Rosie Meadows Regrets...

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘I hated her,’ she hissed through her teeth, ‘loathed her with a passion that was almost frightening. I really think,’ she added with some surprise, ‘that at one stage I could quite easily have killed her. She had everything, it seemed, everything she could possibly want, but she wanted my husband as well.’ She shook her head in dumb disbelief. ‘And then when she’d finished with him, when she’d sucked him dry and got all she wanted out of him, d’you know what she did? She threw him back to me like a limp rag. Tossed him back to where he came from but where he no longer wanted to be. He’d tasted forbidden fruit, you see,’ she said ruefully. ‘Boring old home life simply couldn’t match up.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Poor old Michael. He almost went mad with the rejection, and I’m pretty sure he went out searching for anything in a skirt for a time, just to make himself feel wanted.’ I stared down at my feet, recalling my own little debacle with Michael. Mad was how I would have described him too.

  ‘And of course,’ she went on softly, ‘I was pretty mad myself. Mad with grief. And that’s why I planted those books. I saw it as the perfect way to get you off the hook, Rosie, and implicate her at the same time.’ She raised her chin defiantly. ‘And it was perfect. It fitted in beautifully with the over-dominant way she had of protecting you – too much, I’d always thought. Poisoning Harry could quite easily have been her ultimate act of big-sisterly protection, her way of saving you from that big, bullying husband of yours. And it also fitted in beautifully with her unflinching arrogance. She would have imagined she’d get away with it, wouldn’t she? She’s always considered herself invincible, I knew that from the way she’d handled Michael.’ She smiled. ‘Yes, she could quite easily have done it, don’t you think? Killed Harry?’

  ‘But – you wouldn’t have gone through with it, would you?’ I said, gazing at her in disbelief. ‘Framing her like that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I like to think not, but as I said, I was mad. I like to think that had she actually been led to the dock I’d have held up my hands, but who knows?’

  ‘I know you would have, Alice,’ I said warmly.

  She shrugged. ‘Well, we’ll never know now, will we?’ She turned to Joss who’d been listening quietly the while. ‘How did you find out?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘About the books? Well, I had another look at them before I came up here and discovered that two or three perfectly ordinary novels in the box had had their labels torn out. It struck me as something of a coincidence, that’s all. I couldn’t help wondering if someone who had a grudge against Philly had done it deliberately, and then I fell to wondering who that person might be. Your name seemed to fit alarmingly well.’

  She smiled. ‘Yes, I can see that it might.’ She turned, stared out of the window. I watched as she stood with her arms folded, very straight, very rigid, but very vulnerable too.

  ‘So … what are you going to do, Alice?’

  She turned, coming back from far away. ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘I mean, are you going to stay with him?’

  ‘With Michael?’ She sighed. ‘He wants me to, but I’m going to see how I feel when I get back.’

  ‘Get back from where?’

  ‘From America. I’m going for a month, taking the girls.’

  ‘Oh! Oh, Alice, what a good idea! That’s it, go away, get away from it all. Where are you going?’

  ‘To Los Angeles.’ She flushed. ‘To stay with Tom.’

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Your brother. He invited us.’

  ‘No! Really?’ I sat down abruptly on the arm of the chair. ‘Crikey, when?’

  ‘When he was over for Harry’s funeral. Kept banging on about the lack of real people out there and how nice it was to see me and did I remember him coming to see me in The Tempest. I did. I’ll never forget it.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘A standing ovation at a university production and your gorgeous brother clapping like mad in the front row. It was my finest hour. Sad, but true.’

  ‘Not sad at all,’ I said slowly, ‘just amazing to think that after all these years … So, d’you think – you know, you and Tom?’

  She shrugged. ‘Who knows? I don’t even want to think about it. I’d like to think I could find it in my heart to forgive Michael, come back in four weeks’ time and for everything to be fine and dandy again, for the girls’ sake more than anything. But if I can’t …’ She bit her lip. She gave herself a little shake. ‘Anyway, I’m sure Tom’s only invited me out as a friend, his life must be pretty much wall to wall with beautiful women. He probably felt a bit sorry for me.’

