Rosy George's Convention Conundrum

by Polly Young

  * * *

  Wrestling her heart from a swamp each morning as she woke up in bed, surrounded by childhood paraphernalia, Rosy punched teddy bears and ploughed on until one Saturday she couldn’t get up. She switched her mobile off, lay under the duvet and ignored life. But then the house phone rang and Judy hammered on the door. Tom Mason had summoned.

  Rosehips hung from the bushes like frosty raisins as Rosy tramped through the mud towards Tom’s house. Icy water cracked underfoot as she approached a low, red brick building in the farmer’s grounds; Storm Geiger-countered through the freezing grass around the farm, tracking pheasant-scent. After negotiating clucking poultry, sewage-y straw and a slick pool of engine oil that triggered longing thoughts of spa days, Rosy banged the knocker hard. A cacophony of geese meant she didn’t hear Tom’s footsteps until he stood in front of her, looking cold.

  “Rosy, glad to see you,” he said but his eyes implied otherwise.

  She followed him to the cosy kitchen where copper pots and pans hung from the beams and an audience of rowdy photographs crowded the fridge and cupboards. A row of baseball caps on nails spanned the room like sporty bunting. She wedged herself between a child’s tricycle and a high chair where the warmth belting out from the ancient Raeburn and the smell of drying football kit hanging from the airing rack made her feel safe and drowsy. Tom went to the sink and washed his hands.

  “Where are the kids?” Rosy looked around, half expecting them to jump out from behind the larder.

  “Their mother’s taken them to the aquarium.”

  She’d heard about Tom’s divorce from Cathy and it sounded turbulent.

  It must be about Toby’s commitment to the play, she thought; he’d not been at the last two rehearsals. There seemed little point continuing with microscopic talk so she plunged in and asked the reason for his absence.

  Tom gave her a long look. “He hates it.”

  Rosy folded her arms. “Toby’s a main part. If he’s decided not to come, you might have let me know.”

  To her alarm, Tom began to rev like a petrol mower. “I hear you’re not too committed yourself.”

  Rosy shrivelled like a popped balloon.

  “And knows what he’s talking about, by the sounds of it,” Tom said icily. “I don’t like gossip but when my kid comes back saying there’s no structure and no-one knows what the plan is ...” his voice grew louder, “he doesn’t even knowwhathis lines are and spent two hoursdoing nothing, I get concerned.”

  Rosy was stunned. Surely it wasn’t so awful? Last week they’d done the assembly scene where Emily wins an award for bravery. It was good. Wasn’t it? Tight writing, suspense ... she’d be first to admit there wasn’t much for the majority of the cast to do but it worked. Really it did. “I’m sorry,” she said shakily. “I’d no idea Toby felt that way. But he should be practising, not mucking about.”

  Tom used a voice usually reserved for his three year old. “There’s no structure. If kids aren’t needed, let them get on with homework. They’re kids! They can’t amuse themselves, especially with no guidance. And why haven’t you asked Angus to help? He’d be morethan willing.”

  She looked at him suspiciously. What did that mean?

  “Because you need some,” Tom continued. “It’s becoming farcical. Sorry, Rosy but word is you’re uncommitted, inexperienced, slap-dash and doing this play as a distraction. It’s not on. You can’t start something and drop it because you’re bored. Lytton might not be London but we have standards too, you know. I hear the storyline’s a little suspect too, according to ...” he swiftly named four parents. “I could continue.”

  “Please don’t.” She felt helpless: Tom’s attack had wounded her badly. “I’ve been having, um, personal problems.” She winced.

  When he turned to put the kettle on, only politeness and Storm prevented her getting up to run to the nearest station and jump on a train. She’d hoped for rave reviews, not ridicule and wished she were in London so badly. She sniffed but, catching sight of the raucous, happy family 10” by 4”s, grabbed a wad of tissues instead. This would never do. Which is not to say I can’t make this work, she looked daggers at Tom’s back. And actually, there was no reason she couldn’t.

