Rescuing Rose
Isabel Wolff

For Eleana Haworth, agony aunt

and

Matthew Wolff, agony uncle

with love

Why did not somebody teach me the constellations and make me at home in the starry heavens which are always overhead and which I don’t know to this day?

Thomas Carlyle

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Preview

Acknowledgements

Rescuing Rose

Praise

By The Same Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Fear and bewilderment mingled in Ed’s soft brown eyes as we faced each other in the garden. I stared at him, vibrant with indignation, then slowly drew back my right arm.

‘Take that!’ I shouted as a Wedgwood Kutani Crane seven-inch tea plate went whizzing past his left ear and smashed into the garden wall. ‘And that!’ I yelled as he raised his hands to fend off first the matching saucer, then the cup. ‘You can have these too!’ I spat as I frisbeed three dinner plates in his direction. ‘And this!’ I bawled as the accompanying soup tureen flew through the air.

‘Rose!’ Ed shouted, dodging bits of projectile china. ‘Rose, stop this nonsense!’

‘No!’

‘What on earth do you hope to achieve?’

‘Emotional satisfaction,’ I spat. Ed successfully deflected the gravy boat and a couple of pudding bowls. I lobbed the milk jug at him and it shattered into shrapnel as it hit the path.

‘For God’s sake Rose – this stuff’s bloody expensive!’

‘Yes!’ I said gaily. ‘I know!’ I picked up our wedding photo in its silver frame and flung that at him, hard. He ducked, and it hit the tree behind him, the glass splintering into shining shards. I stood there, breathless with exertion and raised adrenaline as he picked up the dented frame. In that picture we looked radiantly happy. It had been taken just seven months before.

‘It’s no-one’s fault,’ he said. ‘These things happen.’

‘Don’t give me that crap!’ I yelled.

‘But I was so unhappy Rose. I was miserable. I couldn’t cope with coming second to your career.’

‘But my career matters to me,’ I said as I slashed the matrimonial duvet with my biggest Sabatier. ‘Anyway it’s not just a career, it’s a vocation. They need me, those people out there.’

‘But I needed you too,’ he whined as a cloud of goose-down swirled through the air. ‘I didn’t see why I had to compete with all those losers!’

‘Ed!’ I said, ‘that’s low!’

‘Desperate of Dagenham!’

‘Stop it!’

‘Betrayed of Barnsley.’

‘Don’t be mean!’

‘Agoraphobic of Aberystwyth.’

‘That’s so nasty.’

‘There was never any room for me!’

As I gazed at Ed, the knife dropped to my side and I caught my breath, once again, at his looks. He was so utterly, ridiculously good-looking. The handsomest man I’d ever met. Sometimes he looked a little like Gregory Peck. Who was it he reminded me of now? Of course. Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life, all happy and covered in snow. Except it wasn’t snow on Ed’s shoulders but white feathers, and life wasn’t wonderful at all.

‘I’m sorry, Rose,’ he whispered as he spat out two tiny plumes. ‘It’s over. We’ve got to move on.’

‘Don’t you love me then?’ I asked, tentatively, my heart banging like a Kodo drum.

‘I did love you Rose,’ he said regretfully. ‘I really did. But…no, I don’t think I love you any more.’

‘You don’t love me?’ I echoed dismally. ‘Oh. Oh, I see. Well you have now hurt my feelings Ed. You have really got to me. I am now very angry.’ I rummaged in my arsenal and found a Le Creuset frying pan. ‘And suppressed anger is bad for one’s health, so you’ll just have to take your punishment like a man.’

As I picked up the pan with both hands, horror registered on Ed’s handsome face.

‘Please Rose. Don’t be silly.’

‘I’m perfectly serious,’ I said.

‘You’ve had your little game.’

‘It isn’t over. At least not yet.’

‘You’re not really going to hit me with that, are you?’ he pleaded as I advanced across the feather-strewn lawn. ‘Please Rose,’ he wheezed. ‘Don’t.’ And now, as I moved towards him, smashed china crunching underfoot, his voice began to rise from its normal light tenor, to contralto, until it was a kind of odd, soprano whine. ‘Please Rose,’ he whimpered. ‘Not with that. You could really hurt me, you know.’

‘Good!’

‘Rose, don’t. Stop it!’ he wailed, as he tried to protect himself with his hands. ‘Rose. ROSE!’ he screamed, as I lifted the pan aloft and prepared to bring it down, hard, on his head. ‘Rose!’ And now, from somewhere, I could hear banging, and shouting. ‘ROSE!’ Ed shrieked. ‘ROSE! ROSE!’

Suddenly I was sitting bolt upright in bed, heart pounding, eyes staring, my mouth as dry as dust. I was no longer in Ed’s garden in Putney, but in my new house in Camberwell.

‘ROSE!!’ I heard. ‘OPEN UP!!’

I staggered down the unfamiliar stairs, still shocked by the dream which churned in my brain like a thunder cloud.

‘Rose!’ exclaimed Bella as I opened the front door. ‘Rose, thank…’

‘…God!’ sighed Bea.

‘We’ve been banging for hours,’ Bella breathed looking stricken. ‘We thought you might have done something…’

‘…silly,’ concluded Bea. ‘You wouldn’t, would you?’ she went on anxiously. I looked at them. Would I? No.

‘I’d fallen asleep,’ I croaked. ‘Didn’t hear you. It’s knackering moving house.’

‘We know,’ they said, ‘so we’ve come to help you.’ They came in, then gave me a hug.

‘Are you okay, Rose?’ they enquired solicitously.

‘I’m fine,’ I said, wanting to cry.

‘Wow!’ gasped Bella as she surveyed the sitting room.

‘Blimey!’ said Bea. ‘What a mess.’

The room was crammed with cardboard packing cases, bisected by shiny black masking tape. They were stacked up like miniature skyscrapers, almost totally obscuring the floor. I’d paid good money for Shift It Kwik but now I regretted my choice, for far from putting the boxes in their designated rooms, they’d just dumped them then buggered off. ‘KITCH,’ said a box by the window. ‘BATH’ announced the one by the stairs. ‘BED 1,’ said the two by the fireplace. ‘STUDY,’ declared the one by the door.

‘This is going to take you ages,’ said Bea, wonderingly.

‘Weeks,’ added Bella. I sighed. Bella and Bea’s gift for stating the screamingly obvious can drive me nuts. When I broke my arm ice-skating when I was twelve, all they said was, ‘Rose, you should have taken more care.’ When I failed my ‘A’ Levels they said, ‘Rose you should have done more work.’ And when I got engaged to Ed, they said, ‘Rose, we think it’s too soon.’ That didn’t seem at all apparent to me then, but it sure as hell does now. Oh yes, Bella and Bea always state the obvious, but they have twenty-four carat hearts.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Bella. ‘We’ll…’

‘…help you,’ concluded Bea. They’re like an old married couple in many ways. They finish each other’s sentences, for example, and they bicker a lot of the time. Like many an old married couple, they even look alike; but that’s not surprising – they’re identical twins.

‘Give us the guided tour,’ said Bella. ‘It’s quite big,’ she added. This was true. I’d gone looking for a large garden flat but had ended up with a three bedroomed house. The twins admired the size of the kitchen, but thought the bathroom was a bit small.

‘But for a single person it’s fine,’ said Bea helpfully. I winced. Single. Fuck. That was me. ‘Nice garden though!’ exclaimed Bella, changing the subject.

‘And it’s a sweet little street,’ added Bea. ‘It looks a bit scruffy,’ she remarked as we peered out of the landing window. ‘But friendly.’

‘Hope Street,’ I said with a bitter laugh.

‘Well,’ added Bella brightly, ‘we think it’s just…’

‘…lovely!’

‘It’s fine,’ I shrugged. ‘It’ll do.’ I thought with a pang of Ed’s elegant house in Putney with its walled garden and yellow drawing room. Moving into that had been exhausting too, but in a nice way as we’d got engaged just two weeks before. As I’d unpacked my stuff the future had seemed to stretch before us like a ribbon of clear motorway. But we’d hardly set off before we’d crashed and had to be ignominiously towed away. So now here I was, my marriage a write-off, upping sticks yet again.

Some women in my situation might have been tempted to move a little further afield – to Tasmania, say, or Mars, but though I was keen to put some distance between us I reckoned Camberwell was far enough. Plus it would be convenient for work and the area was still relatively cheap. So, a month ago, I dropped into a local estate agents and before I knew it, One Hope Street was mine.

‘It’s vacant for possession,’ said the negotiator with unctuous enthusiasm, ‘and it’s semi-detached.’ Just like me. ‘It’s been empty for a few months,’ she added, ‘but it’s in pretty good shape – all it really needs is a clean.’

When, ten minutes later, I saw the house, I took to it at once. It had this indignant, slightly abandoned air; it exuded disappointment and regret. It was the first in a short terrace of flat fronted houses, and it had a semi-paved garden at the back.

‘I’ll take it,’ I said casually, as though I were spending twenty quid, not four hundred grand. So I inflated my income to the building society and exchanged in ten days flat. But then I’m the impatient type. I married very quickly, for example. I separated quickly as well. And it took me precisely two and a half weeks to buy and move into this house.

‘Can you afford it?’ asked Bella, tucking her short blonde hair behind one ear.

‘No,’ I said simply. ‘I can’t.’

‘Why did you get it then?’ demanded Bea, who can be overbearing.

‘It was an impulse buy.’

‘We’ll help you decorate,’ said Bella as she scissored open a packing case.

‘You can be our first client,’ said Bea.

‘Have you got a name yet?’ I asked.

‘Design at the Double!’ they chorused.

‘Hmm. That’s catchy,’ I said.

The twins have just given up their respective jobs to start an interior design company. Despite a conspicuous lack of experience they seem confident that it’ll work out.

‘All you need’s a few contacts, then it snowballs,’ Bea had said blithely when they first told me about their plans. ‘A nice mention in one of the glossies and we’ll soon be turning them away.’

‘You make it sound unfeasibly easy,’ I’d said.

‘But the market for it is huge. All those rich people,’ said Bella happily, ‘with big houses and horrible taste.’

‘We’ll get you things at cost,’ Bella offered as she unpacked some dinner plates. ‘I think you should definitely get a new bathroom suite…’

‘With a glass basin,’ said Bea.

‘And a jacuzzi,’ Bella added.

‘And a hand-built kitchen of course.’

‘Yes, Poggenpohl,’ suggested Bella enthusiastically.

‘No, Smallbone of Devizes,’ said Bea.

‘Poggenpohl.’

‘No, Smallbone.’

‘You always contradict me.’

‘No I don’t!’

‘Look, I won’t be getting any of that fancy stuff,’ I interjected wearily. ‘I’m not going to have the cash.’

As the twins argued about the relative merits of expensive kitchens I opened boxes in the sitting room. Heart pounding, I gingerly unpacked the wedding photo I’d flung at Ed in my dream. We were standing on the steps of the Chelsea town hall in a blissful, confettied blur. Don’t think me conceited, but we looked bloody good together. Ed’s six foot three – a bit taller than me – with fine, dark hair which curls at the nape. He’s got these warm, melting brown eyes, while mine are green and my hair’s Titian red.

‘You’re my perfect red Rose,’ Ed had joked at the start – though he was soon moaning about my thorns. But it was so wonderful to begin with I reflected dismally as I put the photo, face down, in a drawer. Ours had been not so much a whirlwind romance as a tornado, but it had already blown itself out. I surveyed the trail of marital debris it had left in its wake. There were dozens of wedding presents, most – unlike our abbreviated marriage – still under guarantee. We’d decided to split them by simply keeping those from our respective friends; which meant that Ed got the Hawaiian barbecue while Rudolf came with me. Ed didn’t mind: he’d never really taken to Rudy who was given to us by the twins. We named him Rudolf Valentino because he’s so silent: he’s never uttered a word. mynah birds are meant to be garrulous but ours has the conversational skills of a corpse.

‘Speak to us, Rudy,’ I heard Bella say.

‘Yes, say something,’ added Bea. I heard them trying to tempt him into speech with whistles and clicks but he remained defiantly purse-beaked.

‘Look, Rudy, we paid good money for you,’ said Bella. ‘Two hundred smackers to be precise.’

‘It was three hundred,’ Bea corrected her.

‘No it wasn’t. It was two.’

‘It was three, Bella: I remember distinctly.’

‘Well you’ve remembered it wrong – it was two!’

I wearily opened the box labelled ‘STUDY’ because I’d soon have to get back to work. Lying on top was a copy of my new book – this is embarrassing – Secrets of Marriage Success. As I say, I do things very fast, and I wrote it in less than three months. By unfortunate coincidence it was published on the day that Ed and I broke up. Given the distressingly public nature of our split the reviews were less than kind. ‘Reading Rose Costelloe’s book is like going to a bankrupt for financial advice,’ was just one of the many sniggery remarks. ‘Whatever next?’ sneered another, ‘Ann Widdecombe on Secrets of Fashion Success?’

I’d wanted my publishers to pull it, but by then it had gone too far. Now I put it in the drawer with my wedding photo, then took my computer and some files upstairs. In the study next to my bedroom I opened a large box marked ‘Letters/Answered’, and took out the one on top.

Dear Rose, I read. I wonder if you can help me – my marriage has gone terribly wrong. But it all started well and I was bowled over by my wife who’s beautiful, vivacious, and fun. She was a successful freelance journalist when we met; but, out of the blue, she got a job as an agony aunt and suddenly my life became hell. The fact is I hardly see her – answering the letters takes up all of her time; and when I do see her all she talks about is her readers’ problems and, frankly, it gets me down. I’ve asked her to give it up – or at least tone it down – but she won’t. Should I file for divorce?

Clipped to the back was my reply.

Dear Pissed-Off of Putney, Thank you for writing to me. I’d like to help you if I possibly can. Firstly, although I feel certain that your wife loves you, it’s obvious that she adores her career as well. And speaking from experience I know that writing an agony column is a hugely fulfilling thing to do. It’s hard to describe the thrill you get from knowing that you’ve given someone in need great advice. So my suggestion, P-O – if I may call you that – is not to do anything rash. You haven’t been married long, so just keep talking and I’m sure that, in time, things will improve. Then, on an impulse, which I would later greatly regret, I added: Maybe marriage guidance might help…

It didn’t. Far from it – I should have known. Ed suggested we went to Resolve – commonly known as ‘Dissolve’ – but I couldn’t stand our counsellor, Mary-Claire Grey. From the second I laid eyes on her she irritated the hell out of me, with her babyish face, and dodgy highlights and ski-jump nose and tiny feet. I have been hoist with my own petard, I thought dismally, as we sat awkwardly in her consulting room. But by that stage Ed and I were arguing a lot so I believed that counselling might help. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Miss Grey inspired any confidence, but the idiotic little woman simply did not. She was thirty-five(ish), divorced, and a former social worker she told us in this fey, squeaky voice.

‘What I shall do,’ she began, smiling winsomely, ‘is simply to listen to you both. I shall then reinterpret – or, to give it its technical name, reframe – what you both say. Got that?’ Catatonic with embarrassment, and already hating her, I nodded, like an obedient kid. ‘Okay, Ed,’ she said. ‘You first,’ and she actually clapped her podgy little hands as though this were nursery school.

‘Rose,’ Ed began quietly, as he looked at me. ‘I feel that you don’t care about me any more.’

‘What Ed is saying there,’ interrupted Mary-Claire, ‘is that he feels you don’t care about him any more.’

‘I feel,’ he went on painfully, ‘that you’re more concerned about the losers who write to you, than you are about me.’

‘Ed feels you’re more concerned about the losers who write to you Rose, than you are about him.’

‘I feel neglected and frustrated,’ Ed went on sadly.

‘Ed feels neglected and –’

‘Frustrated?’ I snapped. ‘Look, my marriage may be a bit rocky at the moment, but my hearing’s perfectly fine!’

And then, I don’t know, after that, things went from bad to worse. Because when it came to my turn, Mary-Claire seemed not to hear what I’d said.

‘Ed, I’m really sorry we’ve got these problems,’ I began, swallowing hard.

‘Rose admits that there are huge problems,’ Mary-Claire announced, with an expression of exaggerated concern.

‘But I love my new career,’ I went on. ‘I just…love it, and I can’t simply give it up to please you.’

‘What Rose means by that, Ed,’ said Mary-Claire sweetly, ‘is that she doesn’t really want to please you.’ Eh?

‘You see, until I became an agony aunt, I’d never really felt professionally fulfilled.’

‘What Rose is saying there,’ interjected Mary-Claire, ‘is that it’s only her job that makes her feel fulfilled.’ Huh?

‘And I guess I am a bit over-zealous on the domestic front,’ I went on uncertainly, ‘and I know that’s been an issue too.’

‘Ed,’ said Mary-Claire soothingly, ‘Rose is acknowledging that at home she’s been a’ – theatrical pause here to signify sadness and regret – ‘control freak,’ she whispered. What?

‘But I do love you Ed,’ I went on, heroically ignoring her, ‘and I think we can work this through.’

‘What Rose is saying, there, Ed,’ ‘explained’ Mary-Claire benignly, ‘is that, basically, you’re through.’

‘I’m not saying that!’ I shouted, getting to my feet. ‘I’m saying we should try again!’ Mary-Claire gave me a look which combined slyness with pity, and Ed and I split up within three weeks.

Looking back, I think I’d been semi-hypnotised by Mary-Claire’s squeaky, sing-songy voice – like Melanie Griffiths on helium – otherwise I’d have been tempted to give her a slap. But for some reason I found it impossible to challenge her bizarre interventions. It was only later on, that I twigged…

Now, as I came downstairs again, I could hear Bella and Bea in the kitchen, arguing about flooring.

‘– hardwood would look good.’

‘– no, natural stone would be better.’

‘– but a maple veneer would look fantastic!’

‘– rubbish! She should go for slate!’

They should call their business ‘2 Much’ I decided as I went into the sitting room. I unpacked a pair of crystal candlesticks which had been a wedding present from my aunt. Shift It Kwik had wrapped them in some pages from the Daily News, and as I unfurled the yellowing paper I was gripped by a sense of déjà vu. ‘AGONY AUNT IN SPLIT’ announced the page 5 headline in my hand. Rose Costelloe, the Daily Post’s agony aunt, is to divorce, it explained gleefully beneath. Her husband, Human Resources Director, Ed Wright, has cited ‘irreconcilable differences’ as the cause of the split. However, sources close to Miss Costelloe claim that the real reason is Wright’s close friendship with Resolve counsellor, Mary-Claire Grey (pictured left).

‘The bitch!’ I shouted as I stared at my rival.

‘She certainly is!’ yelled the twins.

‘Oh dear,’ said Bella, as she came in and saw me clutching the article. ‘Want a tissue?’ I nodded. ‘Here.’

I pressed the paper hanky to my eyes. ‘She was supposed to be neutral,’ I wailed.

‘You should have had her struck off,’ said Bella.

‘I should have had her bumped off you mean.’

‘But why the hell did you suggest marriage guidance in the first place?’ asked Bea.

‘Because I genuinely thought it might help! Ed had been going on and on about my job, and about how much he hated what I did, and about how he hadn’t married an agony aunt, and how he was finding it all “very hard.” And I’d been sent a book on marriage guidance that day so the subject was in my mind. So, in a spirit of compromise I said, “Let’s get some counselling.” So we did – and that was that.’

As the twins disposed of the offending newspaper article, I agitatedly pinched a stray sheet of bubble wrap.

‘Miss Grey,’ I spat as the plastic bubbles burst with a crack like machine-gun fire.

‘Miss Conduct,’ suggested Bea.

‘Miss Demeanour,’ said Bella.

‘Miss Take,’ I corrected them. ‘I mean there she was,’ I ranted. ‘Smiling at Ed. Looking winsome. Batting her eyelids like a Furby. Sympathising with him at every turn, and twisting everything I said. By the time she’d finished you could have used my statements to take the corks out of pinotage. She knew exactly what she wanted and she went for it, and now thanks to her I’m getting divorced!’

I thought of those embarrassingly abbreviated marriages you read about sometimes in Hello! Kate Winslet and Jim Threapleton three years; Marco-Pierre White and Lisa Butcher – ten weeks. And Drew Barrymore split up with her first husband so fast they didn’t even have time for a honeymoon.

‘You got married too…’

‘Young?’ I interjected sardonically.

‘Er no. Soon, actually,’ said Bea. ‘But we warned you…’ she added shaking her head like a nodding dachshund.

‘Yes,’ I said bitterly, ‘you did.’

‘Marry in haste,’ Bea went on, ‘repent at…’

‘…haste. I’ll be divorced in just over six months!’

But the twins are right. It had happened too fast. But then when you’re older, you just know. I mean I’m thirty-six…ish. Well, thirty-eight actually. Oh all right, all right – thirty-nine: and I’d never believed in instant attraction, but Ed had proved me wrong. We met at a Christmas drinks party given by my next door neighbours in Meteor Street. I was making tiny talk by the Twiglets with this pleasant tree surgeon when I suddenly spotted Ed. He shone out of the crowd like a beacon, and he had clearly noticed me; because he came strolling over, introduced himself, and that was that. I was concussed with passion. I was bowled over. I was gob-smacked, bouleversée. I felt my jaw go slack with desire, and I probably drooled. Ed’s incredibly distinguished-looking; elegant, a young forty-one, with strong cheekbones and an aquiline nose. You can fall in love with a profile, I realised then, and I fell in love with his. As for the chemistry – there was enough erotic static crackling between us to blow the lights on the Blackpool tower. He told me he was Head of Human Resources at Paramutual Insurance and that he’d just bought a house near Putney Bridge. And I was waiting for some gimlet-eyed glamour puss to zoom up and lay a ferociously proprietorial hand on his arm, when he added casually, ‘I live there alone.’

