Rosie Meadows Regrets...

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘’Bye then!’

  ‘But he’s not even dressed! Where are his clothes?’

  ‘In his cupboard, of course.’

  I exited swiftly by the back door. Harry was behind me, but I had the advantage of being dressed while he was still in his pyjamas.

  ‘What the hell is it you need to buy so urgently that can’t wait till Monday?’ he yelled after me from the doorway.

  ‘Oh, you know, tea towels, some new mugs, a few pairs of tights, that kind of thing,’ I said airily as I got into his car. And a solicitor of course, I added privately as I snapped my seat belt on with a smile. Usual weekend shopping list.

  I had actually managed to have a quick flick through the Yellow Pages last night as Alice had suggested, but they’d all had ghastly-sounding names like Sharpe and Dimm, or Dolally and Donothing and it was impossible to tell who were the expensive ones who charged like wounded rhinos and who were the dodgy ones who operated out of a broom cupboard over a chip shop. The only thing to do, I’d decided, was to check out the various establishments at first hand and then make an appointment. The one I’d circled in the phone book as sounding reassuringly solid and English was Barker and Barker, at 101 Wandsworth High Street, an old-established family firm, no doubt. Either that or a couple of dogs.

  Round and round the Wandsworth one-way system I went, peering in vain for 101 until finally I found it. In a broom cupboard over a chip shop. The fact that it was a family firm, though, was in no doubt. After I’d parked, yelled into a squawking entry phone, scaled four flights of cracked lino stairs and arrived panting with fatigue, I was greeted by Mrs Barker – a dead ringer for Mrs Patel – beaming in her sari in the doorway. Round her knees swarmed three or four junior Pat–Barkers, all of whom were suspiciously overjoyed to see me, and all of whom seized my hands and begged me to sit on a greasy-looking sofa in ‘reception’ and wait for Mr Barker. Mr Barker, it transpired, was ‘incommoded with a client’ at present. I glanced nervously at the sofa and chose to stand, a mistake, as it happened, because a moment later a loo chain flushed noisily in my ear and the door to my right flew open, banging me on the head and almost knocking me senseless. As I reeled from the pain, Mr Barker materialized, beaming widely, doing up his flies and then offering me the very same hand in greeting.

  I gazed at his hand. I felt sorry for them, really I did, but not as sorry as I felt for me. ‘Oh, um, I’m terribly sorry, I’ve just realized I’m – badly parked. Double yellow.’

  ‘No problem,’ he beamed. ‘My wife will move it for you.’

  ‘Oh, except that she’s not insured.’

  ‘My wife’s insured to drive any car.’

  ‘Ah, but this one is – automatic.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘And it’s got no – tax.’

  ‘No prob –’

  ‘Or brakes,’ I put in quickly.

  ‘No brakes? How do you stop?’

  ‘Well, quite,’ I agreed. ‘It’s possible, of course – steep hills, brick walls, that kind of thing, but it’s quite a skill.’ I started backing towards the door. ‘So sorry, won’t be a mo.’

  The beaming smiles dropped and they glared at me in Hindustani as I turned, took to my heels, raced down the lino staircase and out into the hazy sunshine again.

  Oh no, I thought as I fled to my car, no, I wasn’t ending my marriage like that. Not in some backstreet dive, not when it had started so auspiciously on a sunny afternoon in Oxfordshire in a church filled with orange blossom. I may not have very much money but I’d beg, borrow or steal to end it in a more dignified fashion than that.

  I pointed the car purposefully in the direction of the more expensive part of town, wishing to God I’d thought to bring the phone book with me and thinking what an idiot I’d been to assume solicitors just sprang up in the high street like NatWest Banks or Pizza Huts. And why did they have to have such discreet little itty-bitty signs, for heaven’s sake? What was wrong with a socking great neon light?

  Eventually I reached Knightsbridge and my heart sank. This was crazy. This was where ambassadors and film stars got divorces, not suburban housewives. What was I doing here? I swung the car round, teeth gnashing now at the thought of all the time I’d wasted, and headed for home with a vengeance. I overtook a lorry at the Albert Hall, zipped past Kensington Gardens in seconds, plunged down into the High Street, screamed ‘Bastard!’ at a particularly pushy Fiesta, when suddenly – hang on, that looked rather promising – I skidded to a halt. A blare of horns went up around me but I was too busy peering out of the window to notice. A brass plaque on the door of a redbrick Georgian building declared ‘Thompson and Cartwright, Solicitors’. It wasn’t too ritzy but neither was it too downmarket, and conveniently to my right was an NCP. Encouraged, I swung a very hairy right through the oncoming traffic – more blaring horns – and disappeared down the ramp and into the gloom to park in the bowels of the earth.