  David’s continued pitiful insistence that the necklace must have been from someone else was as feeble as they came but she had to stop dwelling. So what if she was doing the play partly as a distraction? She also loved theatre. She stuck out her chin. The script would have to be tweaked but she coulddo this. Failure simply wasn’t an option. Neither was London, nor Paris. Lytton it was. The play would be a success. Regardless of David’s behaviour ... and perhaps now, she gave a small shiver, with Angus’ help.

  * * *

  Sitting cross-legged on the floor of the disabled toilet, Rosy wolfed Judy’s cold spaghetti with pomegranate and pesto and felt guilty. It was a cool, perfect refuge and her first break in six hours. It was also four minutes until finale practice finished, Hope arrived with costumes and the show heaved onto the road.

  She bared her teeth in the mirror. Dress rehearsals brought out the best in people, she recalled someone saying, but she had her doubts. There was so much resting on this: many of the parents would be critical, she was sure of it, and weeks of work would notcollapse at the eleventh hour: she was determined. After ‘the talk’ with Tom, aided by slabs of Montezuma’s darkest, most chilli-infused chocolate and self-enforced bedroom imprisonment she’d taken out a notebook and started to plan. First, a neat dissection of the script into two parts (three were confusing). Crease-free logistics, streamlined characterisation and pacier dialogue followed. It took four days.

  She slid the door wide, bounded downstairs and smacked into her mother, invisible behind towering makeup palettes.

  “Darling, where do you want me?”

  They tackled the busy backstage corridor and arrived in the main hall where Hope stood like a Bulldog, guarding the costume cupboard. She waggled her fingers and disappeared into folds of fabric.

  “You’ve got the list?”

  Rosy was answered with a flash of gold tutus and a rumble of approaching thunder before Ella shot down the hall followed by Joey and Toby, who used Hope to stop.

  “OK?” Rosy smiled at their breathless faces.

  “Yep,” panted Ella, untangling. “Want to see?” Rosy promised she would soon, bid them follow Judy and then headed to the stage.

  “Pass us those bits?” Concentration flickered across Tom’s face as he stopped drilling and positioned a board. Rosy enthused, hoping her smile conveyed more than gratitude for the floor. Seven thirty ticked closer and Rosy’s nerves ticked sharply. She bent towards a stray bunch of plastic flowers lying near a pair of well-worn Converse, straightening abruptly as she realised they housed feet.

  It was Angus. She hid the flowers, blushing lest he think they were for him. He twinkled at her through the gloom.

  “Just checking the smoke machine works.”

  “Well, don’t be long,” Rosy aimed uselessly at his back as he went in search of food. When his bulk had disappeared, she leant against the wall and tried to breathe. Neither had mentioned the Day on the Water, far less apologised. They’d stalked around the edges of each other. But there was far too much going on to worry about Angus Hart.

  At seven o’clock the children were freshly painted, the corridor clogged like a furred artery. Rosy’s calmer twin took over. Five minutes later, forty pairs of eyes stared up: a marketplace of nerves, excitement and terror.

  “Critiques are only any good if they’re bad. Believe me,” she said darkly, “I’ve told the reviewers to beruthless.”

  Angus cleared his throat and launched into a speech on the importance of professionalism even if you stabbed yourself with a prop. Joey, Toby and Ella sweated through their routine, Hope described the hazards of non-non-slip jazz shoes, and then it was time to wrap the pre-show pep talk with something a little more upbeat.

  “Remember to have fun,” Rosy smiled at th
e children. “Now bugger off and break a leg.”

  * * *

  Two and a half hours on, the cast executed their final bow. Tension poured from Rosy like sweat off a stallion and Stuart dammed his eyes with his shirtsleeve.

  “If they perform like that all week we’ll have Lloyd Webber calling.” Stuart was a drip but he said the right things.

  “Would you come backstage?” she said to Angus, cursing the double entendre. He gathered his notes in silence.

  “You’ve written rather a lot,” she said reproachfully.

  “There was rather a lot to write.”

  * * *

  As he embarked on page four, Rosy wished Stu had done them all a favour and stepped in. Was he being extra critical for her benefit? If so, it was pretty mean. Currently he was picking on tiny Diana.

  “ ... concentrate harderin the rescue scene. You’re like a flea! A fireman would never behave like that in a crisis!”