If I believed in God – which, by the way, I don’t – I would have got down on my knees there and then and thanked Him, but instead said a silent Hurrah! Ed and I talked and flirted for another hour or so, then he offered to take me home.

‘But I only live next door,’ I protested with a laugh.

‘You told me that,’ he smiled. ‘But I’m not having a gorgeous woman like you wandering the streets of Clapham – I shall see you safely back.’

When you’re almost six foot one, as I am, you don’t get many offers like that. Men tend to assume you can take care of yourself – and of course I can. But at the same time I’ve always envied those dinky little girls who can always get some man to take them home. So when Ed gallantly offered to escort me to my door, I just knew that he was The One. After years of false sightings he’d arrived. Sometimes, in my single days, I’d been tempted to have him paged. Would Mr Right kindly make his way to Reception where Miss Costelloe has been waiting for him for the past fifteen years. Now, suddenly, there he was – phew! We spent Christmas in bed, he proposed on New Year’s Eve, and we were married on Valentine’s Day…

‘I had reservations,’ said Bella judiciously. ‘But I didn’t want to spoil it for you. Ed’s charming, yes,’ she went on. ‘Handsome, yes, intelligent yes…’ I felt sick. ‘He’s successful –’

‘And local,’ added Bea meaningfully.

‘He’s amusing…’

‘Okay,’ I said.

‘He has, moreover, a magnetic personality,’ Bella continued, ‘and sex appeal in spades. But, at the same time there was something I didn’t quite…like. Something…I can’t quite put my finger on,’ she added thoughtfully.

‘I thought he was all right,’ ventured Bea. ‘And you can sometimes be a bit abrasive Rose.’

‘That is hypocritical bollocks!’ I snapped.

‘But you didn’t seem to have much in common with him,’ Bea went on calmly. ‘I mean what did you do together?’

‘Well there wasn’t a lot of free time because we were so busy…’ I racked my brain. ‘We went swimming,’ I remembered, ‘and we played Scrabble. We did the crossword too. He was useless at anagrams,’ I added with a twist of spite, ‘so I’d do those. But soon all we were having were cross words.’

The problems had started almost immediately – within a month of our honeymoon. Ed and I had gone to Menorca – not my first choice admittedly, but on the other hand it seemed perfect in some ways as the anagram of Menorca is ‘Romance’. Between you and me, though, I’d thought he might whisk me off to Venice, say, or Sandy Lane. But his mum has a little flat on Menorca and so we went there. We had a lovely week – it was too cold to swim, but we walked and played tennis and read.

Then we went back to work – I was doing a stint at the Post – when this amazing thing happened to me. I was sitting at my desk one lunchtime, putting the finishing touches to a rather vicious profile of the P.R. king, Rex Delafoy, when suddenly there was this commotion. Doors were banging, people were running, and an air of tension and panic prevailed. It turned out that Edith Smugg, the Post’s ancient agony aunt, had gone face down in the soup at lunch. No-one knew quite how old she was because of all the face-lifts, but it turned out that she was eighty-three! Anyway, before Edith’s stiffening body had even been stretchered out of the building, I’d been deputed to complete her page. And I remember standing, shocked, by her paper-strewn desk and wondering what the hell to do. So I stuck my hand in the postbag and pulled out three letters as if drawing the raffle at some village fete.

To my astonishment I found the contents riveting. The first was from a chap with premature ejaculation, the second was from a woman who’d sadly murdered her boyfriend five years before, and the third was from a seventy-three-year-old virgin who thought he might be gay. So I answered them as best I could and the next day I was asked to carry on. I didn’t mind at all, because I’d enjoyed it; in fact by then I was hooked. I didn’t care how many letters there were – I’d have done it for free if they’d asked. The feeling it gave me – I can’t quite describe it – this delicious, warm glow inside. The knowledge that I might be able to help all these total strangers filled me with something like joy. I suddenly felt that I’d been born to be an agony aunt: at last I’d found my true niche. It was like a revelation to me – a Damascene flash – as though I’d heard a voice. ‘Rose! Rose!’ it boomed. ‘This is Thy God. Thou Shalt Dispense ADVICE!’

I kept expecting to hear that they’d hired some B-List celeb to take over, or some publicly humiliated political wife. I thought they’d be handing me my cards and saying, ‘Thanks for helping out, Rose – you’re a brick.’ And indeed there was talk of Trisha from daytime telly and even Carol Vordeman. But a month went by, and then another, and still no change was announced, and by now they were putting Ask Rose at the top of the page, and my photo byline too. The next thing I knew, I’d got a year’s contract; so there I was – an agony aunt.

I’d always read the problem page; it’s like the horoscope, I can never resist. But now, to my amazement, I was writing the replies myself. It’s a role I adore, and the sight of my bulging postbag just makes my heart sing. All those people to be helped. All those dilemmas to be resolved. All that human muddle and…mess. There are lots of perks as well. The money’s not bad and I get to broadcast and I’m asked to give seminars and talks. I also do a late-night phone-in, Sound Advice, at London FM twice a week. And all this simply because I happened to be in the office on the day that Edith Smugg dropped dead! I thought Ed would be pleased for me, but he wasn’t – far from it. That’s when things began to go wrong.

‘Ed – what’s the problem?’ I asked, one Sunday in late June. He’d been in a funny sort of mood all day.

‘The problem Rose,’ he said slowly, ‘or at least the main problem – because there are several problems – is other people’s problems. That’s the problem.’

‘Oh,’ I said uncertainly. ‘I see.’

‘I wish you’d never become an agony aunt,’ he went on wearily.

‘Well I’m sorry, Ed, but I did.’

‘And I don’t like you bringing your work home.’

‘I have no option, it’s a huge job. In any case I’d have thought you’d be understanding given that you work in Personnel.’

‘It’s called Human Resources these days,’ he corrected me stiffly.

‘So it is. But you sort out people’s problems too.’

‘I sort out “issues” actually,’ he said. Not “problems”. And it’s precisely because I have to listen to people whining to me about their maternity leave or the size of their parking space, that I don’t want more whingeing when I get home. In any case I thought agony aunts made it all up.’

‘A common misconception,’ I said.

‘Well how many letters do you actually print?’

‘I answer eight on the page, twice a week.’

‘And how many do you get?’

‘About a hundred and fifty.’

‘So why bother with all the rest? I mean, why don’t you just put a line at the bottom saying, “Rose regrets that letters cannot be answered personally”.’

‘Because, Ed,’ I said, irritated by now, ‘those people are depending on me. They’ve confided in me. They’ve put their faith in me. I have a sacred duty to write back. I mean, take this woman for example.’ I waved a piece of Basildon Bond at him. ‘Her husband has just run off with a dental hygienist thirty years his junior – don’t you think she deserves a reply?’

‘Well do other agony aunts write back to everyone?’

‘Some do,’ I said, ‘and some don’t. But if I didn’t then it would make me feel…mean. I couldn’t live with myself.’

Gradually it became apparent that Ed couldn’t live with me either.

‘Will you be coming to bed tonight?’ he’d ask me sardonically, ‘and if so, how will I recognise you?

‘I shall cite the letters as correspondence in our divorce,’ he’d quip with a bitter laugh.

Then he began getting on at me about all my other alleged shortcomings as well: my ‘total inability’ to cook for example – well I’ve never learnt – and my alleged ‘bossiness’. He also objected to what he impertinently called my ‘obsessive’ tidiness – ‘It’s like living in an operating theatre!’ he’d snap.

By July conflict had long since replaced kisses and we were sleeping in separate beds. That’s when, in a spirit of compromise, I suggested marriage guidance – and that was that…

‘Ed was supposed to get the seven year itch, not the seven month itch,’ I said to the twins as I fumbled for a tissue again. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do. It’s so humiliating.’

‘Well what would you advise a reader in this situation to do?’ asked Bella.

‘I’d advise them to try and get over it – fast.’

‘Then you must do that too. There’s an equation for post relationship breakdown recovery,’ she added knowledgeably. ‘It’s supposed to take you half the time you were actually in a relationship to get over it. So in your case that would be five months.’

‘No,’ Bea corrected her, ‘it takes twice as long, not half – so it’s going to take her a year and a half.’

‘I’m sure it’s half the time,’ said Bella.

‘No, it’s double,’ insisted Bea. ‘Look, I’ll show you on a piece of paper if you like. Right, where x = the time it took him to ask you out and y = the number of times he told you he loved you and z = his income multiplied by the number of lovers you’d both had before then –’

‘Oh stop arguing you two,’ I said. ‘Because you’re both wrong – it’s not going to take me five months or eighteen months – it’s going to take me the rest of my life! Ed and I had our problems but I loved him,’ I wept. ‘I made this public commitment to him. He was The One.’

‘No, he wasn’t,’ Bella said gently. ‘If he really was The One, he would not have a) objected to your new career – especially as he knew it made you happy – and b) carried on with Mary-Claire Grey.’ At the sound of her name my tears slammed on the brakes and did a rapid U-turn up my cheeks. ‘May I inject a little reality here?’ Bella added gently as I felt a slick of snot slither down my top lip. ‘You’ve been let down; your marriage has prematurely failed; you’re nearly forty…’ – OH SHIT!!!!!!! – ‘…so you’ve got to move on. And I think you’ll only be able to do that successfully if you expunge Ed from your life.’

‘You’ve got to expel him,’ said Bea forcefully.

‘You’ve got to eject him,’ agreed her twin.

‘You’ve got to exile him,’ said Bea.

‘Erase him,’ Bella went on.

‘Evict him.’

‘Excommunicate him.’

‘You’ve got to exorcise him,’ they both said.

‘Exorcise him?’ I whispered. ‘Yes. That’s it. I shall simply Ed-it Ed out of my life.’

I felt better once I’d resolved to do that. Ed and I live eight miles apart, we have no mutual friends, my mail’s redirected, and we don’t have kids. We don’t even have to communicate through lawyers as we can’t start proceedings until we’ve been married a year. So it can all be nice and neat. Which is how I like things. Tidy. Sorted out. Nor do we have any joint financial commitments as the house belongs solely to Ed. I sold my flat when we got engaged and moved in with him. Ed wanted me to put in my equity to pool resources but Bella advised me to wait.

‘Rose,’ she said, ‘you haven’t known Ed long. Please, don’t tie up your cash with his until you feel certain it’s going to work out.’

Ed seemed disappointed that I wouldn’t do it, but as things turned out, Bella was right. As for letting all our friends know about the split – that had been taken care of by the popular press.

I shall simply carry on as though I’d never met him I decided as I opened more packing cases the next day. I shall be very civilised about it. I shall not get hysterical; I’ll be as cool as vichyssoise. In any case the unpalatable image of him canoodling with our marriage guidance counsellor would keep sentiment firmly at bay.

And now I masochistically replayed the scene where I’d found them together that day. I’d been invited to speak at a seminar on Relationship Enrichment and told Ed I’d be coming home late. I hadn’t thought it relevant to mention that it was being held in a conference room at the Savoy. But when I left at nine I had to walk through the bar and, to my astonishment, I spotted Ed. He was sitting at a corner table – behind a large parlour palm – holding hands with Mary-Claire Grey.

My unfailing advice to readers in such disagreeable situations is, Just Pretend You Haven’t Seen Them And Leave! But in the nanosecond it took my brain to clock their combined presence I had walked right up to them. Mary-Claire saw me first and the look of horror on her snouty little face is something I’ll never forget. She dropped Ed’s hand as though it were radioactive, and emitted a high-pitched little cough. Ed swivelled in his seat, saw me, blinked twice, blushed deeply and simply said, ‘Oh!’

I was relieved that he didn’t try and cover it up by saying, for example, ‘Gosh, Rose, fancy seeing you here!’ or ‘Darling, do you remember our marriage guidance counsellor, Mary-Claire Grey?’ or even ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Oh…Rose,’ Ed stuttered, getting to his feet. ‘Well, what a surprise! I, er expect you’re wondering what we’re…’

‘Yes,’ I interjected. ‘I am.’ I was so frosty I gave myself goose bumps, but inside I was as hot as a flame.

‘Well, I…we…we were just having a chat, actually.’

‘A chat?’ I echoed. ‘How nice. Well, don’t let me interrupt,’ I added with a chilly little smile. Then I turned on my heel, and left.

Looking back, the only thing that gives me any solace is the knowledge that I retained my dignity. It’s only in my dreams that I throw things at him, and swear, and rage and hit. In real life I was as cool as a frozen penguin, which might surprise people who know me well. I’m supposed to be ‘difficult’ you see – a bit ‘complicated’. A rather ‘thorny’ Rose – ho ho ho! And of course my red hair is a guaranteed sign of a crazy streak and a wicked tongue. So the fact that I didn’t erupt like Mount Etna in this moment of crisis would almost certainly confound my friends. But I felt oddly detached from what was going on. I was numb. I guess it was shock. I mean, there was my handsome husband, of barely six months, holding hands with a troll! This realisation astounded me so much that I was able to retain my sang-froid.

‘Rose…’ he ventured an hour and a half later in the kitchen where I was tidying out a drawer. ‘Rose…’ he repeated, but I was having difficulty hearing him over the deafening thump, thump of my heart. ‘Rose…’ he reiterated, ‘you must think badly of me.’

‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘I do.’

‘I just want to say that I’m truly sorry. I know it doesn’t look good.’ Now that elegant little apology really annoyed me, because I was enjoying being on the moral high ground. The air’s very bracing at ten thousand feet, and of course there’s a wonderful view. ‘But I’d like to…explain,’ he suggested impotently.

‘No. Spare me, Ed. Please don’t.’

‘I want to,’ he insisted. ‘There are things I’d like to say.’

Suddenly I noticed that one of the cupboards was grubby and began wiping it with a damp cloth.

‘I’m not remotely interested in why you were holding hands with that pigmy,’ I said stiffly as I swabbed away.

‘Look, Rose. We’ve got to talk.’

‘You sound like the B.T. ad.’

‘Mary-Claire and I were just…chatting,’ he added lamely.

‘Ed,’ I said serenely, ‘that’s a lie: a) you were not just “chatting”, you were holding hands; and b) there was a pool of drool under your table big enough to support aquatic life. What’s the attraction?’ I added breezily as I reached for the Ajax. ‘She looks like a pig in a tutu to me.’

‘Well…she…she…Mary-Claire listens to me Rose,’ he said with sudden emphasis. ‘She hears what I say. You don’t. You take everyone else’s problems seriously, don’t you – but not mine, and would you please put that cloth down?’

‘There’s a nasty mark here,’ I said. ‘It’s very stubborn. I’ll have to try Astonish if this doesn’t work.’

‘Will you stop cleaning, Rose, for Chrissake!’ He snatched the cloth out of my hand and hurled it into the sink with a flaccid slap. ‘You’re always cleaning things,’ he said. ‘That’s part of the problem – I can never relax.’

‘I just like things to be shipshape,’ I protested pleasantly. ‘No need to snap.’

‘But you’re always at it. It’s bizarre! If you’re not at work or the radio station you’re cleaning or tidying, or polishing the furniture, or you’re sorting drawers. Or you’re colour spectrumming my shirts: or filing stuff away, or you’re hoovering the floor, or telling me to hoover.’

‘But it’s a very big house.’

Ed shook his head. ‘You can never relax, Rose, can you? You can never just sit and be. Look,’ he added with a painful sigh, ‘you and I have got problems. What shall we do?’

At this my ears pricked up like a husky. Ed was talking my lingo now. This was just like one of my monthly ‘Dilemmas’ when the readers, rather than me, give advice. Rose (name changed to protect her identity), has just found her husband Ed (ditto), canoodling with their vertically-challenged marriage guidance counsellor, Mary-Claire Grey. Rose, understandably, feels shocked and betrayed. But, despite this, she still finds her husband desperately, knee-tremblingly, heart-breakingly attractive, so is wondering what to do. And I was just about to open my mouth when I heard Ed say, ‘Maybe we should have a trial separation.’ Separation. Oh. S, e, p, a, r…I reflected as I pulled the knife out of my heart.

‘One is apart,’ I said quietly.

‘What?’

‘One is apart.’

‘Well, yes – we will be. Just for a while.’

‘No, it’s the anagram of separation,’ I explained.

‘Oh,’ he sighed. ‘I see. But I think we should just have a breather…take a month off.’

‘So that you can shag that midget again?’

‘I haven’t shagged her – and she is a not a midget!’

‘Yes you have – and she is!’

‘I have…not…slept with Mary-Claire,’ he insisted.

‘I have a diploma in Advanced Body Language! I know.’

‘Well, I…’

‘Don’t bother to deny it, Ed.’

He clenched his jaw, as he does when he’s cornered, and a small blue vein jumped by his left eye. ‘It’s just…’ he sighed, ‘that I was feeling neglected and she –’

‘Paid you attention I suppose?’

‘Yes!’ he said defiantly. ‘She did. She talked to me, Rose. She communicated with me. Whereas you only communicate with strangers. That’s why I wrote you that letter,’ he added. ‘It’s the only way I could get a response! You’re…neurotic, Rose,’ he snapped, no longer contrite now, but angry. ‘Sometimes I think you need help.’

At that I put my J Cloth down and gave him a contemptuous stare. ‘That is ridiculous,’ I said quietly. ‘Help is what I provide.’

‘Look Rose,’ he said exasperatedly, running his left hand through his hair, ‘our marriage is not going well. We rushed into it because, being older, we thought we knew what we were doing – but we were wrong. And I found you so vibrant and so attractive, Rose – I still do. But I’m finding it hard to live with you, so for the time being let’s give each other some space.’

‘You want more space?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Space.’

‘Well you can have all the space in the universe,’ I said calmly, ‘because I’m going to file for divorce.’

‘Oh,’ he said. I’d shocked him. I think I’d shocked myself. But I knew exactly what ‘let’s give each other space’ really meant, and I was going to be the one to quit first.

‘We’ll discuss it tomorrow,’ he added wearily.

‘No,’ I said, ‘there’s no need.’ I’d been chewing so hard on my lower lip that I could taste the metallic tang of blood.

‘You want to call it a day already?’ he asked quietly. I nodded. ‘Are you really sure?’ I nodded again. ‘Are you quite, quite sure?’ he persisted. ‘Because there’ll be serious consequences.’

‘Yes,’ I lied. ‘I am.’

‘Right,’ he said faintly. He shrugged. ‘Right. Okay…if that’s what you want. Well then,’ he said bleakly, ‘I guess that’s…it.’ He inhaled through his nose, gave me a grim little smile then walked away. But as he reached for the door handle I said, ‘Can I ask you something Ed?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’d just like to know why you asked me to marry you?’

‘I didn’t, Rose. You asked me.’

Christ – I’d forgotten. How embarrassing! I could have sworn it was the other way round. I certainly don’t have any memories of getting down on bended knee. All I recall is whizzing round the London Eye, drunk as a monkey, and finding myself engaged by the time we got down. But if, as Ed ungallantly claims, I was the one who popped the question, then it’s right that I should also be the one proposing divorce.

I was thinking about all this as I emptied the last few packing cases and cleaned the house after the twins had gone. The interior isn’t bad – just a bit dusty, that’s all. Off-white walls, limed wooden kitchen units, cream silk curtains (included in the price) and a perfectly respectable oatmeal Berber carpet everywhere. The house is the colour of string. It looks etiolated. Drained. Like me. I quite like it, I thought as I scrubbed and swabbed – too much colour would get me down. I decided I’d redecorate it later; I could live with this for a while.

And now, bearing in mind what the twins had said, I prepared to expunge the memories of Ed. I’d given this very careful thought. I went to the Spar round the corner and bought a packet of party balloons. When I got back I laid them out flat, then wrote ‘ED WRIGHT’ in black biro on each one. Then I inflated them, watching his name grow and expand on the rubber skin. Ears aching from the effort I watched the balloons bobbing up and down on the sitting room floor. They looked incongruously, almost insultingly, festive as they bounced against each other in the breeze. Then I found my sewing box, took my largest needle and stabbed them, one by one. BANG! went Ed’s name, as it was reduced to rubbery shreds. CRACK! exploded the next. POP! went the third as I detonated it, feeling the smile spread across my face. I derived enormous and, yes, childish satisfaction from this – it gave me a malicious thrill. Ed was full of hot air – his vows meant nothing – so this was what he deserved. I burst nine – one for each month I knew him, then took the last one, which was yellow, outside. By now the wind had picked up, and I stood in the middle of the lawn for a moment, then let the balloon go. A sudden gust snatched it and lifted it over the garden fence, before it floated up and away. I could still make out Ed’s name as it rose higher and higher, bobbing and jerking in the stiff breeze. By now it was just a yellow blob against the sky, then a smudge, then a speck, and then gone.