  Two minutes later I emerged into the fresh air again, optimistic, confident, and heading purposefully for Thompson and Cartwright. I stood outside for a second, gazing up at the redbrick. Yes, perfect. Very sort of Jane Austen. My hand went to the large brass handle – but then I hesitated. Hang on a minute, what was I going to say? Should I pretend I’d been recommended by someone or something? Or could one just enrol on the list like one did at the doctor’s? Was it all right just to barge into a professional establishment like this without an appointment? I cleared my throat and practised a bit in my head. Good morning, I wonder, do you engage in matrimonial disputes? No, disputes was too strong, sounded like the gin bottles were already flying. Good morning, I’d like to make an appointment with a solicitor regarding a delicate –

  ‘Look, are you going in or not?’ said an irritated voice behind me.

  I swung round to see a devastatingly attractive man with thick tawny hair swept back off his forehead, the remains of a tan and golden eyes to match his mane standing behind me. I looked up in awe, which was high. About six foot three.

  ‘Um, going in, I think,’ I muttered.

  ‘Marvellous, so am I, so let’s get this show on the road, shall we?’ He had a distinct transatlantic drawl. ‘Only I’ve been doing a kind of Fred Astaire soft shoe shuffle around you for the last few minutes. You through jigging about?’

  ‘Oh! I’m so sorry.’ I moved aside to let him go on ahead, but he held the door open for me and waited.

  ‘In then?’

  ‘Oh, er, yes. In.’ I scuttled through to a marble hall, then hung back, hugging my handbag.

  ‘You still don’t look very convinced,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘Well, it’s just … I couldn’t decide if I had the time or not.’

  ‘Oh yeah, the wingèd chariot. Runs away with you if you’re not careful, doesn’t it, but don’t worry, you won’t be here long.’ He grinned. ‘If you are, you’ll be in the bankruptcy courts before you know it.’

  Fear must have flashed through my eyes because he looked at me more kindly.

  ‘Hey, it’s okay, there’s no one that terrifying here and Marcia will look after you.’ He indicated the icy-cool blonde at the icy-cool marble reception desk in the middle of the hall.

  I just managed to stammer out a thank you as he strode past me and took the sweeping staircase two at a time. He looked like a man going for an assault course. I caught a last glimpse of his dark flannel jacket as he reached the top and headed off down a corridor, presumably to his office.

  In the distance, Marcia looked up from her book. She smiled with her mouth but not with her eyes. ‘Can I help you?’ she called.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ I scurried to her desk. ‘I was just passing and I wondered, do you by any chance specialize in matrimonial law?’

  ‘We do, along with commercial, property and litigation, madam.’

  ‘Ah, well, could I possibly see someone about a matrimonial –’ don’t say dispute – ‘sort of … thing?’

  ‘Did you have anyone in mind? We have twenty-three sol
icitors here.’

  ‘Do you really? Gosh, what a lot. Er, no, not really, except – well, does that American gentleman I just met specialize in, you know, the sort of family law side of things?’ I jerked my head stairwards, feeling a deep blush unfurl. ‘By any chance?’

  She looked at me pityingly. ‘That gentleman is a client, madam. He’s not a solicitor.’

  ‘Ah! Ah, right, yes, of course, it’s just –’ I could feel the blush spreading like a water mark now. ‘Well, it’s just he looked like someone I could talk to. That’s all.’

  She gave a sly smile and flicked through a directory. ‘Really.’

  Bitch. ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m afraid we don’t have anyone with quite that gentleman’s magnetism, but Miss Palmer is free for an hour next Thursday afternoon. How would that suit?’

  ‘Perfect,’ I muttered.

  ‘I’ll pop you in for four o’clock then, shall I? Oh, and here’s a copy of our fees.’ She handed me a piece of paper with figures so exorbitant they made my eyes rotate, but I took it, forced a thank you and scurried from the building.

