Rosie Meadows Regrets...

by Catherine Alliott

  Catherine Alliott

  ROSIE MEADOWS REGRETS …

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Follow Penguin

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Catherine Alliott is the author of twelve bestselling novels including One Day in May, The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton and A Crowded Marriage. She lives with her family in Hertfordshire.

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  ROSIE MEADOWS REGRETS …

  ‘Her books are supremely readable, witty and moving in equal measure and she has a brilliantly sharp ear for dialogue’

  Daily Mail

  ‘Possibly my favourite writer’

  Marian Keyes

  ‘An addictive cocktail of wit, frivolity and madcap romance’

  Time Out

  ‘Sensitive, funny and wonderfully well written’

  Wendy Holden, Daily Express

  ‘Another charming tale of heartbreak from this wonderfully warm and witty author’

  Woman

  ‘A poignant but charming journey of self-discovery. A bittersweet and captivating novel’

  Closer

  ‘We defy you not to get caught up in Alliott’s life-changing tale’

  Heat

  ‘A fun, fast-paced page-turner’

  OK!

  For my parents

  Chapter One

  ‘So anyway, Charlie here turned to me and said, “Okay, Charlotte, if you’re such a crack shot, how about a game of strip shooting in the field!” – expecting me to swoon and reach for the vapours or something. So I said, “All right, you bastard, you’re on!”’

  I took a sip of wine to steady my nerves and gazed at my raconteuring hostess over the mahogany dining table. I certainly couldn’t look at Charlie’s wife, Lavinia, down the other end.

  ‘So out we all went with our shotguns,’ Charlotte went on, ‘drunk as skunks – well, Charlie and I certainly were – into the paddock, and someone managed to focus long enough to send up the clays and I hoisted Daddy’s Purdey up into my shoulder and – well!’ She paused, suspending animation just long enough to draw a few dutiful gasps of admiration from her guests. ‘Blow me if I didn’t get every single one of those clays and these bastards didn’t get a dicky bird!’

  Raucous laughter and much table thumping greeted this, particularly from my husband who was going to put his fist through his side plate in a minute. I watched as he roared away, his round, moon-like face gleaming as red as the foppish hanky sticking out of his breast pocket, upper lip perspiring freely, eyes gleaming lasciviously.

  ‘And did they?’ he bellowed. ‘Strip?’

  ‘You bet they did!’ came back the retiring Charlotte. ‘Stark bollock naked every single one of them and I had them standing to attention presenting arms – amongst other things – before I moved along the ranks inspecting them with a riding crop – ha ha!’

  ‘Oh, Charlotte, you didn’t!’ shrieked a horsy girl to my left. ‘You are a scream!’

  Yes, wasn’t she just? I didn’t notice Lavinia screaming too much though. I glanced at her flushed face. She’d just about managed to bare her teeth in a brave semblance of a smile as she pushed a piece of Brie around her plate. I sipped my wine and flashed a look at Charlotte’s husband, Boffy, wondering how he was taking all this. On what passed for his chin, apparently, judging by the way he was doubled up with mirth, spluttering Stilton down his red braces. Clearly he couldn’t have been more pleased that his wife took such a keen interest in other men’s anatomy.

  As I gazed around the table at the assembled port-swilling, braying throng, it did occur to me to wonder, though, whether I was being entirely fair here. Wasn’t I being just a little bit jaundiced on account of the company? A little bit partisan? If this had been a dinner party at one of my friends’ houses for instance, and had it been Kate, say, or Alice doing the storytelling, might I not have found it amusing? Wasn’t it just the fact that it was one of Harry’s friends that made it all so puerile?

  ‘Rosie, get that port moving,’ bellowed my shy hostess. ‘I’ve got a hell of a thirst on over here!’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ I dutifully shoved along the ship’s decanter which had obviously been stuck in front of me for some time and cleared my throat which was dry from lack of use.

