by Polly Young
“That’s our VERY popular antenatal class,” crooned Olivia. “Seven weeks — enough time to give everyone a relaxed and enjoyable experience and to allow the men to fully understand how to help with breathing.”
Rosy watched a tall, thin man, who seemed to be finding it far from enjoyable, turn puce as he strained like a willow branch under his whale-like partner. His breathing needed far more help than hers.
“So,” Olivia said briskly. “Your friend must be very close to giving birth; has she thought about preparation?”
“Vic lives outside London,” Rosy said.
“What a shame,” Olivia sympathised.
“What’s that?”
“Olivia was saying it’s too bad you don’t live here; you and Rob could have joined in the fun,” Rosy nodded towards the groaning couples.
“Rosy?” Vic’s face was chalky.
They moved to the corner and perched on miniature plastic chairs.
“Mum rang. Midget’s dead,” her voice broke. “I know it’s for the best with the baby coming and everything; a blessing in disguise, really ... I’ll just miss that cat so much.” Tears tumbled down her smooth cheeks and she buried her head in her hands.
Rosy thought of Midget, who had hissed violently on their first meeting. Her name was ironic: the size of a large stole, Midget had delusions of grandeur, lying full-length along Vic’s bed when Roger was away in the style of a protective guard dog. Storm was terrified of her.
“I’m so sorry. Has your mum ... dealt with it?”
“Yes. But I’m going home; I need to see the body before we leave for New York.”
Rosy sighed. The Fun Girly Weekend was definitely off.
They passed Olivia who was trying to unpeel a length of double-sided sticky tape from her jumper. “We’ll be back,” promised Vic.
Rosy just waved.
Chapter 23
Angus cursed as he heaved his duffle bag through the sleek corridors of Heathrow. Why hadn’t he ordered a taxi? Engineering works meant the train south was delayed and he hadn’t the energy to queue at the rank in the August heat, which prickled his neck and thighs, making him crave a cold drink.
He’d be in Lytton soon enough. He relaxed and allowed himself to wander into an expensive coffee outlet. He made his way through the crowds and stood at the end of a long line, fumbling for change. As he searched his pockets, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Angus?” He stared into the eyes of a pretty, flaxen-haired girl.
“Vic!” he sounded like a teenage girl. “How are you?”
“Pregnant.” She smiled, looking down.
“Oh, wow! Congratulations! Amazing news!” Exclamation marks fired like bullets. Idiot. Behind Vic was a puzzled looking man he presumed was her husband.
“Sorry,” Vic did the introductions. “How funny to see you like this. Are you going somewhere?”
“Just flown in from Cardiff,” Angus explained, making a conscious effort to bring his voice to a normal register.
“New York for us. Quick spot of selfishness before this one robs us blind for the next eighteen years. How was it?”
He couldn’t take his eyes off her stomach. “What?”
Vic rolled her eyes. “Wales! Is that where you’ve been hiding?”
He bristled. “There’s a lot of work to be done up there.”
She looked cynical. They had reached the front of the queue. “You know the wedding’s off?”
“Wedding?” As if he couldn’t guess which one. “I heard.”
By some miracle found a table. Sensing a heart-to-heart, Roger excused himself and trotted off to Dixons.
“She’s a little bit miserable, you know.”
Angus took a long gulp of coffee to still a thumping heart.
“She made the right decision calling it off. Everyone knows that, even David. But now she’s trying to do the right thing by staying with him and I don’t know if it is.” There was a long silence while she gazed at him penetratingly. Vic was wasted in regional newspapers, he thought. She should have worked for the KGB: she defined the pregnant pause.
“I’m sure Rosy knows what she’s doing.”
Vic snorted. “Then you don’t know her very well. She has no idea. She’s at sixes and sevens about love, marriage, kids ... about the only stable thing she has at the moment is volunteering at the Tricycle Theatre and her job.”
Angus was irrationally happy that Rosy was keeping up with the youth drama. “Is she working for the same company?”
“Her bitch of a boss allowed her to return to London but brought someone in to do journals publicity.”
