by Lucy Diamond
If romance wasn’t in Rosa’s life right now, it did seem to be springing up everywhere for other people, she found herself thinking, ladling portions of stew onto plates. Take Ann-Marie Chandler, for instance. Rosa didn’t pay an awful lot of attention to Ann-Marie’s Facebook timeline these days, granted, but even so, after she and Gareth had sent their little Wankers Incorporated bombshell to David, it was remarkable how quickly things had changed.
Amazing news! – Ann-Marie had typed, only days later – David’s been promoted AGAIN! Even better, from now on, he won’t have to do any travelling away from home! Family dinners every night again! Daddy home all weekends! We are so #happy #blessed #united.
Was that the distinct sound of a lesson learned, a wanker warned? It was definitely a line being scored underneath an episode in her life, that was for sure. Seeing Ann-Marie’s guileless joy, the flurry of exclamations and hashtags, gave Rosa the strange feeling that she might just have saved her old enemy’s marriage – so that was a large helping of irony for you. Still, she was over him now anyway. Was she bothered? No. Did she feel resentful any more? No. And had she enjoyed getting her own back? Yes, she bloody well had. They were quits, she had decided, and could leave it at that. Goodbye David, goodbye Max, hello rest of my life. And breathe.
‘Is that all of them?’ Natalya asked at that moment, and Rosa blinked at the plates of fish stew there in front of her, steaming and fragrant.
‘Yes,’ she said, closing the door in her mind to Ann-Marie and her husband. ‘Yes, that’s all of them.’
Out they went, she, Natalya and Shamira, delivering the main courses, plus bowls of a fennel and rocket salad, and some buttered Anya potatoes. ‘Here we are, hope you enjoy it,’ she said, setting plates down in front of Georgie and Simon, squeezed into a corner together, who were – yes – actually holding hands between courses. They had barely been apart since Simon’s return to Brighton. (In fact, there had been so much joyful and noisy make-up sex that Rosa had had to buy some industrial-strength ear-plugs in the hope of ever managing to sleep again. Other people’s love could be over-rated.)
‘Thank you. This smells amazing,’ said Georgie, smiling up at her now. Tonight she was wearing her blonde hair in plaits, fastened across her head, so that she looked like a milkmaid, albeit a milkmaid in a cerise mini-dress and big clumpy gold sandals, with clinking bangles halfway up one arm. ‘God, we’re going to miss this, aren’t we, Si?’
‘We are,’ he said. ‘We’ll just have to come back to visit loads, that’s all. Either that or you’ll have to take some cookery lessons, George.’
‘Er, what? You will, you mean,’ she said, giving him a little shove. ‘I’m not the one who nearly gave us salmonella with those raw poached eggs the other day, remember?’
‘Definitely come and visit,’ Rosa told them, simultaneously laughing and feeling a lump in her throat. She would really miss the two of them when they moved out at the end of the month. After much deliberating Georgie and Simon had decided to move back up to Yorkshire, where they were planning to buy some land so that Simon could build them a house. How romantic was that? Even better, they were getting married in the spring and inviting everyone who’d been part of their Brighton adventure.
‘And I’ll still be keeping some links with Brighton, even though we’re leaving,’ Georgie had told Rosa, ‘because Viv says I can carry on with my “Hey Em” column from up north, special favour, she said. And she’s got a mate who works at the Yorkshire Post, who she’s going to put me in touch with. Plus there’s my new business to crack on with. I’m really going for it – my friend Amelia’s done me a website and everything, look, I’ll show you on my phone. What do you think?’
Hold The Front Page! she’d called her new venture, and Rosa thought Georgie had actually hit on something pretty brilliant: mock newspaper and magazine covers, complete with personalized headlines pertinent to the subject, turned into prints, cards or posters for special birthday, wedding or anniversary gifts. ‘I can see this really taking off,’ she had told her truthfully, scrolling through the images on the website. ‘Hey, and it’s my sister’s fortieth coming up, I’ll definitely commission one for her.’
