Rosy George's Convention Conundrum

by Polly Young

  Copyrights

  eBook First Published in 2012 by Autharium Publishing, London

  Copyright © Polly Young 2012

  The moral right of Polly Young to be asserted as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All Rights reserved, No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  British Library Cataloguing-in Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library

  ISBN: 9781780255699

  Rosy George’s Convention Conundrum

  P J Young

  For Gaga and Grandma

  SECTION ONE

  Chapter 1

  Rosy felt a bit silly, perched at the bar alone.

  From a colossal tote she retrieved her phone, jabbed buttons and listened to the message again.

  “Life-changing news, gorgeous. See you at six thirty.”

  The voicemail had sent her spinning through the doors of Jackson-Taylor, down Oxford Circus tube station steps; shielded her from the ripe armpit hum of the tube to Kilburn and shoved her, blinking and bruised, up the High Road to Solar. The bar was filling fast. As the tide of parched professionals ebbed and flowed she clung to the stool like a shoreline sapling, watching blonde Daddy’s girls peel off Reiss jackets and settle down to cold Chablis. Boys, ties loosened and gasping like fishes, congregated in clammy clumps on the pavement.

  She tilted the tip dish. Despite a tiny spot blooming on her hairline since lunch, product of a gruelling afternoon with Deborah, she was pleased to see her highlights were treacly, her lips full and ripe and her skin peachy fresh.

  But she was out of a date.

  Where was he? Seconds twitched by. Lateness was becoming more David’s rule than exception. Studying the cocktail menu for the umpteenth time, she racked her brains: what had he said about the Derriford Appearance Scale? Could she use it to choose between a Pink Mojito and Blue Lagoon?

  Recently, ‘informed decisions’ were all they discussed. Following six long years of medical training, David had decided to do a cosmetic surgery fellowship to enable him to conduct aesthetics, so plastic surgery conversations ruled. Fat brochures from BAPRAS flopped through the letterbox daily: glossy propaganda for scalpel-sharp, far away hospitals in Europe and the USA but, she reminded herself, David had promised wherever he went would be London-based. After all, they were getting married next summer. The word shimmered like a heat haze: she could almost hear the church bells. Given that getting married was one of Rosy’s Most Important Life Events, there was a lot to discuss. Proud though she was of David’s enormous brain and dedication to the medical profession, she couldn’t help hoping the main conversation topic would change soon to something more accessible. World affairs. Seating plans.

  For as long as she could remember, Rosy had basked in the idea of marriage. She could do feminism; she’d read The Female Eunuchand How to be a Woman. She even agreed with bits of them. Fairy tales didn’t happen; she wasn’t stupid, and independence had suited her quite well for twenty-nine years. But the undeniable pressure to tick the boxes of worthy job, regular holidays and salary-squeezing house made everyone a bit tired, didn’t it? If life had to be a race, surely running with a partner made it more fun. Her parents were a case in point. Doing something you loved with someone you shared lasting love with, well, she’d be happy with that. She loved David but as far as Rosy was concerned, happy ever afters started with decent wedding breakfasts.

  Jiggling denim-clad hips, she applied a slick of mascara to kill a bit more time.

  “Waiting for someone, darling?” a dark-haired Lothario oozed into Rosy’s personal space, eyes locked twelve inches below hers.

  “Yes, thanks. My fiancé. And you’re right: he is someone.”

  He slunk off. Rosy waited for his cloying aftershave to follow and drummed the exposed brick wall with a ballet-pumped foot. She was fantasising about pedicures when a familiar silhouette appeared.

  Short, broad-shouldered and meticulously dressed, David Pettigrew looked like Shrek. His ears had been a talking point since scout camp. Delicate fingers hid his eczema — exacerbated by endless scrubbing with surgical soap - but it was summer so flare-ups were milder. Rosy noticed with affection that his nails were neat. He spotted her, waved and strode over. Grabbing her cheeks, he squeezed them violently and kissed her forehead. Forgetting grievances and spot, she hopped off the stool.

