by Jill Mansell
‘Why’s that?’ Rosa had to raise her voice to be heard above the thunderous drumming of the rain on the roof of the car.
Benny grimaced as they edged along the road. ‘Honestly? I don’t have great taste. I used to think I did, I thought my taste was good, because it was good for me. Until Ingrid explained that I was wrong and she’s the one with taste. Which is why the plan was for Birgitte to be there to guide me. I just thought it’d be nice for once to give Ingrid something she actually liked.’
‘She is very stylish,’ Rosa acknowledged. ‘I mean, I’m not saying I know her that well, but she always looks stunning.’
‘I don’t suppose . . .’ He glanced sideways at her, then said, ‘No, don’t worry.’
Rosa burst out laughing. ‘Were you about to ask me to go with you, then saw the state of me and realised I had no taste either?’
‘Absolutely not. I was about to ask, then told myself it was too much of an imposition and why would you want to come along when you have plenty to keep you busy here.’
Stow was only a few miles away. Rosa said, ‘It wouldn’t take that long, would it? I can spare an hour or two.’
‘Really? That’d be brilliant. From the sound of it, the place has the kind of saleswomen who won’t give up until you’ve bought what they want you to buy.’ Benny shuddered. ‘I can’t handle pushy saleswomen. They scare me to death.’
He drew to a halt outside Frog Cottage and waited in the car while Rosa dashed in, stripped off, towel-dried her hair and changed into dry jeans and a stripy Breton top. Red was upstairs in his room, having his usual afternoon nap. By the time she raced back outside, the black cloud had moved on and the rain had all but stopped. Throwing her umbrella onto the back seat, she said, ‘We might need it again by the time we get there.’
But when they reached Stow, the sun was back out. Benny parked the car and they found the shop, which occupied three floors of a Cotswold-stone Georgian property on Sheep Street. Rosa had heard of Ellery Dove, which had opened with a flourish last December. It sold stunning things at mind-boggling prices, ranging from designer clothes to jewellery and anything you could possibly want for your home, so long as you could afford it. The lighting was exquisite, the decor was fabulous and the walls were painted a dozen different jewelled shades of peacock blue, jade and magenta.
The saleswomen were predictably elegant too, but finding herself in charge of Benny made it easy for Rosa to bat them away with a polite but firm We’re just looking. Together they climbed the narrow flights of stairs to the top floor and began inspecting the clothes.
‘She wears a lot of beige,’ said Benny. ‘Except I’m not allowed to say that word. We have to call it taupe.’
‘How about this?’ Rosa ran her fingertips lightly over an ivory cashmere top and heard the saleswoman behind her give a sharp intake of breath. Flipping over the price tag, she saw that it said £800. Yeesh, no wonder.
‘She’s already got one like that. Oh, I like these . . .’ Benny approached a narrow rail of dresses made from fine mesh over slippery silver silk, bound with strips of pink and lime-green leather around the neck and armholes.
‘No.’ Rosa shook her head.
‘Are you sure?’
‘They might be expensive, but they look cheap.’ Whoops, another gasp from the saleswoman. ‘I mean . . . eclectic. Trust me, Ingrid wouldn’t wear something like that.’
In the end, they decided on a long honey-coloured jacket made of finest, softest suede, before moving down to the beauty and accessories floor. Rosa picked out an eyeshadow set in silver packaging, and various skin creams and potions that smelled divine. When Benny found himself entranced by a chunky necklace of turquoises and bizarre purple crystals in a rose-gold setting, she steered him away and chose an ethereal moonstone pendant on a long silver chain instead.
‘You’re sure it isn’t boring?’ Benny wanted to know.
‘It’s not boring, it’s classy. And she’ll love it.’
On the ground floor, he was instantly taken by a wall hanging of a stag’s head sculpted in black resin with tiny crystal-encrusted birds and butterflies perched in its gold antlers.
‘It’s the kind of thing you love,’ Rosa patiently reminded him. ‘And I love it too, but Ingrid would think it was garish.’
‘You’re a cruel woman.’
