Rosie Meadows Regrets...

by Catherine Alliott

  He grimaced. ‘God, hardly. Art house films are not exactly box office sensations, but it doesn’t matter how often I explain that to Mum, she still doesn’t take any notice. Last time I was over she took me to some ghastly sherry party and introduced me to a blue rinse crony of hers as “My son the mogul”. We then had this ridiculous conversation, with Blue Rinse asking me how I liked India and which dynasty was I from and weren’t their curries frightfully hot and was I a Muslim or a Hebrew. It didn’t matter how often I shrieked “I’m a frigging film director!” in her ear, she didn’t take a blind bit of notice.’

  I laughed. ‘Oh well, that’ll teach Mum to brag. She’s got you down as the next Stephen Spielberg, thinks it’s only a matter of time before she can put on her best frock and come and view your latest oeuvre at the Royal Gala performance. She’s already practising her curtsey and rehearsing “Yes, very proud” for the moment when she bobs to Prince Charles.’

  Tom paled. ‘Oh God, thanks for warning me. That’s enough to put me off making films for life.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, you’re still not quite flavour of the month. I mean, after all, you’re still only a film director, aren’t you? You’re not a neurosurgeon or a tax lawyer like Marjorie Burdett’s boy – Marjorie Burdett’s boy is fifty-two, by the way – and of course she won’t be totally enamoured with you until you settle down with a nice little wifey and have some children.’

  ‘You think I don’t know? It’s all she’s banged on about since I’ve been back.’

  ‘And?’ I grinned.

  ‘And, since you’re clearly as nosy as she is, no. There’s no one remotely on the cards at the moment.’

  ‘Why not? I thought LA was crawling with beautiful women. You’re not gay, are you?’

  He spat his drink over the table. ‘No, I’m not gay, since you ask, although I’d be having a much better time of it if I was. Far more choice.’

  ‘Rubbish, I bet there are millions of knock-out girls there absolutely gagging to sleep their way into the movies.’

  ‘Of course there are, but not so many you’d want to face over the breakfast table the following morning.’ He lit a Gauloise and frowned, blowing the smoke out thoughtfully in a thin blue line. ‘It’s hard to explain without sounding patronizing, Rosie, but there are very few proper people out there. You go to parties and you know damn well it’s just going to be one gorgeous silicone implant after another, and if a girl so much as mentions she’s got a degree, or that she does something remotely interesting aside from “wanning to be in the moo-vies”, you can’t get near her for bees swarming round the honey pot. An intelligent woman is such a bloody novelty in California. It’s one of the things that depresses me about the place, actually.’

  ‘So you might come back?’

  He grinned disarmingly. ‘Don’t be silly, I make far too much money to do that. But having said that, being here has made me realize what it is I miss about this place.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the dewy English roses with their brilliant minds and their original floppy tits. You can’t beat ’em, can you? I have a job swatting the bees off myself actually, I’m sick to death of being such a flaming honey pot.’

  He laughed, but as his laughter faded there was a silence. He dragged on his cigarette, regarding me intently.

  ‘So how are you really then?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Me? Oh God, I’m fine, fine! Couldn’t be better.’ I smiled brightly but could tell by his eyes he wasn’t convinced. I sighed. ‘Look, Tom, d’you mind awfully if we don’t talk about Harry? For what it’s worth, you were right about him and I was going to divorce him. That doesn’t mean I’m glad he’s dead, I’m not, but I can’t play the grief-stricken widow.’

  He nodded. ‘And why should you? I don’t expect you to, I’m just relieved it hasn’t hit you too hard.’ He paused. ‘Ivo all right?’

  ‘He’s fine. He’s so young and, well, to be honest, Harry didn’t have much to do with him.’

  ‘So … everything’s worked out for the best then?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, I suppose,’ I said guardedly.

  ‘What about money?’

  I hesitated. For all his protestations, Tom was pretty well off and it would be very easy to come clean, admit to being impoverished and accept a loan, maybe even a gift. But somehow that smacked of taking a room in Philly’s house. The under-achiever forever being bailed out by her more successful, affluent siblings.

