by Isabel Wolff
Acclaim for Isabel Wolff’s Previous Novels
THE TRIALS OF TIFFANY TROTT
‘I absolutely, genuinely loved it. It’s funny, charming, upbeat and unputdownable. Acutely observed, and so well-written. I was completely diverted and entertained.’
—Marian Keyes, author of Sushi for Beginners
‘Surprising, satisfying.’
—Jennifer Belle, author of Going Down
THE MAKING OF MINTY MALONE
‘Minty’s workplace…and home life prove to be fertile settings for the author’s unwavering sense of humor and offhand wit.’
—Publishers Weekly
‘The author has plenty of energy, a neat turn of phrase and a sense of the ridiculous.’
—Telegraph
OUT OF THE BLUE
‘Wolff keeps readers guessing until the very end in this sweet, funny romance.’
—Booklist
‘Tackles love in a long-term relationship in a generous and delightfully comic fashion.’
—Hello
Rescuing Rose
Isabel Wolff
For Eleana Haworth, agony aunt
and
Matthew Wolff, agony uncle
with love
‘Do You Really Want To Hurt Me’ Words and music by George O’Dowd, Jon Moss, Michael Craig and Roy Hay © 1982. Reproduced by permission of EMI Virgin Music Ltd, London WC2H 0QY
‘I Believe I Can Fly’ Words and music by R.Kelly © Copyright 1997 Zomba Songs Incorporated, USA. Zomba Music Publishers Limited, 165-167 High Road, London NW10. Used by permission of Music Sales Ltd. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.
‘Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye’ Words and music by Cole Porter © 1944 Buxton Hill Music Corp, USA, Warner/ Chappell Music Ltd, London W6 8BS. Reproduced by permission of International Music Publications Ltd (for World excl. U.S. rights). All Rights Reserved.
‘White Christmas’ Words and music by Irving Berlin © 1940, 1942 (renewed) Irving Berlin Music Corp, USA, Warner/Chappell Music Ltd, London W6 8BS. Reproduced by permission of International Music Publications Ltd (for World excl. U.S. rights). All Rights Reserved.
‘Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas’ Words and music by Ralph Blane and Hugh Martin © 1944 EMI Catalogue Partnership, EMI Feist Catalog Inc and EMI United Partnership Ltd, USA. Worldwide print rights controlled by Warner Bros Publications Inc/IMP Ltd. Reproduced by permission of International Music Publications Ltd (for World rights). All Rights Reserved.
‘Swinging On A Star’ Words by Johnny Burke, music by Jimmy Van Heusen © 1944 Burke & Van Heusen Inc USA, Chappell Morris Ltd, London W6 8BS. Reproduced by permission of International Music Publications Ltd (for World rights). All Rights Reserved.
‘I Only Have Eyes For You’ Words by Al Dubin, music by Harry Warren © 1934 Remick Music Corp, USA, Warner/ Chappell Music Ltd, London W6 8BS. Reproduced by permission of International Music Publications Ltd (for World excl. U.S. rights). All Rights Reserved.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am indebted as ever to my agent Clare Conville, and to my editor Rachel Hore. I am also very grateful to the agony aunts who gave me such wonderful advice, especially Virginia Ironside, whose excellent book, Problems! Problems! was a very helpful resource; Irma Kurtz, Kate Saunders, Jane Butterworth, Suzie Hayman and Karen Krizanovich. Thanks too to Alan Greenhalgh and Hester Lacey. For her insights into adoption, I’d like to thank Sandra Webster of NORCAP; for information about spinal cord injury, Danny Anderson of the Back-Up Trust; for an understanding of twinship I’m indebted to Chantal and Belinda Latchford, and to Jonathan and Catherine Pollard. For educating me about astronomy I’d like to thank Jerry Workman, Simon Singh, Simon Batty, Andy Carroll and Doug Daniels of the Hampstead Observatory. I’m grateful to George Butler for telling me about tabloid newspapers, Jonathan Curtis for giving me the lowdown on human resources and Sarah Anticoni for information about divorce. For background on assistance dogs I’m indebted to Stephanie Pengelly and Frodo, Allen Parton and Endal, Caroline Scott of The Sunday Times, as well as the staff of Canine Partners for Independence and Dogs for the Disabled. I’m grateful once again to my parents, Paul and Ursula, and to Louise Clairmonte for their very helpful feedback and advice. At HarperCollins I’d like to thank Jennifer Parr for her hawk-eyed copyediting, as well as Nick Sayers, Lynne Drew, Fiona McIntosh, Sara Wikner, Esther Taylor, Jane Harris, Martin Palmer, James Prichard, Becky Glibbery, Maxine Hitchcock and Sara Walsh. Finally, special thanks to Greg, who helped me in so many ways.
