Rosie

by Alan Titchmarsh

  ‘Of course.’ He stroked her hand.

  ‘Only I would like to know before . . . Well, soon.’

  She closed her eyes. He held her hand until her breathing was soft and steady, then slipped away, determined to sort himself out. Clever Rosie. She always knew what he was thinking. How did she manage to play every moment so that it brought out the best in people? At least, that was how it seemed. Except, of course, when she misbehaved. Then she was a liability. But right now it seemed churlish to harbour such a thought, and he had to face facts: those days were probably over.

  29

  Perle des Jardins

  Probably better under glass in cold, wet districts.

  They had not spoken for thirty-six hours. He did not know how she was feeling or what she was doing. He wanted to ask if she and Victoria would like to come over and stay for the weekend, though he was fearful of putting the question; afraid of being turned down.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. She sounded preoccupied, hesitant. It was as if the passion and conviction they had shared only a few days previously had evaporated.

  ‘Do you want to meet first? To talk?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Yes, that might be best.’

  ‘Shall I come to you?’ He knew at once what the answer would be. She seemed anxious to keep him out of her world. He hoped it was because she wanted to leave it behind, and thought of him as her new life.

  ‘No. I’ll come to you. I’ll get the seven o’clock ferry.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll pick you up.’

  And she was gone, with no talk of love, just a brief goodbye. But it was enough to make him want to fight for her. As for his chance of success, that was anybody’s guess.

  Filling the day would be the main thing. He needed something to take his mind off her. Well, not her so much as the likely outcome of their meeting. Something he could concentrate on. Like diamonds. He drove into Newport and looked in the windows of the jewellers’ shops, but there seemed little point in going inside to ask questions: the rings in the windows were priced in hundreds, and the stones were barely visible in their settings.

  Eventually, while he was taking a short-cut between the two main streets down a narrow alleyway, he passed a small shop with an ornamental metal grille on the inside. Several bright spotlights shone on assorted rings and necklaces that pirouetted on deep blue velvet turntables, the gemstones shimmering in the light.

  The sign on the shop front read, ‘Elliott Williams, Jeweller’, in ornate, gilded script. He pushed at the navy blue door, but it refused to open. Then he saw the printed notice: ‘Please Ring For Attention’. He pressed the button on the wall and the door buzzed. He pushed it open, and went into the lavishly appointed shop.

  As the door closed behind him, the outside world receded. The gems dazzled him.

  ‘Can I help?’ The voice was soft, well spoken and civil. At first he could not see where it was coming from. Then a figure appeared from behind one of the display cabinets. It was a man, tall and slim, in his sixties, with grey hair, slightly too long, brushed back from his face. He wore a pinstriped dark blue suit with a striped shirt, white collar and too much cuff showing. The broad-striped tie was held in place by a diamond pin.

  ‘Well, I hope so. It’s just an enquiry, really.’ Nick did his best not to look nervous.

  ‘Fine,’ the man said. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘I just wondered if you could tell me anything about diamonds.’ The moment he had said it, he realized the idiocy of the question.

  The man laughed. ‘I’ll do my best. It’s my name on the sign outside so I should be able to hazard a guess at most things.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry.’

  ‘Look, it’s rather quiet at the moment. Would you like some coffee? Miranda’s making some.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Elliott Williams put his head round the door that led to a room behind the shop. ‘Can you make that three, Miranda? We have a guest.’

  Nick heard a compliant murmur, and tried to take in the contents of the display counter immediately in front of him. There were gems of all colours and sizes – rubies, emeralds, diamonds and sapphires, in brooches, on rings and even tiaras. He wondered how much call there was for diamond tiaras on the Isle of Wight. ‘How do you get them to shine so much?’ he asked. ‘I suppose it’s the lighting.’

  ‘Partly, but mostly it’s down to the cut . . . So, what do you want to know?’

  Nick pulled himself out of his reverie. ‘Well, I’ve been given some diamonds. Well, a diamond. And I just want to know a bit about them, really.’

  ‘Do you have it with you?’

  ‘No, but I could bring it in.’

  ‘That might be an idea. They come in all sorts of sizes and the quality varies. You know about the four Cs, I presume?’

  ‘The four Cs?’

  ‘Yes. A diamond is graded according to four characteristics – cut, carat, which is its weight, clarity and colour.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Is your diamond particularly large?’

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s about as big as my little fingernail.’

  Elliott Williams paused. Then he said, ‘Hmm. I think you had better bring it in. You do have it somewhere safe, I hope?’

  ‘The bank.’

  ‘Good. A lot will depend on the other three Cs, as I’ve said. Is it cut or uncut?’

  ‘Oh, it’s cut.’

  ‘Shape?’

  ‘Roundish, I suppose.’

  ‘In which case it will probably have fifty-eight facets. The better proportioned the facets, the better the light reflection and the more the diamond will sparkle.’

  Miranda, a rather superior-looking girl with long blonde hair and a tight black mini dress, brought in two cups of coffee on a silver tray. She looked, and walked, like a model.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Nick, as he took the proffered cup. She smiled absently but did not meet his eye. Nick found himself musing on her relationship with Mr Williams. Daughter? Girlfriend? Then he came back to the matter in hand. ‘Are they all cut the same?’

