Her Name Was Rose

by Claire Allan

  I nodded.

  ‘Obviously I’ve looked at your CV. It’s been a while since you worked directly with the general public, but your qualifications seem to be in order. This is a very busy practice, we rely on people who can work well, and under pressure at times. We value good organisational skills – how can you sell yourself to us?’

  I had rehearsed my answer carefully. ‘I’m hard working and diligent. Yes, the last few years have been spent helping people remotely, but I believe if you can deal with sometimes irate callers, while timed and on script, you can deal with almost anything. I also like to think my age is an asset in circumstances such as these. I bring a certain maturity and appreciation of what being a good team player means with me.’

  He nodded, looked down at the sheet in front of him and back up at me. He sighed, and I clenched and released my hands by my side to ease the tension creeping through my body.

  ‘And your last job? Why did you leave?’

  I tried to keep my face non-expressive. Now was not the time for an exaggerated eye roll or badly timed grimace. ‘I craved working directly with the public again. Doing something to help people. I found CallSolutions wasn’t really offering me a challenge anymore. I decided to take a leap of faith. I mean, you never really know what’s ahead of you, do you? And I thought I could stay there and continue to feel uninspired and demotivated or I could push myself into making a change by making a big gesture and hoping it paid off. So I quit – and I took a chance because sometimes in life, you just have to take chances.’

  I knew I was being horribly, terribly manipulative. I had anticipated this question because I’m not totally stupid, and I had decided to play on the recent tragedy in Owen Scott’s life, which may just have focused his mind on the whole ‘life is too short’ thing. I was playing dirty, but my intentions were from a good place.

  It was almost imperceptible but I saw something in Owen’s eyes after my answer. Something that made his features soften, his face look less worn, his handsomeness creep up on me a bit more.

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I know this must be a very difficult time for everyone here and it can’t be easy having someone come in to take over a job that was previously held by someone you all clearly held in such very high esteem. I can’t imagine how you are all feeling right now – but if you give me a chance, I promise you won’t regret it.’

  I was surprised to find I actually meant what I was saying. Even more surprised to feel a lump form in my throat and tears spring to my eyes. I hadn’t cried since Rose Grahame died. I didn’t think I had a right – even though what I had seen had been traumatic and awful and sometimes when I woke in the night I could still see her eyes staring right at me.

  But there, sitting across from Owen – noting that small, tiny change in his demeanour – the softness in his gaze, the realisation that I really, really did want and need to change my life hit me. That, far from this being just a speech I was giving to earn me a job where Rose had been happy, I realised this was a place I could be happy. I willed the tears to stay where they were. I took a slow breath in, and then, shuddering just lightly, I exhaled.

  Owen was looking at me. I wasn’t actually sure if he had spoken after my emotional outburst or if he was, like me, wondering what on earth to say next.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered, reaching for my bag.

  ‘For what?’ he said, looking genuinely baffled.

  ‘For getting a little emotional,’ I lied. ‘It was unprofessional of me.’

  But what I really wanted to say was that I was sorry that it was me, and not Rose, who was sat in front of him. That I was sorry she, and not me, had died.

  ‘We’re all a little emotional around here these days,’ he said softly, a small, comforting smile playing on his lips. ‘We get the whole life is short thing. And we get that some people need second chances.’

  *

  Second Chances. I almost wrote a blog called that. A secret blog that I wanted to start when it all went wrong. It would be private, anonymous. It would be a therapy of sorts. No one would need to know about it. Not even Maud. Maud would have thought it was a spectacularly bad idea. It would have made her worry. I didn’t want to worry her anymore.

  That’s maybe why I decided against it, in the end. That and the fear that things always get out. We share too much, you know. All of us. Even those of us who swear we don’t. We let it out in our behaviour. What we like. What we don’t. The pages we follow. The clothes we wear in our pictures. Our inspirational quotes. Our lack of inspirational quotes. The music we share. The things we write when we’re tired. Or emotional. Or drunk.