I heaved a sigh of relief then went inside for Stage Two of my ritual. I took a piece of string and tied knots in it, one for each happy memory of my time with Ed. The first knot was for when we met, the second was for New Year’s Eve; as I tied the third I thought of our engagement party; I tied the fourth for our wedding day. As I tied the fifth I remembered how happy I had felt when I moved into his house. Then I lit the end of the string and watched a neat yellow flame take hold. It climbed slowly but steadily, leaving a glowing tail of embers and a thin coil of smoke. Thirty seconds later and my memories were just a thread of ash which I washed down the sink. Finally, I riffled through a wallet of snaps and found a photo of Ed. He’s usually extremely photogenic, but in this one he looked like shit. The camera must have gone off by mistake, because it was looking straight up his nose. He was scowling at something, it exaggerated his slight jowl, and his face was unshaven and tired. So I pinned it to the kitchen noticeboard and made a mental note to have it enlarged. Then I went into the bathroom to perform the final part of my cathartic rites. Suddenly my mobile rang.

‘It’s us,’ said the twins, one on each extension. ‘Where are you?’

‘In the bathroom.’

‘You’re not taking an overdose are you?’ they shrieked.

‘Not at the moment. No.’

‘And you’re not slashing your wrists or anything?’

‘Are you crazy – just think of the mess!’

‘Well what are you doing in the bathroom then?’ asked Bea suspiciously.

‘I’m doing my exorcises,’ I said.

I rang off, took my wedding ring out of my pocket, and looked at it one last time. Ed had had it engraved inside with Forever – I emitted a mirthless laugh. Then, holding it between thumb and forefinger, like a dainty titbit, I dropped it into the loo. It lay there, glinting gently in the shadeless overhead light. Now I took our engagement photo, ripped it into six pieces, threw them in, then pulled the flush. I watched the cauldron of water swirl and boil then it cleared with a glug, and refilled. Everything had gone – the ring and the photograph – all except for one piece. To my annoyance it was the bit with most of Ed’s face on and it was resolutely refusing to go down. It was unnerving, having him bobbing about like that, smiling cheerfully up at me as though nothing were amiss. So I flushed it again and watched the fragment spin wildly but, to my intense annoyance, it kept popping back up. After ten tries, defeated, I fished Ed’s still smiling face out with the loo brush, and scraped him into the bin.

‘Now Wash Your Hands,’ I said wearily; then I went downstairs.

I felt a little, well, yes, flushed from my exertions so I made a cup of tea. And the kettle was just boiling when I heard the loud clatter of the letter box. On the mat was a creamcoloured envelope, marked, To Our New Neighbour in a large, round hand. Inside was a floral card, inscribed, Welcome to Hope Street, from…Hey! I’ve got celebrity neighbours!…Beverley and Trevor McDonald.

Chapter Two

I realise, of course, that my neighbour is very unlikely to be the real Trevor McDonald. Why would a famous broadcaster choose to live at the wrong end of Camberwell? No, if Trevor McDonald had chosen SE5 then he’d have one of those vast Georgian numbers on Camberwell Grove. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about Hope Street, even if it is at the Peckham end. I had to move fast, it met my needs, and it has a kind of unpolished charm. And the mix of cars – Beemers and Volvos nose to bumper with clapped out Datsuns – suggests that the area is ‘coming up.’ But I guess my neighbour simply shares the same name, which must be a bit of a bore. Constantly being asked over the phone if he’s the Trevor McDonald, for example, or receiving the Trevor McDonald’s mail, or being introduced as ‘Trevor McDonald’ at parties and hearing everyone go ‘BONG!’ But on the other hand it’s probably useful for booking tables in restaurants, or getting tickets for Wimbledon.

This train of thought diverted me from my thermonuclear fury with Ed as I found my way to the bus stop this morning. And I was standing there feeling perfectly calm, mentally backing a steamroller over Mary-Claire Grey, when suddenly the man standing in front of me did this distressing thing. He took out a pack of Marlboro, peeled off the cellophane, screwed it up, then chucked it down. And as I watched the wrapper skittering about in the gutter I realised that I felt exactly like that. I feel as though I’ve been screwed up and discarded. Thrown away. You might find that weird, but after what’s happened to me I see rejection in everything.

So to keep negative thoughts at bay I started doing the crossword, as usual tackling the anagrams first. The skill with these is not in rearranging the letters – that’s easy – but in spotting them: you have to know the code. ‘Messy’ for example, usually indicates an anagram, as do ‘disorder’, and ‘disarray’. ‘Mixed up’ is a good anagram clue as well; as is ‘confused’ and also ‘upset’.

Doing anagrams makes me feel oddly happy: I often anagrammatise words in my head, just for fun. Perhaps because I was an only child I’ve always been able to amuse myself. I particularly enjoy it when I can make both ends of the anagram work. ‘Angered’ and ‘Enraged’ for example; ‘slanderous’ and ‘done as slur’; ‘discover’ and ‘divorces’ is a good one, as is ‘tantrums’ and ‘must rant’. ‘Marital’, rather appropriately, turns to ‘martial’; ‘male’ very neatly becomes ‘lame’, and ‘masculine’ – I like this – becomes ‘calumnies’, and ‘Rose’, well, that’s obvious. ‘Sore’.

At least my journey to work was going to be easy I noted as the bus trundled up Camberwell New Road. The Daily Post is bang opposite Tate Britain, in a brown smoked glass block overlooking the Thames. This is the home of Amalgamated Newspapers which also publishes Celeb!, and the Sunday Post.

I got the lift to the tenth floor, swiped my security tag (for keeping out nutters), then prepared for the fray. I passed the News Desk, the Picture Desk and the back bench where the sub-editors sit. I smiled at our gossip columnist Norris Hamster and our new features editor, Linda Leigh-Trapp; I said good morning to ‘Psychic Cynthia’, our astrologer, and to Jason Brown, our Chief Sub. Then right at the end of the huge newsroom, by the window, I reached my ‘pod’ with its cupboard and files. I know quite a few agony aunts – we have lunch sometimes – and we all claim to be marginalized at work. Our (mostly male) bosses seem to view us askance; we’re like the white witch who lives down the lane. But I don’t feel slighted at being sidelined like this, not least because it’s relatively quiet. There’s always such a noise at the Post. The day starts calmly enough, but by eleven o’clock as the stories firm up, the background babble builds. There are people arguing, shouting and laughing; the incessant chatter of TV screens; computers are humming, printers spewing, and there’s the polyphonic trill of mobile phones. But being seated about two miles from everyone else I don’t usually notice the din.

‘Hi Serena,’ I said brightly to my assistant. ‘How are you?’

‘Well…’ – I braced myself – ‘…can’t complain. And at least,’ she added, with a glance outside, ‘the weather’s nice for the time of year.’ Serena, let me tell you, inhabits Cliché City: she could win the Palme d’Or for her platitudes. She’s one of these people who are perennially perky; in fact she’s so chirpy I suspect she’s insane. Especially as she invariably has some dreadful domestic crisis going on. She’s late thirties and mousy with three kids and a dull husband called Rob (anagram, ‘Bor’).

‘How was your weekend?’ I enquired as I sat at my desk.

‘Oh it was lovely,’ she replied with a smile. ‘Except that Jonny got his head stuck behind the radiator.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘He was there for three hours.’

‘Gosh.’

‘He’d been looking for Frodo, his white mouse, but then, somehow, his head got jammed. We tried olive oil and butter, even that low-cholesterol Flora, but it just wouldn’t budge. In the end we dialled 999 and the fire brigade got him out.’

‘What about the mouse?’

‘Well, sadly, after all the palaver was over, we discovered he’d been eaten by the cat.’

‘Oh.’ I felt unaccountably crestfallen.

‘Still, it could have been worse. All’s well that end’s well,’ she concluded breezily. Not for Frodo. ‘And how was your weekend Rose?’

‘It was fine,’ I replied with a tight little smile. ‘You know, settling in. New house.’

‘Onwards and upwards,’ she said encouragingly.

‘Mmmm.’

‘No use crying over spilt milk.’

‘Quite.’

‘I mean, life’s not a…’ Oh God…

‘Bowl of cherries?’ I interrupted. She looked slightly nonplussed.

‘No. Dress rehearsal I was going to say.’

‘Okay Serena,’ I said mentally awarding her a Bafta for banality, ‘let’s get down to work.’

I stared, with anticipatory pleasure, at the envelopes in my over-flowing in-tray. There were brown ones and white ones, airmail and Basildon Bond. There were typed ones and handwritten ones, some strewn with flowers and hearts: I fancied I could hear the voices inside, crying out for my help.

My practised eye had already identified from the writing the likely dilemmas within. Here were the large, childish loops of repression, and the backwards slope of the chronically depressed. There the green-inked scorings of schizophrenia and the cramped hand of the introvert. While Serena logged and dated each letter for reference, I sorted out my huge index file. In this I keep all the information sheets which I send out with my replies. I’ve got over a hundred leaflets covering every human problem under the sun, from Abandonment to Zoophilia, via (and this is just a selection) Acne, Blushing, Body Hair, Confidence, Death, Debt, Insomnia, Jealousy, Nasty Neighbours, Nipples, Pregnancy (both wanted and unwanted), Race Relations, Snoring and Stress. Seeing the problems neatly ranged in strict alphabetical order like this gives me a satisfied glow. Having tidied the drawer – Smoking had somehow strayed into Smacking – I opened the day’s jiffy bags. Serena always has these X-rayed in the post-room because occasionally we get sent vile things; used condoms for example – disgusting – or lacy knickers, or porn. Usually, however, the bags simply contain self-help books of which I get loads. They’re sent to me by publishing P.R.s all desperate for a plug. I rarely oblige but can’t blame them for trying – I have three million readers after all. How to Start a Conversation and Make Friends announced the first one. Helping People Cope With Crime, How to be a Happy Homosexual, and Breathe Away Your Stress. I put them in the cupboard, arranging them neatly by height, then felt ready to face the day’s post. In my column I answer letters on any issue ‘Moral, Medical or Miscellaneous’, but I knew more or less what I’d find. At this time of year it’s failed holiday romances, dreadful second honeymoons, and disappointing exam results.

Dear Rose, I read, as I switched on my computer, I am 19 and have just failed my GCSE’s again…Dear Rose, last month I went to Ibiza and met this wonderful man…Dear Rose, I’ve just come back from a purgatorial cruise with my wife…Then there are the hardy perennials like low self-esteem and of course, Am I Gay? And I get so many letters from cross-dressers I can never meet a man without checking his feet for high heels. Then there are the weird sexual problems – this looks like one – I’m never judgemental, of course. Oh Christ that is so disgusting!! Dear Rose, I read, appalled. I’m a farmer, I’ve been married nearly twenty years, and to put it bluntly, I’m a bit bored in the sack. I’d like to ‘experiment’ a bit, shall we say, but my wife won’t oblige and this is causing a rift. She says it’s just ‘not on’ and that we should leave Grunty alone. Could you give me some guidance please?

Dear Jeff, I typed smartly, my fingers stabbing at the keys with distaste. All sexual activity with other species is illegal. I agree wholeheartedly with your wife. Interfering with animals is, moreover, an abuse of their rights – I suggest you stick to eating them instead!

I have my principles you see. Agony Aunts tend to be liberal, but we all have certain bees in our bonnets. Mine are zoophilia (gross) smacking (unacceptable), and infidelity (absolutely ditto). The number of women who write to me asking how they can persuade their married boyfriend to leave his wife! Take this letter here for example. Typical. Dear Rose, Please could you advise me what to give my lover for his birthday? I’d like to give him something personal rather than aftershave or a tie which his wife might spot.

Dear Sharon, I typed energetically. Thank you very much for your letter. I know the perfect birthday present for your married boyfriend – may I suggest that you give him the boot!

I mean, what do these women seriously expect me to say? Sleeping with someone else’s husband is the pits. Why can’t they find themselves a single man – God knows there are enough out there. And now I mentally pushed Mary-Claire Grey off the top of Tower Bridge before ploughing through the rest of the mail.

I get, on average, a hundred and fifty letters a week. I type half the replies then record the rest on a dictaphone and give Serena the tape. She also leaflet-stuffs the envelopes, shreds the old letters – so important – and organises the helplines which appear on the page. We ring the changes with these but we usually have five or six on the go. Fighting Phobias is a popular one, as is He Wants Me To Dress Up. We also have helplines on Prostate Problems, Impotence and Bad Breath. Obviously we have to be careful not to mix up the phone numbers alongside each one. Dear Rose, I now read. I am f**g pissed off because yesterday I phoned your f**g Hair Loss helpline and got Haemorrhoids instead! Those lines cost a pound a minute so I wasn’t f**g impressed.

I wrote back enclosing a conciliatory fiver and my leaflet on Self-Control. And now I tackled my e-mails which account for about a quarter of my mail. I find e-mails much harder to analyse than letters. There’s no handwriting with all its tell-tale signs and the language is cold and concise. You can see the problem itself very clearly, but not the person who’s having it. Because the main thing about the problem page is that the letters are often not quite what they seem. You have to work them out, spot the clues – like a crime novel – or deconstruct them like a piece of prac. crit. For example, someone might spend sixteen pages whining on about how they’re not getting on with their partner any more and how he’s always shouting at them and picking fights, blah blah blah. But then they’ll add, in the very last line, ‘but he’s only like this when he drinks.’ At which point I am frantically digging out my Alcohol leaflet and the number of their local AA. And that’s the real skill of being an agony aunt – you have to read between the lines.

At parties people often ask me what other qualities are required. Curiosity for starters – I’ve got that in spades. I’ve always loved sitting on trains, staring dreamily out of the window into the backs of people’s houses, and wondering about their lives. You have to be compassionate too – but not wet – your reply should have a strong spine. There’s no point just offering sympathy, or even worse, pity, like that dreadful Citronella Pratt. What the reader needs is practical advice. So that means having information at the ready: information and kindness – that’s what it’s about. Having said which I’m not a ‘cuddly’, ‘mumsy’ agony aunt – if need be I’ll take a tough tone. But the truth is that my readers invariably know what to do, I simply help them find the answer by themselves. Take this letter, here, for example. What a nightmare. Poor bloke.

Dear Rose, in 1996 my adored wife died in a car crash, leaving me distraught. Three years later I met someone else and, after a short courtship (too short I now realise), I married again. Although I don’t claim to be a saint, I believe I have treated my second wife well. She is a pleasant-looking, but unfortunately rather aggressive woman in her mid forties – she broke my finger very badly last year. I can just about put up with her mood swings, what I can’t put up with is her affairs. I know that she’s had at least two during our marriage, and now have evidence that she’s on her third. And please don’t tell me to get marriage guidance counselling because she flatly refuses to go. All I know is that I’m miserable: I feel so lonely and I don’t sleep well. I often fantasize about being free (we don’t have children). What do you think I should do?

Dear John, I typed. Thank you for writing to me and I’m sorry you’ve been having such a hard time. I know from my own experience that infidelity is unacceptable – it’s humiliating, it’s corrosive and it hurts. Any kind of physical aggression from your partner is also beyond the pale. You’ve already been forgiving twice, so maybe it’s time to say ‘no more’. John, only you know if your marriage can go on, but it does sound as though you might be at the end of the road. Then, because I always try to add some kind words, I added: You’re obviously a very nice man, and I hope you find the happiness you deserve. Now, I don’t really know whether he’s nice or not because we’ve never met, but because he’s placed his trust in me I want to lift his morale a bit. Note that I didn’t actually tell him to start proceedings; that’s something I never do. In any case it’s pretty obvious that he’s coming round to that idea himself. What he was doing – and I often get this – was seeking permission to go ahead. Basically, he was asking me to sanction his decision to divorce and so, indirectly, I did.

Then there are all the sad letters – some so dreadful it breaks your heart. Letters with cheerful smileys all over them from children whose parents drink. Letters which start, I’m so sorry to bother you with my problems, but I have cancer, and have three months to live…Occasionally, there are the begging letters – like this one. I read it and sighed.

Dear Rose, My three-year-old daughter Daisy needs a heart and lung transplant – she’s been desperately ill since the day she was born. The doctors here say she’s inoperable, but we’ve just found a surgeon in the States. But the cost of the operation is thirty thousand pounds – money we just don’t have. Please, please, Rose, would you print this letter, as we’re sure you have many kind-hearted readers who’d help?

I heaved a sigh. I couldn’t print it because that’s not the function of my page and in any case it might not be true. But if it were true I couldn’t forgive myself for not having taken it seriously. So I wrote back enclosing the numbers for five children’s medical charities, and a cheque for seventy-five pounds. Ed used to get really cross when I did that so I stopped telling him after a while.

And now I read a letter from one of my many Lonely Young Men. Dear Rose, My problem is that I’m 35 and have never had a girlfriend. Girls just don’t seem interested in me, probably because I’m very shy with them, and I’m not at all good looking…I glanced at the enclosed photo – typical! He was very attractive…so I’ve been feeling very depressed lately and I spend every evening at home, on my own. But I would love to get to know a special lady who would be kind to me, and perhaps even love me. Please, please Rose, can you help?

Dear Colin, I wrote. Thank you very much for your letter and I’m sorry that you’re feeling so low. But let me assure you that you are a very handsome young man and I’m sure lots of girls would like to go out with you. But the point is you have to make a real effort to meet them – sitting at home’s no good! I think you should a) do an assertiveness course to help build your confidence and b) join an evening class (not car maintenance) where I’m sure you would soon make some female friends. I enclose my Confidence leaflet and the number for your local community college, and I wish you really good luck. I felt so sorry for him that, on the spur of the moment I added: P.S. If you feel you’d like to, do let me know how you get on. But as I sealed the envelope I realised that this was unlikely, and that’s the weird thing about what I do. Every month over a thousand total strangers tell me about their problems and their intimate affairs. I give them the very best advice I can, but I rarely, if ever, hear back. My replies go out into the void like meteorites hurtling through space. Did what I write help them, I sometimes wonder? Are things going better for them now?

I was suddenly aware that our new editor, Ricky Soul, ex-News of the World, was standing by my desk. R. Soul – as he’s respectfully known – has been brought in by the Amalgamated lowerarchy to try and jack up our sales.

‘How’s it going in the Agony and Misery Department?’ he asked with a smirk.

‘Oh, fine,’ I replied casually. ‘Fine.’ As he hovered beside me I made a mental note to leave a copy of my Personal Freshness leaflet on his desk. Then he reached for my letters – in total breach of confidentiality! – so I quickly swept them into a drawer.

‘Anything spicy you can lead with on Wednesday Rose?’

‘Like what?’ I enquired innocently though I knew.

‘Like “Dear Rose,” he said in a lisping falsetto, “I am a nineteen-year-old glamour model with a huge bust and long blonde hair and my boyfriend likes me to dress up as a nurse. I’m tempted to tell him that I don’t really enjoy it but am worried that he’ll feel hurt.”’

I groaned. Our old editor, Mike, who was sacked last month, used to leave me alone; but ever since Ricky arrived I’ve been under pressure to put in more sex.

‘Got any problems like that?’ he enquired with a leer.

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ I replied. ‘However I have an accountant who likes to wear silk knickers under his pinstripes; a farmer who wants to commit pigamy, and I’ve had a letter from a fifty-five-year-old nun who’d like to become a man.’

‘I said spicy, Rose – not pervy,’ said Ricky pulling a face. ‘And not too many woofters, okay?’

‘Ricky, kindly don’t trivialise my readers’ problems. My column isn’t entertainment.’

‘Of course it is,’ he guffawed, ‘that’s exactly what it is: other people’s problems give us all a lovely warm glow.’ I suppressed the urge to club him to death with Secrets of Anger Control.

‘I’ve also had this,’ I said, handing him the letter about the sick child. He scanned the paper and his face lit up.

‘Great!’ he beamed. ‘A Tragic Tot! We’ll run with it – if she’s cute.’

As he sauntered away I turned back to my final letter with a frustrated sigh. It was from a girl whose fiancé had just gone off with someone else.

Can’t believe it… she wrote, wedding four weeks off…the shame and humiliation…can’t eat, can’t sleep…should I ring him?…suicide…

‘Poor kid,’ I said handing it to Serena. ‘I’ll make this one my lead.’ And, as I quickly drafted the reply, it was as though I were writing to myself.

Dear Kelly, Thank you very much for your letter: you’ve obviously had a terrible time. But your ex is clearly the WRONG man, otherwise he wouldn’t have done what he did! So the sooner you’re able to put this behind you the sooner you’ll meet someone who’s right. You’ve had a huge emotional shock, Kelly, so you need to be radical now. All those nice memories? Erase them! Remember your ex at his worst. Remember him picking his nose, for example, or clipping the hair from his ears. Remember him drunk and snoring, or correcting you in front of your friends. Do this often enough, and you’ll find that pleasant thoughts of him will soon go. Do NOT remember the time he mixed you a Lemsip, or the time he played ‘Only You’ down the phone. Next, get rid of everything that reminds you of him – ‘vanish’ him from your life. All the gifts he gave you – chuck them! And the photograph albums. Then tear up his letters – and the Valentine’s cards. Flog the engagement ring and treat yourself to a week at a health farm with your best friend. Finally, post up the ugliest photo you have of him and draw a red circle round it with a line through. You ask me if you should contact him. NO, Kelly! Do NOT!!! And in the unlikely event that he should call you, then I suggest you tell him to get stuffed! Salvage your dignity, Kelly – it’s so important – and just be angry instead. Those homicidal dreams you’re having? Indulge them! Don’t feel guilty – enjoy! Those sadistic little fantasies in which you pull out his nails – go right ahead. And if it helps why not simply pretend that your ex is dead? Kelly, you’ve clearly had a dreadful time, but I know that you’re going to be fine. And remember that none of these things will work nearly as well as finding another – and much better – man.

