by Polly Young
Rosy sighed and confided her fear of turning into “one of those tools from A Place in the Country.” Vic snorted and hit her on the head with Heat. “You’d more likely join the Army than grow veg,” she said, nodding at a pot of dead basil. “And deep down you know David adores your complete ineptness to nurture. He loves the don’t-give-a-shit-but-care-quite-a-bit Rosy George. Follow your heart. Go with him!” She rolled her eyes with the romance of it all.
“He says it’s not an option. But you have given me an idea,” she raised her chin. “I’ll find a way to get to Paris. Just wait and see.”
* * *
After waving Vic off, Rosy food shopped, put a wash on, watered the basil and Hoovered the flat. David crawled into bed in the early hours and Rosy left for work well before he stopped snoring. But he returned from the office on fine form, thrust a bunch of wilted carnations at her and leapt into the shower.
“How was it?” Rosy looked up from the script she was editing as he descended.
She was exhausted. After a hellish day writing bone-dry press releases and indulging Deborah’s sly witticisms with fist-clenching tolerance, nothing could have pleased her more than to spend a couple of hours weaving characters, dialogue and stage directions into a fine narrative. Playwriting was the only thing Rosy loved enough to get up early on Sundays and stay in on Friday nights for. An idea might float around her head for weeks before she sat down to harness it but once captured, it rarely escaped being fleshed out on her old Apple into a sparkly saga. Enormously enjoyable, the process of creating believable characters and putting plays down on paper thrilled her and was fulfilling enough without actors bringing them to life. Nevertheless, Rosy entertained the mad hope that one day she might see her words read aloud in front of an audience. Preferably an appreciative one.
“What’s for supper?” David’s nose quivered like a Labrador’s.
“It’s a surprise,” she said, feeling pleased with herself. The takeaway feast had enough adjectives and superlatives to send an English teacher to heaven. “How was the weekend?” she smiled brightly and hauled herself to her feet.
“Unbelievable,” David’s large head emerged from beneath a bath sheet. “Jimmy played the piano naked with three bar maids, serenaded a night porter and was sick in the ornamental pond.” He rubbed his scalp vigorously, wrapped the towel around her neck and pulled her close. “It was awesome. But I missed you. Stag dos make me horny.”
Rosy’s heartbeat quickened with the familiar strain against her thigh as he wrapped her in a bear hug.
“What did you miss most? Not my cooking, I’ll bet.”
“Your cooking, our cooking,” he nuzzled wetly.
“Well, you’re out of luck. It’s Papa’s.”
He sniffed. “Yeah, thought I could smell Malaysian Chicken with Wild Garlic.”
“Very good,” she said, crestfallen.
“Sorry, babe. Katy had a taste test today at lunch - she described every detail on the phone. But good choice: it won, apparently.”
David’s sister’s job as a market researcher meant Rosy knew exactly which skin cream delivered its promises. David and Katy were close. Her main client was Papa’s Pizzas and she would regale David daily with the benefits of different toppings so that he could reel the top sellers off as easily as listing the Man U team. The downside was not being able to walk past a Papa’s store front without detailed marketing budget ‘disclosures’.
“Shall we?” he whispered, leading her hand downwards and kissing her more urgently. She let him pull her onto the rug. As he unzipped her denim skirt and began probing her knickers with his mouth, she ran her fingers through his thick hair. For all his aspirations and sister’s brand knowledge, David demonstrated impressive loyalty to ‘sporty’ supermarket shower gel and she inhaled deeply, giving a perfunctory gasp as his tongue moved up her stomach and flickered across her nipples. It took a Herculean effort not to surrender but somehow she managed to wrench her skirt back up. David surfaced, his eyes wide with surprise. Struggling to keep a straight face, she crossed into the kitchen and began rattling plates.
“You’re very domesticated all of a sudden,” he said crossly, pulling on a shirt and switching on the TV.
“I thought you liked the apron look,” she replied, walking over and switching it off.
“It’s The Twisted Millionaire Employer. You don’t want to shag orwatch your favourite programme?” He looked like a confused puppy. “You haven’t missed an episode all series. What’s up?”