  Don’t be too sure, I thought privately. The more I thought about it, the more I could see Alice being right up Tom’s alley. I stood up and gave her a hug. ‘Whatever you do will be right, Alice. Just follow your instincts, that’s what you always used to say to me.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, suddenly getting a bit sniffy and digging a hanky out from up her sleeve. ‘I was as bad as Philly in a way, bossing you about, wasn’t I? There I was, doling out the matrimonial advice over the kitchen table, thinking I had the perfect husband and the perfect little domestic set-up and all the time … Oh well.’ She wiped her nose and smiled. ‘Poor old Joss,’ she said glancing sheepishly at him. ‘All these emotional, weeping women, must be wishing he’d stayed in Gloucestershire.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ he said, scratching his head in bewilderment. ‘This is the most insight I’ve had into the grey and hazy subject of women for a long time. I’m totally enthralled.’

  She grinned. ‘Well, I’m going to stop being enthralling now because I must go. I’ve got to go and pick up the girls from my neighbour.’ She blew her nose noisily. As she tucked the tissue back in her sleeve, she gave me a watery smile. ‘Rosie, I’m so happy for you, I really am. I’m so pleased that all that ghastly suspicion has lifted and,’ she looked from me to Joss, ‘and, well, I’d just like to say that I do so hope –’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Alice!’ I breathed hastily, giving her a sudden bear hug, crushing the breath out of her and hopefully preventing her from saying what I think she’d been about to say. I could almost see the cogs in her brain working feverishly, right along the lines of, okay, so what the devil’s this attractive man doing beetling up and down motorways, defending Rosie against over-zealous police officers, if not for some romantic reason or other? And shouldn’t I, as Rosie’s best friend and ally, be the first to offer my warmest congratulations?

  I put her in an arm lock and frogmarched her smartly down the hall to the front door, just about letting her say a brief goodbye over her shoulder to Joss, but that was it. Because if truth be told, I was as keen as she was to see a joyous conclusion to all this, but if it was all right by her, I wanted to be the first to know. The first to experience it.

  I hugged her again at the door. ‘See you in a month’s time with a seamless LA tan then, Alice!’

  She smiled in surprise. ‘Golly, I suppose so. I can’t quite believe I’m really going actually.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ I said warmly, ‘and you’re going to give it your best shot too. Go for it, Alice, and if it doesn’t work out, come back and try again with Michael, but keep your options wide open, you deserve it. I have to say that on a purely selfish level I’d like to see you firmly at my brother’s side. If you ask me, you’re just what he’s been waiting for all these years.’ Suddenly a thought struck me. ‘Blimey, just think, Alice, we’d be sisters!’

  ‘Good grief.’ Suddenly she looked rather horrified. ‘Heavens, would I have to call your mother Mum? I find Elizabeth hard enough, keep wanting to revert to my Mrs Cavendish days!’

  We giggled and I kissed her goodbye.

  ‘Good luck,’ was all she mouthed to me as she went down the path, but there was no disguising the huge wink and jerk of her head back towards the sitting room and the Unknown Quantity.

  My heart was pounding with excitement as I shut the door. I paused for a moment, willing myself some composure, some coolness, but finding absolutely none
I turned and went back into the sitting room.

  Joss was standing at the fireplace with his back to me, staring down into the empty grate. Any minute now he’d turn around. Our eyes would lock, a slow smile would spread across his face. He’d walk towards me, slowly, gazing all the while. I felt giddy already, my knees were going weak with the tension. I grabbed hold of the back of the sofa for support. Turn round, I willed him desperately, quick, or I’ll have to sit down. He did. He turned, his tawny eyes heavy with passion. Now, I thought hungrily as he came towards me, now, yes, for sure, something so right after so many years of wrong, yes … yes … yes! I held on tight to the back of the sofa and lowered my eyes seductively. That’s it, Rosie, not too pushy, play it cool. He was within inches of me now and I could almost feel his breath on my face. A collapse into his arms must surely be imminent because I could feel the rough tweed of his coat, could almost sense the warmth of his body as he – brushed past me.

  ‘Well, come on,’ he snapped irritably. ‘Let’s get out of here. We’ve got the lousy M4 to contend with yet. Thanks to you I feel like I’ve been on that road the whole damn day!’