I breathed a cathartic sigh as I signed the letter. As I say, I sometimes take a tough tone. But if a man lets you down that badly then you have to kick him right out. And as I made my way home that evening I decided I’d follow my own advice. There were a few marital mementoes I hadn’t had the heart to discard but now I resolved to throw them away. I took the wedding photo out of the drawer, together with our engagement announcement, and my dried bouquet. In a file I found the air tickets to Menorca and the wallets of honeymoon snaps. There was a particularly nice one of Ed, standing on the beach in the evening sun. I could have delivered a deranged monologue to it – I was tempted – but instead I put it, with the other things, in an old shoebox which, to my bitter amusement, came from ‘Faith’. I tied the box tightly with string, pressed my foot on the pedal bin and prepared to let go.

‘Goodbye Ed,’ I said firmly. ‘I am ex-iting from you; I am ex-pelling you; I am ex-cising you. You are ex-traneous,’ I added firmly. ‘You are ex-cess. I am making an ex-ample of you, because I do not want you any more. I do not want you any more,’ I repeated as the bin began to blur. ‘I do not…want. You. I…do…’ – my throat began to ache and a tear splashed my hand – ‘…want you.’ Oh fuck. My heart had been hijacked by nostalgia, and I couldn’t let my memories go. As I reached for the kitchen roll I decided instead simply to hide the box; for if I was going to get through this I couldn’t let myself be ambushed by sentiment. So I went up to the top floor, into the large spare room, and pushed the box under the bed. As I straightened up – feeling better already – I detected a wisp of smoke. I glanced out of the window into Trevor McDonald’s garden. There, at the end of the short lawn, a bonfire was smouldering away. But what was being burned on it wasn’t autumn leaves, but two hockey sticks – how odd.

Chapter Three

After a nasty break-up it’s a good idea to put a few post-codes between yourself and your ex. The further the better in fact. There’s nothing quite like it for distracting you from the fact that you’ve just been given the push. Dumped in Devon? Then why not move to Dumfries? Given the big E in Enfield? Then uproot to Edinburgh. You’ll be too busy focusing on the newness of your environment to give a damn about Him. Not that I am thinking about Him. He’s history. My campaign to exorcise Him is going well. It’s already eight weeks since we split and I can barely even remember Ed Wright’s name. I’ve done what I advised that girl Kelly to do – I’ve neatly excised him, like a tumour; I haven’t even sent him my new address. So I think it’s all going to be plain sailing from here. Were it not for one thing…

I was coming downstairs yesterday morning when I had this terrible shock. I heard Ed’s voice, quite clearly. My heart zoomed into overdrive.

‘You are IMPOSSIBLE!’ he shouted as I clutched the banister. ‘This marriage is HELL!’ By now I was hyperventilating while a light sweat beaded my brow. I stood, paralysed with amazement, in the kitchen doorway, staring at Rudolf’s cage.

‘I don’t know why I married you,’ the bird muttered shaking his head.

‘Don’t talk to me like that!’ Rudy sobbed in my voice now. ‘You’re really upsetting me.’

‘Oh Rose, please don’t cry’ ‘Ed’ pleaded as Rudy bounced up and down on his perch.

‘Uh, uh, uh!’ I heard ‘myself’ sob as Rudy lifted his glossy black wings.

‘Please Rose,’ ‘Ed’ added. ‘We’ll work it out. Please, Rose – I’m sorry. Don’t.’

I gazed, horror-struck, at Rudy as the dreadful truth sunk in: he was obviously a very slow learner but he’d got us both off to a tee. I reached down the mynah bird handbook to have my diagnosis confirmed. With a young Java Hills mynah there can be a delay of several months between it learning its vocabulary and actually speaking, the book explained. But don’t worry – once they’ve started, nothing will stop them! Oh God. They tend to repeat words spoken with enthusiasm or excitement, it went on. So be very careful what you let your bird hear. Oh. Too late for that.

‘Problems problems!’ Rudy yelled in Ed’s voice.

‘Don’t be horrid,’ ‘I’ replied. ‘And take your shoes off before you come in!’

I glanced at the book again. The thing about mynah birds is that they are truly brilliant mimics. Parrots only ever sound like parrots, but mynahs sound like human beings.

‘Anorexic of Axminster!’ shrieked Rudy. ‘Your cooking’s awful too. You couldn’t put Marmite on a cracker with a fucking recipe!’

‘Ed, that is SO unfair!’

‘It’s true!’

I stared in stupefaction at Rudy, as the implications of his sudden loquacity sunk in.

‘You’re selfish!’ he shouted as he stared at me, beadily.

‘And you’re Rude,’ I replied. I pulled down the cover to shut him up.

‘Nighty night!’ he said.

Having my marital rows re-enacted at top volume by a bird had shaken me to my core, so I did what I always do when I’m feeling upset – I got out the ironing board. And as the iron sped back and forth, snorting a twin plume of steam, my heart rate began to subside. I find there’s nothing more therapeutic than a nice pile of pressing when I’ve had a nasty shock. I iron everything, I really don’t mind – tea-towels, knickers, socks. I even tried to iron my J cloths once, but they melted. I’ve never really minded ironing – something my friends find decidedly weird. But then my mum was incredibly house-proud – ‘a tidy home means a tidy mind!’ she’d say – so I guess I get it from her. Now, as I felt my pulse subside, I thought about how appalled she and Dad would be: my marriage only lasted seven months, while they made it to fifty years. I wondered too what they’d have thought of Ed – they never met him – but then they were already middle aged by the time they had me. When I say they ‘had’ me, I don’t mean in the conventional sense. They acquired me; got me, rather than begot me – I was adopted at just under six months. But since you’re asking I don’t mind telling you that my childhood was idyllic in every way. We weren’t well off but my parents were great – we lived down in Ashford, in Kent. Dad was the manager of an upmarket shoe shop and Mum worked in the town hall. She’d been told years before that she’d be unable to have kids, but then they got the chance to have me. Right from the start they told me that I was adopted, so there were no nasty surprises. At least not then.

When I was little my parents would tell me this story about how this pretty lady, seeing how sad they were at not having any children of their own, came up to them in the street one day and asked them if they’d like to have me. And they looked at me lying in her arms, and said, ‘Oh what a sweet baby – yes please!’ So she handed me over, and they took me home and I lived happily ever after with them. It was a nice story – and I believed it for a very long time. I used to imagine this well-dressed woman walking around with me in her arms, scanning the crowd for the kindest-looking couple who were keen to look after a special baby like me. Her search wasn’t easy, because she was very, very fussy, but then, at last, she spotted Mum and Dad. She took one look at their kind faces and just knew that they were right.

Mum and Dad were great churchgoers – really keen – and they said that God had sent me to them. And I did sometimes wonder what God was up to allowing my real mum to give me away. I remember once or twice asking them to tell me about her, but they suddenly looked rather uncomfortable and said that they didn’t know. And I guessed that my question had hurt their feelings so I never asked them again. But I thought about her a lot and I convinced myself that she’d had a good reason for doing what she did. I imagined that she was very busy caring for sick children in India or Africa. And although I was blissfully happy with Mum and Dad, I also thought about how my ‘real’ mum (as I thought of her in those days) would one day visit me. I imagined her walking up to the house looking very pretty, wearing a flowery dress and a pair of white gloves; and I’d run down the path to greet her, just like Jenny Agutter in The Railway Children. Except that I wouldn’t be shouting, ‘Daddy! My Daddy!’ I’d be shouting ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ instead. Then I’d imagine her picking me up and cuddling me, and she’d be wearing some lovely scent; then she’d take off her hat, and her hair would be red and very curly, like mine; it would almost spring out of her head, in long corkscrews, like mine does, and she’d exclaim ‘Rose! My darling! How you’ve grown!’ Then she’d hold me really close to her, and I’d feel her cheek pressing on mine. And we’d go inside for tea, and I’d show her all the drawings I’d done of her – dozens and dozens of them – which I’d kept in a box under my bed.

I never told my mum and dad all this because I knew that they’d feel hurt. So instead I let them tell me this nice story about how I came to live with them. But later on I discovered that’s all it was – a nice story.

I guess you’d like to know the truth, but I’m afraid I simply can’t tell you – because I’ve never told a soul. Not Ed. Not even the twins. I never discussed it with Mum and Dad either, although I knew that they knew. I’ve always kept it to myself because it makes me feel somehow…ashamed. But when I turned eighteen I found out about my real mum, and all my nice daydreams about her stopped. I burned all the drawings of her on a bonfire and I vowed I’d never look for her. And I never will.

People who know I’m adopted sometimes express surprise at this, especially now that my adoptive parents are dead. ‘Why don’t you trace your natural mother?’ they ask, with staggering cheek. I’m always amazed that anyone should think I’d be interested in meeting the woman who’d given me up. It would be like tracking down the burglar who’d nicked your precious family heirlooms to shake his hand. So thanks but no thanks – I’m not interested: I’ve only ever had two real parents and they’re dead. So I never, ever think about my ‘birth mother’, to use the fashionable jargon, and if I do then it’s with contempt.

I guess that’s probably what’s put me off having children myself. I’m not really the maternal sort. When I was little I used to imagine myself with lots of babies, but later those feelings changed. Some adopted kids go the other way and have a big family, but they’ve probably got a nicer story than me. Anyway, enough of my ‘real’ mother – you must be bored with her: I mean, Jesus, I’m boring myself! All you need to know is that I had an idyllic childhood and that my adoptive parents were great.

I used to wish that they’d adopt another little girl or boy for me to play with. I was often terribly lonely and I disliked being an only child. I remember asking Mum and Dad if they couldn’t adopt a sibling for me but they said I made quite enough work for them as it was! And the next day I was riding my bike and I saw a pair of ducks on the river with eight babies, all squabbling and cheeping, and I remember envying those ducklings like mad. But then, luckily, not long after that, I met Bella and Bea. They moved in next door when I was eight and they were six and a half. From the start they fascinated me, not because of their identical looks, but because they were always arguing – that’s how we met. I was in the garden one day and I could hear these two little voices, disagreeing viciously.

‘Barbie is HORRIBLE!’

‘She is NOT horrible, she is very pretty and KIND. Sindy is UGLY!’

‘No she’s NOT!’

‘She IS. Her head’s TOO big!’

‘That’s because she’s very CLEVER. She can speak FRENCH!’

‘Well Barbie can speak AMERICAN!!!’

I remember climbing onto the garden wall and staring at them in amazement. I’d never known any identical twins before. They were dressed in the same blue shorts and pink tee shirts, with conker-brown Startrites, and red and white striped toggles bunching their short fair hair.

‘Barbie’s a DOCTOR! And an ASTRONAUT!’

‘But Sindy’s a VET!’

They looked up, saw me, and stopped arguing, then one of them said, ‘What do YOU think?’ I shrugged. Then I told them that I thought both dolls were silly and they seemed quite pleased with that. It was as though they wanted me to be their umpire. I’ve been adjudicating ever since.

I think it was the twins’ sense of completeness which drew me to them – the way they belonged together, like two walnut halves. Whereas I didn’t know who I truly belonged to, or who I was related to, or even who I looked like. Nor did I know whether my real mum had ever had any other children, and if they looked like me. But Bella and Bea were this perfect little unit – Yin and Yang, Bill and Ben, Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Like Tweedledum and Tweedledee they argued a lot, but the weird thing was they’d do it holding hands. They’d been coupled from conception, and I’d imagine them kicking and kissing in the womb. And although their mum would dress them in non-identical clothes every day, they’d always change into the same thing.

They did absolutely everything together. If one of them wanted to go to the loo, for example, the other would wait outside; and their mum couldn’t even offer them a piece of cake without them going into a little huddle to confer. Sometimes I’d watch them doing a jigsaw puzzle, and it was if they were almost a single organism, heads touching, four hands moving in perfect synchronicity. And I found it deeply touching that they were so totally self-contained, yet wanted to make space in their lives for me. I was mesmerised by their mutuality and I deeply envied it – the power of two. They’re thirty-seven now, and very attractive, but they’ve never had much luck with men. They were complaining bitterly about this, as usual, when they came round on Wednesday night.

‘We can’t find anyone,’ Bella sighed as we sat in the kitchen. ‘It always goes wrong.’

‘Men don’t see us as individuals,’ said Bea.

‘Hardly surprising,’ I said. ‘You look alike, sound alike, talk alike, walk alike, you live together and when the phone goes at home you answer “Twins!”’

‘We only do that for a joke,’ said Bea. ‘In any case there are huge differences.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, Bella’s quieter than I am.’

‘That’s true,’ said Bella feelingly.

‘And we went to different universities, and until now we’ve had different careers.’ Bella was a financial journalist and Bea worked for the V and A. ‘Plus Bella’s hair is short and mine’s shoulder length; her face is a tiny bit narrower than mine, she’s left-handed and I’m right-handed, and we have different views on most things.’

‘Too right.’

‘We’re not one person in two bodies,’ Bella pointed out vehemently, ‘but men treat us as if we were. And the stupid questions we get! I’m sick of men asking us whether we’re telepathic, or feel each other’s pain or if we ever swapped places at school.’

‘Or if we’d ever sleep with the same man!’ Bea snorted, rolling her eyes. ‘You can see what’s going through their pathetic little minds when they ask us that!’

‘Or they meanly flirt with both of us,’ said Bella crossly, ‘to try and cause a rift.’

And there’s the rub.

The twins may complain about their single status but I have long since known the truth; that although they both say they want a serious relationship, the reality is that they don’t; because they’re very comfortable and compatible and companionable as they are, and they know that a man would break that up…

‘Rudolf Valentino is speaking,’ I said, changing the subject. I took the cover off.

‘Don’t talk to me like that Ed!’ screeched Rudy. ‘Boo hoo hoo. Rose, let’s face it – you’re a mess! No, I have NOT done the washing up!’

‘God!’ Bea shuddered. ‘How ghastly. It’s probably been triggered by the stress of moving house.’

‘Rose you are WEIRD!’ Rudy screeched. ‘You need a SHRINK! No – you need an agony aunt!’

‘Now you know what it was like living with Ed!’ I said grimly as I gave Rudy a grape.

‘Er, yes.’

‘Imagine having to listen to all those vile and untrue things!’

‘You’ve got problems Rose!’ Rudy squawked. ‘And will you stop stop STOP tidying up!’

‘Ridiculous!’ I said, as I reached for my Marigolds and began cleaning out his cage.

‘Er…you’d better not let prospective men hear him,’ said Bea carefully, as I disposed of the newspaper.

‘Hmm.’

‘It might, you know, put them off.’

Over supper – I’d bought a quiche and a bag of salad – the conversation turned to cash. The twins want to find a shop.

‘We need premises,’ said Bea. ‘They don’t have to be big, but that way we’ll get passing trade. We’re on the look-out in Kensington but it’s bloody expensive and we don’t have much cash.’

‘Nor do I,’ I said vehemently. ‘I’ve hugely over-extended myself. I got my first mortgage statement this morning – it’s going to be nine hundred quid a month.’

‘Christ, that’s a lot of money for one person,’ said Bella.

‘Yes.’ I felt sick. ‘I know.’

‘But you must have known that when you bought it?’ she added.

‘I was too distressed to give it much thought.’

‘Have you got the money?’ asked Bea.

‘Just about. It’ll be fine if I never eat anything, never buy anything, never have a holiday and never, ever go out. Nine hundred pounds,’ I groaned. ‘I’ll be totally broke. I could try and get another column,’ I mused.

‘No,’ said Bea firmly. ‘You work hard enough as it is.’

‘Then I’ll have to raid a bank. Or win the lottery; or get lucky with a premium bond.’

‘Or get a flatmate,’ suggested Bella. I looked at her. ‘Get a flatmate and you’ll be fine.’

‘Yes, get a flatmate,’ said Bea. How weird – they were agreeing! ‘A flatmate would really help.’

‘But I couldn’t bear living with anyone else after Ed.’

‘You couldn’t bear living with Ed,’ Bea pointed out. ‘So how could a flatmate be worse?’

‘Rose,’ said Bella. ‘Get a lodger – you’ve got that big spare room on the top floor. You could find some nice girl.’

‘But I’m too old for flatsharing,’ I wailed. ‘Having to write “Rose Costelloe” on all my eggs, drawing up a rota for the washing up, bitching about whose turn it is to hoover…’

‘You love hoovering!’

‘…and arguing about the phone! I’m just not prepared to live the student life again,’ I shuddered.

‘But Rose,’ said Bea slowly, ‘you never did.’ This was true. I was set to read Art History at Sussex, but flunked my ‘A’ levels: as I say, I had a shock at eighteen.

‘We think you should get a flatmate,’ the twins repeated, in unison.

‘Absolutely not,’ I replied.

The following morning I received this.

Dear Rose, I have a problem which is bothering me and I’m wondering if you can help. One of my most valued customers has greatly exceeded her overdraft. The debt is currently £3,913.28 against agreed borrowing of £2,000. I don’t want to be too heavy about it because I know that she’s just moved house. But at the same time I feel that she ought to try and sort out her finances a bit. As you can imagine, I’m much too embarrassed to mention this to her myself so was wondering if you could help. Do you have any suggestions as to how this important client of mine might reduce her debt? Thank you so much for your advice in this delicate matter, Rose, and I look forward to your reply. Yours truly, Alan Drew (Branch Manager), Nat West Bank, Ashford. P.S. Please do not print.

Holy shit! Nearly four grand! That did it. The twins were right.

Dear Mr Drew, I wrote. Thank you for your recent letter and I’m so sorry to hear that you’ve been having this problem with such a valued customer. How thoughtless of her to let things get out of hand like that! As it happens I do have an idea which I’ll discuss with her, and I’m confident that her debt will soon be reduced.

I sealed it, stamped it and posted it, then phoned the Camberwell Times.

When I opened the paper on Saturday morning and turned to the House and Flatshare column I found that my ad had been condensed, like a Cortina in a car-crusher, into the impenetrable hieroglyphics of the classifieds.

SE5. Lge O/R in lux hse nr trans/shps/pk.

Suit prof sgle n/s M/F. £350 p.c.m. inc.

Refs. Tel: 05949 320781

I wasn’t at all sure that the ‘hse’ could honestly be described as ‘lux’. ‘Lux’ suggests marble floors and a gold-tapped jacuzzi, but the woman at the paper said I’d get a better response. And I was just reading the ad again, and wondering what kind of replies I’d get when I heard the clatter of the letter box. On the mat was a small parcel, addressed to Ms B. McDonald, so I went next door to drop it in. The McDonalds’ letter box however seemed to be slightly narrower than mine and I couldn’t get the thing to go through. I didn’t want to push too hard in case I damaged it, so I smoothed down my hair, then pressed the bell.

Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw the curtain twitch, then suddenly the door opened. Standing there was a large yellow Labrador with paws like tea plates and a suspicious expression on its face. I shuddered slightly as I don’t really like dogs; and I was bracing myself for the thing to launch itself at me, barking and slobbering like Cerberus, when something quite different happened. It trotted up to me, took the parcel out of my hand, then went back inside, carefully shutting the door.

Feeling first and foremost surprised, but also somehow vaguely rebuffed, I turned to leave. But as I put my hand on the gate I heard rapid tapping on the window pane, then the front door opened again. There was Gnasher once more, and behind him, in a wheelchair, a very pretty dark-haired woman of about thirty-five.

‘Hello, I’m Beverley,’ she smiled. ‘You’re our new neighbour aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am. Thanks for the card by the way. I’m Rose.’

‘And this is Trevor,’ she said, indicating the dog. ‘Say hello to Rose, Trev.’

‘Woof!’

‘This is Trevor McDonald?’ I said, wonderingly. ‘Oh.’ Trevor wagged his tail. ‘I was just dropping in your packet,’ I explained. ‘It was delivered to me by mistake.’

‘Well, why don’t you come in? I promise we won’t bite – or at least Trevor won’t!’

And before I could manufacture an excuse because I was sure she was just being polite, Trevor had nipped behind me, ushered me inside, and then jumped up to shut the front door. I followed Beverley as she wheeled herself down the carpeted hallway into the kitchen which, like mine, is large, with pale wooden units and a dining area covered by a glass conservatory roof. Beverley filled the kettle then asked me how I was settling in, and told me that she’d been ‘living in Hope,’ as she put it, for three and a half years.

‘Do you live here on your own?’ I asked as she spun back and forth executing nifty three point turns. I noticed that she was wearing cycling gloves and wondered why.

‘No, I live here with Trev. He’s my partner. Aren’t you darling?’ He reached up and licked her ear. ‘Tea or coffee?’

‘Er, coffee please.’

‘Get it will you Trev?’ Trevor opened a lower cupboard by tugging on a cord attached to the handle, then, tail wagging, he pulled out a small jar of Nescafé, passed it to Beverley, then shut the door.

‘Do you know this area?’ she enquired as I stared at the dog who was staring, enraptured, at her.

‘Er, no, no I don’t actually,’ I replied absently. ‘I lived in Putney before.’

‘Where exactly?’

‘Blenheim Road.’

‘Ooh, that’s posh. Big, smart houses.’

