Rosy George's Convention Conundrum

by Polly Young

  David’s phone rang but he ignored it and they held on to each other, both feeling utterly alone.

  SECTION THREE

  Chapter 28

  Dairy Street, with its muted rainbow shop fronts and glistening grey flagstones, sloped like a lullaby down to the river Exe.

  It was late November and Rosy’s plastic bags flapped and smashed against each other as she walked, her forgotten scarf rendering her powerless against the fingers of sleet probing under her collar. But for all her discomfort, she felt like it was her birthday. She let herself into the flat she already thought of as home. As Storm wagged and twisted around her legs, holding a cushion in her mouth, Rosy scrubbed her firmly behind the ears and sighed with contentment. Setting the supermarket bags down amongst boxes of unpacked books and bin liners full of clothes, she went upstairs to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

  Due to its layout and proximity to the road, the flat had been cheap. More expensive than Rosy could afford, but with David’s graciousness over the Kilburn lease and her parents’ waiver of rent over the last year, she knew she was a lucky girl. And she had a job starting in the morning.

  Must be able to commit to long hours with challenging students who may not have an innate desire to learn but have a creative spark, the advert had read. Well, she could do that. Although she would be working for a charity, the organisation had been impressive in its thorough vetting of Rosy’s credentials. At interview, feeling self-conscious, she had nevertheless come prepared with a little scrapbook of cuttings with early reviews from the Themsrow Timesand Villigant!Sitting down in front of a veryyoung woman who, with her wide smile and glossy hair could have been Anne Hathaway of the West Country, she had been surprised and flattered to see identical clippings spread out on the desk in front of her.

  They’d hit it off immediately and now, a month later and almost exactly a year after she had left David in the rain, here she was: creative director for DEXTRA; Devon’s brand new, cutting edge performing arts group.

  “Why Exeter?” Vic had asked, baffled, when Rosy had announced her success.

  “It’s got everything I want,” she said simply.

  Storm yawned impatiently at her and she went to fetch the dog food. As she filled the bowl, she caught sight of the wall calendar and smiled. It was almost her birthday. She would be thirty-three. Quite old enough to start a new adventure, she thought, and drew a big circle around the date.

  * * *

  But, she reasoned, adventure could be postponed for an evening. She was cocooned into the sofa with a cup of tea. Storm’s chin rested protectively in her lap and she was snoring loudly when the phone rang.

  “Hi, Mummy,” she said, spooning the last dregs of yoghurt from the pot.

  “Wrong,” said Vic. “What’re you up to?” Rosy heard high-pitched crying in the background, followed by a dull thud.

  “Nothing as exciting as you, by the sounds of it.” She rolled her eyes at Storm.

  “Daisy’s being silly,” said Vic indulgently. “She won’t go down unless she sees Roger’s face. He’s just walked in, so we’ll be all set soon.” If Vic was tired, she hid it well: no one would ever have known her nights had been sleepless for weeks, thought Rosy. She admired her friend for the millionth time, but was very glad Roger was there and that she was talking to her from the safety of a couple of hundred miles away.

  Because for the last year, Rosy had lived with Vic and Roger and through the birth of their baby girl. Although Judy and Charles had been more than happy for her to move back in with them, Rosy knew it was time to move on. There had been concern from all parties. “Are you sure?” Vic had quizzed. “You know Storm can’t come.”

  “I know. She’ll be fine with Mum and Dad. But they need space at the moment. Ollie’s starting to make it on his own and seems really happy. I need to get out of their hair too.”

  “Won’t you find it weird?” asked Judy. “With the baby?”

  “No, Mum; why should I? David and I split up because we didn’t see marriage and kids for us. Vic and Roger are different. Plus Vic will need a hand when the baby comes and Roger’s paternity leave finishes,” Rosy had said cheerfully, although not feeling entirely sure she wouldn’t run to the nearest pub if she was asked to change a nappy.

  And so, last November, Daisy Alexandra Baxter was born. And Rosy had fallen in love with the tiny, squirming creature that clung to her best friend and would be Vic’s companion for life. Whilst her nights were just as broken as Vic’s, she got it now. There was a purpose. This was it: although she had no expectations of having a child and no regrets, she counted her blessings that she would be part of Daisy’s life.