  I smiled. ‘Money’s fine. Harry provided for us.’

  ‘Really? Gosh, well, I underestimated him then. I thought he’d leave you up to your neck in debt.’

  ‘No. No, he took care of us.’

  ‘So you don’t need to work?’

  ‘Oh, well, I might anyway,’ I hedged. ‘Something to do, you know.’

  ‘Good idea. In fact I know a production company in Soho that’s desperate for a good PA. A friend of mine works there. D’you want me to give her a ring?’

  ‘I’m not staying in London, Tom. I’m going back to Gloucestershire, and anyway, I’m a cook, not a production assistant.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ He smiled. ‘Going back to the country to hide behind your pots and pans.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  He leaned forward. ‘Come on, Rosie, you’re free again now, you need to be in London. You’ll never meet anyone in a little mousehole in the Cotswolds.’

  ‘Now who’s sounding like Mum!’

  ‘And you need a more buzzy job. I know you like cooking but it’s so solitary, isn’t it? You need to be around people.’

  ‘There are people in Gloucestershire.’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘You mean “happening” people, is that it? Bright young thingy people who go to parties, the ones you were telling me about just now who were so shallow? So silicone implanted? Plenty of “proper” people in the Cotswolds you know, Tom.’

  He narrowed his eyes and regarded me quizzically. ‘What is it you’re afraid of, Rosie?’

  ‘I’m not afraid of anything!’

  ‘Yes you are, you’re afraid of competing, you always have been. Afraid of standing up to be counted in case you topple over again. Well, that’s the risk you have to take, Rosie, otherwise you’re not really living.’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes you have. You’re by far the brightest of the three of us, you always were, so how come Philly and I went further? How come you dropped out of school just before your A-levels when you were due to sit Oxbridge, suddenly announcing you didn’t want to take them because you wanted to cook instead?’

  ‘I did want to cook!’

  ‘And how come you married Harry when you could have married a perfectly decent, normal sort of bloke?’

  ‘Listen, Tom, I made those choices because I wanted to make them, there was no subversive, underlying motive behind them.’

  ‘I disagree. I think you opted out. Whether you did it consciously or unconsciously I’m not sure, but you did it.’

  There was a silence. I played with the stem of my glass, trying not to get angry, trying rationally to consider what he’d said. I seemed to remember Alice saying something along the same lines.

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ I said softly. ‘I don’t like competition. I find it faintly repulsive, if you must know. All those little egos struggling to get ahead of each other.’

  ‘Like me and Philly.’

  ‘Well, of course I don’t find you two repulsive, but …’ I hesitated. I thought back to the two of them studying in their rooms night after night, revising, testing each other, learning whole plays by heart, great chunks of history books, and then going up to Cambridge together in a blaze of glory, both with scholarships. The marvellous twins.

  ‘It was the effort you put into it,’ I said slowly. ‘It was as if … as if nothing else mattered. As if academic success was the be all and end all.’

  ‘As opposed to?’

&n
bsp; ‘I don’t know. But I remember thinking – well, I couldn’t help thinking there must be something else.’

  He sighed. ‘But the point is, Rosie, we had to put all that effort in, whereas you could have done it so frigging effortlessly!’

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe, but maybe not. I might have flunked it at the last moment.’

  He banged his glass down. ‘You see! That’s just so like you, Rosie. Yes, okay, you might have flunked it, but you’ve got to take that chance, accept the fact that you might fail. Don’t be a coward! Stick your head above the parapet and if it gets knocked off, well, so be it, at least you’ll know you’ve tried!’

  I thought back, remembering the fear. The fear that took hold of me when it was my turn, my turn to take those crucial exams that were all-important in our household. For weeks the place would go silent, Mum would creep around delivering trays of food to bedrooms, softly closing doors, a finger to her lips. Quiet, please. Studying In Progress. And then after it was all over, we’d all wait with bated breath for the little bits of paper to come fluttering through the letter box with straight As on them. Or not, as the case may be. And what if I didn’t make it? What if I failed? What would Mum say, what would she tell her friends? ‘Poor little Rosie, she tries so hard, poor love, but she just isn’t quite the calibre of Philly and Tom.’