‘Yes,’ I said ruefully. ‘They are.’

‘So what brought you to Camberwell?’

‘My…circumstances changed.’

‘You mean you’ve split up with someone?’

‘Ye-es…’

‘So what happened?’ What happened? The cheek!

‘Well, I…’

‘Sorry,’ she said, laughing, ‘don’t tell me. I’m a nosy parker – it’s boredom you see.’

‘I don’t mind telling you,’ I suddenly said, disarmed by her candour. ‘My husband had an affair.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Yes. Oh dear. Exactly. So I’m separated, pending divorce.’

‘How long were you married?’

How short, rather. ‘Erm…a bit less than a year.’

‘I see…So do you know anything about Camberwell?’ she asked, sensing my discomfiture.

‘Not much. I just liked the house.’

‘In that case I’ll give you the gen. Camberwell was so called because it had lots of wells in the area, one of which was visited by the sick and crippled for a cure. Not that it’s done me much good!’ she exclaimed with a tinkling laugh. ‘In the eighteenth century it was just meadows and streams and it gave the Camberwell Beauty butterfly its name and it also inspired Mendelssohn’s “Spring Song”. But in the nineteenth century it became more and more built up and it’s been pretty much downhill since then. But it’s still got lots going for it. We certainly like it, don’t we Trev? Milk? The up side,’ she added as Trevor passed her the carton, ‘is the lovely Georgian architecture and the parks. The downside is the lack of decent shops, the wail of police sirens and the incessant screaming of car alarms.’

I found it hard to concentrate on what Beverley was telling me as I was still mesmerised by the dog. The washing machine, which had been spinning away, had now stopped. Trevor pushed on the catch with his nose, opened the door, and was now pulling out the damp clothes with his teeth.

‘Thanks Trev,’ said Beverley as he dropped a white bra into a red plastic basket. ‘We’ll hang them up in a bit. If you want the gossip on Hope Street I know it all,’ she added with a laugh.

‘Oh no, not really,’ I lied.

‘Of course you do. You’re an agony aunt aren’t you? I recognised you. I read your column sometimes. Right, number four opposite – that’s Keith. He’s in computers and calls himself “Kay” at weekends. Number six is that reporter, whatsisname, from Newsnight and he’s getting divorced; number nine is a chartered accountant and his wife ran off with a priest. Number seventeen is a chiropodist and once did Fergie’s feet. Then number twelve – Joanna and Jane – they’re employment solicitors and they’re both gay.’

‘Right. Well, thanks,’ I said vaguely as I was still transfixed by the dog. ‘Trevor’s…clever isn’t he?’ I added feebly as he thrust his head into the washing machine again and emerged with a pink pillow case.

‘Trev’s a genius,’ she agreed. ‘But then he’s had special training. And in case you’re wondering, which I’m sure you are, I did a parachute jump and it went wrong.’

‘Oh, I…wasn’t,’ I lied as I took a proffered digestive.

‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind. It’s perfectly natural so I make a point of telling everyone, then that gets it out of the way. It happened two and a half years ago.’

‘I’m…sorry,’ I said feebly. Poor kid.

‘It was no-one’s fault – just one of those things: I took a risk, that’s all – I did a jump for charity and my chute opened late – I hit the ground with a bit of a crunch. The hilarious thing though,’ she added with a good-natured chuckle, ‘is that it was in aid of a new spinal injuries unit!’

‘Really?’ I said feebly. I mean – Christ! – did she expect me to laugh?

‘Ironic or what!’ she went on gaily. ‘Mind you I raised a lot. I presented them with the cheque from my hospital bed. I had ten months in Stoke Mandeville,’ she added, ‘then I had to get on with the rest of my life. I’m okay now about it – I really am – I’m okay – because I know it could have been far worse. For a start I’m alive and not dead; I’m para, not tetraplegic; I’m not catheterised any more, plus I can live independently, and I’ve been told I’ll still be able to have kids.’

‘Do you have a partner?’

‘No. After my accident he lasted nine months. I always knew that he’d leave,’ she went on cheerfully. ‘The minute I came round from theatre, I thought, that’s it: Jeff’ll be off – and he was. I do think it was mean of him to go off with my favourite nurse – but, hey – that’s life!’

My God – all these confessions! They popped up like ping pong balls in a bingo hall. It was like being on Rikki Lake.

‘Well, I’m…sorry,’ I said again, impotently.

‘But I decided to stay put. I loved this house, and being early Victorian it actually suits me quite well. No steps up to the front door and there’s no basement. I’ve got a downstairs loo. And the stair-lift gets me up to my bedroom – I’ve got another wheelchair up there. The house has been modified a bit. My kitchen worktops are slightly lower for example; but I haven’t had the internal doors widened – hence the gloves – because I don’t want to live in a “disabled” house. But I have a roll-in shower, and I had the patio doors changed to a slide system to make it easier to get outside.’

‘You’re amazing,’ I said, awestruck by her courage. ‘But I expect people often say that.’

‘I’m just resigned that’s all. I was bitter about it, but then six months ago I got Trevor from Helping Paw. He was a throw-out,’ she added. ‘He was found on a motorway at three months.’

‘Oh. Poor baby,’ I said. ‘Poor little baby,’ I repeated softly, although, as I say, I don’t really like dogs.

‘He used to be a Guide Dog,’ Beverley explained, ‘but it didn’t work out.’

‘In what way?’

She glanced at Trevor, then lowered her voice.

‘He was hopeless at crossing the road. In fact, well, put it this way,’ she added darkly as Trev stared at the floor, ‘he’d had three previous owners before me. But being an assistance dog suits him much better – doesn’t it Trevor?’

‘Woof!’

And now I watched him gazing at Beverley, as he waited for his next command. It was as though she were a film star, and he her number one fan.

‘What devotion,’ I said. ‘He really loves you.’

‘Not half as much as I love him.’ Suddenly the telephone rang. Trevor trotted into the hall, returned with the cordless handset in his mouth, and passed it to Beverley. She spoke briefly, then hung up. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘It was the local radio station. They want to record an interview with us. I don’t mind as I’m never that busy and it helps to publicise Helping Paw. It’s a new charity,’ she explained, ‘so they need some good press. And we don’t mind, do we Trev? By the way is it okay if I have your phone number?’ she added, ‘in case of emergency.’

‘Of course.’ I gave it to her, and she programmed it in, then Trevor put the handset back.

‘And what do you do for work?’ I asked as I got up to leave.

‘Telephone sex.’

‘Really?’

‘No! Just kidding!’ she laughed. ‘I teach English over the phone to foreign students. It’s mind-blowingly boring but it pays the bills.’

‘And is that what you did before?’

She shook her head and, for the first time in an hour, her smile slipped.

‘I was a PE teacher,’ she said.

So that solves the mystery of the hockey sticks I thought as I unlocked my front door a few minutes later. I felt simultaneously drained and inspired by my encounter with Bev though I was horrified to see I’d picked up some of Trevor’s hairs. I carefully removed every single one with a brush, and then tweezers, as I listened to my answerphone.

‘Hi! I saw your ad, my name’s Susan…Hi, I’m a pharmacist and my name’s Tom…Hello, this is Jenny and I’m a single mum…’ I’d only been out for an hour and I’d already had three replies. Over the weekend I had twelve more, of whom I arranged to see five.

First was a lugubrious looking engineer called Steve. He inspected the whole house, opening all my kitchen cupboards – bloody cheek! – as though he were buying it, not renting a room. Then came Phil who sounded promising but who spent half the time staring at my legs. Then there was an actor called Quentin who was jolly, but he couldn’t stand birds and he smoked. After him came Annie, who was twenty-three, and who found everything ‘reely nice.’ The house was ‘reely nice,’ the room was ‘reely nice,’ and she worked in marketing and that was ‘reely nice’ too. After five minutes of this I wanted to stab her but instead smiled and said I’d ‘let her know.’

‘That would be reely nice.’ As I waved her off I realised that the anagram of Annie is ‘inane.’ Then there was Scott who was Born Again and who wanted to hold prayer meetings on Monday nights, and finally there was a student at the Camberwell Art School who wanted to bring her two cats. Disappointed with the respondents I went to the local gym I’ve just joined for a kick-boxing class.

‘KICK it! And PUNCH it! And KICK it! And BLOCK it!,’ shouted our instructor, ‘Stormin’ Norman’. ‘KICK it! And PUNCH it! And KICK it – and KICK it!! C’mon girls!’ As I pounded the punchbag in the mirrored studio I imagined that it was Ed. And now I visualised myself breaking down his front door with a single blow of my foot, and booting Mary-Claire Grey to Battersea. Were it not for that manipulative little Madam, Ed and I would still be married and I would not now be contemplating having to share my house with some stranger whom I’d probably hate.

‘You’re real good, Rose!’ said Norman appreciatively when the class came to an end. I wiped the sweat out of eyes with my wristband. ‘Done it before?’

‘Just a couple of times.’

‘Well, take it from me, girl – you’ve got a kick that could break a bank door.’

Glowing from this compliment I showered and changed and was just leaving the club when I stopped in front of the noticeboard, my eye suddenly drawn to a hand-written card:

WANTED: Single room in house-share in SE5 for

very quiet, studious male. Up to £400 p.c.m.

Privacy essential. Please ring Theo on 07711 522106.

I scribbled down the number, phoned it, and arranged that Theo would come round at seven the following night. At five to the bell rang and I opened the door. To my surprise there were two well-dressed young men standing there. Theo had clearly decided to bring a friend.

‘Good evening Madam,’ said one of the men politely, holding out a pamphlet. ‘Have you heard the Good News?’ I gave them a frigid stare. I don’t mind being canvassed for my political views or being asked to buy dusters from homeless men. I have no objections to kids with sponsorship forms or fund-raisers rattling their cans. I’ll submit to the interrogations of market researchers, and I’m a good sport about ‘Trick or Treat’. But I absolutely hate finding Jehovah’s Witnesses on the doorstep – it can really ruin my day.

‘Have you heard the Good News?’ the man repeated.

‘Sorry, I’m a Buddhist,’ I lied.

‘But we would like you to be filled with the knowledge of Jehovah’s glory.’

‘Thanks but no thanks. Goodbye.’

‘But it will only take five minutes of your time.’

‘No it won’t.’ I shut the door. Ten seconds later, the bell rang again.

‘May we come back another time and share God’s glorious Kingdom with you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘You may not.’ I was tempted to explain that I’d had enough religion rammed down my throat to convert half the world’s godless but decided to bite my tongue. ‘Goodbye,’ I said pointedly, then closed the door and was halfway down the hall when…ddrrrnnngggg!! For crying out loud!

‘Look, I said “no,” so will you kindly piss off!’ I hissed through the crack. ‘Oh.’ Standing there was an anxious-looking young man of about twenty-five. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said sliding back the chain. ‘I thought you were the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Can’t stand them.’

‘No, I’m…Theo.’

‘Of course.’ He was about five foot eleven, with blond hair cut close to the head; a strong, straight nose, and blue eyes which were half obscured by a pair of steel-rimmed glasses. He looked like the Milky Bar kid. He seemed a bit shy as he stepped inside but was at least quite tidily dressed; and as he extended his hand I noticed with satisfaction that his nails were neat and clean. As I showed him round I noticed his slight northern accent, although I couldn’t quite place it. He explained that he was an accountant working for a small computer firm in Soho and that he needed somewhere straight away.

‘Where are you living now?’ I asked him as I showed him the sitting room.

‘Just off Camberwell Grove. With a friend. He’s been very kind and he’s got a big flat but I feel I should find my own place. This is grand,’ he said politely as we went upstairs. Grand? Hardly. ‘Have you lived here long?’

‘Just a month.’ He liked the room, which is large, with striped lemon wallpaper, sloping eves, Dad’s old cupboard and a small double bed.

‘It’s grand,’ he said again, nodding affably. And I realised that it was simply his word for ‘nice’. ‘I like the aspect,’ he added as he stood looking out of the window.

‘Are you from Manchester?’ I enquired with polite inquisitiveness.

‘Nope, other side of the Pennines – Leeds.’

As we went downstairs I decided that he was pleasant and polite and terribly boring and would probably do perfectly well.

‘So are you interested?’ I asked him as I made him a cup of coffee.

‘Well…yes,’ he said, glancing at Rudy, who was mercifully asleep.

‘In that case let’s cut to the chase. I am a very, very busy person,’ I explained, ‘and I’m looking for a quiet life. If you move in I guarantee that I will leave you alone and not bother you in any way providing that you don’t bother me – okay?’

He nodded nervously.

‘Right,’ I said whipping out my list. ‘Do you have any of the following unpleasant, anti-social and potentially hazardous habits? Do you a) smoke? b) take drugs? c) leave dirty dishes in the sink? d) fail to clean the bath? e) spatter toothpaste all over the basin? f) have a problem with birds? g) play loud music? h) nick other people’s milk? i) nick other people’s eggs/bread/stamps ditto? j) leave the seat up? k) leave the iron on? l) leave candles burning unattended? and, finally, m) forget to lock the front door?’

‘Er, no, no…no,’ he paused for a moment. ‘No. No, no…Sorry, what was g) again?’ I told him. ‘That’s no too. Er…no, no. Nope, no…no and, um…no.’

‘Good. And do you have a mobile phone because I don’t want to share my land line?’

‘Yes.’

‘And do you watch much TV?’

He shook his head. ‘Just the odd science programme, and the news. But in the evenings I write – that’s why I’ve been looking for somewhere quiet.’

‘I see. And finally, sorry to mention it, but I really don’t want women staying here. I mean, girlfriends.’

He seemed taken aback. ‘Girlfriends?’ he repeated. ‘Oh no.’ He drew in his breath, and grimaced. ‘That won’t be a problem. That won’t be a problem at all.’

‘Well in that case that’s all absolutely fine. I’m now very pleased to tell you that – subject to satisfactory references of course – I’ve decided you can have the room.’

‘Oh. That’s a bit quick,’ he said. ‘Don’t you want to think about it?’

‘I already have.’

‘I see…’

‘I make fast decisions.’

‘Uh huh. Well…’

‘Do you want it or not?’ I interjected.

‘I’m not sure actually.’ Bloody cheek!

‘Why aren’t you sure?’ I persisted.

‘Well, because I’d like time to reflect, that’s all.’ Time to reflect? What a wimp! ‘I mean, I do like the room,’ he explained earnestly. ‘And your house is grand, but I didn’t think that I’d have to decide straight away.’

‘Well I’m afraid you do.’

‘Er, why?’

‘Because, as I’ve already explained, I’m extremely busy and I want to get it sorted out tonight.’

‘Oh.’ He seemed nonplussed. ‘I see.’ Suddenly the phone rang and I stood up. I thought I heard him sigh with relief.

‘That’s probably someone else ringing about the room,’ I said. ‘I’ve had so many calls.’ I went into the hall, shutting the door carefully behind me, and picked up the handset.

‘Hello?’ I said. There was silence. ‘Hello?’ I tried again. ‘Hello?’ I repeated a little louder. Bad connection; but now I thought I detected a breath. ‘Hello,’ I said one final time, then I put the handset down. How weird. Probably a wrong number or a fault on the line.

‘I was right,’ I said airily as I went back into the kitchen. ‘That was someone else ringing about the room. I’ve had over twenty calls since the ad went in. Anyway, where were we? Oh yes. You wanted to have a think about it. You didn’t seem quite sure. So shall we leave it at that then?’ I added pleasantly.

‘Well…no. I…’

‘Look, Theo, I haven’t got all day. Do you want it, or don’t you? It’s a simple case of “Yes” or “No”.’ Theo looked at me for a few seconds, and blinked. Then he suddenly smiled this odd, lop-sided little smile.

‘Well, ye-es. I reckon I do.’

Chapter Four

‘This is London FM,’ announced Minty Malone, as I sat in the basement studio on City Road the following Tuesday. ‘Welcome back to Sound Advice, our twice-weekly late-night phone-in with the Post’s agony aunt, Rose Costelloe. Do you have a problem? Then call 0200 222222 and Ask Rose.’

It was five past eleven and we’d already been on air for an hour. We’d heard from Melissa who was wondering whether to become Catholic, and Denise who was going bald and Neil who couldn’t get a girlfriend and James who thought he was gay; then there was Josh, a jockey with mounting debts and Tom who hated his dad, and Sally who was having a nervous breakdown – the usual stuff. On the computer screen in front of me the names of the waiting callers winked and flashed.

‘And on line one,’ said Minty, ‘we have Bob from Dulwich.’

‘Hi Bob,’ I said. ‘How can I help?’

‘Well, Rose,’ he began hesitantly, as I scribbled on my pad, ‘I’m quite a, well, yeah, big bloke really…’ Hmm…another fatso with low self-esteem. ‘And I get my leg pulled about it at work.’

‘I see.’

‘Anyway, there’s this girl there who’s a real knockout and I think she likes me as she’s always nice. But my problem is that every time I get up the nerve to ask her out she makes some excuse.’

‘Bob, you say you’re a big bloke – how much do you weigh?’

‘About…’ – I could hear the air being sucked through his teeth – ‘…seventeen stone.’

‘And how tall are you?’

‘Five foot ten.’

‘Then you’re just going to have to lose the lard! Sorry to be brutal, Bob, but it’s true. I know you’d like me to say that this girl will fall in love with your great personality, but I think your great person is going to get in the way, and frankly, I think the only reason she’s being so nice is because she feels sorry for you. Bob, take it from me, no self-respecting woman – let alone a “knockout” – is going to go out with a Sumo-sized bloke. The number for Weight Watchers is…’ I glanced at my handbook, ‘…0845 712 3000 and I want you to ring it first thing. Do you promise me you’ll do that?’ I heard a deep sigh.

‘Yeah, okay Rose. I will.’

‘And Bob I want you to phone in again a month from today and tell everyone that you’ve lost your first stone.’

‘Okay Rose, yeah. You’re right.’

‘Well done Bob,’ said Minty, ‘and now we have Martine, on line three.’

‘Go ahead, Martine,’ I said.

‘Well,’ she began in a trembly voice. ‘The reason I’m ringing is because, well, I’ve just been told I can’t have kids.’ A momentary silence followed: I could almost see the tears in her eyes.

‘Martine how old are you?’

‘Thirty-two.’

‘And have you tried all avenues?’

‘Yes. But I had cancer when I was a teenager, you see, and because of that the doctors can’t help.’

‘Well I’d like to help you Martine, so stay on the line. Is that what you want to talk about – the fact that you’ve had this bad news?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m beginning to accept that. The thing is I’d like to adopt but my husband’s not keen.’

‘Does he say why?’

‘It’s because he was adopted, and he had problems so he’s afraid that any kids we adopted would too.’

‘But so might any children that you had naturally. They could fall ill – God forbid – or they could fail at school or drop out. Life’s fraught with difficulties and you can’t not go ahead with something which could make you happy out of fear that it might go wrong.’

‘I know,’ she said in a trembling voice. ‘I’ve told my husband that.’

‘And you sound like a lovely person Martine so I’m sure you’d be a really great mum.’ There was a tiny sob. Oh God, I shouldn’t have said that. I could hear a Niagara of tears start to fall.

‘Well…I think I would,’ she wept, ‘but my husband seems set against adopting, but now I know it’s my only chance.’ I glanced at Minty, who’s three months pregnant. There was compassion all over her face.

‘Martine, do you have a good relationship with your husband?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘In most ways I do.’

‘And when did this issue first come up?’

‘A month ago. We hadn’t really talked about it before, because we thought I might still be okay. But then I got the final results from the hospital which told me that my chances of conceiving are nil.’

‘Then give your husband a little more time. He needs to think about it – and men like to come round to things in their own way. So my advice is don’t panic, and don’t put any pressure on him as that could easily backfire. But I do think you should both talk to someone at NORCAP, the National Organisation for Counselling Adoptees and Parents: their number is – I flicked through my handbook – 01865 875000. Will you call them, Martine?’

‘Yes,’ she sniffed. ‘Okay.’

‘The line may be busy because this is National Adoption Week, but leave your number and they’ll ring you back. And Martine, I don’t mind telling you that I was adopted and I was absolutely fine. I’ve never had any problems, I had a really great childhood, and I’m sure that your kids will too.’

‘Oh thanks Rose,’ she whispered. ‘I do hope so.’ And I was just going to go to the next caller, when I heard her say, ‘but I think the reason why my husband feels so negative about adoption is because he’s never traced his real mum.’

‘Oh…’

‘He still seems so angry with her for giving him up – it’s like a festering wound. He rarely talks about it, but I think that’s what’s really bothering him and the issue of our adopting has brought it all up.’

‘I see, well, look…thanks for calling in Martine and I, er…wish you the very best of luck. And now we go to Pam on line five. What’s your problem, Pam?’

‘Well, my problem is that I’m in my thirties, I’m single and as a freelance graphic designer, I work from home.’

‘Ye-es.’

‘But recently I’ve got to know my postman quite well…’

‘Uh huh.’

‘And I really fancy him.’

‘I see.’

‘I even get up early to make sure I catch a glimpse of him.’

‘That must be tiring.’

‘Oh it is. I’ve also taken to sending myself parcels so that he has to knock on the door. I’m totally smitten,’ she added.

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘He’s married – at least I think he is. He wears a ring on his left hand, put it that way.’

‘Yup. He’s married,’ I said.

