Eventually we cut our losses and decided to go out for a meal together. Over dinner I apologised and explained that my hostile behaviour could be explained (but not excused) by my disappointment. I said we could never have a relationship because:
a. When standing side by side we looked like a comedy duo.
b. He was just too tiny to be able to carry me over the threshold and I’ve ALWAYS wanted to be carried over the threshold – not negotiable. His honesty in replying to points one and two (above) was refreshing.
He confessed that the threshold had been the last thing on his mind when he’d asked to meet me. He’d flown to Venice expecting to have the best shag of his life with a woman who had the most magnificent tits and arse he’d ever seen in a photograph (a statement he stood by, which was nice). He’d surmised that if my sexual prowess in the sack matched my performance on the phone, he knew he would be onto a winner and had booked his ticket to Venice immediately (I have now learned that a romantic location in no way guarantees a romantic interlude).
So anyway, we eventually laughed at the scenario and I ordered lobster, which was the same colour of my face having remembered the phone sex. And after a pleasant if slightly strained evening we said our goodbyes at the airport and flew home the next day. I’m so disappointed. I really thought I’d found the elusive one. But, fear not, I’ll take a deep breath and, like Paddy, jump straight back into the saddle, so to speak.
With much love.
Aggie
P.S. Sounds like a bloody nightmare out there. Chin up, Buttercup!
P.P.S. Bucket list in next letter, promise.
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Aggie
Date: 10 January
Hi, Aggie
Oh dear. It sounds like Venice was a bit of a mistake. Shame you didn’t get a shag out of the jockey, but perhaps it’s for the best. Maybe you need to take a leaf out of your own book? Didn’t you say your next title is My Foolish Heart? Is your title telling you something?
Life here is much the same. I can’t imagine any kind of peaceful resolution coming into play. I bumped into a helicopter pilot I knew in the Navy the other day and he said he feels sick when he looks down from his helicopter and sees the might of the American military (which is only a fraction of their Marine Corps and a bit of their Army) sitting in the desert, waiting to pounce. I wonder how the Iraqi civilians feel, waiting to be attacked? What the fuck are we going to do with all these bombs and bullets anyway? Blow the whole of the Middle East to smithereens?
Write soon
Love, Rosie
‘E’ Bluey
From: Josh
To: Rosie
Date: 11 January
Hi, Rosie
Thanks for your letter. I’ve accepted the offer on the house. Not sure on the completion date yet but it’ll be a while as the chain has collapsed. I said we would wait for our buyer to sell again as I can’t face the rigmarole of putting our place on the market, but it could be months before completion. I’ll let you know how it goes. By the way, is it OK if I give Mum the Tiffany lamp I bought you? You never really liked it and she always had her eye on it. Where is it? Did you give it away?
Take care of yourself.
Josh
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Mr Hughes
Date: 11 January
Dear, Mum and Dad
All remains well on the Eastern Front and don’t worry because I’m being well fed. It’s the easiest job I’ve ever had – anyone could do it. I get a print-out of the weather forecast from the Americans and I read it out, job done. The weather never changes in the desert and so I’ve got lots of time to read books and write letters. I miss you both, but it’s honestly not too bad over here. I’m on the General’s staff and so I should imagine that, even as the troops move forward, I’ll be in absolutely no danger so try not to worry.
Ta ta for now. Give the dog a big hug from me. I’ve got no idea what happened to the snow shovel. Didn’t the handle snap?
Love you loads,
Rosie x
P.S. Did you give my BFPO address to Simon? I haven’t heard from him.
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Josh
Date: 12 January
Josh
I’ve mulled over your last letter and I’m a bit pissed off and need to get things off my chest. We’ve spent what, ten years together, and all you can say to me when I’m at the brink of being gassed to death is to ask if your mother can have my bloody lamp! Re the house, I agree. Let’s wait for the buyers we have at the moment. I want the house to go to people I like.