  ‘There are recognized cuts. The most usual is the AGS Ideal Cut, sometimes known as the American Ideal Cut.’

  ‘Always American!’ said Nick, making polite conversation.

  ‘Except that it was first published in England by a man called Towkowsky who worked for a Belgian firm of cutters.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Elliott Williams was warming to his subject. ‘There are slight variations on the theme, but we usually call them Ideal Cuts. Then we come to weight, measured in carats. There are a hundred points to a carat, so a fifty-point diamond weighs?’

  ‘Half a carat?’ suggested Nick.

  ‘Correct.’ Elliott sipped his coffee, then took a key from his jacket pocket and opened the back of the display case. He slid out a flat, square cushion on which rested a single stone with no setting. He laid it on the counter. ‘Here you are. Take a look.’ He handed Nick a small lens with which to examine the stone under the light.

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it? But it’s not flawless. If you look very closely you’ll see one or two very slight imperfections. It’s what we call a VS1, which means it has very small inclusions. A VVS1 has very, very small inclusions – imperfections. Flawless is the best, down to I3, which has inclusions visible to the naked eye.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes, even you would,’ retorted Elliott, amused by his own witticism.

  Nick smiled politely. ‘So the clarity of my diamond is very important?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It will affect the value tremendously. A one-carat diamond could vary in price between a hundred pounds and twenty-five thousand, depending on its quality.’

  Nick recapped, to make sure he had all the facts. ‘So that’s cut, carat and clarity. What about colour?’

  ‘Anything from D to X.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘From white to yellow, though you can also get blue, pink, red, green
and even brown diamonds. But they will usually have been irradiated.’

  ‘Aren’t white ones the best?’

  ‘Well, there’s a lot of call for yellow at the moment. Fashionable, you know.’

  Nick sipped at his coffee. ‘And where do they come from? South Africa?’

  ‘Oh, not always. They may come from Australia, Namibia, Botswana . . .’

  ‘What about Russia?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Increasingly. Around twenty-five per cent of the world’s diamonds come from Russia.’

  ‘And are they good quality?’

  ‘Undoubtedly. They didn’t discover them until the nineteen fifties and until recently there was a strict export quota. But that changed in 2002.’

  ‘So there are more of them about now?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  Elliott drained his coffee cup and looked at his watch. ‘Well, if that’s all you need to know, I have an appointment to get to.’

  Nick realized that he had probably trespassed on Elliott Williams’s time rather more than he should have. ‘Of course. Sorry.’

  ‘Not at all. If you want an appraisal I should charge you, but why don’t you pop back with the diamond and I’ll give you a rough idea of its likely value for nothing?’

  ‘Thank you. I will.’

  Nick said goodbye and thanked his educator. He wondered if he dared take in all the diamonds, or whether that would make Elliott Williams suspicious of how he had come by them.

  In this, and in other matters, he would need to come to a firm decision over the next couple of days.

  When he got back to the Anchorage Sophie was packing her bag.

  ‘I thought you weren’t going until the weekend?’

  ‘Been here long enough. Given you enough grief. Thought I’d better move out.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid!’

  ‘No, it’s all right. You need your space. Especially now.’

  ‘But you can stay. I don’t mind.’

  Sophie stopped folding a shirt. ‘What I said last night. Sorry if I got carried away. Too much wine.’

  ‘Don’t worry – you were quite right. I was talking to Rosie today and she was telling me her side of the story.’

  ‘Poor Nick. You’re getting it from all sides, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, I can cope. I’m made of tough stuff.’

  Sophie put her head on one side. ‘Do you know? I think you are!’

  ‘You sound surprised.’

  ‘I am. Always thought you were the gentle one.’

  ‘It’s a common misconception. That just because somebody is quiet and doesn’t make a fuss, they’re ineffectual.’ He smiled at her.

  Sophie zipped up her bag and picked up her jacket.

  ‘You’ll cope. I’m sure that whatever happens will be for the best.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ And then, under his breath, ‘I just wish I shared your conviction.’

  He was waiting for her in the MG at half past six, in case the ferry was early. They never were, but tonight he wanted to be sure. He wondered what she had said to Victoria, and what Victoria had said to her. He fretted and tried to imagine their conversation over and over again, but paranoia made it come out all wrong.

  ‘Do you have to go?’ Victoria would have asked.

  ‘Just one last time,’ would have been Alex’s answer. ‘Then I’ll be back here for good.’

  He must be more positive. He knew Victoria liked him. She’d told him so, hadn’t she? She’d said her mother loved him. But how could she know?

  He tried to stop speculating, knowing it was counterproductive, but when the human mind discovers a weakness it gnaws away at it like a dog with a bone.

  Eventually he got out of the car, leaned on the bonnet and looked out across the water. He could see the ferry rounding the headland. It would be here in five or ten minutes, and then he would know his fate.