‘But he’s absolutely gorgeous, Rose; I’ve never felt this way before. What should I do?’

‘Well, honey, I think you should get real. I’m sure this macho mailman is very dashing but my advice is to stamp him “Return to Sender” and try and get out a bit more. And now Kathy on line three. What’s the problem Kathy?’

‘The problem, Rose, is that my husband has left me!’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Well I don’t know why you’re sorry, as it was you who told him to!’

‘What?’

‘A couple of weeks ago my husband wrote to you at the Daily Post and you told him to get divorced.’

‘I’m sorry, but I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

‘You told him to leave me. He hid the letter, but I found it. It was you. His name’s John.’ Oh God, now I remembered – it was the adulterous husband-basher. ‘I mean, who the hell are you Rose, to tell other people how to live their lives?’

‘I don’t. People simply run their problems by me; I listen, and I give them advice.’

‘Well you give them crap advice! I mean, what the hell are you doing telling men to leave their wives you, you…marriage breaker!’ I looked at Minty, she was rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

‘Kathy,’ I said, feeling my heart rate rev, ‘I did not tell your husband to leave. And from what I remember of his letter I think he’d already decided what he wanted to do.’

‘But you helped him make up his mind. He’s a spineless sort of bloke so if you hadn’t written to him, putting it in black and white like that, then he would never have had the guts.’

‘I’m not at all sure that that’s true. And in any case if he’s really as “spineless” as you say, then why do you want to stay married to him?’

‘Because he’s my husband – that’s why! But now he’s left me because of you – you, you…baggage!’ By now my face was aflame.

‘Kathy, if you speak to him like you’re speaking to me I’m amazed he didn’t leave you years ago!’

‘You’re a wicked, wicked woman!’ she retorted.

‘And now on line three we have Fran,’ Minty interjected as she made slashing gestures across her throat to the producer, Wesley, on the other side of the glass. ‘Hello Fran.’

‘Hello Minty.’

‘You are a fucking marriage breaker Rose Costelloe…’ Why didn’t Wesley just get rid of her? ‘…and you’re going to be SORRY for this!’ Oh! Minty’s face registered alarm at the threat but I just rolled my eyes and shrugged.

‘Hello Fran,’ I said with a large sip of hospitality Frascati. ‘And what’s your problem?’

‘Well,’ she croaked, ‘I’ve been dumped.’

‘When?’

‘Six months ago.’

‘That’s quite a while.’

‘I know. But I just…can’t get over it.’

‘And how long were you with him?’

‘Almost two years. He left me for our optician,’ she added plaintively. ‘I never saw it coming.’ Minty was struggling not to laugh. ‘I feel so depressed,’ she sniffed. ‘Every evening I sit at home feeling bitter: I just can’t…forget.’

‘Fran,’ I said, ‘this is easy to say, and hard to do, but you’ve got to try and move on.’

‘But I can’t because it’s made me feel…worthless. I blame myself.’

‘Fran, why do you blame yourself?’ There was a stunned silence.

‘I don’t know really – I just do.’

‘Fran,’ I said firmly, ‘please don’t. If you must blame anyone, then in these situations it’s much more healthy to blame others. First of all blame your ex – that’s a given – then blame the other woman of course. You may also wish to blame the government, Fate, bad karma or dodgy feng shui. If all else fails, blame global warming – but please don’t blame yourself, okay?’

‘Okay,’ she said with a reluctant giggle.

‘Can I come in here?’ said Minty. ‘Fran, I had a terrible break-up three years ago. I was actually jilted – on my wedding day.’

‘No!’ said Fran, appalled.

‘Yes. But do you know, it was the best thing that ever happened to me, because I met someone so much nicer, and I just know that you will too.’

‘Well, I hope so,’ she sniffed. ‘I’ve been so unhappy.’

‘Fran,’ I said, ‘that won’t last. Heartbreak is a curable condition. And remember that your ex is only your ex because he’s wrong for you otherwise you’d still be together, right? But it’s not easy getting over someone,’ I went on, thinking of Ed with a vicious stab. ‘So you need a strategy to help you recover. Now were there things about him you didn’t like?’

‘Oh yeah!’ she exclaimed. ‘Loads!’

‘Good. Then make a list of them, and when you’ve done it, ring your friends and read it to them, then ask them if you’ve left anything out. Get them to add their own negative comments, and ask your family as well. Then ask your next-door neighbours – on both sides – plus the people in the corner shop, then post the list up in a prominent place. Secondly, get off your bum! Get down to the gym, like I did, and take up kick-boxing or Tae-Bo. Kick the shit out of your instructor, Fran – believe me it’ll lift your mood. Because it’s only when you’re feeling happy and confident again, that the right man will come along.’

‘Okay,’ she sighed. ‘Yes. You’re right. Do you think I should contact some of my exes?’ she added. ‘One or two of them were quite keen.’

‘Should you contact your exes?’ I repeated slowly. ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘Do not.’

‘Oh. Why?’

‘Because one of the Ten Commandments of the Dumped Woman is, “Thou Shalt Not Phone Up Thy Old Boyfriends”.

‘Why not?’

‘Well, because they might have had a sex change, or they might be in jail, or bald, or dead. Worst of all, you might find they’re now happily married with two adorable kids! So no, don’t have anything to do with your old boyfriends, Fran – put all your energy into finding someone new!’

‘And on that positive note I’m afraid we must leave it there,’ said Minty as the hand on the studio clock juddered towards the twelve. ‘Thanks to everyone who’s called in, and do please join Rose and me again on Tuesday night for our regular phone-in – Sound Advice.’

As I pushed wearily on the heavy studio door I saw Wesley waving at me.

‘I’ve got a call for you, Rose.’

‘As long as it’s not that mad woman,’ I whispered, making frantic circling gestures by my head. Wesley clapped his hand over the mouthpiece.

‘No it’s not her. It’s a bloke.’

‘Hello?’ I said tentatively, nervously wondering if it was Ed.

‘Is that Rose?’

It wasn’t Ed.

‘It’s Henry here.’ Henry? Oh, Henry! My ex but three! ‘Heard your dulcet tones on the radio…brought back some very pleasant times…just come back from the Gulf…yes still in H.M.’s Armed Forces…got a desk job at the M.o.D…absolutely love to see you…how about dinner next week?’

Well why not? I thought, as I put the phone down with a grin. True, Henry had never really lit my fire. He was the human equivalent of a lava lamp – very attractive but not that bright. But on the other hand he’s harmless, generous, extremely good-natured and after what I’ve been through I fancy a date. I mean, where’s the harm in having dinner tête-à-tête with an old flame? And yes, I know what I said to that caller, but the point is that I’m sure Henry’s been to some very interesting places in the last three years, plus I’m keen to find out what he has to say about the role of women in the armed forces, not to mention the proposed European Rapid Reaction Defence Force and its likely effect on Britain’s relationship with NATO. So I fixed to see him the following Friday, November the tenth, which was also the night Theo was due to move in.

Theo had told me he’d be arriving at around half past six. And I was just trying to tame my hair at ten to when the doorbell rang. I opened my bedroom window, to check it wasn’t the Jehovah’s Witnesses again and as I did so a late firework suddenly exploded with a mighty BOOOOOMMMMM!!! spangling the night with stars. ‘Ooooohhh,’ I heard myself breathe, like a child, then I looked below. Standing there, looking up, was Theo with so much baggage my tiny garden resembled an airport carousel.

‘You’re early,’ I said accusingly as I opened the door.

‘Yes, er, sorry,’ he said.

‘And you’ve got a lot of stuff.’

‘I…know. But don’t worry, it’ll all go in my room. Most of it’s books,’ he explained. As I watched him trundling up and down the stairs with it all I noticed one very odd-looking, long black case. What on earth was in it I wondered – a musical instrument? God forbid. And now I wished I’d asked if he was going to be tooting away on a clarinet half the night or blasting me out with a trombone; and I shivered with apprehension at the thought that I was letting this total stranger into my house. But I needed the cash I reminded myself firmly, and his references had been fine. His boss at Compu-Force had assured me that far from being a convicted axe-murderer, Theo was a ‘nice, reliable chap. He’s had a hard time recently,’ he’d added enigmatically: I’d wondered, but hadn’t enquired. All I needed to know was that he wouldn’t kill me, bore me, evangelise me, steal from me, hold orgies or write rubber cheques…

‘I’m just on my way out,’ I said, as I grabbed my bag and handed him his set of keys. ‘I’ve got to be in Fulham by eight.’

‘But it’s only six-fifteen.’

‘I…know,’ I said, irritated by his rather forthright and frankly impertinent intervention, ‘but I, um, always allow myself lots of time.’

‘Well, enjoy yourself,’ he said affably. Then he suddenly added, ‘you look very nice.’

‘Do I?’ I said wonderingly. It was ages since anyone had said that to me.

‘Yes. Especially your hair. It’s really, erm…’ he began rotating both index fingers next to his head by way of illustration.

‘Curly?’ I suggested.

‘Mad.’

‘Oh. Well…thanks very much.’

‘I mean, the way it sort of jumps out of your head.’

‘I see.’

‘I meant it nicely,’ he explained.

‘Glad to hear it.’ I was so frosty, I could see my own breath. ‘Now,’ I said, handing him five pages of typed A4, ‘this is a little list of dos and don’ts about the house, just in case you’ve forgotten what I told you last week.’

‘Thanks,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Do I get a gold star for good behaviour?’ he added with a grin.

‘No,’ I said icily. ‘You don’t.’ But I was tempted to tell him that he was well on his way to picking up his first black mark. ‘Anyway, make yourself at home,’ I added grudgingly as I picked up my bag.

‘Thanks very much. I’ll…try.’

‘And if you’re not sure about anything, just call me on my mobile…here,’ I gave him my card. As I slung on my caramel suede jacket and stepped outside, Theo followed me out to pick up more things. KER-ACKKKK!! Another rocket exploded above us – BOOM! RACK-ATACK!!! BOOOOOOOM!!! Each detonation illuminated the short terrace for an instant then the houses were plunged into a Stygian dark.

‘The street lighting’s useless,’ I warned him as I fished out my car keys, ‘so be careful.’

‘Yes, I’ve noticed. It’s really bad.’

‘In fact I intend to complain to the council about it,’ I said vehemently.

‘Oh no!’ he exclaimed. ‘Please don’t. Well, have a good evening,’ he added pleasantly, then he picked up a box and went inside.

As I turned the ignition on my old Polo I stared at Theo’s retreating back and pondered that bizarre exchange. Why didn’t he want me to get the council to do something about the shoddy street lights? How weird…I wondered whether I hadn’t made a dreadful error of judgement as I released the brake and set off. ‘Do I get a gold star for good behaviour?’ I ask you! What a nerve. And that rude remark of his about my hair. My hair has been described in many ways – ‘pre-Raphaelite’ mainly, but also ‘tumbling,’ ‘lustrously curly,’ ‘corkscrewing,’ even ‘frizzy,’ but never has it earned the epithet, ‘mad’. I mean, really! How gauche can you get! And that sinister-looking black case – what the hell was in it? Maybe it wasn’t a musical instrument, maybe it was a Samurai sword? And now, as I waited at a red light, I had a sudden vision of myself being found dead in bed dripping blood like a colander – I’d probably be front page news. ‘AGONY AUNT DEAD IN BED!’; ‘HORROR OF AGONY AUNT!’; no – ‘AGONY OF AGONY AUNT!’ was better or ‘DEATH OF AN AGONY AUNT!’; ‘AGONY AUNT SLAIN!’ was good if a tad melodramatic, or maybe, ‘HORROR IN SE5!’ The Daily Post, of course, would go to town. R. Soul, grateful for such a big story, would probably do the honours with the headline himself. He was good at those. It was, after all, Ricky who had penned the legendary, ‘HEADLESS BODY FOUND IN TOPLESS BAR!’

As the car moved forward again I worried in case my murder didn’t make the front page: my split with Ed only made page five. I idly wondered whether it would be on national TV – it probably would. I’d get, say, two minutes on News at Ten and at least, ooh, a minute on Radio Four? As I drove down Kennington Road I pondered whether I’d be obituarised in the national press. They’d no doubt print my byline photo – it’s quite flattering actually – but what would the piece say? They’d probably get some other agony aunt to write it – oh God! – not Citronella Pratt! Not her – please, please not her – I could imagine what she’d write. ‘Rose Costelloe showed some promise as an agony aunt,’ damning me with faint praise. ‘How very sad and tragic that we will now never know whether that promise could have been fulfilled.’ I made a mental note to phone all the Obits editors first thing and tell them to ring the twins if I croaked.

Then, feeling more relaxed, I visualised my funeral which would be a very sad but dignified affair. On my coffin would be a huge spray of white lilies – no, not lilies, roses of course, like my name, obviously – red ones to match my hair. The twins would be chief mourners: I was confident they’d do it well. Now, as I waited at a traffic light, I imagined them in black, tears streaming down their lovely faces, clutching each other’s hands. There’d be a huge photo of me leaning against the altar, and probably, what – a hundred people or so? More if some of my readers came. A lot more. That might bump it up to at least, ooh, three or four hundred – maybe even five. I could hear them all reminiscing about me in respectful, hushed tones as the organ played.

‘– Can’t believe it! So tragic!’

‘– She was so beautiful and kind.’

‘– That gorgeous figure of hers.’

‘– She could wear anything.’

‘– Even slim-fitting trousers.’

‘– Yes – and her advice was great.’

I imagined Ed, arriving late, looking distraught. Mary-Claire had tried to prevent him from going, but he’d thrust her to one side.

‘No!’ he’d screamed. ‘Nothing will stop me! And by the way, Mary-Claire – you’re dumped!’ And because the church was so full – I liked Trev’s black ribbon in his collar, nice touch – Ed had had to stand at the back. Now, no longer able to control himself, he was incontinent with grief. And as he wept openly and loudly, heads were turning, my friends (and readers) torn between contempt for his treatment of me during my life, and pity for his distress at my death.

‘It’s all my fault!’ he was blubbing as they sang ‘Abide With Me’. ‘If I hadn’t betrayed her this would never have happened. I’ll always blame myself!’ Gratified by this confession, I now saw everyone at my grave, Ed still blubbing like a baby as he threw in the final clod.

‘– God look at him – he’s gone to pieces!’

‘– He’ll never get over it.’

‘– He didn’t deserve her.’

‘– He didn’t appreciate her.’

‘– C’mon on Ed, it’s time to go.’

Now I imagined everyone leaving, and the south London cemetery lonely and dark; and I realised that the only reason I was there was because I’d let that weirdo, Theo Sheen, into my house. I was feeling pretty appalled by now and thinking that yes, I’d taken a huge and very stupid risk and for what – a bit of cash? – when suddenly my mobile rang. ‘Rose?’ I heard as I slipped in my earpiece. ‘Yes?’ ‘It’s Theo here.’ Aaarrrggh! ‘I just wondered if you’ll be coming back tonight?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I wasn’t sure what to do about the front door, that’s all.’

‘What about it?’

‘Should I put the chain on?’ Oh. ‘I know that Camberwell can be a bit dodgy on the burglary front. So I just wanted to know whether I should put the chain on when I go to bed, that’s all.’

‘No,’ I said, exhaling with relief. ‘Don’t bother. I’ll be back by twelve.’

‘Right then,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Anyway, have a nice evening. Bye.’

I heaved a sigh of relief as I rang off, but then Suspicion raised its ugly head again. And I thought maybe, reading between the lines here, he’s just trying to find out whether or not I have a bloke. Yes…the enquiry about the security chain is just a front. A red herring. Maybe he is a homicidal weirdo after all…

PARP! PARP!! PARP!!!

‘All right!’ I yelled into my mirror as I moved off the green light. I pulled myself together and banished Theo from my mind as I negotiated the fume-filled roads. I skirted Brixton then drove towards Clapham, passing my old flat in Meteor Street. As I spotted a sign for Putney I felt my pulse begin to race. It was ten to seven – over an hour until I had to meet Henry, so I still had plenty of time. To calm my nerves I turned on the radio and found myself listening to a phone-in on LBC. I recognised the voice: it was Lana McCord, the new agony aunt on Moi! magazine.

‘We’re discussing relationship breakdown,’ she said. ‘And now we have Betsey on line five. Betsey, you’re a divorcée I understand.’

‘Yes, but I’d rather be a widow!’ she spat. ‘Bereavement would be preferable to betrayal.’ I know how she feels. ‘I’m so angry,’ she went on tearfully. She’d clearly been drinking. ‘I gave him the best years of my life.’

‘Betsey,’ said Lana gently. ‘How old are you?’

‘Forty-one.’

‘Then you’ve still got a lot of life left. So why spend it being bitter?’ she went on. Exactly! ‘Do you enjoy your negative thoughts?’ Quite. ‘Do they contribute to your happiness?’ Of course not. ‘Do they move you forward in any way?’ Good point!

‘I just can’t deal with this blow to my self-esteem,’ croaked Betsey.

‘What positive steps have you taken?’ asked Lana McCord.

‘Well, I went out with someone, on the rebound, but that didn’t work.’ Surprise surprise! ‘I’ve seen one or two old boyfriends.’ Hopeless! What a twit! ‘But I loved my husband and I just can’t get him out of my mind. What really gets me is the thought of him with her,’ she went on, in a drink-sodden drawl. ‘The thought of them having – uh-uh – you know, just makes me feel ill.’

‘So why torment yourself with that unpleasant thought?’ Bullseye!

‘Because I can’t stop myself from doing it – that’s why. I do these awful things,’ she confided with a wet sniff as I drove down Putney High Street.

‘What sort of things?’ said Lana.

‘I ring him then I hang up.’ Sad! ‘I drive past his flat as well.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Lana with a sigh. And now, my heart beating like a tom-tom, I drove slowly down Chelverton Road.

‘In fact I’ve driven past it so often I’ve worn a groove in the tarmac – but I just can’t help it,’ she wailed.

You are one very sad bunny, Betsey, I thought to myself as I turned left into Blenheim Road. Seventeen, twenty-five, thirty-one – mustn’t let him spot me: then there it was. number thirty-seven. Ed’s navy company Beemer was parked outside. Blackness filled my chest as I pulled into a space opposite and a little to the right, away from the tangerine glare of the lamp. Then I switched off my lights, turned up my collar, and sunk down into my seat. The downstairs curtains were drawn but a wedge of light shone through a chink at the top. Ed was at home. My husband. He was on the other side of that wall. And now I wondered with a crashing sensation in the pit of my stomach, if she was there as well. Perhaps she was standing at the Aga, cooking supper. I imagined sneaking up behind her and bashing her over the head, then chopping her into tiny pieces, mixing her with Kitty-Bics and feeding her to next door’s cat. I was interrupted from this pleasant reverie by a light going on in Ed’s room.

‘Your behaviour is very destructive,’ I heard Lana say. Yes it is, I thought. ‘Not only are you not trying to recover from this, you seem determined to pour acid in the wound.’ True. ‘I mean, why do you want to torture yourself? Why?’

‘Why?’ I whispered as Ed’s face suddenly loomed up at the window.

‘Yes. Tell me. Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ I wept, as he threw wide his arms and shut the curtains. ‘Oh God, oh God, I don’t know.’

Actually, I do know. You see, what I was doing was quite different from what that sad woman on the phone-in was doing. She was obsessing about her husband – poor thing – whereas I was actively trying to get over mine by laying a ghost. Because I thought that if I could just sit outside his house, and feel absolutely nothing, then that would help me move on. So I did. Okay, I cried at first, but then I dried my eyes and I sat there for – ooh, not that long, maybe half an hour or so – just watching as though I were a twitcher and the house some exotic bird.

‘I can do this,’ I told myself. ‘Yes, Ed’s there, and I’m still married to him, and yes, I was besotted with him, but the fact is I’m in control.’ Remembering some tips from the Breathe Away Your Stress book I shut my eyes and inhaled through my nose. As I exhaled, counting slowly to ten, I could feel my heart rate slow, and my eyes were still closed when I heard the throaty chug of an approaching cab. And I expected to hear it go past me, but instead I heard the squeal of its brakes. I opened my eyes. It had stopped right outside Ed’s house, and now the door was clicking open like the wing of a shiny black beetle, and Mary-Claire Grey stepped out. She paid the driver, then tottered up to Ed’s front door, her stilettos clacking up the path like sniper fire. And I was waiting, stomach churning, for her to lift her hand to the brass bell and ring it, when instead she opened her bag, took out a bunch of keys then proceeded to unlock the door. The bitch! She was letting herself into Ed’s house – my marital home – for all the world as though she lived there! Which she quite clearly did.

‘She’s moved in,’ I breathed, outraged, as the door closed behind her. ‘She’s known him three months and she’s already moved in.’ Ignoring the small voice telling me that I had moved in with Ed after only one month, I started the car and pulled out of the space, hands trembling like winter leaves. I was so distressed I almost pranged the car in front, then with a sickening, tightening sensation around my sternum, I drove away. Dizzy now with a blend of misery, panic and nausea I sped off to meet Henry at Ghillie’s on the New Kings Road.

‘Rose!’ he exclaimed, as I was shown to his table at the back. Still feeling sick and wobbly I allowed myself to be enveloped in one of Henry’s familiar, bone-crushing hugs. ‘It’s great to see you again,’ he said planting a trademark fat kiss on my cheek. ‘You’re a major media star these days!’ I began to feel better.