‘But I’m right, you know I am. Look, how about something like this instead?’ She led him over to the opposite wall and indicated a small original oil painting. ‘I mean, I don’t know her taste in art, obviously, but it looks as if it could be her kind of—’
‘I don’t believe it, this is by Ulrika Nilsson! And I didn’t even spot it there.’ Benny’s eyes had lit up. ‘Ulrika Nilsson is one of Ingrid’s favourite artists . . . but I thought she’d given up painting to look after her husband.’
‘He died,’ supplied yet another elegant saleswoman. ‘And she started painting again. This one came in just yesterday.’
The painting was a cloudy, chilly-looking seascape in a pale grey wooden frame, not Rosa’s cup of tea at all, but she’d managed to pick the right thing. Beside himself with delight, Benny paid for the various items and together they carried everything back to the car.
As they reached Frog Cottage, he said, ‘Really, I can’t thank you enough. You made it so easy. All I have to do now is buy some fancy wrapping paper and I’m sorted.’
‘Are you good at wrapping?’ Rosa couldn’t help herself; she had to ask. Much as she’d adored her husband, every present Joe had ever given her had resembled a bag of potatoes frantically fastened with fifty metres of Sellotape.
‘I can manage.’ He didn’t sound entirely confident. ‘I mean, it’s not that hard, is it? Damn, I should probably have asked them to do it in the shop.’
‘Come in with me,’ said Rosa. ‘I can never resist buying beautiful paper. I might not be good at many things, but I’m an excellent wrapper.’
In the living room she introduced Benny to Red, who was in his favourite chair, simultaneously keeping an eye on the horse racing on TV and doing the Telegraph crossword.
‘Hey there.’ Red nodded easily at Benny and handed Rosa an envelope. ‘Post arrived. Another begging letter.’
He hadn’t opened it. Recognising the handwriting, Rosa said, ‘It might not be.’
‘Ah, but would you bet money on it?’
‘I wouldn’t bet money on anything.’
‘You get begging letters?’ Benny was incredulous.
She tore open the envelope and skimmed the contents. Red said, ‘Come on then, let’s hear it.’
Rosa cleared her throat and began to read aloud:
Dear Rosa,
Hello, it’s me again, little Maisie’s grandma. I haven’t heard back from you so I’m writing to say I have been saving my pennies by cutting down on my supermarket shop and have now managed to save £7.50. I know it isn’t enough but I wondered if you could make a smaller doll? Maisie would still love it. Please, my dear, I beg you, don’t ignore my letter just because I’m a widow and a pensioner with terrible rheumatism and a bad back. If I was rich, I would buy my Maisie all the dolls in the world.
Bless you again.
Yours sincerely,
Pamela Baker
She finished reading just as the horse race on the TV reached its climax. The commentator, hysterical with excitement, bellowed, ‘And the winner is Shady Lady!’
Benny said, ‘Bloody hell.’
‘I know. You should have heard the last letter.’ Red shook his head. ‘I told Rosa it was a scam.’
‘Talk about laying it on thick,’ Benny agreed. He looked at Rosa. ‘Does this happen often?’
‘Not often. Well, sometimes.’
‘It’s emotional blackmail. And this is your job. You mustn’t give in to it.’
‘I know.’
Red stood up, reached across and took the letter from her hand. ‘Shall I do the honours?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded and watched him tear i
t into small pieces before dropping it into the kitchen bin.
‘There, done. Now forget it,’ he said.
‘You’re right.’ Rosa nodded. ‘I will.’
Upstairs, she double-checked that the first letter from Pamela Baker was still there in her jumper drawer before hauling the box of wrapping paper, tape and ribbons down to the living room. ‘OK, here we are. Choose whichever kind you like.’
Having picked out pale turquoise and silver paper, Benny watched as she cut it to size and expertly wrapped each of the presents in turn, then tied them with white ribbons and, using the blade of her scissors, began making curls and spirals out of the ribbon ends.
‘That one,’ said Red, pointing at the TV as a horse was led out for the next race. ‘That’s the winner right there. Number six, Paris Perfect.’
