Dear Rosie Hughes

by Melanie Hudson

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Agatha

  To: Rosie

  Date: 5 February

  Dear, Rosie

  Well, that’s another thing on the list ticked off – swimming with dolphins. Although I didn’t exactly see any dolphins, but I’m sure they were with me in spirit (we did caveat that seals were ‘as good as’ dolphins, didn’t we? And I did see a seal pop his little head up about half a mile away, although it could have been flotsam as I didn’t have my glasses on).

  To explain; Shep and Casey put out some lobster pots last year, but they must have forgotten about them in their rush to leave Appledart. The pots were annoying some of the Mallaig fisherman (don’t ask) and needed fetching in. But two of them had got caught up in a buoy, which meant someone needed to dive in and untangle everything. That ‘someone’ was yours truly (Anya is frightened of lobsters and Ishmael can’t stand the feel of a wetsuit on his skin - it takes all sorts). I looked like a bloody whale, but at least that’s something else ticked off the list, and believe it or not, I kind of enjoyed it, although Ishmael (who rowed me out to the pots) was not impressed when I accidentally (on purpose) soaked him through. I felt fresh. I felt invigorated. I felt alive (and I’ll NEVER do it again!).

  And so, life, basically, is good. I’d forgotten the joy of meeting people and I bloody love it. The café is such a relaxing place to be, with the wood-burner going and the music on, and what with baking cakes and nattering to the tourists, I haven’t the time to ponder. Visitors tend to fall into the café – exhausted but happy – and the ones who have a ‘bottomless coffee’ tell me all kinds of things, too (stuff you would normal confess to a priest rather than talk about to a random stranger). Anya says it’s my golden aura (I’ve progressed from yellow to gold) that lulls them in. But the recipe to success when it comes to loosening lips is my lethal combination of rounded hips, a big bosom and tempting cake. People simply can’t help but tell me their secrets.

  But oh, Rosie, I’ve heard some upsetting stories, and it’s a rare day I’m not crying with a customer by mid-morning and laughing hysterically with the same person by mid-afternoon. I could fill a book with all the stories – several books, in fact. But I’ve adopted the café owner’s Hippocratic Oath. And anyway, real life is far too crazy and full of bizarre coincidences to be believable in fiction, so my lips are sealed. I think I’ve edged Anya out of the café a little bit, but she doesn’t mind. Anya is one of those calm beings who maintains a steady oneness with the universe. I’m sure the tides flow to her bidding, not the moon’s (although her magic muffins may be helping the rest of us to be taken under her spell). She always has a couple hidden under the counter for visitors who are in extra need of kind-heartedness, and I can’t help but polish off the crumbs!

  The less positive news is that I finally found the courage to open my inbox. Isabella Gambini emailed twice this week, and my publisher three times. Thank goodness there’s no mobile phone signal here. Neither of them says it, but both have hinted towards a question mark hanging over my mental health. I haven’t emailed back. How can I? There is absolutely no point asking for an extension to the deadline because I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m all written out. In the past two weeks I’ve begun to remember what it’s like to spend a decent part of the day conversing with friends – ones who aren’t imaginary, and I like it. I have nothing to give to Isabella right now and especially not erotica. Also, if I was already suffering from a crisis of confidence, Gethyn’s email was the death nail. The thought of writing one more love story makes me feel utterly depressed. But I do wish I didn’t have their emails hanging over me, and I wish I had the moral courage to write back. But seriously, who will ever find me here? I could hide away forever, or until the money runs out, which, if I don’t keep writing, will be very soon the way my mother spends it. Hope you’re safe.

  Lots of love,

  Aggie

  Bluey

  From: Rosie

  To: Aggie

  Date: 6 February

  Hi, Aggie

  Sorry I haven’t written this week. HQ has moved location, but it’s all the same shit, same sand, same people.

  Sea swimming in February? Are you sure you really are the Agatha Braithwaite I once knew? Truly, though, I’m so jealous. What I would give to feel so free. But I am feeling joy knowing that our list is pushing you on, so keep going and remember – your joy is my joy.