‘And you’re a Major – full stop!’

‘About bloody time!’ he laughed. ‘But then I always was a late developer,’ he added with a good-natured smile.

Now, as I had my one glass of champagne, my stress levels plummeted from their Himalayan heights and began to stroll calmly around at Base Camp. So what if Mary-Claire was living with Ed? It didn’t make any difference to me. In fact it’ll make it easier for me to get over him I thought, knowing that he’s moved on so fast. I’m not bothered about Ed, I said to myself. Ed’s over. The credits on our marriage have rolled. As things turned out, it wasn’t the major motion picture it was meant to be – it was only a short.

As Henry chatted away to me I gazed at his handsome face. His sandy hair was retreating a little, but he looked much the same as before. The lids above the forget-me-not-blue eyes were a tiny bit crinklier and there were two parallel lines etched on his brow. He’d put on a little weight since I’d last seen him, and there was an incipient jowl beneath his square jaw. But he looked so attractively manly in his sports jacket, smart cords and polished brogues.

Henry and I had met at a barbecue in Fulham five years before. We were involved for a while, but it didn’t go anywhere – well, he was always away. Which, funnily enough, was exactly the same problem I’d had with my previous boyfriend, Tom. He was a pilot with British Airways flying the Australian route; we’d had a few nice stopovers here and there but otherwise things didn’t really take off. Anyway, Henry was posted to Cyprus for a year, then Belize, then Gibraltar, so our affair soon fizzled out. But we’d remained in touch intermittently and I’d retained a soft spot for him the size of a swamp. It was two years since I’d last seen him and as we ate we reminisced about old times.

‘Do you remember the fun we had re-enacting famous battles with your old Action Men?’ I asked fondly.

‘With you doing the explosions!’

‘Playing Warships in bed.’

‘You always beat me.’

‘Making Lego tanks.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Watching reruns of Colditz.’

‘And The World At War.’

‘We had fun didn’t we?’

‘Ra-ther.’

He told me about the NATO manoeuvres he’d been on, the Balkan skirmishes – ‘Fabulous stuff!’ His stint with the UN Peacekeeping force in Bosnia – ‘bloody hairy!’; a recent tour of duty in the Gulf. Then I told him about my marital battles, and about Mary-Claire Grey; he squeezed my hand.

‘She’s moved in with him,’ I said dismally, feeling the shock of it all over again. ‘I’ve just found out. I can’t believe it, Henry. He’s only known her three months.’

‘That’s tough.’

‘Still, I guess it’ll make me a better agony aunt,’ I admitted grudgingly. ‘You know, been there – suffered that. And what about you?’ I asked as the waiter brought my lemon sole.

‘Well,’ he said, picking up his knife and fork. ‘I’m newly single too. I got dumped by my latest girlfriend.’ My ears pricked up. That was clearly why he’d wanted to see me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I lied.

‘Well, Venetia’s a super girl – but it didn’t work out.’

‘Wouldn’t she make the explosion noises?’

‘No,’ he laughed. ‘It wasn’t that. It was just that’ – he sighed, then pushed a piece of steak round his plate.

‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,’ I said quietly.

‘No, really, Rose, I do. I do want to tell you,’ he repeated sadly as I sipped my water.

‘So what happened?’

‘Well,’ he went on, awkwardly, ‘it was just that there was…’ he exhaled painfully then drew the air through his teeth, ‘…another woman.’ Oh. Now that didn’t sound like Henry at all – he’s never been a ladies’ man.

‘And Venetia found out?’

‘Yes. But it’s slightly complicated actually,’ he said, his face aflame. ‘In fact Rose, do you mind, if I…well, if I pick your brains a bit? You see I’ve got this, um…well…problem, actually.’ My heart sagged like a sinking soufflé. That’s why he’d wanted to see me again – he just wanted to ask my advice.

‘I don’t want you to think I asked you out under false pretences,’ he said with a guilty smile, ‘but it’s just that I know I can trust you. I know that you won’t judge. And I was feeling so dreadfully low the other night, and I couldn’t sleep, so I switched on the radio and, to my amazement, there you were. And you were giving such good advice to all those people, so I decided that I’d ask you for some too.’ I looked at his open but anxious face, and my indignation melted like the dew.

‘Don’t worry Henry,’ I murmured. ‘Of course I’ll help you. Just tell me what it’s about.’

‘Well,’ he tried again, with a profound sigh, ‘the other woman. You see…the other woman, as it were…’ he cleared his throat. ‘This other woman…’

‘Yes?’

He glanced anxiously to left and right to check we couldn’t be overheard. ‘Well,’ he whispered, running a nervous finger round his collar, ‘the other woman…is…erm…me.’

‘Sorry?’

Henry had flushed bright red, his face radiating a heat that could have melted Emmenthal. Now he discreetly pulled aside his speckled blue silk tie and undid a button on his striped shirt. Then he parted the fabric to reveal a square inch of black filigree lace. I stared at it in stupefaction. Henry? Never. Henry? No way! Henry? Not on your life! On the other hand, I suddenly remembered, cross-dressing is not uncommon amongst men in the forces, something which has always struck me as strange. The thought of all these big, macho, military types dolled up in frocks and high heels.

‘When did this…start?’ I enquired with professional curiosity, trying not to show I was shocked.

‘About a year ago,’ he replied. ‘I’d always been fascinated by women’s clothes,’ he admitted in a whisper. ‘In fact, when I was a boy, I used to “borrow” Mum’s petticoats. I suppressed it of course but then, as I got older, I got this unbearable…urge. I found I couldn’t get dressed without putting on a pair of lacy pants first. But then Venetia caught me going through her knicker drawer and went crazy: she said I must be gay, but I’m not.’

‘Of course you’re not gay,’ I said. ‘Ninety-five per cent of cross-dressers are totally straight and in fact most are married with kids.’

‘I know I’m definitely attracted to women,’ Henry went on, ‘always have been, but there are times when I simply want to be one. I can’t explain why. This strange compulsion grips me and I know I’ve just got to go and put on a dress. But it freaked Venetia out and she walked.’

‘Well some women are very understanding about it,’ I said. ‘It’s a common…’ – I avoided saying, ‘problem’ – ‘…thing. You wouldn’t believe how many letters I get about it,’ I added casually.

‘Well I thought you’d have come across it before. You won’t tell anyone,’ he whispered.

‘No, I won’t.’

‘And you see, there’s no-one else I felt I could ask.’ I looked at Henry’s honest face, then dropped my gaze to his large, paw-like hand and tried to imagine Rouge Noir on the nails. Then I tried to visualise a string of pearls around his thick, sinewy neck. I opened my bag, took out a piece of paper and began scribbling on it.

‘What you want is the Beaumont Society – it’s a transvestites’ support group. I give the phone number out so often I know it off by heart. If you ring them, someone there will send you an information pack and you don’t have to give your real name. There’s also Transformation, a specialist place at Euston who’ll teach you how to stuff your bra, pad your bum, wear high heels – that sort of thing.’

‘But it’s the shopping,’ he said with a groan. ‘I mean, where can I get size eleven sling-backs? And what about make-up? I haven’t a clue. I can’t ask my mum or my sister as they’d go crazy.’

‘Well, if you like, I’ll come with you. We can go to a department store and pretend the things are for me. I’m as tall as you so it wouldn’t be unfeasible.’

‘Would you really do that for me?’

I gave him a smile. ‘Yes. Of course I would.’

Henry’s swimming pool blue eyes shimmered with speechless tears. ‘Thanks Rose,’ he breathed. ‘You’re a brick.’

Chapter Five

The letters I get! Listen to this!

Dear Rose, I am on probation for arson, but my probation officer has changed and I’m starting to get itchy fingers again. I’d really like to set fire to something so I’m getting in lots of matches and petrol – please help!

Good God! I don’t like to go behind my readers’ backs – confidentiality is absolutely sacred – but sometimes it’s something I have to do. So I’ve just phoned up the woman’s social services and someone’s going to go round to see her right now. And how about this one – in green ink of course.

Dear Rose, I have messages from Martians coming through my bedroom radiators. But that’s not my main problem. The main problem is the volume which keeps me awake at night. I’ve asked them to keep it down, but they just won’t. How can I stop them disturbing my sleep in this way?

Dear Phyllis, I wrote, Thank you for your letter. How very annoying for you having noisy Martians in your radiators. But did you know that doctors have a very clever way of dealing with this problem these days, and I do suggest that you go and see your G.P. straight away. With best wishes, Rose.

Then here was a letter, sixty pages long, written on graph paper and signed, ‘King George’. The next three were from people with flatmate problems – all the usual stuff: He slobs in front of the TV all night…she never does the washing up…he’s always late with the rent…she has her friends round all the time…As I composed my replies I thought about my own flatmate, Theo. Despite my initial – and wholly justified – anxieties I’ve scarcely seen him – we’re like those proverbial ships that pass in the night. Sometimes I hear him pacing above me in the early hours because, since my split with Ed, I haven’t been sleeping well. Theo does go out sometimes in the evenings but, strangely, only when it’s dry – not when it’s wet. It’s all a bit peculiar really, especially with that strange remark of his about the lights. I mean, he seems too wholesome to be a Jeffrey Dahmer, but then still waters and all that…

I dealt with the flatmate problems, enclosing my leaflet on Happy Cohabitation, then I opened what turned out to be one of my very rare letters back. It was from Colin Twisk, that Lonely Young Man.

Dear Rose, he’d written. Thank you very much for your very, very kind letter. I carry it about with me all the time. And whenever I’m feeling low I get it out and read it again. Knowing that a famous – and very attractive – person like you thinks I’m good-looking makes me feel so much better about myself. I’m doing everything you advised me and – guess what? – I think I may have now found my Special Lady Friend! With deep affection, Colin Twisk. xxxx.

Ah, I thought, isn’t that nice? That’s what makes my job so worthwhile. The knowledge that I’ve been able to help alleviate someone’s distress and pain. I put Colin’s letter in my ‘Grateful’ file – that’s just my little joke – then suddenly a cry went up. Ricky, who had been away for two days, had evidently just returned.

‘Who the fuck wrote this fucking headline?’ he shouted at Jason Brown, our Chief Sub. As he jabbed his finger at the offending page, my heart sank. Jason was about to get what’s known in the trade as a ‘bollocking’. ‘“SOMETHING WENT WRONG IN JET CRASH EXPERTS SAY”?’ Ricky shouted. ‘It’s shite! And as for this – “PROSTITUTES APPEAL TO POPE!” Total shite! “STOLEN PAINTING FOUND BY TREE”? – that is effing shite as well!’ This was true. Now he went over to the features editor, Linda, while Serena and I exchanged nervous looks.

‘The features are shite too,’ Ricky shouted. “Why Not Include Your Children When Baking?” Crap! “Unusual Applications for Everyday Household Objects – Try polishing your furniture with old tights and conditioning your hair with last week’s whipped cream”? It’s all shite,’ he repeated truculently. ‘It’s a pile of poo! It is complete and utter ca-ca. No wonder our circulation’s going down the khazi – what this paper needs is R.’

‘R?’ said Linda miserably. We looked at each other.

‘R,’ Ricky repeated slowly. ‘As in the R factor.’ Ah. ‘As in aaaaaaaahhhhh!’

‘Aaahh…’ we all said.

‘What we want,’ he said, slamming his right fist into his left palm, ‘is Triumph Over Tragedy, Amazing Mums, Kids of Courage. And animals!’ he added animatedly. ‘I want more animals. The readers like them and so do I. So get me Spanish donkeys, Linda, get me orphaned koalas, get me baby seals…’

‘It’s the wrong time of year.’

‘I don’t give a flying fuck!’ he shouted. ‘Get me baby seals. And while you’re at it get me puppies with pacemakers and kittens with hearing aids too. And if I don’t see some fucking heart-warming animal stories in this paper within a week, Linda, you’re for the fucking chop.’

‘Well, someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning!’ Serena remarked briskly as Ricky stomped back to his office. ‘Still, we all have our problems. Oh yes, we all have our crosses to bear,’ she added with a tight little smile. I looked at her as she turned on the shredder.

‘Nothing serious, I hope.’

‘Oh nothing we can’t deal with,’ she replied serenely. ‘It’s just that Rob crashed the car last night.’

‘Oh dear. I hope he wasn’t hurt.’

‘Not really. Just a large bump on his head. But unfortunately the garage door’s a write-off – he demolished it.’

‘Oh no!’

‘Still, these things are sent to try us, aren’t they?’ she said perkily. I smiled blankly and nodded my head. As Serena fed the old letters into the shredder – we keep them six months – I glanced at Linda, who was ashen-faced. I’d had an idea. Trevor and Beverley. That would make a good, heart-warming animal feature. Linda agreed.

‘It sounds brilliant,’ she said gratefully after I’d told her. ‘We could do a big spread with lots of photos. Will you ring her for me right now?’

Beverley was in – well she usually is in, poor kid – and she sounded quite keen.

‘Are you sure you and Trevor wouldn’t mind?’ I asked her. ‘It would probably mean having to talk about your accident, so I wouldn’t like you to say yes if you didn’t feel comfortable about it.’

‘No, we’d be happy to do it,’ she replied. ‘And it would be great publicity for Helping Paw.’

Having given Linda Bev’s number I now tackled my huge pile of post. The run up to Christmas is an incredibly busy time of year for agony aunts. In fact there were so many letters to answer that I didn’t leave work until eight. When I got in I felt pretty tired, but even so I decided to give the kitchen a thorough clean. I wiped down all the cupboard fronts – and the worktops, not forgetting to empty the toaster crumb tray of course; then I went into the hall and polished the telephone table. When I’d finished I noticed that the spindles on the banisters were looking disgusting. Being white, every speck of dust shows. As I rubbed away at them with the Astonish, I heard Theo’s door open. He was on his mobile phone.

‘Are you up for it?’ I heard him say as he came downstairs. ‘Right then. I’ll be there in fifteen. Don’t start without me!’ he added with a laugh. ‘Oh, hello Rose,’ he said pleasantly as he put his phone in his pocket. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while.’ His eyes suddenly narrowed. ‘What the heck are you doing?’ What the heck was I doing?

‘What the heck does it look like?’

‘Er, cleaning the banister spindles.’

‘Correct.’

‘Oh,’ he said. He looked dumbfounded for some reason. ‘I’m just on my way out. Well, er, have a nice evening,’ he added uncertainly. ‘See you.’

‘See you,’ I replied. As he left, carefully locking the front door behind him, I wondered about that remark. ‘Are you up for it?’ Hmm…that could only mean one thing. He’d obviously got someone. Well, that’s fine, I said to myself broad-mindedly – as long as he conducts his romantic affairs elsewhere. There’ll be no hanky-panky under my roof I decided firmly as I went into the kitchen and found a pack of instant soup. ‘Country-Style Leek and Asparagus’ said the box. Disgusting but it would have to do. I loathe cooking – I’ve never learned – and I don’t bother with food that much anyway so I simply buy things that are quick. Pot Noodles for instance – yes, I know, I know – bought pies, that kind of thing.

‘This is Radio Four!’ yelled Rudy as I emptied the greenish powder into a saucepan. ‘Scilly Light Automatic. Five or six. Rising. Occasionally good.’ Oh no. I’ve been leaving Radio Four on for him during the day and he’s started regurgitating selected bits. ‘Viking North Utsire. Steady. German Bight. Showers. Decreasing. Good.’ However, unlike the radio, I can’t turn Rudy off. ‘And welcome to Gardener’s Question Time!’ he announced warmly.

‘You start singing the theme tune from The Archers and you’re in big trouble,’ I said as I opened the fridge in search of some grapes to keep him quiet. Normally there’s not much in it. A heel of cheese maybe, two or three bottles of wine, half a loaf and Rudy’s fruit. But today the fridge overflowed. In the chiller were tiny vine-ripened plum tomatoes, three fat courgettes, and a glossy aubergine; on the shelf above a roll of French butter and a wedge of unctuous Brie. There were two free-range skinless chicken breasts, a tray of tiger prawns, and some slices of rosy pink ham. Theo was clearly a bon vivant.

As I stirred my monosodium glutamate, I wondered who he was meeting – ‘Are you up for it?’ – and what she was like. Or maybe…yes. Maybe she wasn’t a she, maybe she was a he. Theo had told me he wouldn’t be having women over – ‘that won’t be a problem’ he’d said: and he’d laughed, and grimaced slightly, as though the suggestion was not only ludicrous, but somehow slightly distasteful. Maybe he was gay. Now I wondered why this hadn’t occurred to me before. After all, there was plenty of evidence that he might be. For example, he’d been living with this ‘friend’ of his, Mark, before, and then there’d been that gauche comment of his about my hair. He was obviously totally inept with women – he clearly hadn’t a clue. And he was quite well dressed and toned-looking, plus he had suspiciously refined tastes in fresh produce. I mean, I really don’t think a straight man – especially a Yorkshireman – would be seen dead buying miniature vine-ripened plum tomatoes, or, for that matter, free-range skinless chicken breasts. Yes, he probably was gay. What a waste, I thought idly. Oh well…

As the soup began to simmer I suddenly realised that I’d found out next to nothing about Theo. So far we’d avoided contact – treading warily around each other like animals forced to share the same cage.

Now I thought about Ed again – but then he’s always on my mind – with a dreadful, knotting sensation inside. Then I suddenly remembered: the shoebox…Oh God. It was still under Theo’s bed. Heart pounding, I rushed upstairs, pushed on his door, and got down on my hands and knees. There it still was, undisturbed. Phew. The chances of Theo finding it were slim but I wasn’t taking the risk. So I fished it out, but as I straightened up I turned round and suddenly stopped. For, positioned by the window, on a shiny tripod, was an old brass telescope. Hmm. So that, presumably, is what had been in the mysterious-looking black case. I listened at the door for a moment to make sure he hadn’t come back; then I went up to it, removed the lens cap and peered through the end. Although the thing was clearly antique the magnification was very strong. To my surprise I found myself looking right into the backs of the houses opposite. There was a woman lying on her bed: her legs were bare and I could even make out the pink nail polish on her toes. I swung the telescope to the left and saw a small boy watching TV. In the next house along I could see a human form moving behind frosted bathroom glass. So that’s why Theo said he liked the room’s aspect so much – he was a peeping Tom! His ad had said he’d wanted ‘privacy’ – other people’s privacy it appeared!

I just knew that there was something odd about that boy and I was absolutely right! That’s why he spent so much time in his room and why I heard him pacing the floor late at night. Snooping on people is the pits I thought crossly as I decided to take a good look round his room. It was a complete and utter shambles – I had to fight the urge to tidy it up. The floor was strewn with discarded clothes, piles of old newspapers, rolled up posters and boxes of books. On the desk was a laptop computer surrounded by a mess of paperwork. His writing was appalling but on one pad I could just make out the words, ‘heavenly body,’ and there was a pair of binoculars – well! So he clearly wasn’t gay, he was a bit of a saddo I reflected crossly, or maybe he was a Lonely Young Man. But what a disgusting invasion of privacy I reflected indignantly as I inspected the rest of his room. On the mantelpiece were some strange-looking bits of rock, and, in a silver frame, a black and white photo of an attractive blonde of about thirty-five. She was laughing, her left hand clapped to her chest as though she’d just heard the most wonderful joke. Now I glanced at the bed. A maroon duvet was pulled loosely over it, but from underneath – oh God, not another one – protruded a square of floral silk. I lifted up the quilt. Under the pillow was a short silk nightie with a Janet Reger label. Well, well, well! And I was just thinking about leaving my Am I A Transvestite? leaflet lying casually about when I heard the telephone ring. I quickly replaced the nightie, swung the telescope back into position, then grabbed the shoebox and ran downstairs.

‘Hello,’ I said breathlessly. There was nothing at the other end. ‘Hello?’ I said again. Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of heavy breathing. Goose bumps raised themselves up on my arms. ‘Hello?’ I repeated, more sharply now. ‘Hello, who is this please?’ I suddenly remembered the silent call I’d had the night Theo had first come round. Now all I could hear was deliberate, slow, heavy breathing. I shuddered – oh God, this was vile. Tempting though it was to let loose with a stream of unbridled abuse I decided just to put the phone down.

‘I think I’m getting nuisance phone calls,’ I said to Henry as we walked around the Windsmoor concession in Debenhams the following Saturday. ‘How about this?’ I held up a stretch lace, high-necked blouse. He cocked his head to one side.

‘I’d prefer a scoop neckline,’ he said.

‘Not advisable – you’ve got a hairy chest.’ I showed him a red crushed velvet jacket – size twenty. ‘This take your fancy?’ He shook his head.

‘So what happens with these calls?’ he asked as I riffled through a rack of large frocks. ‘Do they speak to you?’

‘No they don’t. All I hear is heavy breathing.’

‘Oh, nasty. So what do you do?’

‘I do what I advise my readers to do. I don’t speak to them, or try and engage them in conversation, and I don’t blow a whistle down the phone. I simply wait a few seconds, say absolutely nothing, then quietly put down the phone. They want you to react Henry – that’s why they do it; so it’s much better to spoil their fun. Eventually the tiny-minded wankers realise that they’re wasting their time and they stop.’

‘How many calls have there been so far?’

‘I’ve had four in the last two weeks. It’s not that many but it’s unnerving and it makes me feel jumpy about answering the phone. How about this?’ I held up a blue floral skirt the size of a windbreak. He pulled a face.