  As I made my way to the car park, I glanced at the piece of paper again. Feeling sick, I stuffed it hastily in my bag. I sighed. Oh well, perhaps Dad would help me out, or Philly even. Yes, Philly would lend me some money, I was sure, but what a waste! God, if only I hadn’t married the man in the first place! This was one of my favourite fantasies and I indulged in it for a moment as I went down the car park steps, dreaming of being Rosie Cavendish again without a ring or a marriage licence to my name. The problem with this scenario was that if I was still Rosie Cavendish I wouldn’t have Ivo, and since this was unthinkable I’d recently started another line in fantasies which I’m ashamed to say involved Harry’s death. Dreadful, I know, and I do feel incredibly guilty about it but, God, I found it hard to resist.

  At first I’d gone in for the usual motorway pile-ups and fatal diseases, but faced with Harry’s careful driving and excellent health – despite his hypochondria he was in peak condition – I’d recently taken to scouring the newspapers to find a more appropriate annihilation for him. One in particular that had caught my eye was a bizarre story about a man who’d tilted a vending machine to get the last drop of Coca Cola into his cup but had tipped it so far that it had toppled over and crushed him to death. I thought that was absolutely marvellous, and the greed was so apposite! Why, Harry had fights all over London with vending machines reluctant to give up their Toffee Crisps and I reckoned it was only a matter of time before he had a fight to the death with one. Another quite delicious story was the tale of an overweight property developer (well, exactly) who, while demonstrating the toughness of a high-rise windowpane to his clients, had shoulder-barged it with machismo, crashed through the glass and plummeted eighteen storeys to his death. Again, it was so neat, and so absolutely Harry. The bluff, the bluster, the excess weight carrying him through – ah, yes, I mused dreamily, it had all the qualities I was looking for. Of course I was always thoroughly ashamed of myself after such an indulgence and swore blind I’d never do it again, but the trouble was, it was just so moreish and I found my mind fleeing that way at the slightest provocation.

  I wandered along the rows of parked cars, lost in macabre reverie, when suddenly I stopped for a moment and looked back. How odd. I could have sworn I’d left the car around here somewhere. I retraced my steps, glancing all around, but it wasn’t long before I got that awful sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. It quite clearly wasn’t here. The bloody car was missing. Good God, it had been nicked. I launched one last frenzied search before hurtling up two flights of stairs to find the man on the turnstile. Another futile search, as it turned out, because after dashing about a bit it soon became clear that Turnstile Man had ceased to exist and had been replaced by a slot, a button and a voice box which failed to respond to my call.

  Furious now, I made a frantic search of the car park only to find that the only human being in the entire place was a chauffeur, quietly eating a fish-paste sandwich behind the wheel of his master’s Jaguar. I rapped on the window.

  ‘Can you help me, please?’

  He buzzed it down. ‘What’s the matter, luv?’

  ‘My car’s been stolen!’ I wailed as I simultaneously spotted a mobile phone on the seat next to him. ‘Could I possibly borrow your phone to ring the police?’

  ‘Course you can, ’ere.’ He passed it over and I punched out, rather importantly and for the first time in my life, 999, whereupon I was promptly transferred to the local nick. The desk sergeant there sounded bored and lethargic and made it quite clear he was loath to get up a search party.

  ‘Just give me the details, dear, and I’ll log it in the computer.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ I snapped. ‘I pay my taxes and I happen to know this car park is bang next door to your station. Would it be too much to ask you to walk a hundred yards and attend the scene of the crime?’

  Reluctantly he agreed to send someone round.

  ‘God, they can’t even be bothered to come out these days!’ I fumed as I handed the phone back to my new friend the chauffeur.

  ‘Yeah, well, they’ve already written it off, see,’ he informed me. ‘They know that car’s halfway to Essex and they can’t be fagged to do anything about it.’

  ‘We’ll soon see about that,’ I said furiously. ‘Thanks very much, I’ve got to go back to where I left the car and wait for them.’

  ‘Good luck, luv. You give ’em hell.’

  I bloody will, I thought, as I leaned against a car, waiting for the police to deign to show up. I’d probably interrupted their tea and biscuit break. Well, excuse me!