  We had a sandstorm yesterday (thank God I forecasted it). I stepped out of HQ during the thick of the storm in the hope of finding the portaloo, which was a big mistake. I only stepped away from the tent for a moment but became completely disorientated in the blowing sand. It was so frightening, and I did the worst thing possible: desperate for a pee, I kept walking away from the security of the tent. By absolute luck, or perhaps sixth sense, I literally bumped into a portaloo and managed to prise the door open against the wind and hide inside till the worst of the storm passed. Gethyn bought me an Arabian scarf when he went to an American camp in Kuwait City a couple of weeks ago. Thank God I was wearing it. Despite wrapping it around my head a few times, I had to pour water from my bottle into my eyes which were red and streaming, just to be able to see. The moral of this little story I suppose is this – it’s one thing forecasting bad weather, but another thing entirely to know how to operate in it.

  But back to something more normal, I’m sorry Gethyn annoyed you – it’s probably my fault. I told him you were desperate for an honest review and that the male perspective would be refreshing. Sorry if I’ve made things worse. He’s a good bloke – honestly.

  Love, Rosie

  P.S. You’ll say, ‘Get lost, no way,’ but I’ve met Anya, too. She read my cards when Josh and I were in Appledart. She’s proven to be incredibly accurate so far, unfortunately.

  From: aggieb@yahoo.com

  To: sexymamma@yahoo.com

  Subject: Seriously, Mamma. Don’t do this again.

  Date: 6 February

  Hi, Mamma

  I’ve phoned several times, but you never pick up – why? I know you’re OK because I phoned the post office and they said you’ve been in. I know you’re upset, but just email me and tell me why you’ve gone quiet. I can feel your hostility from here and it’s putting a bad smell on my time in Appledart and I really don’t want that to happen – not this time. I’m sorry if my going away upset you but I’m having a lovely time. Please be happy for me. I love you unconditionally. Can’t you do the same for me?

  I’ll phone again tonight.

  Love you,

  Agatha x

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Rosie

  Date: 6 February

  Helloooo from sunny Appledart!

  Actually, it’s been sleeting all week and I’ve been in a depressed haze regarding my writing crisis. But it doesn’t matter because Anya tells me that she’s sent angelic beams of divine light to shine down on me, which is handy.

  I found a self-help book on Anya’s bathroom windowsill called Be Careful What You Wish For, and I’m certain it’s going to turn my life around. The gist of the book is this: the universe will provide me with everything I want/need/desire, all I have to do is ask for it - who knew life was so easy? If the author, Summer Santiago (hmm) is correct in her assumptions, to find the man of my dreams all I have to do is write down his character on a piece of paper and, hey presto, he’ll appear by my side. No time scale was placed on the manifestation of my wishes because Anya says angels refuse to work to deadlines.

  But there is a bit of a catch. When I write down my wishes, preferably on recycled paper, it has to be on the night of a full moon (there’s a surprise) and I have to bathe the paper in moonlight for at least an hour before burning the arse out of it. I suppose the plan is scuppered if it’s cloudy. Do you think using Vesta matches dilutes the magical effect of the moon? Should I use flint? I’ll admit to being a tad sceptical regarding Summer’s hypothesis. After all, I write things dow
n for a living and none of the men in my books have materialised. But, nothing ventured nothing gained, I suppose. I’m going to have a productive afternoon writing down all the character traits of my dream man, warts and all. Oh, shit, if the universe is listening right now, I’m just kidding about the warts (jeez, you have to be so careful with this stuff). I’m not going to be unrealistic, though. I’ll ask for a run-of-the mill, loving and kind man (who just happens to have great abs and a villa in Florence).

  We’re going to light a fire on the beach tonight and perform the ritual then. It’s not quite a full moon, but Anya says the universe doesn’t care if the moon is full, that’s just for health and safety purposes so you can see where you’re going in the dark. With any luck, my soul mate will wander into the café tomorrow and our eyes will cross over my pert meringues and that will be that, job done. Ishmael is coming along to the beach tonight, but he’s going to do a spot of night fishing and watch us from a distance (he’s a bit too inhibited to dance around a fire and chant) but I think he’s worried we might set ourselves ablaze so needs to keep an eye out and a bucket of sand handy – a bit daft as we’ll be surrounded by sand and next to the sea, but it’s nice for someone to care. Ta ta for now.