  I shifted in my seat. ‘And how exactly does this relate to my present circumstances? You want me to do my A-levels again, is that it? Be a mature student with a baby?’

  ‘No, I just want you to take your chances. Try, Rosie. There’s no shame in it. The real shame is if you waste your life because of some ridiculous embarrassment factor about ambition being too egotistical. When you’re going for a job, for God’s sake go for the best one around, and don’t shoot yourself in the foot at the interview by telling them how your soufflés sometimes collapse, or your sauces curdle. Puff yourself up a bit, tell them how terrific your crème brûlées are. Don’t sabotage your chances. And likewise with men. If there’s some gorgeous guy lurking about in the shadows looking interested, for God’s sake don’t back off, don’t shuffle back to your hole in your bobbly cardigan mumbling something about having to wash your hair tonight.’

  Suddenly I smelled a rat. ‘Lurking about? Where?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said if there was some man lurking about.’

  ‘Yes, I just meant hypothetically.’

  ‘No you didn’t.’

  He coloured up. ‘I did, Rosie.’

  ‘You bloody didn’t! I know you, Tom, come on, out with it!’

  He sighed. ‘Oh God, all right. It was just – well, Phil said something. Something about a vet, bit of a dude, I don’t know.’

  I gaped at him speechless for a moment. Finally I found my voice. ‘Oh!’ I breathed. ‘Oh, I do not believe this! This is what this is all about, isn’t it? This is what you’ve been leading up to! Go for it, Rosie, go for the sexy vet ! That’s what you’ve been primed to say, isn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, I just –’

  ‘Oh! Oh yes, I see it all now, this whole softly-softly character analysis bit, this whole “Don’t hang back, Rosie, must try harder, take your chances” – it’s all a smoke-screen to pair me off with yet another man! Another man who incidentally I talked to for all of five minutes. Yes, you’re in on it too!’

  ‘Rosie, will you just calm down, I’m not in on anything, it’s just that Mum mentioned –’

  ‘Mum! Oh, Mum’s involved too, is she?’ I was boiling now. ‘God, just a few days ago she was blubbing inconsolably over her son-in-law’s ashes and now she’s trying to force another man down my throat!’

  ‘Figuratively speaking, of course,’ he murmured.

  ‘NOT NECESSARILY!’ I roared. ‘That woman would stop at nothing!’

  ‘Shh, shh, steady, Rosie.’ He glanced around nervously. People were looking at us.

  ‘Have a word with Rosie,’ I seethed, nodding knowingly. ‘Have a little word, that was it, wasn’t it, Tom?’

  ‘Yes, but only because they worry about you, my love, only because you’re on your own.’

  ‘Ten days!’ I squeaked. ‘Ten bloody days I’ve been on my own and already they’re setting up Dateline! Already they’re getting together, having little powwows, mapping out my life, having a word in my ear, giving me a nudge in the right direction. God, I feel like issuing a bloody statement. To all members of my family. Hear this! From now on, Rosie Meadows regrets that she will not be running true to form! From now on she will not be bullied or pushed into anything she doesn’t want and will be pursuing her happiness regardless of the demands of others! She will be accountable to no one, and certainly to no man that her family sees fit to pimp and hustle in her general direction, because in actual fact she may be on her own for some considerable time! If not for ever! She may never look at a man again. In fact, shall I tell you something, Tom?’ I glared at him over the table. ‘The way I’m feeling at the moment, I may NEVER HAVE SEX WITH A MAN AGAIN! DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR!’

  This, shouted at a million decibels, more or less brought the wine bar to a standstill. There was a deathly hush and all heads turned to view me and my brother, whose face was flaming. A few titters made it through the silence, and at an adjacent table a party of office girls stared open-mouthed. One of them raised her glass.

  ‘Hear hear!’ she said loudly.

  Her friend opposite followed suit. ‘Yeah, hear bloody hear. I’ll drink to that!’

  All over the wine bar girls laughed and raised their glasses.

  ‘Yeah, nuke the bastards. Hear hear!’

