by Polly Young
During Christmas and New Year, the DEXTRA office was closed but Rosy had volunteered her time, to familiarise herself with the office systems; take time to do quiet background reading and to set up her own files and folders ready for the challenges of January.
She remembered David dragging her to a Christmas party a few years back, when he had been trying to impress a friend of his who worked for a large medical devices company. She did notmiss those evenings. Not one little bit.
The fuel gauge wobbled towards ‘E’, but the small red light had accompanied her on many journeys and she wasn’t worried. She relaxed and watched the bleak, beautiful scenery as she passed through the bottlenecks and out onto the open road. Her phone rang and the name on the screen made her turn it off instantly. She settled down to the climax of the play, trying to concentrate a little harder than she had been on the storyline. Realising it was about a girl who had to choose between suitors, she switched it off and silence reigned as she swept along the south coast.
Nearing Exeter, Rosy’s stomach rumbled and she made a sharp turn towards Ivybridge. The snow that buffeted the car, making her veer onto the hard shoulder, was coming down harder. As she pulled into the slip road, her feet on the brakes were too hard; too sudden. She skidded. The last thing she saw in her rear view mirror were Storm’s eyes snapping open. And then everything went black.
Chapter 32
It was a different hospital but the same smell. Opening her eyes, Rosy recognised the dreary forest of aluminium poles that had protected her father’s bed and groaned.
Judy’s face lit up like she’d removed a perfect blackberry and cheese soufflé from the Aga.
“Thank God.”
A nurse, overweight but fleet of foot, rushed towards them, seized Rosy’s wrist and began taking readings from bleeping machines.
“Storm?” Rosy asked in panic, attempting to sit up. Her legs felt heavy and constricted, as though bound with wire.
The nurse tutted and pushed her back gently. “Darling, don’t,” Judy’s eyes pierced her daughter’s. “You’re badly concussed. Don’t try to move. Storm’s fine; she must have jumped clear of the car. Her barking let everyone know you crashed. Daddy’s taken her in the car to get Ollie from the station.” Rosy lay back in starchy confusion, her head pounding. Her whole family convening at her bedside? In Devon? Was she dying?
Her mother filled in the gaps. “You hit a tree.”
The nurse gave Rosy the low-down on her condition: suspected head trauma and nasty scratches to her legs. “But you’ll be up and about for New Year,” she said, scribbling something before muttering, “we need the beds,” and whisking off. Rosy was thinking about tackling Judy’s fruit basket when a head appeared through the spearmint coloured curtains, like a pantomime villain.
“DAVID?” Rosy coughed weakly and made frantic ‘go away’ gestures.
“It’s alright, darling,” Judy soothed. “I rang him.”
Rosy shot her mother a look of strychnine. “Why?”
“I think he has something to tell you. David?” He cowered under Judy’s strip-lit glare.
How did her bloody mother know about her love life? Rosy saw herself through David’s eyes: red hands, shiny skin and the certain enormous black mascara blotches under her eyes. But David also looked shambolic. She pulled the covers up to her neck, giving silent thanks for the unflattering but reassuringly impenetrable high neck.
David folded himself uneasily on the chair. “Hi.”
She fiddled with the top of the pale grey duvet, wishing it were tartan.
There was a long silence. “How long before you’re out?”
His eye-bags had to be worse than hers. “You look exhausted,” she said.
“I, um,” he cleared his throat. “I’ve had a baby,” he confessed.
She was quiet for a minute to give the golf ball time to whack another hole into her heart. There was a pang of something that could, she supposed, have been loss, but she felt surprisingly calm. “That’s ... quick.”
“It takes nine months,”
She looked at him witheringly. “I know, David. We’ve been apart for fourteen.”
He had the decency to look embarrassed. “You knew I wanted children,” he said quietly.
“Why are you telling me now?” Had she had a lobotomy whilst she’d been unconscious? She felt completely dispassionate. Of course he had had a child. He’d wanted them for years. He would have seen to it that the Pettigrew line did not stutter.
“It’s the right thing to do.”