  The life we let people see. The life we let ourselves believe. It’s strange how we can convince ourselves our Facebook life is our actual life – because we want it so desperately to be. I did anyway.

  I found my Facebook life, where things were good and glossed over, very difficult to let go of when it all ended because I knew people – who I had perhaps done my best to make jealous – would enjoy some sort of Schadenfreude when it all went tits up.

  That expression flashed through my brain again. No one to blame but myself.

  I had been too open. Believed too much in sharing. Believed the world to be a good place. Believed people had the same motives as I had. I had believed in the power of love. I had believed I could make him love me as much as I loved him. That I could change him. No, not change – fix. Heal. Heal him with love.

  I tolerated so much because I believed, in my heart and in my soul, that Ben Cullen was a good person. A damaged soul. A bit battered, but I could soften his rough edges. I could love him into being the person I knew he was beneath his thorny, gruff exterior.

  Beneath the outburst – the angry ranting, the occasional hand to my left cheek, the pinching of skin, twisting it so it turned white, blanched of blood, before his grip loosened and the purple of a bruise started. Upper arms. Upper thighs. Hidden bruises from a misunderstood man. He was hurting too; I was sure of it. Even when his anger shifted gear – when he became lazy about making sure the bruises could be hidden so easily, or when his tongue loosened a little too much in company. Not that we kept much company. We enjoyed ‘another cosy night in together’ too much – well, according to my Facebook posts we did.

  But I loved him. I did. I adored him. I wanted so badly to make it better for him, for both of us. I believed with all my heart that I could.

  Then I got a message on Facebook from someone I didn’t know. Someone who had a picture of the man I so smugly, desperately, passionately, soulmate-ingly loved with his tongue down another woman’s throat and his hand up her skirt. If there was any doubt it was him, the second picture, one which showed his face twisted in orgasmic ecstasy as the object of his affections knelt in front of him, did away with all of that.

  I knew the shirt he was wearing. I had bought it for him for Christmas. The last Christmas we were together. The first Christmas we had been an engaged couple.

  He had betrayed me. My soulmate. The man who I had tried to help. Who I had let take his rage out on me in the hope that one day he would be spent of it all. But he had betrayed and humiliated me – although I knew the worst of the humiliation was still to come when the news spread. When people started talking. Leaving ‘supportive’ messages on my Facebook page. Inspirational quotes. Songs. When I unpublished the dream wedding Pinterest board and the beautifully filtered Instagram pictures of us walking along the beach. When I realised, or accepted, what a lie it had all been.

  When I knew that it had been my fault for wanting it as much as I did. For letting him do to me what he did. Because I thought we could be happy. I had no one to blame but myself. Those words were so true.

  And of course, I’d love to say those moments – that night and the days that followed when I dismantled my real life, along with my virtual existence – were the lowest I sank. But they weren’t, of course.

  The worst would come later.

  Chapter Seven

&nbs
p; I was shocked and surprised to find out I was being offered the job at the dentist’s. Okay it was a much lower salary than I had been paid in the call centre (and that had been a shockingly low salary to start with) but it did offer me the new start I had been longing for.

  I sent a quick email to Maud to thank her for both the suggestion and the reference. And for persuading Andrew to give me a reference that probably led him to spending a good hour in Confession for all the lies he told. Not that they were really lies – I was a good worker. Or I could be.

  Maud had been mildly horrified when I told her I’d put her name down as a referee.

  ‘I was only joking when I said you should apply for the job,’ she’d said, her voice solemn.

  ‘Maybe you were, but you had a point. There’s a job there and I need a job. Why wouldn’t I throw my hat in the ring?’

  She had paused, a soft humming coming over the phone line. ‘Do you not think it a bit odd?’ she asked. ‘I mean, you saw that woman die. And now you’re applying for a job in her old workplace? Her job?’