  And with that seductive little bon mot hanging in the air, he marched through the hall, out of the front door and down the path to his car.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Half an hour later I was speeding feverishly down the motorway after him, sticking to his Range Rover like superglue. I stared straight ahead, wide eyed, shocked and uncomprehending. Blimey, how on earth could I have got it so wrong? Had I totally misread the signs? Had I quite comprehensively misjudged his intentions? Well, evidently I had, because what better chance had he had than back there in that empty house, with me explosive with joy at clearing my name and panting to celebrate in an appropriate manner? What more excuse did a man need to stride purposefully over the Axminster, take a girl in his arms and kiss the living daylights out of her? Instead of which he’d affected the demeanour of a man who, frankly, would rather have unblocked my lavatory with his bare hands than come within inches of my person.

  My heart, which latterly had been pattering away somewhere near my tonsils, was sinking now with every second, every mile that my battered old Volvo was eating up. I gripped the steering wheel, gazing longingly at the number plate in front of me. I knew it by heart. I murmured it aloud, rolling the letters around on my tongue. What a totally glorious number that was, and so far out of my reach! Suddenly my eyes filled with tears. I thumped the steering wheel hard. Oh, for God’s sake, this was so unfair, I should be so happy now! I shouldn’t be snivelling, I shouldn’t be crying, I’d just cleared my name, this should be a day for celebration! I no longer had to slink around under an old mac and a cloud of suspicion, I could hold my head up high and the world – well, my world, such as it was, the village of Pennington – would be forced to recognize this. This, by rights, was my moment of glory, my moment to ride back into town with my conquering hero by my side, the man who all along had proclaimed my innocence, stood by me, rooted through boxes of second-hand books for me, flown back from Europe to help me, lingered over candles and rabbit graves with me, swum in a sea of mutual affection with me – or so I’d thought – and not just thought, actually, but sensed, yes, sensed, with every nerve and sinew in my body. So what the dickens were we doing dashing back to Gloucestershire in separate cars in such a premature manner? This, to me, seemed an entirely retrograde step. There were children in Gloucestershire, wagging tongues, responsibilities, ties, whereas surely in London we could have found somewhere quiet and private to confess our secret love, to unburden ourselves, before heading back to reality to do our duty?

  Joss suddenly pulled out of the middle lane and shot off into the fast lane away from me. I instantly made tracks after him but swung out with such an astonishing lack of care that I was immediately beaten back by a blare of horns behind me. A lorry swept by, missing me by inches. Shaken, I crept sheepishly over to the slow lane. The storming excitement I’d felt in the house had curdled now, gone sour, and I felt the bitterness of rejection seeping in. I recognized it, you see, because I’d felt it once or twice before. It was nothing new.

  You’re a fool, Rosie Meadows, I told myself bitterly. And you’ve got a very short memory. You’re his tenant, remember? Why is it I have to keep telling you this? He came to help you out of a tight spot because you’re living in his cottage, that’s all. Of course he wanted to see you were all right, but as for any romantic notions, forget it. In the first place, as you might recall, he’s married. Married to that beautiful, talented, pencil-thin, yoghurt-eating, yoga-practising she-devil to whom he’s clearly devoted or why else would he suffer her absences, her tantrums, her indifference to the children, her infidelity, with such fortitude? Why else would he spend hours pleading with her to come home? Why else, unless he was eaten up with that totally irrational all-consuming passion, that same one that you have for him, that thing called love?