“The part she loves?”
“She’s had to get used to having things she loves taken away.”
Angus watched Roger pick up a digital camera, examine it and put it down and envied the simplicity of his life. All he had to worry about was remaining faithful for the rest of his life and providing for at least one new human being.
Vic looked serious. “From what I can see, you’re an intelligent man. If Rosy likes you, there must be a reason. So if you want something, I’d hope you’d be brave enough to fight for it.”
A jet surged overhead like a giant, shiny albatross.
Roger returned with a plastic bag full of gadgets, looking ecstatic. “Found an all in one charger for the phone, ipod and camera,” Vic looked nonplussed. “Anyway, better go gorgeous; our flight’s boarding.”
Vic stood with Roger’s help and looked at Angus kindly. “Rosy’s my best friend. She has enough going on without more complication.”
He nodded mutely.
“But she’s going to need a friend while I’m gone,” she smiled, placing a hand on his.
Angus said goodbye and checked his watch. His train left in eight minutes; perfect timing if he wanted to walk briskly to the platform, picking up a paper and a sandwich on the way.
Instead, he spun on his heel and headed in the direction of the Heathrow Express.
* * *
After half an hour misreading timetables, Angus stepped off the number 98, outside the Tricycle Theatre. Having an iphone had finally paid off: with a tap of a few buttons, he’d found the weekly schedule at the Youth Theatre Group included meetings on Mondays at 6pm. He was hedging his bets by supposing Rosy would be there, he knew, but nothing ventured ...
And then, as if by magic, she appeared at the entrance to the building. Though for Angus, the Rosy he had been dreaming about each night in Wales bore little resemblance to the one before him.
Her sleek, newly cut bob was coiffed and perfect; earrings decorated her beautiful face and she wore a silk t-shirt with the name of a clothing company he’d seen in Angela’s wardrobe. As she started to walk, he dodged behind a low wall to the side of the small front car park. She was on the phone. He could hear snatches of conversation and strained to make out the words.
“... really well and I think I’ve got the best children in the leads. What? Yes, they had to audition but it’s the only fair way of doing it really, Mum.” Her voice grew muffled and Angus risked a peek above the wall. Her head had disappeared into a long-sleeved jersey top. He ducked as she emerged.
“The first night’s not for weeks, so if you and Dad want to come up, I can reserve tickets. You would? That’s great! And the spare room’s sorted now.” Rosy’s bag swung jauntily from one finger as she talked. She started to waltz up the hill, Angus following.
Trying to keep within earshot was tricky, so he held back, his dirty sweatshirt and jeans making him feel conspicuous amongst the suited commuters on the pavement. Outside The Music Dome, Rosy stopped and dug out a hand-written list from her bag, skim-reading as she continued her conversation. She crossed the street and disappeared through a supermarket’s automatic door. Holding his breath, Angus followed.
A far cry from the Lytton farm shop, the Willesden Lane Tesco Express was crowded, over-lit and impersonal. Electronic beeps of checkouts and mobiles mingled with sulky expostulations from
sleep-deprived, alcoholic Londoners.
“I want Pinot Grigio but there’s nothing decent,” squawked a pretty brunette into her BlackBerry. Angus scrutinised packs of lager with superhuman attention, tracking Rosy’s progress along the dairy aisle from the corner of his eye. By shuffling minutely closer to the milk, he could hear every word.
“ ... we’ve got important people coming tonight. From David’s hospital. I’ve met the wife before; she’s lovely.” Rosy chewed her lip and picked up a pot of cream. “Single or double for chocolate mousse?”
So this is what it had come to, thought Angus bitterly. Stalking a woman in London as she shopped for a three-course meal for her fiance.
She was on the move again. “ ... so glad he’s outside. He loves reading under the grapevine. Has he been sailing? I haven’t spoken to him in a while.” She must be talking about Charles, thought Angus. But how could she not know how her father was doing?
He’d heard enough. Putting down the feta he’d been unconsciously fondling, he left the shop. Catching sight of the Mexican range by the door, he made a decision he had been contemplating for a while.