The other link – or perhaps even legacy – Georgie was leaving was with the House of Women, whose future now seemed secure thanks to a KickStarter funding campaign and talks of a government grant. Rosa couldn’t help wondering if one of the hefty anonymous donations received had come from her ex – she sincerely hoped so. The women had reached an agreement with the council about staying in the building, too which they were all very happy about. Georgie had been volunteering every week there, starting up a book group; Charlotte had visited a few times, providing legal advice to the women; and Rosa too had begun helping out by giving basic cookery lessons once a fortnight. Every time she taught a recipe that included butternut squash as an ingredient, she thought of all she had learned this year, as well as all she could pass on to others.
‘By the way,’ said Georgie now, lowering her voice and leaning closer, as Rosa was about to hurry back to the kitchen. ‘Is he here yet? Sexy Paul?’
‘No! Not that I know of. He’s teasing us, deliberately making a late entrance,’ Rosa sighed, glancing over at the empty space next to her landlady, Angela, who was currently checking her watch and starting to look a bit miffed.
‘He’d better bloody turn up!’ Georgie said, rolling her eyes. ‘After all this time! I’m desperate to see him. What if he really is as gorgeous and fabulous as Ange has always told us, and now I’ve got myself engaged to this one?’ She elbowed Simon affectionately, and he elbowed her back.
‘I know! Disaster!’ Rosa joked. ‘Well, I’m still single, anyway. I’ll take care of him – if he ever shows, that is.’
Bustling back to the kitchen to get more food, she glanced again at Angela who was now calling someone on her phone. Sexy Paul, no doubt, to give him an earful. She could hardly believe that this legendary creature, unicorn-like in his mythical status, was actually going to turn up at her supper club and they would meet at last, after all of Angela’s unsubtle matchmaking attempts with her various tenants. You would love him, you know. I really must introduce you. He’s just the perfect man, and I’m not saying that because I’m his mother. He is GORGEOUS. And still single! It’s a crime, really it is. What are these women thinking, for heaven’s sake?
Mind you, a few months ago, Rosa would hardly have expected Angela to be here either, given the tongue-lashing she’d dished out that fateful night in June when her landlady had all but issued Rosa with her marching orders. It was amazing how being given a free pass to the supper club in its new surroundings had changed her mind. In fact, she’d even asked if Rosa might like to move upstairs, into Margot’s old flat. ‘It’s much bigger than your current place, of course, and quieter up there too,’ she’d said persuasively. ‘Plus, it’ll only cost you a tiny bit extra.’
A tiny bit extra in Angela’s terms was no doubt double the price, but Rosa thanked her for the offer and said she’d think it over. Extra space and less noise was all well and good, but Rosa had become quite attached to her ground-floor flat, as it happened. Without wanting to sound like a cheesy greetings card, the place had been her new start, a cocoon into which she’d crawled at her lowest ebb, only to emerge, reborn and re-energized, all these months later. There was a lot to be said for a place that had handed you back your sanity, after all.
‘Sorry about the wait, here you are,’ she said now, delivering her final plates to the last table. This group of people included Ned and Charlotte, who looked thoroughly beautiful with her hair curled like a Fifties starlet, in a plunging neckline dress and red lipstick. Go, Charlotte! She’d seemed a new woman ever since she, Ned and his daughters had come back from a mega holiday in France, taking in sandy beaches, crumbling chateaux and a few days in Paris where they’d taken the girls to Disneyland. ‘And all thanks to Margot,’ Charlotte had sighed happily, showing Rosa the photos when she came back, ta
nned and bright-eyed from a fortnight in the sun. They had even gone out to Auray, the pretty little town where Margot had grown up and, having sought permission from a kind-faced chaplain in stuttering GCSE-level French, planted a white scented tea rose against a sunny wall in the churchyard in her memory. Afterwards, Charlotte told Rosa, Ned had taken the girls away in search of ice cream, while Charlotte sat for a while in the warm quiet sunshine of the churchyard and said her final goodbyes. ‘And then we went and had really expensive gin and tonics in a bar, which I know Margot would have approved of way more than any old flowers,’ she said, wrinkling her nose in a smile. ‘So it was all good.’