Rosie
‘E’ Bluey
From: Mr Hughes
To: Rosie
Date: 13 January
Dear, Babe
It’s all kicking off at home. Even though the embers are still smouldering, the council have admitted they may not rebuild the school. Meanwhile, the kids continue to be ferried on the bus to Oakworth on a thirty-mile round trip, which is a shame. We’re not taking it lying down, though. A petition is being drafted as I type!
To add fuel to the fire, Cecil Robinson wants to buy the school grounds and put houses on it – he’s got a bloody nerve that man, but where there’s muck there’s money! It’s causing quite a rift. I bumped into Bill in the shop. He said, ‘I’m not building a bloody orangery to have a load of boxes go up in the field behind my house.’ Janet heard him moaning (you know what a booming voice he’s got) and she bit back (you may remember she used to have a thing going with Cecil). She said he should keep his trap shut because the area needs more affordable housing, and anyway, ‘Clamping an orangery onto the arse end of a terrace house in the middle of the Pennines is bloody ridiculous.’ He stormed out, but he’ll have to storm back in again if he doesn’t want a twenty-mile round trip to buy a pint of milk. We’re still waiting to discover the cause of the fire, but arson hasn’t been ruled out. Terrible.
Nothing else much going on. There’s a bit of a barny going on over the road because the man at number 42 keeps parking his campervan on the road outside number 48, but I think that’s a storm in a teacup. Mammy and the dog are well. I’ll keep looking for the elusive snow shovel. It must be Alzheimer’s setting in but I can’t find the bloody thing anywhere. I’ve emailed your address to Simon. Mammy said to not feel too bad if he takes his time to write; he’s constantly on the go and it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.
Love, MumnDad x
P.S. What’s your opinion on the school issue? Rebuild or move on?
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Rosie
Date: 13 January
Dear, Rosie
But I did get a shag out of the dwarf! Come on, he’s a bloody jockey. How could I refuse an arse that can move that fast?
Anyway, Ta Da … here is the bucket list (we were quite sweet, really):
Umpteen Things We Absolutely Have To Do Before We’re Thirty-Five (first draft)
By Aggie and Rosie, Age 15
1. Learn to river dance
2. Climb a mountain (Mount Kenya or Everest base camp)
3. Get married and have kids (Rosie only)
4. Watch one sunrise and sunset together every year (not negotiable)
5. Swim with dolphins (if no dolphins, seals will do)
6. Do the thing we are afraid of the most
7. Sleep under the stars
8. Get to grade eight - violin (Rosie) piano (Aggie) and become duetting superstars
9. Send a message in a bottle
10. Read one hundred classic books
11. Master the flick-flack (Rosie only)
12. Meet the Dalai Lama – combine this with going to ‘Holi’ festival and becoming yogis
13. Ride a horse bareback on the beach
14. Swim under a waterfall (naked)
15. Make a positive difference in one person’s life
We got bored by the li
st at this point and hit the cider.
Come on then: how many have you done? You were always a bendy gymnastic-type, so I reckon you could do a flick-flack if you really tried. What about the violin – surely you carried on with that? God knows why we chose such an arbitrary age as thirty-five to complete the list by. Why so long? Other than getting married I could crack out the whole lot in a month. That said, so far, I’ve only managed to achieve no’s 13 and 15. Although I could probably claim number 1 with a bit of artistic licence, because although I haven’t river danced, I did learn tap dancing for a year, so if I do it faster along to some Irish music and keep my arms by my side, I’ll have nailed it!
Anyway, another mercy parcel is winging its way out to the Middle East. It includes chocolates and a photo of the two of us posing outside the youth club disco when we were about fourteen. You’re wearing wicked Madonna lace gloves but I’ve got an afro and a snake belt (why the fuck did you let me rebel against fashion all the time?). I’ve also sent you a recent photo of me. It was done for my agent. I do articles and short stories for magazines in my own name. Let me know what you think of the photo. Do I look too tall? I was going for the ‘intelligent but fun’ look, but I think you can tell I’m pulling my tummy in. Diet starts tomorrow. I’ll confess that I didn’t buy the chocolates. Isabella sent them as a thank you for writing her a funny speech for her spot on This Morning, but I get a headache if I eat dark chocolate, so I thought I’d send them your way. I wish Isabella would send Milk Tray. Why do people believe the more they spend on a gift, the more significant the gesture?