  Love, Aggie

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Rosie

  Date: 7 February

  Hi, Rosie

  Me again. Well, it’s 1a.m. and I am far too hyped-up on caffeine to sleep.

  So … I wrote down a list of everything I wanted my dream-man to be. This was a harder afternoon’s work than you might imagine. At first, I tried to steer away from the romantic hero type and dreamt up a normal man – he was called Jason. Unfortunately, by the end of the afternoon, Jason was drowning under a sea of potato peelings in the compost bin. He was so bloody boring I fell asleep on the counter just imagining him. I decided to seek expert advice from Ishmael, who was fixing his fishing nets on the beach, and after having argued it down to the bone, Ishmael said I should just wait and see who I naturally fall in love with – hopefully, a nice, faithful, run-of-the-mill fella, and to forget magic.

  Pah!

  I told him that I don’t bloody-well want a run-of-the-mill fella and if this is my one chance to manifest my hero, then, fuck it. I’m going to conjure up the best damn stud monkey I can dream of!

  By 7p.m. I was still sat in the café with my pen wedged between my teeth and staring at a scrappy piece of paper sitting on the counter (I crossed out fewer errors on my O level maths paper) and at 9p.m. Anya dragged me out of the café (her halo had slipped a bit) saying she’d got the fire to its peak and I would just have to go with what I’d got. So, we went outside and bathed the man with no name (ooh, book title?) in the exotic power of the moon for half an hour. Summer Santiago said to bathe him for a full hour, but there’s only so much dancing and chanting two women can do, especially wearing wellies, ear muffs and Argyle jumpers. Eventually we rolled him into a thin taper and set him alight, but then, suddenly, when the taper had burned half-through, I panicked, blew it out, ran back to the café, put him on the draining board and stared at the words, must have good girth. Anya gave up at this point and went home to watch Morse on Sky.

  The reason I panicked is this: I suddenly thought, ‘What if it all comes true?’ What if Mr Perfect really does pitch up? The book isn’t called, Be Careful What You Wish For, for nothing, and if there’s one thing I’m aware of when it comes to dreaming up characters, it’s that the hero should be adorable, but flawed, and my dream man had absolutely no flaws. I realised, hopefully in the nick of time, that I didn’t want the universe to give me Mr Perfect Pants after all (hmm, another book title) because I’d have to pretend to be Mrs Perfect Pants, and I’m not sure I can pull that off. For example, can Mrs Perfect Pants accidentally fart in her husband’s company and look up to the sky and say, ‘Did you just hear thunder?’ Can she have bat wings, or one eye pointing marginally in the wrong direction (why why why didn’t mum get me an eye patch when I was little?) and a penchant for fantasising about Monty Don while watching telly and sucking out the insides of a Ferrero Roche?

  No, she cannot.

  And after twenty years of living with the human embodiment of Barbie’s Ken, I would look up to the sky and say to the universe, ‘Seriously! What were you thinking sending me this perfect piece of shite?’ And the universe would shrug and say, ‘We told you to be careful what you wished for, you twat.’

  Anyway, I made sure the flame was completely out by stamping on it, which has left a terrible black mark on Casey’s tiles. But now I’m worried because I did perform a mini-ceremony, and what if that ceremony generated enough magic to have him pitch up, but not enough magic to have him manifest exactly as requested, which would mean that I’d be lumbered, not with Mr Perfect Pants, but a mutant version of Mr Perfect Pants …

  This way lies madness

  Ciao, gorgeous

  Aggie

  Bluey

  From: Rosie

  To: Aggie

  Date: 8 February

  Hi, Aggie

  You are a complete nutter, but I love you. Has Mr Perfect Pants shown up yet?