But Angus’ swift exit meant he missed Rosy’s last words: “I’ll come down soon. David’s got a lecture trip to Dublin coming up in a couple of weeks and I want to see Storm ... and you and Dad, of course.” And he missed, also, the look of fatigue and longing on her face as she popped the cream into her basket.
Chapter 24
It was a sparkly Friday morning in Dublin. Sun bounced through the muslin-draped windows and off silver cutlery as David contemplated the imminent delivery of what he had no doubt would be an extremely successful lecture at the University convincing his peers that his findings in open ear reconstruction surgery needed to be heard. He smiled broadly at his fellow diners. No-one said much, being too full of Columbian coffee, creamy eggs Benedict and deliciously light pastries to offer much more than muted, gaseous compliments to the chef and stunning waitresses. What a fabulously indulgent breakfast. Glancing around with approval at his plush surroundings, David sighed and leaned back, replete.
“Great tart. Can I get one to go?” he arched an eyebrow in his most engaging manner at an attractive redhead as she removed his plate. His phone buzzed, saving her reply.
“Ian?” He wiped his mouth with the corner of his napkin and excused himself.
“Just wondered if you were home for the friendly tomorrow. We’re going down the Lion but we’ll need tickets.”
“Yeah. But I need to see Rosy first,” David watched the redhead apply lipstick with an expert flourish.
“How’s the craic?” To David, the envy in his friend’s voice tasted almost as good as breakfast.
“All good. Got another meeting with the main consultant at Mater today to see if I can do a temporary placement,” he boasted. “No-one’s had a face-to-face for months but he likes me. Asked me to Dublin any time I want.”
“You and Rosy?”
“Yeah, of course.” David said, though he’d jumped at the chance of a solo trip. “Except she’s working on a play for a bit, so it won’t be any time soon.”
“Business as usual, then?”
“Yeah. No sex for a while still, but she seems happier, so I’m optimistic.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line and David heard talking.
“Who’s that?”
“The girlfriend. We’re off to the races. Loves a good ride, she does.”
Since Ian’s last conquest was a twenty stone office cleaner and, as far as he knew, Ian knew nothing about horse racing, David let the remark pass without comment.
“I’ve got to go, mate,” Ian apologised. “Clock ticking and all that.”
Wish Rosy thought the same, David thought. “I’ll see you next weekend. Don’t lose all your money; you know you can’t bet for shit.”
“I’ve struck gold with this one,” Ian said smugly.
David hung up and watched a couple holding hands across the red tartan tablecloth. A toddler sat on his father’s lap, feeding himself toast soldiers dipped in egg yolk and a baby in a high chair gurgled delightedly as its mother fed him drippy yoghurt with her free hand.
“DP, life is passing you by,” he said sternly to himself, clenching his fists with the determination of an amateur boxer. “Move it!” He was reminded of the words of his beloved year ten tutor, Mr Morgan: “When David Pettigrew wants something, he gets it!’’ The audience that afternoon didn’t stand a chance: their ears would be well and truly opened.
Chapter 25
The fragrant aroma of lavender-marinated meat met Rosy as she stepped off the minibus. She breathed in boozy, grassy air, patted her hair and listened to the thunderous hooves in the distance. It seemed ironic that she had travelled seventy miles to Goodwood, just a few miles from Lytton, only to travel all the way to the office later again but she was grateful for the respite from the noise and grime of London the annual away day provided ... even if she did have to share it with Deborah.
“Rosy,” Deborah slid up, her smile stretched unconvincingly and her cerulean satin dress, heavy with coach seat static, clung to her reptilian frame.
“Deborah,” Rosy shot her a dazzling smile thinking, ‘it’s only one day.’ The seating plan at Jackson Taylor had changed so that, although she had lost her beloved faux fur chair, she no longer had to endure the endless ear chewing.
Amy and Emma, buxom girls from food science publishing, staggered down the steps into the sunshine and flanked Rosy like loyal spaniels. “Booze,” Emma declared. Deborah looked as though someone had suggested dancing naked.