‘And this is what I call fate,’ Benny marvelled. ‘I was just thinking I should take Ingrid somewhere for her birthday when I noticed the Eiffel Tower charm.’ He pointed to the bracelet on Rosa’s left wrist. ‘And then Paris Perfect turns up on the TV. That has to mean something, doesn’t it? Sorted!’
Rosa smiled, because Benny clearly adored Ingrid and it was heart-warming to see a man wanting to make such a romantic gesture. She said happily, ‘Oh she’ll love it! Joe and I took Layla to Paris when she was eight, two days at Disneyland, then two days in the city itself, and we had such a fantastic time. In fact that’s why she chose the charm . . . I mean, when she found the bracelet in the shop and saw that the Eiffel Tower was one of the charms on there . . . Whoops!’ In her panic to cover up her mistake, Rosa dropped the scissors and almost speared her own foot.
‘Twelve to one,’ said Red. ‘Pretty good odds. I’m placing a virtual ten-pound bet on Paris Perfect.’
Rosa finished attaching the ribbons to the parcels. They watched the race unfold on TV. Paris Perfect finished in fourth place.
‘And this is why I never bet actual money,’ said Red.
‘Those look incredible,’ Benny told Rosa. ‘Thank you. For everything.’
When he’d driven off, Red said, ‘Nice guy.’
‘He is.’ Rosa nodded as she rewound the unravelled ribbons and placed them back in the box.
‘Were you being extra helpful so that when the time comes to ask him about visiting his garden, he’ll be more likely to say yes?’
‘No! Because I’m never going to ask him again.’ Rosa shook her head vehemently. ‘I wouldn’t even mention it. They sent the scary letter from their solicitors and that was enough for me. Are you OK?’
Red nodded, but his eyes were closed, his face creased with pain. He breathed his way through it, knuckles clenched and white as he clutched the arms of the chair. After a minute or so he opened his eyes once more and said wryly, ‘Never better.’
He was still looking pale. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘Just some water, thanks. I might go back to bed, see if I can sleep through it until the next round of painkillers.’
She hated seeing him like this, but also knew he didn’t want to be fussed over. ‘Well if you want anything at all, just give me a shout.’
After another nod, he rose slowly to his feet. She went into the kitchen to fill a glass with ice-cold water and carried it upstairs for him.
‘Thanks.’ Wincing, he lay down on the bed. ‘God, I’m a barrel of laughs today, aren’t I? Sorry. I try not to be too miserable, but sometimes this is just . . . shit.’
Rosa’s heart went out to him. ‘Don’t you dare apologise. It is shit. But the pain comes and goes, and by this evening you’ll be feeling better.’ Hopefully.
Red looked up at her, then raised a hand and brushed his fingers against hers. ‘Thank you. And don’t worry, I’m not planning on kicking the bucket just yet.’
His eyelids closed once more and Rosa left him to it. Crossing the landing to her own bedroom, she slid open the jumper drawer and took out the letter from Pamela Baker with the photo of her granddaughter attached.
Yes, she knew she was a soft touch and it was an odds-on certainty that Red and Benny were right to warn her she was being conned. But what if it was a genuine plea from a loving grandma desperate to cheer up an unhappy child?
How could she refuse to help if that was the case?
Chapter 21
Two days ago, whilst Red was sleeping upstairs, Rosa had begun the construction of the doll she’d been instructed in no uncertain terms not to make. Paying close attention to the photograph of Maisie, she’d fashioned a paper template before cutting out the cream cotton material to create the head and body. Next, she’d drawn on the facial features with coloured indelible felt pens, taking care to make the eyes bright and the mouth smiley. She then replicated in precise detail the outline of the birthmark on Maisie’s neck and chest. By the time Red had rejoined her later in the evening, the first stages were complete and the Maisie doll was packed away in one of her workboxes, hidden beneath plenty of wadding.
The next morning, thankfully feeling much better, Red had been collected by Shay to spend time over at Hillcrest and observe whilst work continued on the cottage. Rosa carried on with the doll, sewing the various sections together and stuffing each in turn before carefully stitching the hair to the head then plaiting the wool and fastening the ends of the plaits with blue ribbons just like Maisie’s.