Charlotte was still girlish and fluttery with love for Ned, even after spending two weeks away with him and his kids, which was surely an acid test of any relationship. Already they had met each other’s parents (to mutual approval, apparently) and she was spending several nights a week at his place, as well as most weekends. During a recent SeaView House women’s night out, she had opened up to the others, telling them about her daughter Kate who had died, before confiding in them that, although it was early days with Ned, she had already started thinking how lovely it would be to have a baby with him. ‘I know you probably think I’m rushing madly into this but I feel good about the idea. Happy,’ she had said. ‘But in the meantime, I’m actually really loving being a step-mum. Did I tell you I’m taking the girls roller skating next week? I’ve bought us all matching skates!’
‘Thanks, Rosa,’ she said now, looking blissed out as she inhaled the scent of the fish stew. Then she craned her head to peer around the room. ‘Hey, is he here, by the way? Paul? No offence, Ned, but I do want to at least get a look at this guy that Angela thinks is the perfect match for me, Georgie and you, Rosa. I mean, he must be some kind of Adonis, right? Some total hunk.’
‘I’m amazed we haven’t heard about him in the local press,’ Ned said, deadpan. ‘All those women that must swoon and faint every time he walks down the street . . .’
‘Well, exactly! You’d think he’d be a public health hazard.’ Charlotte fanned herself with the paper menu. ‘I’m getting a hot flush just talking about the man, even before I’m in his godlike presence. I mean—’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Rosa, interrupting, as the door opened suddenly. ‘This could be El Hunko right now . . .’
She, Charlotte and Ned all did their best not to stare as the latecomer walked in, gazing around as if looking for someone. He was tall and yes, as promised, extremely good-looking with what could only be described as a mane of shoulder-length brown hair which he shook back from his face as he strutted across the floor. Rosa frowned. She had seen him before somewhere, she thought. Where did she know him from?
‘Oh my God,’ Charlotte said, giggling. ‘I don’t believe it. It’s him. I swear it’s him. Where’s Georgie?’
‘Who?’ Rosa asked, watching intrigued as Georgie and Charlotte pantomimed to each other across the room, both nodding vigorously, eyebrows raised. I know! their faces telegraphed with excitement. It IS him, right?
‘Paul! Cooee! Over here!’ Angela was shouting.
‘Well, it’s definitely lover-boy,’ Ned said wryly, and they all watched as Paul strode over with an Aren’t-I-fabulous sort of walk. That was where she’d seen him, of course! Rosa thought to herself, as the penny dropped. Preening on the Zanzibar dancefloor all alone, like he thought he was some kind of male god. So this was Paul!
‘We saw him at the roller disco,’ Charlotte hissed to them, her eyes wet from merriment. ‘The twerking creep. The same one who was the nude model at Georgie’s art class!’
‘No!’ Rosa said, spluttering with laughter. ‘You mean . . . Liver sausage?’
‘Liver sausage,’ Charlotte confirmed. She leaned against Ned’s shoulder, trying to compose herself. ‘I think we had a lucky escape there, Rosa.’
‘I think we did,’ Rosa agreed, trying to keep a straight face as she went to greet the new arrival. Lucky? she thought, introducing herself, and vanishing into the kitchen to grab him a plate. Yes, she felt lucky. But there was such a thing as making one’s own luck too, of course, with a pinch of bravery and a large chunk of determination thrown in for good measure. Look at her, for instance, running her own supper club these days. Look at Georgie too, setting up a new business and home – and Charlotte, taking the plunge with a whole new relationship and family. In fact, Rosa had had an inkling recently that, like Georgie, it might not be too long before Charlotte moved out of SeaView House herself, on to an even happier place.
Everything was changing at their big old house on Dukes Square, she thought; the house of hopes and wishes and friends, as Georgie had said over dinner that time. The house of new beginnings, too. Maybe it had always been like that, though: a staging post in people’s lives, a temporary home where waifs and strays washed up, only to find themselves again eventually and move on. As she dished up Paul’s stew, she reflected on how all three of them, her, Charlotte and Georgie, had moved in to their separate flats, feeling rather lost and unsure to begin with, fishes out of water all. It might have taken them a while, but these days it seemed they’d definitely all remembered how to swim.
‘Anyone there?’
It was much later on, and Rosa was just about to close up for the night when she thought she heard a voice. The evening had been another successful one: the guests had all departed, leaving extremely pleasant compliments and even more pleasant tips in their wake, there was hardly any food left (always a good sign), and now the floor was mopped, the pots washed and the dishwasher busily taking care of all the crockery and cutlery. ‘Hello? Anyone there?’ came the voice again, followed by rapping at the door.