  He brushed down his trousers. He had decided on the navy chinos and the dark blue shirt in the hope that they made him look irresistible. He grimaced at the thought. Him? Irresistible? That was a laugh. He had looked at himself naked in the mirror that morning, doing a kind of stock-take of himself at nearly forty. He was still in passable shape, still staving off the advent of middle-age spread, still upright, reasonably muscular, not too pale. And then he had shaken his head at his own vanity, and pulled on jeans and a sweat shirt for his trip into Newport. But now he was clean shaven and smartened up.

  The ferry shimmied up to the slipway and the ramp descended. Cars flooded off, and to either side of them came foot passengers: teenagers with rucksacks, parents with children, old men and women, some with sticks. There were a couple of dogs and half a dozen cyclists, but no sign of Alex.

  Perhaps she was holding back. Waiting until all the traffic had disembarked. Yes, that must be it. But after ten minutes, when the last car and pedestrian had walked up the slipway, and the cars for the return crossing were being driven down to the water’s edge and up the ramp of the ferry, he realized she was not there – that she had not come.

  30

  Blush Damask

  . . . the decayed flowers are very reluctant to fall.

  ‘Do you think you could move your car, sir? It’s causing an obstruction.’

  He didn’t answer. He was miles away.

  ‘Sir? Excuse me!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your car. It’s in the way. Could you move it or get on board?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. Just a minute.’ He got out of the car, ran across to the booking office, bought a ticket, then drove on to the ferry. If she wouldn’t come to him, he’d go to her. Even if she didn’t want to see him, at least he could clear things up, tell her that if she ever changed her mind he would be there whenever she needed him. She and Victoria.

  He had her address but was not familiar with that part of Portsmouth. The ferry seemed to take an age, waltzing around the Solent as though it were on a dance floor. Just as he thought they were making headway, the vessel seemed to slow down. What was the problem? Why weren’t they going faster? Then he realized that they couldn’t dock at Portsmouth until the other ferry vacated the berth. Damn! He looked at his watch. A quarter to eight. With any luck he’d be there within fifteen minutes. Thirty at the outside.

  What would he say? What should he say? Right now, no words would come. His mind was blank. He tried to think clearly. Tried to imagine why she hadn’t come. Perhaps she had decided to catch a later ferry – the one that was only now leaving the berth. He scrutinized the row of passengers leaning over the rail. She was not there. But he might have missed her. Perhaps she was inside. He tapped the steering-wheel impatiently.

  When he drove off, a lady walking a dog offered directions, and soon he was driving in a smart street on the edge of the city, looking for number twenty-nine.

  As he pulled up outside the modern terraced house, he saw Victoria’s face at the window. As soon as she saw him she turned away, clearly talking to someone. Then she looked out again. Alex appeared at her shoulder. He got out of the car and waved. She waved back. But she did not smile.

  He found it difficult to talk in front of Victoria, and so did Alex. ‘Why don’t you pop up to your room, sweetheart?’ she said.

  Victoria looked from one to the other. ‘Do I have to?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Alex told her.

  ‘OK.’ She paused in the doorway and said, ‘Goodbye, Nick.’

  He raised a hand, then turned back to Alex, who was filling the kettle. ‘Why did you say you would come?’

  ‘Because I didn’t want to disappoint you.’ She looked agonized. ‘I’m sorry, I really am.’ She motioned him to sit at the kitchen table.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘It seemed to be going so well. Even when Victoria went missing we found her together.’

  ‘I know. It’s just that . . .’ She seemed reluctant to meet his eye. She looked embarrassed, almost ashamed. ‘I just think we’d better stop seeing each other for a while.�
�� She said it with little enthusiasm.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because I have to think of Victoria.’

  ‘Why does that mean we have to stop seeing each other?’

  ‘Because I don’t want to upset her any more. She’s been through a lot lately, what with her dad leaving, and then going missing . . .’

  ‘But she only went missing because she wanted to see Rosie and find out if she was all right.’

  ‘No. She went missing because she was upset, unsettled and frightened.’

  ‘Is that what she said? She told me it was because she wanted to see Rosie.’ He hesitated. ‘And me.’

  Alex studied him carefully, then came and sat down. ‘I can’t risk anything going wrong between her and me. I just can’t. She’s all I’ve got.’

  Nick sat back. ‘She’s not. You’ve got me, you know you have.’

  Alex shook her head. ‘No, I don’t. I know we’ve had a good time, but I don’t really know you. And you don’t really know me. It might be fun for a few more weeks, months even, but what if it all ended then? Where would that leave Victoria?’

  Nick bridled. ‘How can you say that? How can you say that we simply “had a good time”?’ You know it was more than that.’

  ‘Do I?’

  He was angry now. ‘Yes, you do. And if you’re trying to claim otherwise, then you’re fooling yourself. If you can say that when we were together – properly together – you didn’t really know me, then I don’t believe you. You felt the same way as I did. Even if you didn’t say so.’

  She spoke quickly now. ‘You just can’t see, can you?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘Why I have to do this?’

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘But then you’ve never had a child.’

  He was stung, knowing how things could have been so very different. He hesitated a moment before he spoke. ‘It doesn’t mean I can’t see how important Victoria is, and why it’s important that she’s happy – but that shouldn’t mean that you have to be unhappy. You can’t simply live your life for her.’