‘Too chintzy. Well if it carries on then complain.’

‘I probably will, but to be honest I’m so busy and it all takes time. No, not that bubble-gum pink Henry, it’s much too “Barbie” – try this fuchsia. But no shoulder pads, okay?’

‘Okay. And do you press 1471 afterwards?’

‘Of course, but it always says that the number’s been withheld.’

‘Hmm,’ he murmured, ‘that’s significant.’

‘I know it is. It’s beginning to bother me,’ I added as we passed through Separates on our way to Eveningwear to the sound of synthesised ‘Jingle Bells’. ‘But until they say something malicious or threatening it’s rather hard to complain.’

‘Perhaps it’s Ed?’ Henry suggested as he surreptitiously fingered a taffeta ball gown.

‘I doubt it. It’s not his style. In any case he doesn’t even have my new number – we’ve been on total non-speakers since our split.’

‘I still think you should check.’

‘But how? I can hardly ring him up and say, “Hi Ed, this is Rose. I was just wondering if you’ve been making nuisance phone calls to me lately.” Anyway, I know it’s not him.’

‘Have you fallen out with anyone lately?’ Henry asked.

‘Not that I can think of, although…I did have a bit of a run in with a mad woman on my phone-in the other week.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I heard her. I must say she sounded a bit of a brute.’

‘And she’s convinced I advised her husband to leave her; she said I’d be “sorry,” so maybe it’s her. Though God knows how she got my number.’

‘That’s the trouble with what you do,’ Henry said as he held a pink feather boa under his stubbled chin, ‘you get some weird people contacting you.’

‘I know. Now I think you’d look lovely in this,’ I went on as I pulled out a black bias-cut silk satin dress. ‘Ooh, and it’s got thirty per cent off!’

‘Really?’ he said.

‘Yeah, shall we give it a whirl?’ He nodded enthusiastically and we headed off to the fitting room.

‘That’s not your size Madam,’ said the sales assistant peremptorily, ‘it’s a twenty, I’d say you’re a ten.’

‘But I like things nice and loose. My husband will be coming into the cubicle with me,’ I added briskly, ‘as he always likes to see what I buy.’

We pulled the curtain shut and Henry quickly undressed. Then he strapped on a pair of silicone-jelly breasts he’d got from Transformation, and struggled into the dress. As I did up the zip he looked at his reflection and sighed with happiness.

‘Oh yes!’ he said, turning this way and that, ‘it’s just so…me.’ He looked like a gorilla in a ball gown. That hairy back! ‘What accessories should I wear?’

‘A velvet scarf maybe, or some pearls. Or better still, a choker, to cover your Adam’s apple. And you’ll need some black tights, sixty denier at least unless you’re prepared to shave.’

‘Can’t I have fishnets?’

‘No, Henry. Too tarty.’

‘Really?’ He looked disappointed.

‘Yes, really. Your mother would be horrified.’

‘That’s true.’

He bought a sparkly handbag and then we went down to cosmetics on the ground floor.

‘Were the Beaumont Society helpful?’ I enquired sotto voce as we perused the make-up.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘they were great. They told me how to avoid being “read” when I go out.’

‘You’re not planning to wear this stuff in public are you?’ I whispered.

‘Not at work, no; I might get the hem caught in my tank. But, who knows,’ he breathed, ‘when I’m on leave, if I’m feeling daring, I might.’

‘But you’re six foot one Henry!’

‘So are you!’

‘But I’m feminine.’

‘Well you’re not the only one!’

‘Now, your skin-tone is fair,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘I think you’ll need this Leichner extra-thick foundation to hide the five o’clock shadow and of course translucent powder – pressed or loose? Coral lipstick, rather than red, would suit you for that English Rose look, and eye-liner should be navy not black. We’d better get you a good pair of tweezers too while we’re here and something to minimise those pores.’

‘Christ, you’re right,’ he said, as he peered, horrified, into an adjacent mirror. ‘They’re the size of a grapefruit’s. And I need a wig and some scent.’

‘I think you should go for something really feminine, like Ô de Lancôme or Femme.’

We emerged from the store two hours later with six large carrier bags, Henry beaming from ear to ear.

‘You’ll look ravishing in that lot,’ I said as he hailed a cab. ‘Really gorgeous.’

‘Gosh thanks, Rose. You’re a real sport.’

‘My pleasure,’ I said, as he gave me a hug, and it was. As I walked down Oxford Street in the milling crowds I realised that I’d loved going shopping with Henry whereas with Ed it was always a trial. Not because he didn’t like doing it but because he’d always try and beat people down. If something cost eighty quid he’d knock them down to sixty; if it was fifteen he’d try and get it for ten. ‘What’s the best price you can give me?’ he’d ask while I’d blush and look the other way. He once bargained ninety pounds off a fridge-freezer.

‘Why do you bother?’ I’d said.

‘Because it’s fun, that’s why. It gives me this adrenaline rush.’

But I knew that that was a lie. The real reason was because Ed’s family were incredibly hard-up and there was never any cash. His dad had been foreman at a builder’s yard, but he’d died from asbestosis when Ed was eight. Ed’s mother didn’t get the government compensation for ten years and there was often barely enough to eat. That kind of start in life leaves an indelible mark, so I knew where Ed was coming from. But the fact that he was one of five children was one of the things that drew me to him; although, well, it’s rather sad really, because he hardly ever sees them these days. Only his mother and one sister, Ruth, came to our wedding; as for the others, they’ve drifted apart. For example, Ed hasn’t seen his youngest brother, Jon, for six years; they fell out badly, over money, I think. Nevertheless, Jon still sent us a lovely alabaster lamp for our wedding, even though Ed hadn’t invited him. It made me feel terribly sad. Anyway, I liked Ed’s mother, and the thought of her looking after all those children, on her own, and working full-time fills me with total awe. Whereas some stupid women well, it’s too pathetic, they can’t even cope with one…

Now, as I sat on the number thirty-six a woman came and sat in front of me with her little girl who was about two and a half, maybe three. The bus was full so the child sat on her lap, encircled by her arms like a hoop. And as I looked at them I felt the old, old pang and thought, my mother never held me like that…

I always try and distract myself at bad moments, so I got out my Daily Post. There was the photo of Bev and Trev on the masthead and inside a big, two page spread. It was headed ‘LABRACADABRA!’ and there were pictures of them at home, ‘Clever Trevor’ – dressed in his red Helping Paw coat – drawing the curtains and bringing in the milk. There was a shot of him getting the washing out of the machine and passing ‘Tragic Bev’ the pegs while she hung up the clothes. There they were in Sainsbury’s, at the check-out, with Trevor handing over Bev’s purse. Finally there was a shot of them both at the cashpoint, Trev getting out the money with his teeth. ‘Trevor’s much more than my canine carer,’ Bev was quoted as saying, ‘he’s saved my life.’

I realised now, how modest Beverley had been in describing herself to me as a ‘PE teacher’. She’d been so much more than that. Yes, she’d taught games at a girls’ school, the article explained, but she’d also been an outstanding sportswoman in her own right. As an eighteen-year-old she’d been county tennis champion, and in her mid-twenties, as a middle distance runner, she’d won silver in the Commonwealth games. After retiring from the track she’d taken up women’s hockey and had played for the national side. She’d been selected to play for England at the Sydney Olympics but her injury had shattered that dream. Her accident had left her ‘suicidal’ and ‘devastated’ until Trevor transformed her life. ‘He’s my hero,’ she said. ‘We adore each other. Without him I just couldn’t go on.’ It was touching stuff and at the bottom was the number for Helping Paw.

When I got home Theo was in the kitchen, cooking. I could hear him singing to himself. Repelled by the thought of him spying on my neighbours dressed in a floral nightie, I decided to give him a wide berth. And I was just taking off my coat when I glanced at the half-moon telephone table and saw a pile of unopened post. There were my first utilities bills, a cashmere brochure and an Oxfam Christmas catalogue. Underneath, in a white plastic cover, was some magazine or other, it looked like Newsweek or Time. I turned it over and saw that it wasn’t either of those: it was Astronomy Now magazine. Oh.

‘Hello Rose,’ Theo called out suddenly.

‘Oh. Hi!’ Astronomy Now? But that didn’t explain the Janet Reger nightie did it?

‘Had a good day?’ he enquired politely as I went into the kitchen.

‘Er, yes. I’ve been shopping with a…friend. You’ve got some post, you know.’

He wiped his hands, ripped the cover off the magazine, glanced at it, then put it down. Star Clusters in Close-Up! announced the headline and beneath, Magellanic Clouds and Nebulae!

‘Astronomy Now? I said with studied casualness. ‘I’ve never seen that before. May I look at it?’

‘Course you can. I get Sky and Telescope too.’

‘So you’re interested in…astronomy then?’ I said feebly as I glanced at an article about the Leonid meteor showers.

‘It’s my passion,’ he replied as he got out a knife. ‘I’ve been mad on it since I was a boy, I –’ Suddenly his mobile rang. Or rather it didn’t ring; it played ‘Would you like to swing on a star, carry moonbeams home in a jar?’ He took the call, but it was clearly an awkward conversation for his throat become blotched and red.

‘Hi. Yes. I’m okay,’ he said slightly tersely. ‘Yes. Fine. That’d be grand. Whatever you want. Yes. Yes. I’ll drop the keys off at your office on Monday. No, I don’t want to come to the house. Sorry about that,’ he said with fake brightness as he put his phone back in his pocket, ‘where were we?’

‘Astronomy.’

‘Oh yes. It’s my…passion,’ he said as he sliced a courgette with a trembling hand.

‘So do you have your own telescope then?’ I enquired innocently.

‘Yes. It’s in my room. You can have a look at it if you like.’

‘Ooh, no, no, no, I wouldn’t do that. I mean, I wouldn’t go in your room.’

‘That’s okay. I don’t mind if you do – I’ve nothing to hide. It’s a three-inch refracting telescope rather than one of the more modern reflectors, but the optics are really good. It has a magnification of 150,’ he added proudly as he got out a frying pan. ‘It belonged to my granddad – he used to run the Leeds observatory – it’s old but it’s excellent.’ He opened the fridge and took out a beer. ‘I feel like a drink. How about you?’

I felt guilty about having mistrusted him so I nodded. ‘Thanks. That’d be nice. So where do you do your…star-watching?’ I asked as he got down two glasses.

‘The best place is Norfolk – I used to go there with my grandparents. You can do it in London, but you have to choose your spot carefully because the sky-glow’s so bad.’

‘Sky-glow?’

‘The light pollution. That awful tangerine glare. I’m involved with the Campaign for Dark Skies,’ he went on as he poured out my beer. ‘We ask local councils to install star-friendly street lighting which throws the light down, where it’s needed, not up. It’s tragic that people living in cities don’t get to see the night sky – they miss so much. I mean just look up,’ he said suddenly. He switched off the light, plunging us into darkness, and I peered up through the conservatory roof. Through the glass I could see five, no…eight stars twinkling dimly against the inky night and a sliver of silvery moon. ‘City folk miss so much,’ he repeated as I craned my neck. ‘How often do they see the Milky Way and the Pleiades, Orion’s belt, or the Plough? You don’t even need a telescope to be an amateur astronomer. You can see so much just with your eyes.’

‘So that’s why you didn’t want me to complain about the street lamps?’ I suggested.

‘Yes, that’s right.’ And that explained why Theo went out when it was dry and clear, not when it was wet. ‘Actually this area’s not too bad for observation,’ he continued as he turned on the light and the stars vanished, ‘which is why I like living here. That little park at the end of the road is quite good for example.’

‘Holland Gardens?’

‘Yes. I’ve taken my ’scope there a couple of times. There are no tall buildings around it so you get a big piece of sky, and I’ve a filter which cuts out the glare. And my friend Mark has a large garden so sometimes I go round there. I ring him and say “Are you up for it?”’ he added. ‘That’s what we amateur astronomers say. It’s our little in-joke. Are you up for it?’ He shook his head and laughed. So he wasn’t the Milky Bar kid after all – he was the Milky Way kid.

‘What a…fascinating hobby,’ I said with a relieved smile.

‘It’s more than that. I’ve been writing a book. I’m doing the final edits at the moment – the page proofs have just come back.’

‘A book? What’s it called?’

‘Heavenly Bodies –’ Ah. ‘– A Popular Guide to the Stars and Planets. It’s coming out in May. But I’m under terrible pressure timewise which is why I needed to live somewhere quiet.’

‘And where did you live before?’ I asked as he sliced the aubergine.

‘I told you, with this friend of mine, Mark.’

‘But you said that that was temporary; that he was helping you out – so where did you live before that?’

‘I lived in Dulwich…’ The knife stopped in mid-air and he repeated, quietly, ‘I lived in Dulwich. With my wife.’

‘Oh,’ I murmured, trying not to look astounded. ‘You, er, didn’t say you were married. You look so young.’

‘I’m not. I’m twenty-nine. I was married for five years. But I didn’t tell you because…well,’ he stopped. ‘Because it’s too painful and to be honest it’s not relevant.’ Now I remembered his boss’s odd remark, when I’d phoned for a reference, about Theo having had ‘a hard time’.

‘Why did you…’ I began, with a sip of beer. ‘No, I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.’

‘Why did we split up?’ I nodded. ‘Because I disappointed my wife.’

‘Really? Er…how?’

‘She felt I was letting her down. She’s a solicitor at Prenderville White in the City,’ he explained. ‘She’s very driven and successful, and she expected me to be the same. She wanted me to put everything into my accountancy career to match her success, but I couldn’t. I did all the exams but by then I’d become far more interested in astronomy than in spreadsheets. So I left Price Waterhouse and took an undemanding book-keeping job so that I’d have more time to write. Fi said I was being self-indulgent and that I should knuckle down to my career. She kept on and on and on about it, but I couldn’t bring myself to go back. So five months ago she said she wanted out.’ Poor bloke. There were tears in his eyes. ‘That was her actually, just now, on the phone,’ he explained, his voice quivering. ‘I’d forgotten to give her my keys. To be honest, I find it painful even talking to her. I mean, I can see why she felt as she did. I can understand why we broke up. But understanding is different from feeling isn’t it?’ I nodded. It certainly is. ‘I’m still deeply attached to her. In fact,’ he added, with another swig of beer, ‘I do this silly thing. I –’ he lowered the bottle, ‘promise you won’t laugh?’

‘I promise.’

‘I sleep with one of her old nighties.’ Ah ha, I thought. So it wasn’t my Cross-Dressing leaflet he needed but Relationship Breakdown instead. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added with that lop-sided smile of his. ‘You hardly know me and here I am, showing you my emotional underpants.’

‘I don’t mind,’ I said, and I didn’t – people often tell me personal things. ‘Anyway, that’s my sad tale,’ he concluded with a grim smile. Then he suddenly said, ‘How about you?’

‘How about me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh. You mean, my story?’ He nodded. ‘Well…do I have to?’ I added slightly irritably. ‘Yes,’ he said rather bluntly. ‘Fair’s fair.’ That was true enough, so I quickly gave him the bare bones.

‘So that’s why you’ve only been here a short time?’ he said as he poured in more olive oil.

‘Yes. I needed to make a clean break.’

‘But why do you think your husband had the affair?’ he asked as he got out a wooden spoon.

‘Because he felt like it I suppose.’

‘But there’s usually a reason,’ he said as an aroma of Mediterranean vegetables filled the air. ‘I mean people don’t just have an affair for nothing, do they?’ he added.

‘Oh I don’t know,’ I said.

‘You’re a fucking nightmare!’ yelled Rudy in Ed’s voice. ‘This marriage was a mistake!’ Shit.

‘That silly bird,’ I laughed as I pulled down the cover. ‘He probably got that from the afternoon play. Anyway, I’m sorry you’ve had so much unhappiness,’ I said.

‘Well, ditto, but life has to go on. That’s why I like cooking,’ he added. ‘It’s relaxing – it helps me unwind.’

‘So you like astronomy and gastronomy,’ I pointed out, and for the first time that evening, he smiled. ‘What are you making?’ I added.

‘Ratatouille – would you like some?’

‘Oh, no thanks.’

‘I’ve put some of my cook books on the shelf,’ he added, ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Of course not,’ I said, ‘except…’ I went over to them and began shuffling them about…Jane Grigson…Sophie Grigson…Ainsley Harriot…there. Alastair Little…that was better: Delia Smith…Rick Stein.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ he asked.

‘I’m just tidying them up.’

‘But why?’

‘Because I like books to be in alphabetical order – and CDs – it’s better. Don’t you ever do that?’

‘Er, no.’

And I was about to point out the benefits of having a properly alphabetised system when I heard the clatter of the letter box. On the mat was yet another flyer from the Tip Top Tandoori House and two from Pizza Hut. I picked them up, and went to throw them in the waste paper basket by the hall table when a sound from next door made me stop. It was muffled at first, but becoming louder now. I stood there, rooted to the spot. For it was the sound of suppressed, but anguished weeping. My heart expanded. Poor Bev.

Chapter Six

I stood there transfixed with pity, not knowing quite what to do. If I’d known Beverley better I’d have phoned her up, or made some excuse to go round. But I didn’t feel I could intrude, not least because whenever we’ve met she’s presented such a strong, cheerful face. If she knew I’d heard her crying she might well have been mortified. And then I’d felt awful in case doing the Daily Post feature had made her feel worse. Seeing it in black and white like that, with everyone reading about ‘Tragic Bev’ and her accident, and about her boyfriend leaving, and about what an outstanding sportswoman she’d been. Perhaps she’d regretted being interviewed. Perhaps that’s why she was in tears. That thought made me very depressed, but as it turned out, I was quite wrong; because the next afternoon she phoned me to say that Ricky had liked the piece so much he’d offered her a regular slot.

‘He called me this morning to tell me, Rose – on a Sunday! He wants me to write a weekly column – he thinks it’ll lift the Post’s circulation.’

‘It probably will.’

‘But I’m terrified, Rose, I’m not a journalist.’

‘So what? You’re very articulate. You’ll do it well.’

‘But he wants me to write it in Trevor’s voice.’ Ah. Now that could be hard to pull off. ‘Will you read the trial pieces before I submit them and tell me what you think?’

‘Sure.’

So the following Thursday evening we went down to the Bunch of Grapes at the end of the street and Bev showed me her two sample columns. I’d worried that the tone might be a bit twee or sentimental, but it wasn’t at all. Far from it. It was endearingly blokey. I thought they were great.

Bev’s pretty ropey in the mornings, but I’m quite chirpy, I read. I give her a lick to wake her up, maybe a bit of a cuddle, then root about under the bed to find her slippers, drag them out with a minimum of slobber, and we’re away.

‘This is brilliant,’ I giggled. ‘Ricky will love it.’

Bev goes down for breakfast in the stair lift, then I have a tiny snooze while she has her cup of tea. But I’m on red alert. I can be snoring my brains out but the second I hear her move, I’m up.

‘It’s wonderful,’ I said, ‘you’re a natural.’

‘But that’s just how he’d speak, isn’t it Trev?’

It wasn’t always like this, I read on. Ooh, no, to begin with it was dire. It was, ‘Trevor do this, and Trevor do that,’ and I’m like, ‘Sorry? What did your last slave die of?’ Drove me nuts. But then I felt a bit guilty because maybe I could have been a bit more helpful, but bless her, Bev’s a forgiving little soul and we’re mad about each other now.

‘If it comes off I’m going to give the fee to Helping Paw,’ Beverley added as we drank our Becks. ‘I got quite a big insurance payout after the accident so I don’t need the cash. And it’ll be a great opportunity to publicise the charity, speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to ask if you’ll come to our first big fund-raiser – it’s just before Christmas?’

‘Of course I’ll come,’ I said.

‘It’s a ball. Fancy dress,’ she added. Fancy dress? Oh shit! ‘But it’s not ordinary fancy dress,’ she explained as she slipped Trevor a pork scratching. ‘It’s in a marquee at the Courtauld, everyone comes as a work of art, and the best costume gets a prize. Fancy another pint?’

‘Wouldn’t say no to a half.’

‘Okay, Trev, our shout.’ She wheeled her chair to the bar, Trevor barked for service, then she passed him her purse. He stood up on his hind legs then placed it on the counter while the barman took the cash. Then Beverley carried each drink in turn back to our table, whilst Trevor collected her change.

‘I bet he drinks Carling Black Label,’ said the barman with a guffaw.

‘Nah, he’s teetotal,’ Bev replied.

So thanks to Beverley, Ricky’s happier so there’ve been no ‘bollockings’ for a while. But my workload’s piling up what with pre-Christmas depression; well I’m feeling pretty gloomy myself. I spent last year’s in a blissful romantic blur; I’ll spend this one alone and semi-divorced.

‘Christmas…suicidal,’ said Serena perkily as she logged the letters yesterday. ‘Christmas, just can’t cope. Christmas, want to kill myself,’ she went on briskly. ‘Christmas, I wish I was dead…’

‘Okay Serena, I get the picture.’

‘Mind you, I think Christmas is going to be pre-tty grim for us this year,’ she went on serenely as she tucked her hair behind one ear. I looked at her when she said that and realised that she’s suddenly going rather grey. ‘I mean, it’s such an expensive time,’ she said with a shudder. Well, yes, but she and her husband both work. ‘And you see Rob’s been a bit traumatised since his little accident

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