembered the conversation from the previous night as her parents poured tea and dished out facts like slices of cake. “Your father’s got cancer,” Judy had said. “He’s had tests. It’s not large but it’s there.” After a few seconds’ silence, Charles reached for the whiskey and poured a hefty shot into everyone’s mugs. Ollie had gazed at the floor. Rosy had cried; Judy hadn’t.
But Dad was Dad. She was glad she was at home: it was about time the tables turned and she provided some support. And — just pe
rhaps — she now had her own ‘rock’. Beneath all the worry she was rather thrilled at the prospect of a date. God knows it had been long enough. When wasthe last time? David’s idea of a date restaurant had been Claridge’s, but no matter; Pizza Express’ single gerbera and oversized pepper mills might be the date to end all past dates. Pasta, pizza, pudding. Perfect.
Angus loomed, haggard and burdened.
“What do you fancy?” His face showed no signs of innuendo. She shrugged. A boy with raging acne with a notebook appeared.
“Let’s get drinks. Tell me about you,” he said earnestly. “It feels like ages,” he dropped his voice and didn’t reach for her fingers. Spotty boy hovered.
“I’ll have a diavolo,” Angus commanded and Rosy pulled herself together. He was hot stuff.
“So are you going to tell me what’s upset you, or fob me off with ‘nothing’ again?”
Rosy’s heart wove a complicated knit of attraction, misery and confusion but she answered. The diagnosis, which had come at the same time as her birthday. The hollow thought of her father leaving the GP surgery. Her parent’s silence until the diagnosis, though they must have been awake every night. Her own feelings of impotence at the thought of losing her father.
Angus studied her carefully, and then spoke in calm, reassuring terms. As Rosy watched him talk, she thought of David. His words would be optimistic, less ambiguous. But the sentiment would be the same as Angus’: soldier on. She spiked and sucked an olive, concentrating on its rubbery saltiness.
“Thanks,” she whispered with the ghost of a smile and hand-raked her hair.
“You look great.” The corners of his eyes crinkled, emphasising his tiredness.
“Your turn.”
“I’m just fine,” he said, too quickly. “Well, as fine as I can be with Easter beginners’ courses.”
“You seem down,” she pressed. “I know I’m not exactly Miss Happiness but it might distract me.” She overdid it a bit, using words like ‘star’, ‘hero’, and ‘legend’. But surely a compliment or two were long overdue.
Apparently not. “Don’t be silly,” he spoke so sharply she spat out a pine nut. “I make mistakes too. I’m sorry about your Dad but we all have problems.”
She recoiled like a slapped puppy, then apologised with no idea what for. They chewed in silence as Rosy watched the other diners perform perfectly. The couple in the corner picking over fudge cake. The unblemished 18-yr-olds with hair as shiny as their tights. The family drinking iced tap water, laughing like an advert for Center Parc. She stuffed her crust and asked for the bill.
He didn’t push it. “I’m sorry. Things have got a bit on top of me. I shouldn’t have snapped.”
But Rosy had run out of platitudes: it might well be the date to end all future dates.
* * *
Getting out of bed got harder. Rising late one Saturday, March winds belted around the house and the idea of going anywhere was like scaling Mont Blanc. By the time she had extracted herself from under the duvet, showered and clambered into the car, Rosy felt like she’d done a day’s work. Driving the six miles to Vic’s house seemed like a marathon.
She’d blown through the door, levered herself into the window seat and stayed there, picking at a small piece of rubber on her shoe. “I’m so sorry,” were Vic’s first words, and now Rosy sipped tea slowly as Storm snuffled grains of takeaway rice from beneath the table.
“I just need somewhere safe,” Rosy had announced on the phone melodramatically. And as Vic heaved piles of clothes from bedroom to landing, cursing the flimsiness of charity bin liners, Rosy felt a sense of normality circle cautiously and finally settle.
“I’m ok,” she said finally.
Vic stuck her head around the doorframe. “That’s why you’re gripping that mug like it’s going to escape. Storm’s looks more human than you.” She stopped pummelling cushions and came to sit. Her sensitive, unflustered demeanour was exactly what Rosy needed and she opened her heart.
“I’ve blanked David. And since he’s in Paris ...”
“ ... and Angus is round the corner, out of sight, out of mind?”
Rosy sighed.
“Well, if you want my advice ...”
Like she had a choice.
“ ... put your father first.” Forget the wedding, David, Angus and do nothing, Vic said. Firmly.
“David dropped in on Valentine’s Day. Mum kept it from me.”
Vic was shocked. “Why?”
“Being protective? Dad had just been diagnosed. I think it genuinely slipped her mind,” Rosy said flatly.
“Did he bring a decent present? Sorry,” Vic said in answer to Rosy’s scathing look. She was quiet. “Still, pretty brave to come all the way uninvited, knowing how your parents feel about him.”