The final stage had been the clothes, necessitating a trip to the high street on Monday afternoon to buy red T-shirt material and blue cotton for the shorts, plus a pair of oval-framed reading glasses from the pound shop, from which she needed to remove the glass before stitching Velcro to the frames so they could be attached or removed when required.
The church clock chimed midnight. Rosa sat back, eased her aching back and surveyed the doll with satisfaction. After eleven hours of intensive sewing, stuffing and accessorising, she’d finally finished. She wrote out a label that said, Hello, I’m Maisie’s doll! and fastened it with ribbon around the doll’s wrist. If she said so herself, she’d done a good job.
Taking a fresh sheet of paper, she wrote a brief note to include in the package:
Dear Pamela,
Here is the doll I’ve made for Maisie – I do hope she’ll like it. No payment is necessary. You have a beautiful granddaughter and she’s very lucky to have you in her life.
Very best wishes,
Rosa.
Having tidied up, she carried the doll and the letter upstairs and put them out of sight. Tomorrow she would wrap the parcel and post it off.
She paused and wished there was someone she could confide in about her tiny act of rebellion, someone who wouldn’t shake their head and tell her she was gullible.
Actually, there was someone . . .
‘. . . Because even if Pamela is a con artist, Maisie still exists, doesn’t she? And if she’s that unhappy, a doll’s going to help her feel better. I’m really glad I made it now. You don’t think I’m mad, do you? No, of course you don’t, because you were even more of a big softie than me.’ Rosa ran her hands over the grass that she liked to think contained essence of Joe. ‘Remember the time I came home and you’d bought six tea towels from one of those door-to-door sellers because the guy said his dog needed an operation? You paid ninety pounds for those tea towels and then you found out he’d told the neighbours a completely different sob story about—’
The words died in Rosa’s throat as she heard the sound of the French doors being unlocked, followed by the swish of them being opened. OK, no need to panic, this had happened before. All she had to do was keep quiet and stay still.
It was half past midnight, for heaven’s sake. Whoever it was, why weren’t they asleep by now?
There was no tap-tapping of high heels like last time. Rosa didn’t turn around. She listened and waited, then held her breath as the faint sound of someone moving across the grass grew closer.
Moments later, the movement stopped and a low voice behind her said, ‘What are you doing?’
Bugger. Here we go. Rosa t
wisted round. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It is you.’ Benny gave a quiet bark of laughter. ‘I thought it was. What’s going on? Is it something to do with the hedgehogs?’
‘You have hedgehogs?’
‘Ingrid said we did. Or possibly badgers.’
‘Oh. Well, they might have been me.’
‘Does that mean you come here . . . often?’
‘Well, quite often. Yes. Sorry.’
He took a step closer. ‘So if you’re not here to see the hedgehogs, what’s the reason?’
He was an intelligent man; could he seriously be asking that question? Rosa said, ‘To talk to Joe.’
She could just make out his frown. ‘In our garden?’
‘It used to be ours.’
‘Look, no offence, but couldn’t you talk to him in your own garden?’ He was sounding bemused rather than angry.
‘But this is where he is. You know that.’
‘What?’
‘His ashes. This is where we scattered them, under his favourite tree. I know it sounds stupid, but it’s where I feel closest to him. If I’d known I was going to have to sell the house I’d never have done it, I would’ve k-kept them . . . but by the time I found out, it was t-too late . . .’ Oh God, and now to her horror she was choking up, teetering on the edge of tears. How mortifying. Hastily she wiped her brimming eyes with the sleeve of her black cardigan.
‘Look, shall we go inside?’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘OK.’ Benny sat down on the grass a couple of feet away. ‘So how long’s this been going on?’
‘About a year. I didn’t do it at first. But once I started, I discovered I couldn’t bear to stop. It’s kind of addictive.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘And it never occurred to you to ask if you could come over every now and again?’
‘Of course it occurred to me! I did ask!’ She took a shuddery, indignant breath. ‘You said no.’
‘I did? When?’