“No, David. Why are you telling me now?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t want you to think I thought it was a big deal.” His words hung in the air between them, waiting to be plucked and digested. She left them there. “But I actually have something else,” he pulled his chair closer to the bed.
“I know, David.” What a pity her mother had left the cubicle. She would have so enjoyed seeing his face.
“About Angus,” she continued. “I know you felt threatened. I know you spread rumours about his behaviour.”
“There’s more than that.”
God he looked exhausted. And God, some small, sadistic part of her was enjoying this. “Go on,” she said coldly. He seemed to summon enormous strength from somewhere and reached for her hands, but she kept them hidden. “This is the worst thing I have ever done.”
“If it’s worse than fathering a child within minutes of breaking up with your fiancée and having an illicit affair with a French girl, I’m dying to hear it.”
He looked baffled. “What affair?”
Did he really expect her to honour that with a response? “With Jen. In Paris.”
“I didn’t have an affair with her,” he was white. “I bought her a necklace, yes, but it was to say ‘thank you’ for the Manchester United tickets. I would never, ever cheat on you. You should know that.” He looked baffled.
She was glad she was in bed because if she hadn’t been, she would have hit the floor. “You DIDN’T have an affair?”
“No! Jen tried it on with me a couple of times. I’m sorry I said she’d got the necklace elsewhere ... I panicked. It was stupid. But there was never an affair. I was engaged to you!”
Jen’s squeaky-pitched, “can’t wait to thank him properly ...”was etched into her brain. Months of heartache flashed in front of her; a Super 8 film of her life. The mournful walks with Storm. The frantic rehearsals and writing to keep her mind off David in bed in a Parisian boudoir; the drunken bonding sessions with Vic. Angus. She laughed weakly. “Why didn’t you say?”
“You wouldn’t speak to me, remember?”
“But back in London ..?”
“...I may have be wrong but I felt the fragile state of our relationship needed us to be forward-looking, not backward.”
“So why did you sabotage Angus?”
“Simple jealousy,” he shrugged. “Male pride. I was away from you and wanted him out of the picture.”
Her head was spinning. “What did you tell Mr. Sidcup?”
He didn’t speak.
“David!”
“I paid Monica Bates to accuse him of indecent assault,” he said shortly. “I had Ian wine and dine her. She was happy to oblige. I think there were some sour grapes there,” he said, stealing one of Rosy’s.
She slapped his hand. “That’s slander!”
He nodded.
So that’s why Ian and Monica had been at the races together. Things were slotting together, like a cheap IKEA bookcase. That’s why Angus had stopped short of telling her anything specific in the sailing club. “Why?”
“Again, stupid male pride,” he admitted. “But it’s out in the open now. I told the police about my part but they’ve dropped all charges.”
“Angus?” she guessed.
“It pains me to say it but he’s a good man, Rosy. Said he didn’t want to take it any further.”
Or burden her. A great man. Who had fought for her and whom she had turned
away. Judy materialised with some light reading matter.
“You knew about all this too, Mum?”
She nodded. “I hope, David, you will set an example to your child in being scrupulously honest from now on.”
“Cathy wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said. “I really am so desperately sorry.”
Sirens, which had started to fade, started to whine again. “Cathy ... Coaxham? Dog Cathy?”
“She’s always wanted children too,” David said. “When we had our rehearsal in the Moon, Cathy was so kind to me. We struck up a ... friendship. And when I realised I loved her even with her beaky nose, I realised it was serious.”
“You’re telling me!”
“We ... we’re engaged. She has the ruby ring: said she was in love with it from the minute she saw it. I hope you don’t mind; it matches her hair and I didn’t feel I could say ‘no’. At least it’s found a good home. She loves you, Rosy,” David’s exhaustion exposed his raw emotion. “I do too. We all do. I’m so sorry, but I hope that with time you’ll see that you and I really weren’t suited.”
She supposed it was true. Cathy and David were perfect for each other. Cathy needed someone honest, professional and yet a little bit distant. She was bored of Lytton and David would be a good provider. She noticed suddenly that his eczema had vanished. Blackberry tea, no doubt. “What about the dog training?”