  I’m sorry you’re having a crisis of confidence with your writing. I know it’s probably no consolation, but I loved But That’s Not What I Meant – I couldn’t put it down. Also – and you’re going to faint when I tell you this - but Gethyn got his mum to send him copies of all your books. Yes, all of them! I know, bonkers. I think he feels guilty because of the review. You should see his face when he’s reading your stuff – tickled to death is the best way to describe it.

  Anyway, Gethyn and I had a good hour thinking about the bucket list last night (he wants in) and decided that we can at least try to bang some out while we’re here. These are the ones we think we can manage:

  1. River-dance – Gethyn reckons we should save this for our last day here but believes it’s truly doable – can’t see it myself.

  2. Watch one sunrise and sunset together.

  3. Do a flick-flack or at least do a flip on a trampoline (Gethyn has a plan for my training schedule).

  4. Do one thing we are both afraid of (not difficult out here. It’s a frightening place every single day).

  5. Sleep under the stars (nailed it already).

  6. Send a message in a bottle (hmmm? I only see sand).

  Nothing much else to tell you. Preparing for war is pretty boring which means I have lots of time to think, which is exactly what I wished for when I decided to come here, but it seems that having an abundance of time to think is terrible as it serves to clog-up the mind even more. There’s talk that, once the war starts, HQ would most probably be taken out by either a terrorist or a chemical attack. Well, that’s certainly something to look forward to! Please keep the news from Appledart coming in.

  Love, Rosie

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Andrea Evans, Midhope on the Moor

  To: Rosie

  Date: 8 February

  Dear, Rosie.

  You probably won’t remember me, but it’s Andrea Jones. I sat next to you in geography class in the fifth form. I work at the shop now. I know Janet has written but I wanted to write too and say how much I admire you for going away with the Army and for what you’ve achieved in your life (your dad is very proud of you and we hear everything about you in the shop).

  Not much to tell you about my life. I didn’t get a proper job after school. I married Kev Evans and had a family. We bought one of the new houses they built on the rec. We’ve got four kids so I’m pretty much run-ragged. We split up a couple of years ago. He’s living with Abbie Peterson now, but he has the kids at some point every week, he’s good like that.

  You got it right, I think, having a career first. I’ve done nothing with my life. I always wanted to be a nurse, but Kev said I was too shy and soft and should stay at home with the kids. Anyway, it’s too late now and even if it wasn’t, how could I train for a new job when I’ve got my kid
s to look after? I’m not surprised you’ve done well. You were always so pretty and clever. I remember your mum always bought you lovely shoes.

  Anyway, I just wanted to say that I’ll never forget how nice you were to me in school. Not many people wanted to sit next to me because of my alopecia, but you always did, which was kind. Are you still in touch with Agatha Braithwaite? She comes in the shop quite a bit now she’s moved back to Midhope. She’s gone off somewhere again (like she does). Nobody really knows where she’s gone. There was talk of Scotland but then someone else said she’s in prison for fraud. Her mother looks dreadful. Janet can’t stand Aggie, but I can. She always makes me laugh! Look after yourself.

  Love, Andrea

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Gethyn

  Date: 8 February

  Dear, Gethyn

  In answer to your questions:

  1. I wasn’t offended by your review, I simply disagreed with your hypothesis.

  2. Yes, I was a muse – to an artist. He had cataracts and needed to ‘feel’ my form rather than just look at it. He was rich in cash but not in spirit. He was not particularly eccentric, either, that was artistic licence. He was, however, fairly romantic (money helps with classic romantic gestures as poor men cannot afford to be romantic) but I didn’t like his kisses (imagine a conga eel feeding on a melon and you’re there) so that was that.

  3. Quotation marks are hardly a hazard (although I was almost decapitated by a giant exclamation mark once). Surely the use of quotation marks is better than writing, ‘ooh er, missus’ each time a double entendre is suggested?

  Regarding any future correspondence, I have never been regarded as a distraction before and I’m not sure I’m happy with this terminology. Writing letters eats in to my busy schedule and I have no wish to be abandoned once you are no longer in need of distraction. If you can confirm that our correspondence is something you take seriously as opposed to using me as a temporary form of entertainment, I shall correspond.

  Regards,

  Agatha

  ‘E’ Bluey