  ‘Hmm,’ I shrugged. ‘Maybe if I had known her. But I didn’t. I mean, yes I saw what happened and it was horrible but it shouldn’t hold me back. This could be a real chance for me and I need one now that Andrew has turfed me out. It’s not like this place is overflowing with jobs either, is it? Beggars can’t be choosers.’

  So I persuaded Maud to not only give me a reference but also to speak to Andrew and ask him to back her up. I knew it was cheeky, but I also knew Maud had pull. I had long suspected Andrew had a crush on her and would do anything she asked.

  I smiled as I tapped out the email to her on my laptop. ‘This is going to be a new beginning,’ I told her. ‘I know I haven’t always got it right in the past but I can get it right now. You have to meet these people, Maud. You would really like them. They’re so genuine. I think I will really fit in there.’

  I was still smiling when I hit send, and when I got up and started to declutter and clean the flat. This would be a new start and I would put myself in the best place possible to make the most of it. I threw open the curtains for the first time in weeks and whizzed round, vacuuming everywhere, even under the sofa and along the skirting boards. I stripped my bed, put the sheets in a boil wash and tried not to think about the last time I had changed them. I dusted. I bleached. I swept the pile of magazines and junk mail from the coffee table and put them in a pile by the door for recycling.

  I cleaned out my cupboards and my fridge. I threw out a lot of food that was past its sell by date, and anything with mould went straight in the bin. Then I grabbed my shopping bags and took myself to the M&S Food Hall where I put a decent shop of fruit and veg and low-fat meals on my credit card. And bottled water. I bought a lot of bottled water. It seemed like the thing to do.

  The old me was just that: old, in the past, and gone. This would be the new me – a better version than any previous model. Lessons learned, rock bottom hit, and I had pushed myself away from it again, swimming upwards towards fresh air. The last few weeks – the Ben Blip as I would call it – would be just that. A blip. I showered when I got home, then made myself a dinner of low-fat bolognaise served with butternut squash noodles and poured myself a long glass of mineral water. Then I sat on my freshly plumped and vacuumed sofa, pulled my laptop onto my knee and logged into my Facebook account.

  I stared at my long-neglected wall – the account I’d only kept open so I could keep an eye on everyone else. That evening though, I updated my status, picking a quote about life being a big adventure and being grateful for the journey. I clicked into my notifications and finally rejected Ben’s friend request once and for all.

  Then I clicked onto Rose’s profile. There was another message from Cian – and I couldn’t resist reading.

  Rose,

  It’s been just over a month since you left me. Since you left us. I know they say time heals, and that no time at all has really passed, but at the moment each day just gets harder.

  Jack looks for you. His eyes search you out when he wakes. He calls out ‘Mama’ – and I know when it’s me that peeks over the cot at him he is disappointed each and every day. Every day that disappointment kills another little piece of me. He can’t understand where you’ve gone. How can I expect him to understand when I can’t either?

  I don’t want this to be true. I have begged and pleaded with God to bring you back – I know, it’s stupid of me. You know I never even believed in God anyway. But if I thought there was a chance … Rose, I’d do anything. I’d promise him anything. Everything I have. All the success. All the awards. Everything. I’d give myself to have you here.

  Then again, what kind of God would take you away from me? Take you away from Jack? What kind of a God would leave a child without a mother? No kind of God I would want to know or believe in. That’s not a God of kindness – there is no kindness, no ‘bigger picture’, no ‘plan’ in you leaving us.

  My arms feel so empty – but so heavy, all at the same time. They ache for you. They don’t understand why you aren’t there. They are without purpose. I am without purpose.

  If I had known our time together would be so short, I would have tried harder. I would have been better. I would have protected you more. I would never have let you out of my sight. Not even for five minutes. I’d have fought off anyone who tried to take you away. Even a god. I’d have fought, and I’d have kept you safe.

  I need to believe you are out there, my one and only. I need to believe my arms will hold you again.

  Always and forever,

  Cian

  I wiped away a tear, looked at his profile picture. Still the smiling image of his late wife. I contemplated, very briefly, sending him a message. Telling him she was still out there. I believe that. That people don’t really leave. Their echoes remain. Someone as bright and vivacious as Rose – that energy doesn’t just, can’t just, disappear. It has to go somewhere.