  “’Darling,” David punctuated this with a lip smacker and grinned. His immaculately cut suit showed exactly the right amount of Paul Smith shirt; glasses rather than his usual contacts made his large, green eyes larger and greener. He continued to beam.

  “What? You’re late.” She foot-nudged for emphasis.

  “I know, sorry.” He wasn’t. “But,” he paused for effect, “brilliant news. I’m a genius and going to be sohappy. I mean we’regoing to be so happy.” Setting his University College of London record bag — class of ’02 - on the floor, he rubbed his hands with glee.

  She remained patient through his overly long pause. “I’m all ears but shall we get a drink? It’s Happy Hour for another thirty two minutes.”

  They settled into an alcove. David leant in and grasped her fingers with a two-handed imprisonment she found a little intense. He stared into her eyes then lavished her with a wide smile.

  “Blimey, did Manchester United win the League?”

  “No,” he waited. “St. Louis hospital accepted me. I’m off to Paris!”

  Rosy’s smile stuck. She swallowed. The room flexed like he’d dived in.

  “For your placement?”

  “St. Louis. It’s the next best centre, besides California. It’s world famous! It’ll be fantastic ... by Eurostar it’s only three hours door to door. I can’t believeI got the fellowship,” he lowered his voice, trembling with reverence. “I had the best research papers, I’ve worked my arse off and it’s paid off. I’m going to be a top cosmetic surgeon!” He knocked back the last of his Stella and banged the bottle on the table.

  It was David’s dream come true. He’d worked so hard in recent weeks she’d hardly seen him and he’d got repetitive strain injury and hadn’t been able to lift the wedding planning folder she showed him in bed, lovingly, each morning. But he might as well have said Australia. Failing to muster the requisite smile, Rosy took a slow sip to think. Brushed chrome and lurid neon clashed with the wooden bar, making her yearn for natural light. She glanced outside at the evening sun. She wanted to go home.

  “That’s ... great, David. But I thought, ...” she faltered. It was futile pretending to be happy; she was a terrible liar. Guilt tugged truth out of her in the end. She never pulled sickies; it was too stressful. Why did he have to spring this now? He had to stay in London! There was so much to organise! He had to pick buttonholes ...

  His smile faded.

  “Rosy,” he intoned, not looking half as sheepish as he should, “I know it’s not exactly as we planned.”

  He promised it would be fine.That it would be no different to being in London. A year would fly by. He stood and offered her another drink. She fixed him with a hard stare.

  “I’d better have a French Connection.”

  T
hey had discussed this, she thought, as he shifted through the crowd like a boxer.

  “We discussed this,” she said when he returned with not-quite champagne.

  “I know, darling,” David popped the cork. “But it’ll be fun. And one of the main reasons I said yes,” he poured the fizz with a flourish, “is it’s known as the city of lurve.”

  “It’s the city of lights,” she snapped. “And I don’t think there are many on right now in here.” She tapped him on the head. Her glass glowed blue in the electric gloom and she watched miniature bubbles rush to the surface and explode.

  She tried to pull herself together. “Of course. It’s brilliant news. We’ll be fine. I’ll just miss you, that’s all.”

  He looked relieved. “But you’ll come and visit. And Paris! We’ve only been once.”

  “Twice.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll come and see you all the time. I’ll keep you up to date with all the fashions,” he winked. “Although,” his expression switched to concern, “there’s something you should know.”

  “Oh God, what?” A fellowship fixing disfigured genitalia in Namibia? An unpaidfellowship in Namibia?

  “They don’t allow fit fiancées during the working week — too distracting.”

  She flicked foam into his lap. Anything but lager and he was off piste, which she found rather endearing. Nervous during an early pub outing with her parents, David had drunk two glasses of wine, hit his head on a low-hanging lampshade and swayed for longer than the fitting.

  “Do watch how he handles himself,” her mother whispered.

  “Rosy hasn’t had the pleasure just yet,” he’d slurred. Rosy biffed him then and did so now.