  I slowed right down to 50 mph and let him out of my sights. A hot flush of embarrassment washed over me. God, how stupid of me, what a fool I’d been. All he’d been doing was being kind, looking after me in the absence of anyone else. I was, after all, a helpless widow and he’d felt sorry for me, providing at most an absorbent shoulder to cry on, but that, categorically, was that. How could I have even thought he’d be interested in someone like me? I put my hand to my forehead and went even hotter. You go out with sidekicks, Rosie, remember? People who wear glasses, people with no hair, people who look like doors, troglodytes, and you marry people like Harry, fat people, people who wear bunny suits, people with personality disorders, okay? Joss is none of these. Joss is a main man, a deliciously handsome, famous sculptor, way, way out of your league, the stuff that dreams are made of, but even then beyond any of your wildest fantasies. And you’re more than likely embarrassing the hell out of him with your wistful, devoted, puppy dog eyes. I went even hotter and fanned my face with my hand. Oh God, why was I so hot? Crikey, this wasn’t the menopause coming on, was it? That was all I needed. I reached forward and turned the cold blower on full blast, then gagged as a few dead leaves and a mouthful of stale air hit me. Hastily I turned it off. And what, incidentally, had you been hoping for back there anyway, Rosie? A bended-knee declaration of passion perhaps? Or just a quick grapple on the sofa? What sort of erotic little tapestry did you hope to knit yourself into, hmm?

  I retreated into misery now, holed down well beneath the surface. I slunk low in my seat and crawled the rest of the way home, eventually creeping into Pennington a good hour and a half later. I stopped at the garage in the middle of the village for petrol, sank back in my seat and sighed. Here I was again then. Hello, Pennington. As I got out and walked bleakly round the back of the car to the pump, two elderly women across the street spotted me. They stopped and waved. Surprised, I forced a smile back as I filled up the tank, not actually feeling like smiling at anyone at this precise moment and not quite sure who it was at this range either. As I peered, I realized that one of them was looking left and right and bustling purposefully across the road towards me. It was Mrs Fairfax from the shop.

  ‘I want to apologize,’ she gasped, clutching her side from the exertion. ‘We’ve heard the good news, Dot and I, Vera telephoned us ten minutes ago like, when Mr Dubarry ’ad rung, and I don’t know that I’ve ever been so ashamed of myself. I said as much to my Horace just now as I fixed his tea, and he said he never knew how I could have thought as much in the first place. He always said you never done it, nice slip of a girl like you, and I’m that vexed with myself for giving in to all that gossip. There, I’ve said it.’ Her face was pink and a bit trembly, and it was such an honest, fulsome apology that I couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs Fairfax. I’m sure if I’d been in your position I’d have thought much the same.’

  ‘’Ere, luv,’ she pressed something into my hand. It was a small bunch of snowdrops, their stems tightly wrapped in silver foil. ‘Fresh from the garden. When I pu
t that telephone down from talking to Vera, I went straight out and picked them for you myself. Good luck to you, my dear, and the little nipper.’

  At the mention of the little nipper, tears, unaccountably, pricked my eyelids. I nodded. ‘Thank you,’ I whispered.

  I watched her turn and beetle back across the road to Dot, duty done, then paid for the petrol and got back in the car. I sat for a moment staring bleakly out of the windscreen. Good luck. Now why should that make me feel so empty? So low? Was it because it implied I was starting again, setting out on yet another journey, when actually, I felt pretty travel weary already? Pretty much all in? I sighed and turned the ignition, swinging the car back out into the village. It was quite clear that Joss had telephoned Farlings from his car and then Martha and Vera had lost no time in spreading the word, bless them, because as I drove along I was startled to see people stop and smile. One woman who I didn’t even know, paused from raking her leaves to wave, and another actually swung open her sitting-room window and waved her duster. If only I didn’t feel so deflated, I thought, I could have indulged in a lap of honour round the village. Could have slung a laurel wreath round my neck and had a bottle of champagne bubbling in my hand, like a victorious Grand Prix hero. As it was I just smiled faintly, nodded my thanks and drove on through the village. On and out, up the hill to Farlings.

  As I crunched up the gravel drive, I noticed Joss’s car wasn’t there. He’d probably taken Toby to get the twins from school, which would just leave Martha and Ivo. Well, that was a relief anyway, I thought, getting out and slamming the door. I didn’t particularly want to bump into him so soon after he’d spotted that predatory light in my eye, that wanton, come-hither flicker of abandonment. Instead I could just look forward to hugging my son, couldn’t I? Yes, exactly. Oh the joys of simple, straightforward, maternal love. Why on earth did we women ever aspire to anything more complicated? I smiled at the thought of young Ivo. Maybe he’d heard the car, maybe he was wriggling excitedly from Martha’s arms even now, toddling to the door to greet me.