  Rosy risked a look at his indomitable profile and wanted to hit him. He was in his element, instructing people smaller than himself.

  “Mr Hart, it’s nearly half past ten. I think we should let people go home now,” she said, her voice crisper than a bowl of Frosties.

  “I’m just coming to the end,” he said evenly, shoving papers in his back pocket. “That was one of the most professional performances I’ve ever seen.”

  Smiles wobbled, then lit up the children’s faces like weak sunshine.

  “I have absolutefaith in you,” he paused, looking rather too seductive for Rosy’s liking. And then he was nice about her, which didn’t help either.

  The children stumbled off yawning, leaving Rosy fiddling with the props table, then with her hair as he asked her for a drink. Her mother and a large brown envelope saved her from reply.

  “Poppet, the programme! So kind of Stuart to sponsor it. Shall we crack open the champagne?”

  “Fantastic, Mum!”

  Angus took the hint. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks ... for everything,” her eyes slipped.

  “No problem,” he gave a Wonders of the Universesmile, swung his rucksack onto his shoulder and squeezed her shoulder. “Good job. I mean it,” he added in a low voice. And it wasn’t the prospect of champagne or her name in print across the programme that made Rosy’s heart feel lighter than it had in weeks.

  Chapter 10

  It was not a great night for driving. As he steered carefully along winding roads, avoiding fallen branches and battling to keep the Triumph at a conservative speed, Angus felt nauseous and shivery: as usual, it was as though his body knew the holidays had begun and was shutting down: germs stored during term erupting now he’d time to stay in bed. Neither the heater nor Radio 2 offered comfort, not even Wogan’s dulcet tones.

  He cruised the unfamiliar neighbourhood: Sayturn Villas. He recalled visiting a friend’s grandmother in a huge, ivy-encrusted villa with Olympic sized tennis court and swimming pool somewhere close by. Glimpsing through locked gates with their Fort Knox-style entry-phones, he spied sumptuous lawns ravaged by recent weather, flanked protectively by Jaguars and Bentleys.

  He slowed. A naked statue, she’d said. And there it was: a swooping cupid pinioned to the privet. A French mustard glow came from downstairs in the ranch-style house. Angus counted six bedroom windows, not including two under the eaves, and wondered vaguely about orgies. He parked, popped a pastille and scrolled through his phone once more.

  “U are naughty 2 keep me waiting — when can I C U?”

  Text speak and the fact it was the eleventh message in as many weeks made him irritated and determined to confront the resolute Monica Bates. Since their initial encounter, he’d found it easy to ignore the keys in the back of the drawer. The sailing club had been manic and the unexpected demand for an Optimist course had conveniently occupied the whole of half term. But now, with the play underway and festive spirit abounding, he felt would return the keys with alacrity. Tempting though those fluffy breasts were, he’d no desire to take it further. Perhaps this was the end of an era. Hadn’t someone told him radical life changes occurred every seven years? He pushed his arms into his Barbour and exposed himself to the chill night air.

  Security lights scorched his eyes as he scrunched up the gravel. The wind gusted fiercely, whipping through the reeds around the Koi pond, over which yacht stood on stilts, its covers flapping like an enormous bird. Before he rang the bell, he hesitated. What if someone else answered? A boyfriend? A cleaner? He wasn’t prepared for that. But then Monica swung open the door and stood, hand on hip, in a tiny pair of shorts and peach bra.

  Her face settled into a triumphant smile as she rested kittenish eyes on his deathly pallor. She folded her arms and leaned against the frame, a piece of hair twisting in her fingers like a fledgling.

  “Angus. What pleasure,” she purred.

  “I came to return your keys.”

  “Of course you did. Come in.”

  He cleared his throat and declined. She eyed the proffered keys with amusement. “Merry Christmas,” he said, turning to go.

  “Wait a minute.” He craved the lemon and honey in her voice.

  “I’m not feeling too well; I must be going.”

  “It’s just a light favour,” she pouted, pointing above the stairs.