  “You’re not furious?”

  She toyed with the brilliant ruby on her left hand and sighed. “I’m incredibly proud of you. But where shall I live?”

  “I’ve thought about that,” David said eagerly. Catching a citrusy whiff of cologne, she felt nostalgic. Pull yourself together, she counselled sternly. He hasn’t left yet. Even if she couldn’t stay with a girlfriend, she could rent with a colleague. It could be good for them. A long distance relationship could even be fun! She smiled, distracted by the thought of their continued ‘celebration’.

  “Oh yes?” she purred, running her fingers along his arm. “What did you think?”

  “Move in with your parents!” He punched the air triumphantly and looked keenly over his glasses.

  She drained her glass. Happy Hour was over.

  “You thought what? To Lytton? David! You know my parents’ village. It’s tiny! Everyone knows each other. It’s a bubble ... not like London,” she waved her arms wildly. “There’s nothing there!”

  Lovely Lytton. Stamped with Soil Association approval and prettier than a Fortnum’s Easter egg, it lay in a dip beneath the South Downs, whizzed over by mountain bikers and generally avoided by most people with a pulse. There was a pub for warm pints of Speckled Hen and basket-weaving debates but there was no danger of anything remotely interesting happening. Ever. She didn’t hate the place: it was heart-stoppingly beautiful and she quite enjoyed popping down for the odd Sunday lunch. In fact, there were times when London left her panting, longing for fresh ozone. But she was decades away from wanting it permanently. Weekend visits suited everyone fine.

  “There must be an alternative. I could come to Paris,” she added, hopefully.

  “Babe, you know I’d love that but it’s impossible. Anyway,” he shrugged, “what would you do?”

  She scrolled easily through scenarios involving trips to designer fashion houses and patisseries.

  “I could teach piano?” But the rising inflection spelled doubt. She was only up to grade four and David knew it.

  “Rosy, I really think this could be brilliant,” David was serious. “Your parents get to re-bond with you; you save some cash; I work my bollocks off and at the end we get a house, get married and have lots of little Pettigrews,” his eyes glinted.

  “Surely it won’t be too bad. Vic’s coming to stay next weekend, isn’t she? You can get the inside info. on the over-80’s carbon footprint committee or the knitted flowers’ circle. You’ll be WI-ing before you know it,” he teased. “Never a dull moment in Lytton! Sorry,” he said, as her face grew hard. “I know it’s tedious. But it’s not forever. I’ll buy you a sexy little apron if you’re lucky.”

  Rosy was aghast. What would Caitlin Moran say? “I wouldn’t be seen dead making jam! Apart from the fact I burn water, I have better things to do with my time. Lytton over my dead body,” she paused, alcohol muddling her thoughts. “I mean, your dead body ... oh, you know what I mean."

  She was about to let fly when David’s phone buzzed. He stood to take the call, leaving her alone, feeling a bit silly.

  * * *

  “Starboard!” Vic barked and swerved gracefully around an overflowing bin. Rosy noticed an empty fried chicken wrapper just too late to avoid a semi-skid.

  “Shut up Vic, you don’t sail,” she panted.

  “Neither do you, obviously.” Gifted with a humming bird’s metabolism, Victoria Baxter didn’t sweat.

  It was Sunday afternoon. While London pottered, they’d jogged from Rosy’s at the top of Dyne Road down to Queen’s Park, circumnavigated the playground twice, flogged down Kilburn High Road to Maida Vale and back again. It was the furthest Rosy had run in ten years. Damp hanks of fringe blocked her vision; her feet were clay and if thighs could talk, well ... hers would scream.

  They’d been best friends since school, bonding over backwards rollerblading one fateful Thursday night when Vic glided effortlessly around the old cinema car park whilst the year group watched with morbid fascination as Rosy crashed headfirst into a mini. Naturally maternal, Vic whipped into action, fashioning a ‘butterfly’ plaster and issuing recovery instructions. Soon they were inseparable. Despite Vic’s whistle-inducing physique and naturally blonde hair, she was a home bird and had worshipped Roger for fifteen years. They lived in a comfortable cul-de-sac near Rosy’s parents in the thigh-testingly hilly town of Themsrow.