“She’ll do it in London. She’s found someone to take over the classes in Lytton and says she’ll have enough on her plate training me,” David’s pupils widened.
“I know it’s a terrible shock,” Judy poured Rosy a glass of water. “David, if you don’t mind, this is now a family time.”
“Of course.” He was about to disappear when a familiar voice came through the fabric barricade.
“Hey there,” Katy’s immaculate face burst through the curtains like the sun’s rays. “Careful, Ollie,” she giggled and held onto the arm of Rosy’s brother, who had followed her into the cubicle.
“What? Am I still unconscious?” Rosy was having a hard time processing so much new information. “Ol? Is Katy your girlfriend?”
Her brother looked like he’d been chosen to be Mark Ronson’s apprentice. “Yes,” he said shyly. “We live together.” Rosy glanced at David, whose expression told her it was news to him.
“We didn’t want anyone to know,” Ollie explained, “what with the, um, politics of the situation.” He gazed at Katy’s gorgeous face, oblivious to anyone in the room but her. “You ok then?”
“Just a brush with death and revelations that would shake Ayers Rock.”
“Speaking of which, Katy and I are off travelling soon,” Ollie looked at Katy in rapture.
“Really?” David asked warily.
“We’re going to jack in the stress and rediscover ourselves,” Katy asserted, tossing a svelte thigh over the corner of Rosy’s bed. “We’ve both been through rather a lot this year,” she reached for Ollie’s hand and squeezed it. Ollie looked as if he’d won the lottery.
“I think we’ll leave you to sleep, sweetheart,” Charles, who had been lurking in the background, stroked his daughter’s head.
“Yes. We must be getting back,” Judy said, gathering book and bag and coat.
David stood. “Rosy, I really hope you get well soon,” he said. “I know Cathy’s dying to see you as soon as we ... as soon as you ...”
“It’s ok, David,” Rosy said. “Once the baby’s a bit older, it’d be nice to see you both too.” She clenched the sheet hard and fixed her smile.
Six o’ clock was chucking out time and soon the cubicle was empty. Although it felt as though the world and his dog had visited, there was emptiness where one person should have been. Where was he? She plumped the pillow into an Angus-shaped bulk and fell into a dreamless sleep.
* * *
Perched on Roger’s lap, Daisy burped and goggled at Rosy. Her monkey hands clasped and grasped air and she chuckled in response to her mother’s encouragement.
“She looks so much like you,” Rosy cooed as Daisy’s white-blonde hair lifted and fell with Roger’s knee jiggles.
“Poor little thing,” agreed Vic. The combination of a five hour drive, with stops for breastfeeding and more baby sick than she’d thought possible for Daisy to produce had left her feeling a bit sick.
“Oi,” Roger gave a smouldering look in defence of his status of Planet’s Best Looking Father, “with this profile, Daisy’ll have to fight them off.”
“She looks a bit pale,” said Vic worriedly. She was right: Daisy looked almost as drained as her mother, though she was still enjoying Knee World. Rosy reached out for her goddaughter.
“Do you want a New Year’s Eve cuddle? Come on, then.” Take-off looked promising but Daisy began to cry the second she touched down in Rosy’s arms.
“She’s been on and off all day,” sighed Vic. “I hope she’s not sickening for something.”
Roger started nappy-focused rummaging. “It won’t be that,” snapped Vic. “I changed her an hour ago.” Rosy watched them bicker with a happy feeling of detachment.
“Rosy,” Vic said brightly, “I’m so sorry. It’s New Year’s Eve; you’ve been out of hospital three days and here we are moaning. How are you feeling? You look great.”
Rosy poured another glass of prosecco and sipped thoughtfully. The red silk dress she had picked to wear for the evening was wrong for such a domestic scene, but she felt good. Nothing seemed to make much sense any more, so to hell with convention: wearing a sexy, low-cut outfit in her own flat with an infant seemed somehow highly appropriate.