Why did not somebody teach me
the constellations and make me at home
in the starry heavens which are always overhead
and which I don’t know to this day?
Thomas Carlyle
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Fear and bewilderment mingled in Ed’s soft brown eyes as we faced each other in the garden. I stared at him, vibrant with indignation, then slowly drew back my right arm.
‘Take that!’ I shouted as a Wedgwood Kutani Crane seven-inch tea plate went whizzing past his left ear and smashed into the garden wall. ‘And that!’ I yelled as he raised his hands to fend off first the matching saucer, then the cup. ‘You can have these too!’ I spat as I frisbeed three dinner plates in his direction. ‘And this!’ I bawled as the accompanying soup tureen flew through the air.
‘Rose!’ Ed shouted, dodging bits of projectile china. ‘Rose, stop this nonsense!’
‘No!’
‘What on earth do you hope to achieve?’
‘Emotional satisfaction,’ I spat. Ed successfully deflected the gravy boat and a couple of pudding bowls. I lobbed the milk jug at him and it shattered into shrapnel as it hit the path.
‘For God’s sake, Rose—this stuff’s bloody expensive!’
‘Yes!’ I said gaily. ‘I know!’ I picked up our wedding photo in its silver frame and flung that at him, hard. He ducked, and it hit the tree behind him, the glass splintering into shining shards. I stood there, breathless with exertion and raised adrenaline as he picked up the dented frame. In that picture we looked radiantly happy. It had been taken just seven months before.
‘It’s no-one’s fault,’ he said. ‘These things happen.’
‘Don’t give me that crap!’ I yelled.
‘But I was so unhappy, Rose. I was miserable. I couldn’t cope with coming second to your career.’
‘But my career matters to me,’ I said as I slashed the matrimonial duvet with my biggest Sabatier. ‘Anyway it’s not just a career, it’s a vocation. They need me, those people out there.’
‘But I needed you too,’ he whined as a cloud of goosedown swirled through the air. ‘I didn’t see why I had to compete with all those losers!’
‘Ed!’ I said, ‘that’s low!’
‘Desperate of Dagenham!’
‘Stop it!’
‘Betrayed of Barnsley.’
‘Don’t be mean!’
‘Agoraphobic of Aberystwyth.’
‘That’s so nasty.’
‘There was never any room for me!’
As
I gazed at Ed, the knife dropped to my side and I caught my breath, once again, at his looks. He was so utterly, ridiculously good-looking. The handsomest man I’d ever met. Sometimes he looked a little like Gregory Peck. Who was it he reminded me of now? Of course. Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life, all happy and covered in snow. Except it wasn’t snow on Ed’s shoulders but white feathers, and life wasn’t wonderful at all.
‘I’m sorry, Rose,’ he whispered as he spat out two tiny plumes. ‘It’s over. We’ve got to move on.’
‘Don’t you love me then?’I asked, tentatively, my heart banging like a Kodo drum.
‘I did love you, Rose,’ he said regretfully. ‘I really did. But…no, I don’t think I love you any more.’
‘You don’t love me?’ I echoed dismally. ‘Oh. Oh, I see. Well you have now hurt my feelings, Ed. You have really got to me. I am now very angry.’ I rummaged in my arsenal and found a Le Creuset frying pan. ‘And suppressed anger is bad for one’s health, so you’ll just have to take your punishment like a man.’
As I picked up the pan with both hands, horror registered on Ed’s handsome face.
‘Please, Rose. Don’t be silly.’
‘I’m perfectly serious,’ I said.
‘You’ve had your little game.’
‘It isn’t over. At least not yet.’
‘You’re not really going to hit me with that, are you?’ he pleaded as I advanced across the feather-strewn lawn. ‘Please, Rose,’ he wheezed. ‘Don’t.’ And now, as I moved towards him, smashed china crunching underfoot, his voice began to rise from its normal light tenor, to contralto, until it was a kind of odd, soprano whine. ‘Please, Rose,’ he whimpered. ‘Not with that. You could really hurt me, you know.’