  “Tell me it’s a mad idea,” Rosy pleaded between puffs.

  “It’s a mad idea. Except it’s not. You’ll be living near me for one thing. You’re close to the church, so you can scrutinise wedding details right up to the last mint.” Rosy had considered this. “So step out of your comfort zone,’ Vic continued somewhat hypocritically. “Look what it did for Amy Brewer.” Their ex-classmate had left school for a travelling circus.

  “Fanny a la Flatulence? Great.” Rosy elbowed Vic off the kerb. “I don’t particularly want that sort of life-enhancement, thanks. I’m nearly thirty! And it’s more than a couple of months. I might not recognise David when he gets back.”

  They slowed at a pedestrian crossing and Vic bounced nimbly in the spot, thighs gleaming like a racehorse. “He can learn French and woo you all over again. There are worse places to live for a year, you know.”

  Lytton yes. Paris? Doubtful. But the situation was getting desperate: she’d exhausted her list of friends with spare rooms and only the IT boy had responded to the notice at work, punning housekeeping. Something had to be done.

  The air smelled of hot Tarmac as they plodded past The Lion, its beer garden bursting with late afternoon drinkers; the 8 Boutique with the backless blue dress she’d lusted after for weeks, avoided buggies outside The Baby Place and stopped in front of Rosy’s gate.

  “When’s David back?”

  “Tomorrow, last train. I dread to think what they’re doing right now,” Rosy winced. “Probably measuring each other’s ... Vic!“

  “Sorry. Text.” Vic’s smile was dizzying. Roxy bent to take off her trainers and hid an eye-roll. Roger thought he was a real life Daniel Craig. He’d told her the first time they’d met that he’d been asked by the producers to check the authenticity of a line in Quantum of Solace — something periscope related — and ever since had thought he was Bond. “Just surfaced. Checking I’m ok.”


  Vic didn’t mean to sound smug but Rosy shivered. Why did David seem light years away on a Reading stag and Vic’s submariner boyfriend, miles under the Scottish sea, omnipresent.

  “Do you miss him?”

  “Of course.” Vic looked shocked. “But he’ll be home soon. As will David.” She smiled beatifically. “It’s not that long.” She drank deeply from her water bottle, the dusk accentuating her willowy frame. “Besides, you’re getting married next year. You’ll be so preoccupied with dresses and monogrammed stationery you won’t notice he’s back in the country.” Rosy was dubious as they climbed the stairs to the first floor flat she shared with David.

  But as always, her heart leapt as she unlocked the door. After an extended bidding war, the maisonette definitely felt like home. Floor space was limited, the entire flat being smaller than her parents’ sitting room, but to Rosy it was heaven. The tiny kitchen was separated from the lounge by a sunny breakfast bar (her favourite place to sit) and a long window stretched the length of the two rooms, from which it was just possible to glimpse Queen’s Park. The bright bathroom branched off a short flight of stairs, with their bedroom at the top. Rosy’s mother had found a large, burgundy Navajo rug, which formed a pool of comfort between two white armchairs. “A leprechaun’s house — very fitting for Kilburn,” David said, but Rosy loved it.

  Vic collapsed in a leggy heap. “So what will you do?”

  “Shack up with another man? Although David’s against it for some reason.” Rosy stashed her trainers by the door and went to the fridge.

  “Shame. Still, you could get another flat-mate?”

  “Where would they sleep? I don’t mind you but I draw the line at a stranger for a year.”

  “Fair enough,” Vic shrugged. “Isn’t there anyone you can stay with? You know millions of people!”

  “They’re all coupled or in the process. I’m working on it.”

  Rosy’s optimism didn’t fool Vic. “Don’t lie. You’ll love it. Your mum can teach you to cook, and with a Jackson-Taylor office so close, where’s the problem.”