  He followed her reluctantly into a large, monochrome kitchen complete with every conceivable mod con where she slid out a large revolving rack from nowhere and passed him a bulb. He changed it quickly, passing her the old one without brushing her fingers and, job done, felt at liberty to go with a clear conscience.

  He tried again; coughing deeply and moving down the hall, he opened the door and started to walk away. Her eyes blood-sucked his back as with relief he reached the car and unlocked the boot for a blanket. The shivers were growing worse. A female voice behind him made him start.

  “Angus, what are you doing here?”

  Rosy, looking like a Christmas elf, stood in the road balancing four large cake tins. He was stunned to see her.

  “Are you ill?” she looked at him suspiciously.

  “Just a cold; I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  Her arms shifted: the tins looked heavy and he offered to take one.

  “Where are you parked?”

  She nodded down the road and explained that Vic’s aunt lived around the corner. “She’s an amazing cook. I thought mince pies would be a nice treat for the crew — I can’t afford to pay them and Tom and Stuart have been brilliant. Though I’m not sure extra sugar will do Hope any favours.” Angus’ laugh turned rapidly into a hacking cough.

  “Are you sure you’re alright to drive?”

  “Yes, yes,” he insisted. “But thanks for your concern.” Their eyes met and for a moment or two nothing needed saying. David seemed very far away. They were both wondering if the other felt the same when a Botoxed Britney swooped out of the gloom.

  Monica’s two-second glance contained enough venom to paralyse an army. She put a protective arm around Angus’ waist and kissed him hard on the lips. “Thanks again for a marvellous evening. It was sokind of you to sort me out.” She handed Angus a large Angora rug. “Do take this. A chest like yours needs looking after.”

  Angus took it helplessly, feeling Rosy freeze.

  “See you tomorrow then. Look after yourself.” She turned on her heel but before she did so, her look spoke a million words; none of which he wanted to hear.

  * * *

  The name ‘sexy football’ could arguably have been held up under the Trade Descriptions Act: with three players and meetings no longer involving a kick about, more a kicking off, ‘sexy’ was debatable but the word ‘football’ was certainly inaccurate. It might not be manly but in the privacy of Stuart’s sitting room, Stuart, Tom and Angus ploughed through a few bottles of Malbec and put the world to rights. All three men liked nothing more than a good gossip.

  Angus watched Stuart fondly as he strutted like a pigeon across the deep pile carpet, popp
ed a family bag of Doritos and tipped them carefully into a shallow dish.

  “Don’t want your germs,” Tom said, as Angus shoved a pile of chips towards him.

  “Sod off,” Angus grinned. “I’m super humanly fit: the flu’s good as gone.”

  “How come you spent three days in bed?”

  “And who did you spend them with, more to the point.”

  “Angela?”

  “I’m over it.” Angus sat back in the armchair and folded his legs.

  “That’ll be the day,” Tom said wryly.

  “There are more important things than sex. Really.”

  “Who are you trying to convince? I might not get round to it much these days but when I do I bloody remember what I’m missing!” Tom got up and stretched. “I’m going for a pee.”

  “Who’s the lucky girl then?” Stuart asked when Tom had gone.

  “There isn’t one,” Angus said shortly. “Like I said: there are more important things.”

  “Such as?”

  “The play’s been taking up a lot of time ..”

  “Ah yes. The lovely Rosy.”

  Angus coloured. “She’s also engaged.”

  “Since when did that stop you?”

  “Cara Martin was different,” Angus was indignant. “She just said ‘yes’ to someone she didn’t like.”

  “And Rosy?”

  Angus filled the silence by topping glasses.

  “Spill it, mate. Come on.”

  “Don’t,” Stuart looked worried. “It’s a new carpet.”

  “She’s a nice girl.”

  “Crap word, ‘nice’. She’s not your usual standard.”

  Angus looked at Stuart in mock shock. “Stuart Belling, that’s rich from you.”

  “Sorry, but she’s a London wannabe waiting to marry rich and live happily ever after.”

  “Pippa Middleton?”

  “You wish.”

  Angus bristled. “That’s old-fashioned and unfair. Rosy’s not that sort of girl. The play, for instance ..”

  Tom returned, doing up his flies.

  “Angus is in love with Rosy George.”