“I know. I wonder if perhaps I should call him,” Rosy said, her voice squeaky as a mouse on helium. Vic seized her shoulders and shouted, as if to a drunk.
“Put David and Angus OUT OF THE PICTURE. Let them both stew. Right now you need your emotional strength. Be nice to your Dad, your family and yourself.”
“But the wedding ..?”
“David will have to sort it. You know I’m right; don’t argue with a force to be reckoned with.”
Rosy admitted defeat. Reckoning was not something she was excelling in lately.
Chapter 16
A lone guitarist strummed Dire Straits’ Money for Nothingwith one finger mournfully as the guests sauntered through the foyer into the large, spot lit marquee. Poignant portraits of smiling, post-cosmetic surgery patients and their surgeons provided an uneasy welcome parade to the seating area where feathered capes hung over the backs of chairs like mute swans. Olives were popped into mouths more hungry for corporate gossip. In the middle of the settling throng, David felt stuck. Evening receptions, whether foot or dance, were usually right up his street. But as he sat, surrounded by some of his most boring peers and no Rosy, the evening looked decidedly dead-end.
Drinks beforehand, hob-nobbing black ties, irritating photographer, champagne cocktails... how Rosy used to love these nights. How different it was without her.
He sipped his glass of Pouilly Fume — included in the £185 ticket price — checked his emails and tried to muster enthusiasm for warbling coming from the girl on his right about table decorations. With her high, auburn topknot and aggressive eyeliner she looked like a starved vixen; quite off-putting, really. He didn’t have the energy to end her agony by answering whether the flowers were synthetic, even though he knew. This wasn’t just a ball: it was a McAlvin Pharmaceuticals Charity Reception. The flowers were real. After a perfectly pleasant veggie starter and Roedean-certified main, the gap before pudding was traditionally when raffles took place. Feeling rather full, David was about to nip to the loo when a conversation nibbled his ear.
“Of course, taking them out of school isn’t ideal but over half-term, the best chalets are booked years ahead.” This from a woman with a ski tan, hair sprayed into a platinum helmet and whose bulbous chest screamed surgery.
“I’m afraid I’ve no children,” said the tall, untidy-looking man next to her, who, David recognised as the guitar player from the foyer. His hair looked rakish and he was sticking to pints, David noticed with some amusement. Performer’s prerogative. Bored of orchids, he took a large gulp of wine and, since Rosy wasn’t there to tell him off, swilled nonchalantly.
“Take it from me. Schools don’t take kindly,” continued helmet-hair. I wouldn’t do it unless it was abso-lootelynecessary, but my friends insisted the children and I needed a holiday after such a horrendous year.”
She went on to lament her ex-husband’s behaviour. The guitarist gave mild clucks of sympathy but then threw a curve ball. “Where I live, I think teachers would feel the same. Surely if kids miss out, they fall behind.”
The woman pouted. “Where are you from?”
“A village on the south coast. Lytton. It’s pretty small.”
David’s mout
h burst like a dam, spraying Chateuneuf-du-Pape over the lilies. Foxy averted her eyes. He grabbed a menu, scratching his eczema patch painfully with the edge.
“Oh, yes. My sister lives down that way. Her children go to school around there. They’ve just finished doing a camp at the sailing club, in fact. It’s rather expensive, of course ...” helmet laughed airily, “but I understand rather good. They don’t cram the children in like sardines there, and they have their own binoculars and everything. She says great things about the President. And her son enjoys it hugely. In fact, she described an instructor just the other night. Sounded rather as though he’d got in some hot water.”
David’s menu trembled.
“I may know him. One of the best instructors you could meet if so. Sometimes a shame when personal life interferes with professional ... then again ...” the stamina in Stuart’s gaze was admirable.
Sniffing danger, helmet became flustered. “Are you performing again this evening?”
“If you like,” Stuart smouldered.
Thinking furiously, David re-tuned to fox face, who was now quite drunk. “No,” he said gently. “I don’t have children.”
“Married? Single?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Isn’t it always? I’m Lindy.”
He returned the question to be polite, though he couldn’t have cared much less.
“Two. The youngest is eight months,” she cooed. They were at home with the babysitter.
“It must be hard,” David was only half-listening.
“I never thought I’d have kids, I must say,” continued Lindy, fishing a strand of stringy brown hair from her glass. “Whoops,” she giggled, “Think I’ve had a bit too much. I’ve been looking forward to this for an embarrassingly long time.”
“No problem,” David said gallantly, and enquired further.
“You know how it is.” She put her glass down and looked at him through heavy clumps of mascara to make sure. “I was 36, unmarried, buried in work and along came this one.” She prodded the man to her right who lifted a hand unseeingly and continued to chat up a pretty blonde waitress.