“I’m fine. Still reeling physically and mentally but it’ll be next year soon so I can forget them and start afresh,” she laughed. She’d had a glass of wine before the Baxters’ arrival, and here she was on the second glass of fizz. Much more and she’d be feeling sleepy. And even though party options were non-existent, she was damned if she was going to curl up in bed before midnight.
“I still can’t get over Katy and Ollie. That must be so weird,” Roger, who had always been a fan of Katy’s, shook his head like Eeyore.
“They seem happy,” Rosy said. “Ollie needs inspiration and Katy needs a bit of, um ...” she struggled to find the right words.
“Sex?” Vic said, wistfully.
“Katy’s great,” Rosy stuck out her chin.
“I’m sure she is. Shame about her brother. The cad,” Roger was on a sympathy roll.
“David’s not so bad.”
“That’s pretty fantastic of you,” Vic said.
“Not really,” Rosy doodled a drop of prosecco on the side table. “Life’s too short, isn’t it? I can’t — and don’t want to — spend any longer thinking about David. I love Cathy and he’s not a bad man. I hope they’re going to be happy.” She congratulated herself by finishing the remains of her glass.
There was more chat: Vic’s playgroup and Roger’s study; Daisy’s feeding habits. Rosy produced delicious trout and resisted another glass of wine. Daisy slept soundly on the sofa, with Storm next to her like a heavy breathing guardian angel. Soon talk turned to Angus.
“So you’ve heard nothing?” Vic wiped her mouth and sat back.
Rosy agreed. “I don’t know if he’s heard about the accident but would you want to see me after the way I spoke to him?”
Vic screwed her eyes. “No,” she agreed.
Daisy wheezed from the sofa. A long, raspy, throaty sound like an old man.
“Is she ok?”
“Ye-es,” Vic said doubtfully. “She’s on an inhaler some of the time; her lungs have always been weak. I think she’s just had a long day. We should have put her to bed really Rog,”
Roger eagerly whipped out a state of the art thermometer and slapped it on his daughter’s forehead.
Daisy coughed properly. Her eyes snapped open and she began to cry immediately. Vic heaved her onto her lap and began the soothing process. Roger was despatched to fetch a damp cloth.
“I
s there anything I can do?” Rosy felt useless.
“Where’s the nearest hospital?” Vic asked, her brow scored with worry.
“My home from home? A couple of miles away.”
Vic scooped her daughter gently but decisively up into her arms, gestured towards various baby-related accessories and started issuing commands.
“Can you make sure there’s a sterilised bottle? And where are the wipes?”
Rosy plucked ineffectually at Daisy’s blanket. “Do you want me to come?”
“No ...” Vic was distracted. “It’s New Year’s Eve. The place will be packed full of drunks and idiots. Have another glass of fizz. See the New Year in with Storm and I’ll ring you in the morning.”
“Don’t be silly; I’ll come and see you,” Vic and Roger had booked into the Gatehouse Hotel nearby.
The family bundled out of the door and Rosy closed it gently, and then tottered towards the kitchen. Perhaps a cup of tea was in order. It was only just ten o’clock: plenty of time for a bath if she wanted, and some of her favourite chocolate. Her spirits rose slightly, though she couldn’t shake the thought of Daisy’s face. She tried to settle down, even going as far as breaking the seal of a Lytton organic chocolate bar, but it was no good. She was going to have to ...
There was a knock at the door.
“Hang on, Vic. I’ll just get my coat,” Rosy called, and stopped when she opened it.
“Rosy.”
“Angus.”
He stood in the half-light of the streetlamp, looking as though he might melt into the puddle if she didn’t say ‘come in’. So she did.
He stepped into a small, cosy hallway. “Nice place.”
“Thanks,” she gave a small smile and plucked at her skirt. “I like it.”
“Are you going out?”
“Oh ... no.” She sketched over her evening. He probably thought even worse of her for not having a crazy, debauched, ‘now-I’m-single, -let’s-have-fun’ New Year.
As if reading her mind, he apologised for his own lack of excitement. “I had nothing to do and no-one to do it with.”
She gave him a small smile and led him through to the sitting room where he perched uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa. “Angus, I ...”