  The men all looked sheepishly into their beers, giving the occasional nervous smile in our direction, but none more nervous than Tom.

  ‘Well?’ I demanded, not finished with him yet. The bar waited, spellbound.

  ‘Yeah, well?’ shouted a heckler.

  ‘Shit, well what?’ he muttered, glancing around, looking terrified.

  ‘Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, bloody hell, yes, Rosie, crystal clear!’

  ‘Good.’

  A great cheer greeted this and applause rang out. Amidst the clapping I smiled at him over my orange juice, sipping it with my eyes still on him. Eventually the noise subsided and the bar resumed its usual low hum again.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Rosie,’ he muttered, running his hands through his hair. ‘That was a bit unnecessary, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I had a point to get across.’

  ‘Yes, but blimey, I’m just on the receiving end of a load of bloody Chinese whispers. I just do as I’m told. Don’t shoot the messenger, all right?’

  I grinned. ‘All right.’

  ‘I mean, you don’t have to tell me what those women are like, I’ve lived with them, for God’s sake! And like I told you before, why d’you think I live in America? I’m on your side, Rosie, you shag who you like, shag a tortoise if you want, it doesn’t bother me.’

  I laughed. ‘Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I just wanted to make my position clear, and you might pass that message back along the line.’

  ‘What, and be bollocked by them at the other end as well? No bloody fear, I’m keeping right out of this, I’m on the next plane back to America.’ He downed his drink in a heartfelt gulp and looked at his watch.

  I grinned, then glanced down at mine. ‘Oh God!’ I shot out of my seat.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve got to go! I said I’d pick Ivo up at two – oh gosh, Tom, all I’ve done is yell at you and now I won’t see you again for ages, will I?’ Suddenly I felt contrite. I scrabbled around on the floor, picking up my handbag, finding my purse and my keys which had spilled out. ‘When d’you go back?’

  ‘Tonight, and yes, you have yelled at me, and no, I didn’t deserve it, and yes I do hope you lose sleep over it, and no, you won’t see me, ever again.’ He smiled. ‘Not unless I fly back as planned in a few months’ time to do some business in London. I might pop down to t
he country to see you, actually.’ He paused for effect. ‘I gather you’re living in Annabel Johnson’s cottage.’

  I stopped packing my bag. Stared. ‘How the hell d’you know her?’

  ‘Met her in LA, promoting her new book like mad.’ He smiled, wagged a finger. ‘Now there’s a real trier for you. She tried to talk us into making one of her dreadful videos for her, you know, one of those ghastly, smug, I-know-how-to-be-happy-and-healthy-and-you-don’t jobbies.’

  ‘Oh! Right. God, I had no idea you knew her. So I take it you don’t like her?’

  ‘Oh I wouldn’t say that, Rosie. She’s something else actually.’

  ‘Really? In what way?’

  ‘Well, she’s breathtakingly gorgeous, extremely talented, terribly charming and incredibly, incredibly … pleased with herself.’

  ‘Ah.’ I smiled. ‘Good. A pain in the tubes.’

  ‘You’re happy about that, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’ I stood up, pecked him on the cheek and swung my bag over my shoulder, ready to go. ‘You see, Tom,’ I gave him a broad wink, ‘that’s what comes of trying too hard.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  I pedalled furiously to Alice’s and arrived to find her bundling all three children into the car in their coats.

  ‘I’m so sorry!’ I yelled, as I leapt off my bike and flung it in the hedge.

  ‘It’s okay, I was going to take him with me, but you can have him back now.’

  Ivo ran along the pavement to meet me. I picked him up and hugged him.

  ‘Thanks for having him, Alice. Was he all right?’

  ‘He was an angel, as ever,’ she said disappearing into the car to belt her girls in. ‘I keep waiting for him to turn into the demonic little fiend mine were at that age, but he’s not showing any of the symptoms yet, damn him! I think you drug him. So come on, what did Boffy say?’

  ‘Oh, this and that.’ I bit my thumbnail.

  Her head reappeared. ‘Oh. Bad news?’

  ‘Well, put it this way, I shan’t be chartering a private jet and flying all my friends off to Mustique next summer like Mr Branson.’