‘Hello?’ she called uncertainly, grabbing her denim jacket and bag from the side, her fingers reaching for her phone just in case she needed it. Very occasionally she’d had a drunk stumbling in as she was about to close – one guy had peed against the front door in the past – and she’d found another couple once practically naked and having sex around the bins. Natalya and Shamira knew to pull the door to behind them at least, but if there was some creep hanging around outside tonight, she might have to make an exit through the back. Oh God, she thought, and talking of creeps, what if it was Paul, come to chance his arm with her?
‘Rosa? It’s me, Gareth.’
His name was so unexpected that she stopped in her tracks. ‘Oh,’ she said and, after a moment’s hesitation, opened the door so that he could come in. Outside was shadowy dark, you could just about make out the sea, black and liquid, rushing and crashing in the background, with a few party-goers staggering past under the streetlight. In he came with a blast of cool night air, his hair a little longer than when she’d last seen him, his brown eyes kind of wary. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I was just locking up.’ She hesitated. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m very well,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you again.’ There was a pause, and then he added, ‘Actually, I was wondering if you fancied going on somewhere for a drink.’
Her heart thudded. ‘What – now?’ she asked. Jo had put him up to this, she thought in the next moment. She knew she shouldn’t have had that last cocktail with her neighbour the other day, and blurted out the kissing confession.
‘Yeah. If you want? I was just passing and wondered how you were.’ He wrinkled his nose then shook his head. ‘Well . . . No. I wasn’t “just passing”. That was me, trying to sound casual. I’ve been sitting in the pub round the corner for the last hour, wondering if coming here was a good idea or not.’
‘Right,’ she said cautiously. ‘And you decided . . . that it was?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, although he still didn’t sound very confident about it. ‘Nice place you’ve got here, by the way,’ he went on, gazing around. ‘Bea’s kept me up to date, obviously, with how business is booming, and how you’re going to be the next Delia Smith, and—’
Rosa spluttered. ‘Delia Smith? Is that the best you can do?’
‘All ri
ght, Fanny Craddock, then, I don’t know, but—’
‘Fanny Craddock?’ She started to laugh and the awkwardness she had felt at him being there ebbed away. ‘God, Gareth, this drink you’re going to buy me is getting more expensive by the second, mate.’
He grinned at her. ‘Fine by me. I’ll charge it to the Wankers Incorporated expense account. You can have whatever you like.’
She put her denim jacket on, turning her face for a moment so that she could think. ‘Jo told you to do this, didn’t she? This is Jo, sticking her nose in, I can tell.’
He opened his mouth as if he was about to deny it, then gave a reluctant nod. ‘Well – she did ring me up and told me to pull my finger out,’ he confessed, ‘but she was only telling me what I already knew. And I’m not here just because of her, anyway. I’m here because . . . Because I missed you. And sometimes you have to go out and try again, don’t you? Even if it is at the risk of making a dick of yourself twice over.’
His words resonated within her. Sometimes you have to go out and try again, don’t you? It was true. Hadn’t she just been thinking that earlier?
‘You’re not making a dick of yourself,’ she told him quietly, switching on the burglar alarm and then ushering him outside, where she locked the door.
‘I’m not?’ he asked hopefully. ‘So . . . is that a yes? Are we about to stroll out into the night together in search of the most expensive drinking establishment Brighton can offer us?’
She laughed, pulling down the metal shutters and then attaching the padlock. ‘It’s a yes,’ she agreed, turning to face him. Because sometimes it was worth trying again, wasn’t it? Sometimes you had to pluck up the courage to take a chance on joy, be receptive to it, as the old fortune teller had advised. ‘I’d love to let you buy me that expensive drink,’ she said, smiling into his eyes.
Above them, the sky was freckled with silver stars, and the moon looked down, gleaming with a kindly light as the night wrapped itself around them. He slipped an arm through hers and they set off along the dark seafront together. It felt like the sort of evening where anything might happen, she thought, glancing sideways at his face and remembering the sensation of his lips against hers. Anything at all. What was more, she had an inkling that she was going to enjoy every last minute of it.