“Nothing. I just thought we could have a quiet night in. Without the telly on. I’ve made an effort — I have,” she told his raised eyebrows, “and I don’t think it’s too much to ask you to do the same. I’ve been working all day too but the home is a place to be together. That’s one thing I’ve realised will be great about Lytton.” She took a deep breath and crossed her fingers. This was high-level lying.
“It’s just going to be such good practice for married life. I’m going to learn so many skills: stuff I can’t learn here. Cleaning, for example, and looking after your clothes,” she risked. David had been known to internally combust if she came within spitting distance of ironing his shirts.
“I’ll devote myself to crochet and you can tell me what’s in vogue for, erm, buttock size. When you visit, we can go flower picking. I went to the library at lunch and got a reference book and,” she teetered, “a game of solitaire for after supper.”
David looked like she’d said there was no such thing as liposuction. “Rosy, what are you talking about? Flower picking? Are you mad? I thought we’d go for a drink later but not if you’re ill.” His foot was twitching. This was going well.
Rosy gave a radiant smile. “I’m fine; just realising what a great opportunity it is. I’m going to get two dogs and call them Ant and Dec. I’ll make my own clothes. And soap.” She warmed to her topic. “On second thoughts, I just won’t wash much. Nothing like getting back to nature.” She plucked underwear from the radiator and dumped it in the laundry basket.
David was silent, his brow knitted in consternation. Finally he spoke.
“Rosy?”
“What?”
“Come here.” Meekly she obeyed, wiping her hands on her apron. “This is all very lovely,” he put a hand on her knee, “but can I have my girlfriend back? I need to tell her something.”
She knelt before him, triumphant.
“You’re not coming to Paris. Now ... where were we?”
Chapter 2
The journey had been tense.
“I’ll have gas and air too, please.” Rosy leant out of the driver’s window. The petrol forecourt shimmered; she felt dehydrated, a bit sick and well past caring if her words sparked flames.
David gave her a hostile look and sliced the petrol nozzle into its cradle. “Don’t bother,” he growled and stalked into the garage to pay.
She blew hair from her eyes and did a quick t-shirt face blot. All her worldly possessions were telescoped into the space behind her. She stretched her legs and thumbed through the road atlas, marvelling at the places in the UK she hadn’t visited. Nether Wapping. Dorking. What was she doing, heading to a place where the biggest excitement would be how many chickens had laid?
It was David’s bright idea to move on a Sunday (“no traffic”) but they hadn’t bargained on the Festival of Speed’s Revival Day and if Rosy never saw another Morris Minor accessorised by a couple in 1950s garb she’d survive. She dreamed of a cool bath and bed. It was only teatime but they’d been up since six. The day had started well: calling each other ‘mate’ they’d packed, singing along to Capital Radio before collecting the van and she’d felt quite teary leaving the flat as David preached, “all good things come to an end.” But she couldn’t fault his packing: every last inch of space was used ‘profitably.’
Things plummeted with David’s forgotten driving licence. He was utterly blasé about it and Rosy had driven for four sweltering hours, being driven mad by ring-tones as he p
layed with his new smart phone.
“Cheer up, sweaty.” He threw a packet of Frazzles onto her lap and clambered in.
She could have killed for a cold drink but it was too hot to fight. She smiled thinly. “We’ll be there in half an hour.”
Thanks to David’s ‘map dyslexia’, ninety minutes passed before Rosy turned off the B-road onto Halfpenny Lane, following the signs to The Hunter’s Moon Inn. She was slippery with sweat, tired and painfully thirsty.
Being within sniffing distance of alcohol may have encouraged her to take the corner before the pub a little recklessly. Approaching the bend too fast, she swerved almightily to correct herself. David dropped his phone. In the back, she heard something crash, followed by a loud scraping noise. “Good God, Rosy!” David shouted. The van came to a juddering stop ... then silence.
She opened her eyes, relaxed her grip on the steering wheel and looked out. The road was clear and quiet. In London, a crowd of gawkers would have collected like tourists at Kate and Will’s wedding but here there was nobody. She was about to breathe freely when a bush across the road rustled. Above her pounding heart, David swore.