What else? Oh, Paddy phoned. He wants to get going with the phone sex again (I was a foolish, desperate buffoon to shag him). I said (in my no-nonsense voice), ‘No, thank you’, but soon discovered that my no nonsense voice just turns him on even more. I explained that I had been swept away in Venice and that the ambience had led me to reveal a wild and exotic side of my personality which, on reflection, would have been best kept under a bushel. Undeterred, he asked if he could join me under the bushel – naked. So, I told him I was taking holy orders (the audition for Maria being the inspiration for that little gem) and hung up. I may have to change my telephone number. Thank God I told him I’m a podiatrist from Hull and didn’t let on I write for Isabella.
In other news, my publisher wants me to give Isabella a side-line in erotica. They think her present run of romance has had its day. Do you think the cosmos is rubbing it in that I’m not having regular sex? I’m not sure I’m up to erotica as my enthusiasm for spicing up my (already spicy) sex scenes is waning. I may have to resort to more internet dating for the sake of my career, but if I do, I must remember to only date men who show their teeth on their profile picture. I once met up with a chap who was absolutely stunning, but then he opened his mouth and revealed only one tooth – one bloody tooth! A top front incisor. I felt so sorry for him I actually kissed him goodnight … no tongues, though.
Sod it. You’re right. I need a plan for my manhunt. I’ll give the Internet a second chance with a new fake name and I should also re-think my fake job. Maybe I’ll post a doctored picture of a more streamlined, younger me, and ditch the Nigella brunette look too and go blonde, but I’ll keep my tits and arse, obviously.
Ciao, Bella
‘E’ Bluey
From: The Staff at The Shop, Midhope
To: Rosie
Date: 13 January
Hello, Rosie, love.
Your dad has been giving people in the village your address, so we thought we’d write you a quick letter to say, WELL DONE YOU! We don’t see your mum much, but then it’s always been your dad who’s done their big shop.
Nothing much changes. Tracy Babcock is expecting again (that family allowance must be stacking up) and old Mr Jenkins passed away, bless him. It was a good turn-out at the funeral, but the sandwiches at the club afterwards were a bit disappointing (soggy egg) and Jack Blackmoor got pissed as a newt, daft sod. Mind you, he was like a son to Mr Jenkins, so we’ll let him off.
That lass you used to knock around with was in here the other day. It seems like only yesterday the two of you were running in here (it was Mrs Barker’s shop then) to buy jubilee lollies for ten pence-apiece. What a little bugger Agatha was. Why did she always insist speaking in French? Far too big for her boots, but that’s what happens when your mother disappears off to Paris to work for a Russian Cossack and comes home pregnant with money in the bank. God only knows who the father was, not that it’s our business, but with those thighs I don’t suppose the apple fell far from the tree. Did you know that the school burnt down? The kids are being ferried to Oakworth, but it’s a blooming long way for the little mites every day, and you know how treacherous that road over the tops gets in the winter. Old Mrs Butterworth was in here the other day and she was crying. Her kitchen window overlooks the playground. She loves listening to the kids. But the council say they haven’t the money to re-build it and Jed Jenkins wants to build houses (never one to miss out on an opportunity, our Jed).
Anyway, the bread man has just walked in, so I’ll sign off. Andrea Jones says, ‘Hello.’ She works two afternoons a week. I don’t think you’ll remember her, but she says to say she’s the one who used to sit next to you in Geography and fainted a lot. Keep smiling.