  I wanted to tell him to stay strong – for that beautiful blue-eyed baby who smiled so brightly at his mother as she sang to him. The baby who screamed as she pushed his buggy out of the way of the oncoming car, throwing herself in its path instead.

  But I didn’t. I closed my laptop and reached into my bag for one of my anti-anxiety tablets. They would help me sleep and prepare myself for my new beginning. Hopefully they would even stop Rose from slipping into my dreams again – her face pale, her eyes now cloudy and grey.

  *

  My uniform fitted nicely. I found the conformity of it – the sense of belonging that came with it – comforting. Teamed with a pair of white soft leather ballet shoes and a silver name badge, I looked good. Crisp. Fresh. Professional. I still hadn’t contoured my make-up or flicked my eyeliner, but I had made more of an effort than usual.

  I looked good, and more than that, I felt good. Both Donna and Owen greeted me when I arrived. Their smiles seemed warm, their welcome genuine. They introduced me to the other staff, whose names I would remember eventually. Although, to be fair, I felt like I knew some of them from their Facebook profiles already. Donna led me through to the staff canteen, showed me where everything was – the teabags, the coffee, the ladies’ loos. Then she led me to a small back room that was lined with lockers. ‘This is yours,’ she said, pointing to one right in the middle of the top row. All the others looked as if they were in use. I wondered for a second whether they were giving me Rose’s locker. I wondered whether to ask, but decided against it. Instead, I pushed my bag into the back of it and closed it, taking out the key and slipping it into my pocket.

  ‘Owen doesn’t like us having our phones while we’re working, but it’s fair game at break and lunch. Although, to be honest, we tend to spend more time gabbing than tweeting or Facebooking,’ Donna said.

  ‘Do you all eat lunch together then?’

  Donna nodded. ‘Well, sort of. I mean, we have staggered lunches because we can’t all just disappear for an hour – but we do tend to have a good natter. We ring a
sandwich order to the deli down the street every day at 11. You’re not obliged to join us, but they are lovely sandwiches. They do paninis, wraps, all that sort of thing. And the most delicious salads and soups.’

  ‘You’ve me sold,’ I smiled, imagining girly gossips over lovely food in that cosy kitchen, where a framed picture of Rose was now hung on the wall, watching over us all.

  ‘You’ll shadow Tori for today,’ said Donna. ‘She’s been on reception for a year – was Rose’s deputy. She’ll show you how everything works. We’ll get you a bit of time in the surgeries too, sometimes we have to pull people in from reception to help. Nothing on the squeamish side, but note taking, making sure the records are updated properly. Best to get used to working with the sound of the drill. But Tori will keep you right, show you the system out front. Explain our policies with emergency appointments, missed appointments, and regular bookings.’

  She smiled the whole time she talked so it was impossible to feel overwhelmed. It all sounded doable – even working to the sound of the drill.

  ‘That all sounds good,’ I said, beaming without having to force it.

  Owen was equally welcoming. He smiled and shook my hand, welcomed me to the ‘madhouse’, made sure I had all the logins I needed for reception, and showed me the filing system in the admin office.

  ‘It’s your first day. Everyone gets a get-out-of-jail-free card on their first day. So just take it easy. Don’t worry about things. Follow Tori’s lead. Don’t be afraid to ask questions, and as long as we don’t find you sucking on the nitrous oxide between appointments you’ll do great.’

  He laughed and I laughed back and threw myself into my new work. I felt so light – so inspired.

  Donna made sure the pair of us ate lunch together, recommending a BLT from the deli, which she told me had an extra zing thanks to a gorgeous tomato chutney they made in store. We sat at the small table, steaming cups of coffee in front of us, and she told me I had done well. ‘I’m sure you will fit right in. Owen knows how to pick good staff, you know.’ She smiled then paused, glancing up at the picture on the wall.