“Shut up!” she hissed.
“We need to check the van.”
“Wait,” she held him back.
The bushes had moved again, she was sure of it. “Someone’s in there.”
“Don’t be stupid, they’re all in the pub.” David opened the door and hopped out. The van had come to rest in a shallow ditch, wedged snugly against a large horse chestnut tree. So snugly that a large, deep gash snaked along the paintwork on the passenger side. He touched it tenderly; clucking like it was an injured baby.
“Rosy, this is bad.” His ears were a delicate shade of purple.
“Well, I’m sorry.” She was rattled. “We’ll just own up. It’s not the end of the world.” He was pouting terribly.
“It’s not your credit card.”
“Oh, for heavens’ sake, I can’t believe you’re taking this so seriously!”
They glared at each other from either side of the offensive tree.
The bushes on the other side of the road shook dramatically. “Fornicating neighbours.” David whispered.
“Don’t be silly. People don’t do that here.”
“May I be of assistance?” a bare-chested man emerged from beneath the bush, a little hunched but remarkably composed. A semi-naked woman whose large, unencumbered breasts swung freely beneath a loosely held, diaphanous scarf followed him.
“Oh. Hi.” Manners were handy in times of embarrassment. Rosy’s clicked into gear and she approached with caution. “I’m Rosy. This is my fiancé, David.”
The man put his hand around hers and squeezed. “Angus Hart. This is Alison. And tree,” he added with a nod.
“Yes. Sorry about that,” her eyes slid to David for support. “I was distracted. It’s been a long drive and we’re both a bit tired. I was admiring the, er ... view. So nice to get out of London.” She patted the trunk with what she hoped indicated nature appreciation. “It’s terribly ... big.”
Angus looked at her oddly. He was difficult to age. Shenanigans in the shrubbery suggested boundless youth but he was probably mid-thirties. Cropped, dark hair and legs muscular enough to get away with khaki shorts made him look like a young David Attenborough. He was rumpled but Alison, forty-five if a day, looked like one of those well preserved, groomed women whose hair had been to finishing school. Pulling a chiffon top over Bvlgari jewellery, she managed to look sexy, slutty and self-satisfied all at the same time. Rosy prayed they’d been deaf to her earlier comment, though she had a feeling that even if not, they probably wouldn’t care.
David cleared his throat. “Do excuse us. I’m sure we don’t want to disturb your ... time ... further.”
Alison smirked and raised an eyebrow. Angus shifted a little awkwardly. “Not at all,” he said. “I’ve towropes in the house. You look like you could use a hand.”
“That’s very kind,” David gushed and with a rush of affection, Rosy realised he wasn’t used to the kindness of strangers. He’d grown up in West London: the unbearable tightness of Ealing.
Angus and Alison disappeared behind the enormous red brick farmhouse. David dabbed his temples, took a copy of The Annals of Surgery from a contraption Rosy refused to call, as he did, a fanny pack, and settled in a patch of shade bubbling with irritation. With hair pasted to her cheeks and no makeup she felt like a stressed Sarah Beeney. Her jeans thigh-sucked uncomfortably. The least he could do was check the van.
Lacking energy and inclination for another scrap, she lowered the platform and ventured inside. Thankfully, the large items of furniture were intact but her beloved stereo lay in pieces on the floor.
Suppressing the urge to cry, she bent behind the chest-of-drawers to pick up a speaker. There was a movement behind her.
“Finally he deigns to help,” she snorted. “You took your time. It’s broken,” she hurled a chunk of plastic at the door.
Angus looked perturbed.
“Oh, it’s you.” She chewed her lip.
He nodded slowly.
“I thought you were David.”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Looks like a nice system,” he said, deadpan.
“It was.” She got off her knees. This was no time for niceties. She wanted to get out, get on and get home. The thought of how much they had to do before the long drive back to London spurred her into action and she squeezed past Angus, stubbing her toe on a bookcase.