  “So how’s tricks? Nervous about starting tomorrow? I think you’re so brave,” Vic said convincingly.

  “I’m just doing the next thing.”

  “Well, don’t forget we’re coming to see you for New Year.”

  “How could I? I’ll try and have the cardboard boxes out of by then.”

  “Not on our account: Daisy loves them,” Vic said. There was a small, distant burp.

  “Give her my love?”

  “Of course,” Vic said. “She gurgles about you all the time. And you’re such a good style role model. No-one has better highlights; who am I going to use in Lytton as an example of good hair?”

  There was a pause. “Plus I miss you,” admitted Vic, and, despite the yoghurt and the dog and the flat and the job and the adventure, it was just what Rosy needed to hear.

  * * *

  “What you need is good loving from good Argentinian girl,” cackled the barman, winking and wiping the bar aggressively.

  Angus gave a second’s consideration. “No, gracias,” He picked up his bottle of water and ambled cheerfully back to his table in the shade.

  The heat was a red-hot screwdriver through his brain. He peeled off his long-sleeved shirt, revealing a tanned, well-defined chest. Though it didn’t help that he had a hangover. And, after almost a year in Buenos Aires, the rapid change of seasons still surprised him. The branches hardly had time to bud before searing, pavement shimmering temperatures took over. The cracks in the roads widened and the dog shit on the kerbs smelled more pungent than a steak from El Calden. And Angus loved it.

  The afternoon stretched ahead of him. Most people were asleep, or cooling their feet at the Paseo del Rosedal fountains, or, if they were lucky, having sleepy sex behind closed shutters. Undeterred, the barman pulled up a chair and joined him.

  “Caliente!” the old man nodded in the direction of a sashaying raven-haired, mini-skirted chica who was sixteen if she was a day.

  “One of your conquests, Guido?” Angus said sardonically, and was met with a nod.

  “I think in your dreams,” Angus punched him affectionately and swigged from his bottle.

  “You no like girls?”

  “I like women.”

  “Aha,” said Guido, knowingly. “Then you come with me tonight. I show you women you only dream of,” he made undulating movements with both hands and winked urgently. Angus tried to look appreciative but regretful.

  “Sounds good but I’ll pass,” he said.

  “Why?” Guido’s eyebrows shot up like furry roller blinds.

  “Because I’m taken.”

  “Taken where? Where you go tonight? Who with?”

  “No,taken. It means I already have someone,” Angus explained.

  “Tcha,” Guido made a fly swat movement. “Me too. I have six girlfriends,” he said lasciviously, holding up seven fingers.

  “Of course you do,” Angus said kindly. He put coins on the table and kissed Guido on the cheek.

  His headache was beginning to ease as he moved slowly along the dusty streets, and his thoughts turned to evening plans. It being Sunday, he did not have to catch the bus, as he did each week day morning, and sit for two hours whilst the patched seats and sketchy air conditioning carried him to the outskirts of the city; to the suburb of Escotaria, where, after another twenty five
minute walk, he would arrive at La Casita children’s home; however, tonight that is exactly what he was doing because he had been invited to have supper with Marina.

  La Casita was a home for street children who otherwise would not have a daily hot meal, wash or education. The place existed because of Marina; the kindest, most selfless woman Angus had met and he was a little bit in love with her. Not that she was his girlfriend. Marina was happily married with two children and three dogs. Fancying her would be like fancying Mother Theresa. But she was a stabilising influence in his life; the sort of person his aunt would have approved of had she been in charge of finding a substitute guardian for her nephew. It was a shame she spoke no English but Angus’ Spanish had improved dramatically since he had arrived and they were able now to converse relatively easily. Yes, he loved Marina.

  His phone rang. ‘Unknown’ said the display and he answered without trepidation.

  He was met with a short silence and then a very British accent indeed came across loud and clear.

  “Angus? Nicholas. Sidcup.” And there was a noisy throat-clear before the President of Crabham Sailing Club ate a great deal of humble pie.

  Chapter 29

  The tangled herb garden was covered in a hard frost and with its slightly peeling paint, revealing yellow plaster underneath, the George’s house looked like a sunken Christmas cake as Rosy turned into the drive and parked. She let Storm out, dragged her bag from the boot and stretched luxuriously. The journey had taken five hours, but it was Christmas Eve.