  ‘Actually,’ I said bravely, trying to catch Harry’s bloodshot eye, ‘I think we’d better be making a move soon. I told the baby-sitter midnight and it’s half past already …’

  ‘Is it?’ Charlotte flashed up her Rolex. ‘Christ! I’ve got a bridge lesson first thing in the morning. Come on, you lot, get out of here. Go on, bugger off. I’ll get the Hoover out in a minute!’

  There was a great deal of laughing and scraping back of chairs but not many bottoms were off the tapestry seat covers quite as smartly as mine. Two seconds later I had my coat on and my bag firmly over my shoulder. Five minutes went by and I was still smiling fixedly, waiting patiently as Harry did his usual protracted round of leave-taking, slapping backs heartily and collecting prospective engagements wherever he could.

  ‘Charlie! It’s been far too long, we must get together again soon … Oh, really? On Thursday? No, not a thing, yes, we’d love to come, wouldn’t we, darling? Hey, Rosie, social secretary – wake up! Drinks party on Thursday night all right?’

  ‘Charlie and Lavinia live in Hampshire, Harry,’ I said quietly.

  ‘So what? Won’t take long, we’ll be there in an hour, won’t we, Charlie? Charlie?’

  Charlie broke off from talking to someone else. He turned to Harry as if he couldn’t quite remember him. ‘Hour and a half from central London, old boy.’

  ‘Much as that, eh? Can’t think why you live out there in the sticks, takes me eight and a half minutes to get to Sloane Square!’

  Charlie raised his eyebrows. ‘Eight and a half minutes? I’m only halfway down my drive.’

  Much guffawing greeted this, with Harry promising, nonetheless, that we’d be there come hell or high water, eh, Rosie?

  ‘Fine,’ I said nodding, grinning, and wishing to God Harry wouldn’t do this. If Charlie had wanted us there in the first place he’d have sent us an invitation. I gave a tight little smile. ‘We’d love to come, Charlie.’

  Finally we were at the door, planting more kisses, making more false promises.

  ‘Rosie, do come and make up a bridge four some time,’ insisted Charlotte. ‘I know you’re crap but it doesn’t matter in the least, no one minds, really!’

  ‘You’re sweet,’ I lied. ‘And I’ll ring you, really I will. Thanks so much, Charlotte, it was a lovely evening, delicious supper. ’Night, Boffy.’ I pecked their cheeks.

  ‘’Bye, darlings!’ Charlotte carolled as we went off into the night. ‘And don’t forget to ring
, Rosie!’

  ‘I won’t!’ I waved back to the light of the hall, keeping a bright smile going at the two figures silhouetted within it. At last the blue front door closed on them, shutting us out, leaving us to the welcoming cold night air. I gave a sigh of relief as it enveloped us and huddled down into my coat, breathing the icy wind in gratefully as I made my way along the slippery pavement to the car.

  I got in quickly and waited, hand poised on the ignition, watching in the rear-view mirror as Harry made his habitually slow, stumbling progress round the back to his side. He fumbled with the handle, missed, tried again, opened it, and then with a great grunt lowered himself into the passenger seat. His huge bulk spilled out over the handbrake, his knees ending up somewhere near his nose. He sank back happily and sighed.

  ‘Ahhh … well done, darling,’ he patted my hand. ‘Very well done indeed. I think that went extremely smoothly. Nine and a half, I’d say.’

  I ground my teeth and turned the ignition. ‘Good,’ I murmured, wisely keeping my counsel. Gone were the days when I’d upbraid Harry for his loathsome habit of giving an evening marks out of ten when we’d just been to supper with someone who owned a grouse moor, or a salmon river, or a chalet in Switzerland, or any other sort of action that Harry might want a slice of. No, the last thing I wanted was a heated row on the way home, only to crawl into bed with a raging headache, tossing and turning all night as Harry snored for England beside me.

  As we purred slowly down the narrow, lamp-lit Fulham street, Harry settled his head back on the rest and closed his eyes.