They dislodged the van with minimum effort, thanks to Angus’ remarkably sturdy Triumph convertible and knot skills. Alison was despatched masterfully into a taxi, after a lingering goodbye. Rosy seethed. He was clearly one of those infuriating know-alls who did everything perfectly.
“Thanks,” she said, once they were back on the kerb.
“Didn’t hurt, did it?” Angus, leaning in through the window, grinned at her.
“Still got to fix the scratch,” David moped.
“I can give you spray-paint if you like.”
Enough was enough. She didn’t need charity, particularly from someone who had sex in the bushes in broad daylight.
“I’ve got it covered, thanks,” she quipped, diving into her tote. “See?” Angus glanced impassively at the bottle of white nail varnish. “Works wonders on nail tips and rental vans.” She handed it to David. “Your job, babe, once we’ve unpacked.
And she put on her seatbelt, wound the window up and drove off.
* * *
With their children finally able to drive, Mr and Mrs George’s desire for country living had usurped all other sensibilities and, despite their friends’ protestations, they’d moved from a small Surrey terrace to the sleepy coastal village of Lytton. Seeking something unusual, they were delighted to find an old pig shed, their occupation being a somewhat happy accident. Converted from a low, crumbling property into a sympathetically tasteful home, the developer had his own burgeoning family in mind but eloped instead with the electrician and sold up.
Never a dull moment in Lytton.
Unpacking took less time than expected as David perked up and took charge, allocating sitting-room space to each item. Once Rosy’s belongings were piled safely, her mother took over.
“Time for supper. We’ll eat in the kitchen.”
Judy George was an adventurous cook. In her large, cluttered, terracotta-tiled kingdom, she and the Aga worked like alchemists, stirring, simmering and serving brave feasts to whoever happened to be home. Rosy’s father, who loved his wife beyond the realms of normal cuisine, called them ‘beauty and the beast’ and was nicer about melon in his stew than most men. Judy, though beautiful, cared nothing for her appearance. Slender and petite, she spent most of the year in pastel roll-necks, generally with evidence of some ingredient or other on her face. She piled steaming lasagne onto David’s plate.
“Must you leave tonight?”
“It’s quite a pleasant journey.”
David fished a gooseberry from his mince. “Won’t take long to get back.”
“Do you want to drive?” It was below the belt, but Rosy was shattered.
“Darling, do have a bit more; you’re looking awfully thin.”
“Mum, I’ve put on three pounds.”
“Nothing worse than a skinny bride.”
Rosy changed the subject. “How’s Ollie?”
“Failing spectacularly to make a fortune through jingles. David, I thought you might have a word,” Charles George sighed. “I seem to have spent thousands supporting washing powder ballads.”
Rosy’s younger brother was on the brink of becoming a musical genius — or so he’d have people believe. Two years at university pushing buttons and warping electronic music had left him with a permanently glazed expression, semi-permanently damaged hearing and lots of free club tickets. She tried, but Rosy honestly couldn’t tell one of Ollie’s compositions from the next.
She gazed devotedly at her father. Charles George had been a general practitioner for as long as she could remember and a general peacemaker for longer. Over the decades, her friends had rung him for advice from anything from boils to boyfriends, periods to parents. She knew how hard it was for him to see David put himself through medical school with the aim of specialising in cosmetic surgery, but she admired him for — mostly - keeping his opinions to himself. Sixty three next year, his face showed a few more crevices than she remembered but the silver hair that had, in his younger days, starred in shampoo commercials, bounced lustrously and made criticising his son’s jingles tricky.
“You’ll be wanting an Ol-iginal for the wedding, I suppose,” Charles winked at Rosy and she caught on. “David wants him to sing, too.”
“I, er, oh,” David looked relieved. “Very funny. We haven’t discussed music. It’s still a year away.”
Rosy’s heart stretched like a bungee as she rose from the table. “Water, anyone?”
She rinsed her glass, x-rayed by Judy. She’d be fed and watered like a race horse if she wasn’t careful: the responsibility of being First Born weighed heavily. If only Ollie wasn’t so clearly aeons off settling down. And a boy.