  Entering the house, she pulled the front door behind her gently. Putting her keys on the dresser, she shouted into the depths of the hallway.

  “Aha, the daughter,” called her mother.

  “Rosy, darling,” called her father, coming out to wrap her in a hug and a swathe of tinsel.

  After Rosy had unwound herself and loaded the presents out of the boot, they sat down to bacon sandwiches and lager. Rosy ate ravenously. She was overjoyed to see Judy so rested and happy: her hair was cut and combed and she sported a purple cowl-neck Rosy had never seen before. Charles George chewed his pen thoughtfully over the Christmas crossword, intermittently joining conversation whilst struggling with two down.

  “Car’s holding up?”

  “So far, thanks to Tom. The motorway’s a bit hairy but I’m sure it’ll get easier,” she grinned.

  Storm executed a perfect crocodile snap at rind dropped by Judy, then rolled in ecstasy under the table. “And hairier,” muttered Charles.

  They talked and ate and ate and talked ... of inconsequential and wide-ranging subjects as the cost of petrol; the hopelessness of the festive TV schedule; the benefits of daily aspirin; whether the Houses of Parliament should be spray cleaned each year. The hot, salty meat and cold beer were followed with a home made papaya and treacle tart, which lined Rosy’s stomach in a way she couldn’t remember the grandest meals out ever doing. After the food and conversation had run out, Charles raised his glass.

  “Rosy, you make us so proud.”

  “I haven’t done anything,” Rosy said, her embarrassment increasing when her mother moved to wrap her arms tightly around her. As Judy brushed Rosy’s now long hair away from her eyes and curled her hand protectively around her cheek, she choked. Why was it always so much worse when your parents were nice to you than anyone else?

  “But you’ve been through a lot. Daddy and I know it hasn’t been easy, darling but you plunged in and you’re coming out the other side.”

  “Thanks Mum. Dad. Though you make it sound like a swimming certificate,” she laughed and hoovered away the plates to hide her blushes. Outside, a fox howled. She lifted the blind above the sink and the moon shone directly into the kitchen.

  It was the same moon, wherever you were.

  “Anyone heard from Angus?” she asked, not really expecting an answer.

  “Nope,” her father said after a beat or two.

  “Actually, yes,” said Judy, avoiding Charles’ eyes.

  Rosy whirled around, knocking Storm’s food tumbler off the sideboard. It bounced and clattered on the flags. “I thought he’d disappeared.” The fox barked again. “It’s been over a year,” she whispered.

  “He was in South America,” Judy said. “He’s back for Christmas. I saw him arrive yesterday. I waved; he waved back; we didn’t speak. Hope told me this morning she’d been to say ‘hello’.”

  “I bet,” Rosy said grimly. “She’s the only person kind enough to talk to him.”

  “Rosy,” her father looked worried. “You do know, don’t you ... about the ... situation?”

  She looked at him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

  Judy put her fingers to her lips. “Don’t, Charles. I think Angus should tell Rosy himself?”

  “Hmph.” Charles gave his wife a long look and folded himself back into The Times.

  Rosy looked from one parent to the other. “What the hell’s going on?”

  Judy looked helpless. “I thought you knew. It’s just not,” she looked sternly at her husband, “our place to tell you; you’d better see Angus yourself.” She clung tightly to the Aga rail, like Kate Winslet in Titanic, and then turned abruptly to stack the dishwasher.

  “For God’s sake,” Rosy said, despairingly. “Just tell me! Why should I want to listen to that pig?”

  Storm woofed softly and stretched her front legs in an impressive yoga move, snuffling at Rosy’s legs.

  “Fine,” Rosy fumed and kicked the leg of a nearby chair. Come on, let’s see this man of mystery,” and with her heart thumping, she pulled on her coat and grabbed Storm’s lead.

  “It’s Christmas Eve!” Judy called, rather half-heartedly and with a distinct note of excitement.

  She felt rather excited herself as she banged the door behind her a little harder than intended, and set off up the road into the moonlight. There were adventures to be had and this could be the start.