“It’s ten thirty,” Amy said weakly.
“Don’t care. No kids. Free drink.” Emma pushed herself between them, linked an arm through each of theirs and marched off in the direction of the Pimms tent.
They found a spot on the edge of an enormous tarpaulin and collapsed in a heap of floral sprigged linen. Rosy kicked off her heels and stretched her legs out in front of her, wiggling her toes with pleasure. The horses galloped past, sweating and panting. “Like me after sex,” Emma noted.
“Gross,” said Amy. “But at least you’re having some.” Rosy munched a slice of quiche and kept quiet.
“Darcy’s nearly two so she tends to sleep through, so if we REALLY want to do it, we just make sure she’s completely knackered.”
“That’s nice,” said Rosy, poking a lump of cucumber and watching it bob up through the ice cubes.
“Probably at it like rabbits, aren’t you Rosy?” Emma said enviously. “I dream of pre-baby days.”
“David and I have both got other things on at the moment,” Rosy breezed.
“Fair enough.” Emma and Amy watched the horses in the distance.
“Dan’s looking fit,” said Amy after a minute or two. Rosy followed her eyes to a virile young graphic designer struggling to open a beer bottle with his teeth a few metres away. Dan had a terrible reputation and found it difficult to keep his mind on work for longer than an hour at a time. He had famously taken a shower with one of the editorial assistants after punting at Oxford on the last away day, whilst his junior kept watch outside.
“He’s more my kind,” Emma nodded past Dan at a tall man with no hair standing beyond the Jackson Tayler crowd. He wore a well-fitting suit with thin lapels and was searching in his pocket for something. Rosy gasped. “That’s Ian!”
“Who?”
“David’s friend Ian.” She moved her hand quickly, splashing Pimms over her dress.
Amy took the plastic beaker and set it down carefully. “Do you want to say ‘hello’?”
Rosy hesitated. If David found out she’d seen Ian but not spoken to him, he would not be pleased. And the thought of David’s disapproval depressed her enormously.
“He’s probably with clients,” she conceded, and craned her neck as Ian disappeared behind the betting booth. Frilly hats obscured her vision further and she wondered whether he had been a Pimms-induced figment of her imagin
ation.
“Come on; let’s go and see what’s happening.” Emma hauled herself to her feet and reached out for the other two. They rose unsteadily and Amy shot Dan a lingering look.
Heels in hand, they picked their way through picnic debris. “The games tent!” squawked Amy, pushing through the throng. Rosy put her head down as they squeezed through the milling crowds near the track but halfway there she felt a sharp tap on her shoulder.
“Deborah, we’re not at work now and I really don’t want to talk about ...”
“Who’s Deborah?” a smile as charming as Michelle Obama, as deadly as Simon Cowell’s loomed at Rosy who recoiled from the dentally awesome smile of Monica Bates. “Darling, I believe we’ve met before. Though I must say, I almost didn’t recognise you. Your dress sense has improved.” She gave an appreciative nod and sipped champagne.
Rosy tried to look serene. Amy passed another Pimms.
“Are you having a fun day?” She said the word ‘fun’ as though speaking to a four year old, which made Rosy’s blood boil.
“I’m here with work.” She emphasised the word.
“How kind to let you have a bit of a jolly,” Monica looked pityingly at Rosy through three coats of mascara. “You must be so tired working full-time.” She popped her glass on a nearby ledge and touched the corner of her mouth daintily with a silver manicured finger.
Rosy felt the ground rumble. She tried valiantly to block Angus from her head but it was impossible. The memory of the two of them cosied up in Monica’s front hall was too vivid. Feeling sick and hot, she stumbled away and into the games tent.
Surrounded by clapping and cheering, Rosy doubled over to get her breath back. Looking backwards through the forest of legs, she saw `Monica’s over-toned calves disappearing like a prize pony.
Amy bent down. “Are you ok?”
“I think so.” The world came back into perspective.
“Great!” Emma grabbed Rosy’s hand and pulled her over the grass to a huge bucking bronco in the middle of the tent.