  Ten minutes later a bored-looking constable came ambling round the corner. I’d have put money on it that it was the same one I’d spoken to a minute ago. I slid off the bonnet.

  ‘Marvellous, isn’t it?’ I said as he approached. ‘You can’t even leave your car in a car park these days without getting it pinched.’

  ‘Third one this week,’ he said languidly. ‘Notorious hot spot, this.’ He looked around. ‘Oh yeah, level four again too. Leave your ticket in the window, did you? Nice and convenient like?’

  ‘Yes, I did actually. I suppose that makes it my fault, does it?’

  He sucked his teeth. ‘Well, it’s a bit of an open invitation, isn’t it? These young lads, see, they love these multistoreys. Nice and dark, plenty of other cars to hide behind while they do their thieving, and then when you’ve gone and left the ticket for them too, well, you’ve more or less made their day. And the thing is, all around it’s written up as clear as day – take the ticket with you!’ He pointed to the admittedly abundant signs and eyed me witheringly. It was enough to take me from controlled annoyance to full-throttled rage. I drew myself up mightily to my full five foot four.

  ‘Oh, that’s just typical, isn’t it! It’s never the villain’s fault, is it? No, no, it’s my fault for putting temptation in the poor lad’s way! Let’s not blame the perpetrator, eh? Let’s not blame the criminally insane because, after all, he probably comes from a broken home, poor mite!’

  The policeman wearily got out his notebook. ‘Make of car, madam?’

  ‘Volvo 404. And I suppose if my house had been burgled you’d be telling me it was my fault for not putting proper locks on the windows, wouldn’t you? And if I’d been raped, no doubt my skirt would have been too short. God, it’s no wonder the police force has got such a bad name when you alienate people like this!’

  ‘Registration?’

  ‘K128 UBY. And if this is such a notorious hot spot and you’ve had three cars stolen from level four this week, would you mind telling me why you’re not doing a bit more about it? Why you aren’t patrolling the area with Alsatians straining at the leash? God, you haven’t even radioed in my details yet, haven’t even sent out an APB!’ (My Miami Vice viewing days had left their mark.) ‘They could be in the Blackwall Tunnel by now and you haven’t done a thing about it
!’

  ‘Madam, I can assure you every effort will be made to retrieve your car and –’

  ‘Oh, don’t give me that. I can tell you’ve written it off already. You don’t think I stand a hope in hell of getting it back, you’re just going through the motions, trotting out the flannel to fob me off and –’ I broke off abruptly. Something had caught my eye. I froze.

  ‘What?’ he looked around.

  ‘Nothing,’ I gasped, my eyes flitting back to him. Nothing, except that four cars down from us was a little green Peugeot. Harry’s little green Peugeot. Just four cars down, where I’d left it.

  ‘Believe it or not we have quite a high success rate and once I’ve got all this on the computer – did you say a 404, madam?’

  ‘Um, yes.’ Christ. I’d been looking for the wrong car.

  ‘And provided it hasn’t been resprayed, you stand an eighty per cent chance of getting it back.’

  ‘That’s … tremendous,’ I breathed. God what a moron, all this time I’d been looking for the Volvo and I’d come in the Peugeot!

  ‘We like to think we’re making progress,’ he said huffily. He eyed me carefully. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine, and thank you so much, officer,’ I whispered. ‘You’ve been very helpful. Very – supportive.’

  He regarded me cautiously, not quite sure how to take this massive capitulation. ‘As I say, we do our best.’ He shut his notebook.

  I nodded. ‘Oh, you do, you do, and more. You’re a marvellous example to us all, the boys in blue, out there patrolling our streets. Don’t let me take up any more of your precious time, officer. I’m sure you need to get all that logged on the computer, don’t you? Hooray for the computer, eh? Who’d be without it these days?’ I gazed at him fearfully, my smile frozen. Just go. Go away. Why was he still standing there? Did he suspect? Suddenly I realized he was waiting for me to make a move. After all, I had no business in the car park now, did I?

  ‘Oh – and I’ll come with you! Crikey, let’s go!’

  Just managing to resist taking his arm, I frogmarched him away, shutting my eyes as I went past my car, up the steps, up some more and out into the daylight. I couldn’t tell him. I simply couldn’t tell him. I know I should have done and I nearly did for a moment back there, I promise, but not now.