Pat (and the girls at the shop)
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Aggie
Date: 13 January
Oh, Aggie
Thanks for sending the bucket list - I can’t believe you kept it all these years. I’ll confess that I was overcome with melancholy reading it and felt happy and sad all at the same. Happy, because it reminded me of all the fabulous times we had growing up together – my favourite memories are of us duetting on the piano and violin in your mum’s front room (we were bloody good, weren’t we!) Your dear old Mum would weep in her chair if we played that old Leroy Anderson melody, Forgotten Dreams) – but sad because, compared to you, I feel like I’ve been living a dull, joyless life for ten years. I’ll explain another time, but I’ve been so preoccupied with wanting to start a family these past few years, I’d forgotten to keep having fun. To answer your question, it was me who stipulated the ‘age thirty-five’ caveat (there’s a surprise). It was the latest age I was prepared to have a baby by (didn’t manage that one, did I?).
But here’s an idea: can we start the bucket list now? After all, we’re both thirty-five in July, so we haven’t got much time to crack it out. Admittedly, being stuck in the desert means that my options are limited (can’t imagine the Dalai Lama rocking up in the HQ tent and teaching me to river dance), but maybe you could do some of the list for both of us? I’d love that – experience my joy vicariously through your joy – it would help to cheer up my miserable existence *note sad face*.
In other news, I have finally found a friend! Actually, he’s very quickly turning into a brother, which is handy, as I haven’t heard a peep from my own. He’s called Gethyn, he’s thirty-seven and he’s a doctor in the RAF. He’s originally from the Welsh valleys. There’s a lovely calmness about him, but he also has a glint in his eye and a dry sense of humour. You’d like him, he’s tall and built like a brick shit house. He sings all the time (which is a little annoying) but being Welsh, I suppose he can’t help it (singing, not being annoying). But don’t get any ideas about me hooking up with him because there is not one iota of attraction between us. However, I’ll find out if he’s got a girlfriend because if not, he would be perfect for you!
Thanks for the book. I loved it. I’ve passed it on to Gethyn and asked him to give you an honest review. He’s been reading it ALL evening (with a wry smile on his face) so it should be a good one. I think he’s impressed with the sex scenes so he’ll probably be falling over himself to meet you when we get back. Aren’t I clever?
Loads of love, Rosie
P.S. Random question. Do you ever worry you won’t get around to having a baby?
P.P.S. Nearly forgot. You’ve ticked off 13
and 15??? So you’ve met the Dalai Lama AND bathed under the waterfall naked. I need details NOW (please tell me you did these two things at the same time).
Bluey
From: Gethyn Evans
To: Aggie
Date: 13 January
Dear, Agatha
My name is Gethyn Evans and I’m a doctor serving with the army in the Middle East. Rosie Hughes gave me your book But That’s Not What I Meant and asked if I would write an honest review. I usually keep my own counsel in such matters (I often find that when people ask for an honest opinion on something they don’t really mean it) but Rosie said you were made of sturdy stuff, so I decided to oblige. I am aware you ghost write for Isabella Gambini and please be assured your secret is safe with me. Here is the review:
I enjoyed the book as a pleasant read that passed a couple of hours during, what would have otherwise been, an uneventful afternoon. I don’t usually read romantic fiction, not because I allow myself to fall foul of gender predictable norms, but because romantic fiction follows the same formulaic lines of a romantic film and I prefer a read that delves deeper into the human condition - anger, regret, jealousy, fear, betrayal and, of course, love and familial relationships. Yes, your book ticks all the necessary boxes, and there were moments when you were almost there, but just when I thought you were getting into your groove, you resorted to humour rather than fleshing out the bones of the matter. Your one-liners were funny, but are you, perhaps, frightened to completely lose yourself in the power of your prose?
I can see that the novel would provide a very good read for its target audience, but have you considered breaking away from formula – is life formulaic? Does a love story always have to have a happy ending to be satisfying and does the happy ending have to show that the couple had, or are definitely about to have, sex? Would Romeo and Juliet have stood the test of time if they had wandered off into the sunset hand in hand? I fear not.
Dear Rosie Hughes Page 3