  The wind picked up as she headed briskly down the drive and out along the lane. Sycamores swung, high above the ditch, to and fro like a festival crowd. Fairy lights twinkled behind the diamond-paned glass in Hope’s kitchen window. Bats skittered across the road and Rosy’s pulse quickened as she grew closer. Despite her best intentions, including singing loudly to the radio and concentrating hard on the road ahead, she had glanced towards Angus’ house on her way home earlier that evening. The lights had been out, the curtains drawn; everything as dark and quiet as a sleeping bear. The bubble of anticipation and terror would pop dramatically if she were met with the same situation.

  But as she turned the corner, Angus’ house glowed like a plateful of buttered toast. The faithful Triumph stood proudly outside the door and the light from the front door pooled welcomingly onto the path. The upstairs window shone like a beacon; his bedroom wardrobe and tall chest of drawers clear for all to see. Jazz-style Christmas carols came, softly but distinctly, from the front room. It was massively gratifying yet faintly obscene, like seeing the pictures of Prince Harry naked. Rosy shivered but forced herself forward. Inches away from the doorknocker, she stopped.

  For God’s sake. Unfortunately, reminding herself how far she had come, metaphorically and distance-wise, didn’t help. Neither did Storm, straining at the lead to get into the house. I can’t do this, she decided, and turned around.

  “Rosy?”

  Her heart froze.

  “Happy Christmas.”

  She whirled on him, counselling herself not to be taken in by a suntan. “I beg your pardon?”

  But in vain: he looked better than she’d imagined. His mane curled invitingly to his collar and his eyes crinkled irresistibly. His face, bathed in moonlight, was the colour of teak, smooth and boyish. They drank each other in. If she didn’t know better, she would have said he looked delighted to see her. Storm jerked forwards, pulling Rosy so hard that she fell off her new ‘Christmas present for me’ boots and landed in a heap on the step.

  He was there in a flash. Shaking his head to hide
a smile, he helped her up. “I see the training hasn’t improved.”

  She supposed his rudeness could be mistaken for nerves, but it was still a shock. Storm was freaking out, alternating licks with little yaps of pleasure and Angus placated her with a magicked-from-nowhere biscuit.

  “What are you doing out alone?”

  “I’ve come to see if the rumours are true. And I’m not on my own, I have Storm,” she bit back, spitting on her hands and whisking gravel from her jeans.

  He watched her calmly. “They are,” he said. “I’m back.”

  “So I see,” she glowered. “You didn’t tell me.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Do you love me?”

  Leaves rustled. Storm snuffled. Owls hooted and time stood still. “What?”

  “You heard.”

  “No.” But her head was empty of everything but the sight of his face. She looked away.

  “You shouldn’t listen to rumours,” he said finally.

  What was he talking about? She was furious now and her hands stung. They’d probably get infected; then he’d be sorry. “You’re talking in circles.” She would have given anything to see his annoying smirk. It would fire her; renew her wrath. But he looked sadder than she had ever seen him.

  He looked at her for a lifetime. And then, “I’m sorry, Rosy. I’m just not up to company tonight.” His shoulders sagged and he sunk like a landslide as he bent to pat Storm, then headed indoors with a few slow, dignified strides and shut the door.

  * * *

  As the nurses were far too busy to tell him where the drinks machine was and he felt like a needy teenager standing at reception waiting to be seen, David set out, determinedly, alone. Honestly, it was enough to make him wish he lived in Africa where women gave birth in a field. If an experienced like him couldn’t get seen, who stood a chance?

  A claustrophobic, antiseptic mist enveloped him as he passed through the waiting room door and moved out into the corridor. Chelsea and Westminster’s private maternity ward was buzzing with frazzled, soon-to-be fathers. They were a rarely noticed breed in the real world but inside the hygienic retreat of the hospital walls, a different etiquette prevailed. Passing the toilets for the second time without any luck on the hot beverage front, David flickered a nervous smile at a short, oily-looking man who emerged from the gents with slicked back hair (sweat or gel, it was impossible to tell). He felt himself being sized up with a practised glance. “First time?” the man asked. David nodded. “Tim,” he shook David’s hand with a sturdy paw and hit him on the shoulder. “Poor bugger. Come on; I think we both need something with a bit of bite.”