  ‘Just one teeny point though, darling,’ he murmured. ‘You were a bit sort of – quiet tonight. Bit mousy. You must try to loosen up with my friends, you know. I know you find them intimidating but they won’t bite. It’s all a question of confidence.’ There was a pause. ‘Oh, and one other thing.’ He turned his head towards me. ‘I overheard you talking to Boffy about going horse racing. It’s racing actually, sweetie. A small point, but one worth remembering, eh?’

  I didn’t answer, just ground my teeth some more. Don’t rise, Rosie, just don’t rise.

  ‘All right to drive, my love?’ he went on sleepily. ‘Not sure I’m up to it tonight, feeling a bit kippy.’

  ‘Of course I’m all right,’ I muttered, wondering why he even bothered to ask. I always drove home; in fact these days it was nip and tuck whether Harry could actually drive to a party depending on how many pre-dinner whiskies he’d sunk in his bath beforehand. I sighed and shunted up a gear. Oh, so what, Rosie, let him drink, at least it puts him to sleep, doesn’t it? I glanced hopefully across at his slumbering profile but – hello, the eyelids were flickering again. He’d obviously remembered something crucial. He blinked his pale blue eyes and grinned into the night.

  ‘I say, Charlotte’s an awfully good sort, isn’t she?’

  Sort of what? I was tempted to ask. Sort of witch? Sort of trollop? But I knew better than that. I gave a twisted smile. ‘Yes, isn’t she.’

  ‘Sound quite fun, these little bridge parties of hers. Why don’t you go along? Do you good.’

  I gripped the steering wheel hard, thinking I’d rather haemorrhage from the navel. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Harry, how can I possibly play bridge when I’ve got Ivo to look after? What d’you expect him to do, sit in his high chair and count the rubbers?’

  ‘Rubbers?’ He looked startled. ‘Aren’t they – condoms or something?’

  I grinned. ‘No, Harry, it’s a bridge term, although actually it wouldn’t surprise me if condoms did make an appearance soon. If Charlotte’s giving nude shooting parties it won’t be long before she spices up her bridge afternoons too, turns them into Ann Summers parties or something.’ I smiled to myself. Privately I’d always thought the C was silent in Charlotte’s name.

  Harry frowned, confused. ‘Ann Summers? Don’t think we know her, do we? Ah yes, got it, pretty little red-head, met her at the Compton-Burnetts’ – father’s a bishop?’

  ‘Well, if he is, he’s bitterly disappointed,’ I muttered as I swerved dangerously round a midnight cyclist with an apparent death wish. ‘No, forget it, Harry, you don’t know her, but the point is I can’t do anything remotely social during the day until Ivo goes to nursery school, can I? And that won’t be for ages.’

  ‘Well, get a nanny, everyone else has got one,’ he said petulantly.

  I dug my nails fiercely into the mock leather trim of the wheel. This was an age-old bone of contention.

  ‘Everyone that you know has got one, everyone that I know either looks after their children or has a nanny because they go to work, they don’t fiddle-fart around at bridge parties and coffee mornings. But look, darling,’ I said quickly, seeing him bridle, ‘let’s not discuss it now, okay? I’m tired and I just want to get home and go to bed.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said tersely. ‘Fine. All I’m saying, Rosie, is don’t expect invitations to shoot in Northumberland to fall into your lap, okay? You have to be prepared to put in a bit of groundwork first, you know!’

  I smiled. Ah, so that’s what this was all about. Shooting in Northumberland. Yes, well, I’d had such a terrific time there last year, no doubt I’d be round at Charlotte’s first thing tomorrow, sharpening my pencils, turning in my tricks and singing for my supper with the rest of the gang. I sighed. Last year, due to the fact that one of the husbands couldn’t keep his hands off the cook, goosing her every time she bent down to put the roast pork in the oven and then lying prostrate on her bed, naked but for a wooden spoon in his mouth and a strategically placed oven glove, the poor girl had finally collapsed in a heap and walked out, leaving muggins here to pick up the pieces and cook for fourteen. Well, it was either that or starve.

  ‘Where are we going to find another one?’ they’d all squeaked hysterically, looking around the room as if by chance they might find a stray cook hiding behind the sofa. ‘We’ll never get one from an agency at such short notice!’

  ‘Of course we won’t,’ I’d said shortly, making my way to the kitchen. ‘We’ll have to do it ourselves.’

  ‘Oh, good old Rosie,’ they’d all chorused, ‘she’ll take the helm! Thank goodness someone knows what they’re doing. I couldn’t boil an egg!’ Which left me to wonder, as they tore off to the tennis courts gaily swinging their rackets again, how it was that they were all so hale and hearty. You’d think they’d all have wasted away by now, wouldn’t you?

  ‘Yes, well, I’m not altogether sure I want another busman’s holiday,’ I said as lightly as possible.

  ‘You said you didn’t mind,’ Harry said huffily. ‘I distinctly remember, you said you quite enjoyed it.’

  ‘I didn’t particularly mind,’ I said levelly, ‘I just don’t want to do it again, that’s all.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘I was very proud of you,’ he said abruptly. ‘Stepping in like that.’

  I sighed. ‘Yes, I know you were.’

  God, yes, I remembered his face when everyone had patted me on the back and said what a little star I was, how he’d glowed and glowed with pride until I thought he was going to explode. And then, when everyone had disappeared to the courts, how he’d trotted off after them, last as usual, his thick legs rubbing together in his too-tight white shorts. I remembered watching him go, standing at the kitchen window, surrounded by eight uncooked lobsters and not a single offer of help from anyone.

  ‘I just wonder if you should have been quite so proud,’ I said quietly. ‘I felt as though – well, as though somehow we were paying our way.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ he scoffed. ‘Charlotte and Boffy are my oldest friends! I don’t have to buy my way into their house!’

  Have to attend a few bridge parties though, make the right noises at the right social events, don’t we? I thought privately.

  Actually I hadn’t minded doing the cooking that weekend. I’d put on my apron and rolled up my sleeves with alacrity, anything to get away from this hearty, bellowing crowd who did noth
ing but shriek about what a good time they were having and guffaw at unfunny jokes. In the beginning, when Harry and I were first married, I’d thought perhaps I was missing the point. They were, after all, a good ten years older than I was and so naturally more sophisticated. In time, I thought, I’d get the jokes. But then I realized there was nothing to get. ‘Having fun’ was simply what they did, it was their raison d’être, and if something wasn’t funny they’d roar with laughter anyway. These were rich, aimless people, buoyed up by trust funds, daddies in the City and the most exclusive educations money could buy. From a very early age they’d taken a long, cool look at themselves, found themselves to be utterly flawless and with that conviction ringing soundly in their ears had marched off from the nursery to shout as loudly as they could and do as they blinking well liked. Not for the likes of Charlotte and Boffy the anxiety and shyness most mortals suffer. Not for them the anxious words in the car on the way home from parties – ‘You know when I said Amanda had lost weight, you don’t think she thought I meant she was grossly overweight before, do you?’ Or, ‘When I said their Tommy was a quiet little thing, did it sound like I thought he was retarded?’ No, no, Harry’s friends were all imbued with the utmost self-confidence. They lacked for nothing in their lives, except humility.

  I sighed and swung the wheel into the Wandsworth Bridge Road. And I’d tried, I really had. In the beginning I’d been so keen to get on with Harry’s crowd, to find a girlfriend, a kindred spirit, one who perhaps wasn’t as boisterous and outrageous as the rest, but they were all the same, and whereas at first I’d been in awe of them, thinking them such a fast, zany bunch, now they just made my head ache. And Harry too? I glanced across at him sitting next to me, head back, mouth open, pudgy hands clasped limply across his pinstriped waistcoat, snoring soundly. I smiled ruefully. The real irony was that when I’d first met Harry I’d thought him so different from the rest. What I hadn’t known was that this wasn’t by choice.