‘Good!’
‘Rose, don’t. Stop it!’ he wailed, as he tried to protect himself with his hands. ‘Rose. ROSE!’ he screamed, as I lifted the pan aloft and prepared to bring it down, hard, on his head. ‘Rose!’ And now, from somewhere, I could hear banging, and shouting. ‘ROSE!’ Ed shrieked. ‘ROSE! ROSE!’
Suddenly I was sitting bolt upright in bed, heart pounding, eyes staring, my mouth as dry as dust. I was no longer in Ed’s garden in Putney, but in my new house in Camberwell.
‘ROSE!!’ I heard. ‘OPEN UP!!’
I staggered down the unfamiliar stairs, still shocked by the dream which churned in my brain like a thunder cloud.
‘Rose!’ exclaimed Bella as I opened the front door. ‘Rose, thank…’
‘…God!’ sighed Bea.
‘We’ve been banging for hours,’ Bella breathed looking stricken. ‘We thought you might have done something…’
‘…silly,’ concluded Bea. ‘You wouldn’t, would you?’ she went on anxiously. I looked at them. Would I? No.
‘I’d fallen asleep,’ I croaked. ‘Didn’t hear you. It’s knackering moving house.’
‘We know,’ they said, ‘so we’ve come to help you.’ They came in, then gave me a hug.
‘Are you okay, Rose?’ they enquired solicitously.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, wanting to cry.
‘Wow!’ gasped Bella as she surveyed the sitting room.
‘Blimey!’ said Bea. ‘What a mess.’
The room was crammed with cardboard packing cases, bisected by shiny black masking tape. They were stacked up like miniature skyscrapers, almost totally obscuring the floor. I’d paid good money for Shift It Kwik but now I regretted my choice, for far from putting the boxes in their designated rooms, they’d just dumped them then buggered off. ‘KITCH,’ said a box by the window. ‘BATH,’ announced the one by the stairs. ‘BED 1,’ said the two by the fireplace. ‘STUDY,’ declared the one by the door.
‘This is going to take you ages,’ said Bea, wonderingly.
‘Weeks,’ added Bella. I sighed. Bella and Bea’s gift for stating the screamingly obvious can drive me nuts. When I broke my arm ice-skating when I was twelve, all they said was, ‘Rose, you should have taken more care.’ When I failed my ‘A’ Levels they said, ‘Rose, you should have done more work.’ And when I got engaged to Ed, they said, ‘Rose, we think it’s too soon.’ That didn’t seem at all apparent to me then, but it sure as hell does now. Oh yes, Bella and Bea always state the obvious, but they have twenty-four-carat hearts.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Bella. ‘We’ll…’
‘…help you,’ concluded Bea. They’re like an old married couple in many ways. They finish each other’s sentences, for example, and they bicker a lot of the time. Like many an old married couple, they even look alike; but that’s not surprising—they’re identical twins.
‘Give us the guided tour,’ said Bella. ‘It’s quite big,’ she added. This was true. I’d gone looking for a large garden flat but had ended up with a three bedroomed house. The twins admired the size of the kitchen, but thought the bathroom was a bit small.
‘But for a single person it’s fine,’ said Bea helpfully. I winced. Single. Fuck. That was me.
‘Nice garden though!’ exclaimed Bella, changing the subject.
‘And it’s a sweet little street,’ added Bea. ‘It looks a bit scruffy,’ she remarked as we peered out of the landing window. ‘But friendly.’
‘Hope Street,’ I said with a bitter laugh.
‘Well,’ added Bella brightly, ‘we think it’s just…’
‘…lovely!’
‘It’s fine,’ I shrugged. ‘It’ll do.’ I thought with a pang of Ed’s elegant house in Putney with its walled garden and yellow drawing room. Moving into that had been exhausting too, but in a nice way as we’d got engaged just two weeks before. As I’d unpacked my stuff the future had seemed to stretch before us like a ribbon of clear motorway. But we’d hardly set off before we’d crashed and had to be ignominiously towed away. So now here I was, my marriage a write-off, upping sticks yet again.
Some women in my situation might have been tempted to move a little further afield—to Tasmania, say, or Mars, but though I was keen to put some distance between us I reckoned Camberwell was far enough. Plus it would be convenient for work and the area was still relatively cheap. So, a month ago, I dropped into a local estate agents and before I knew it, One Hope Street was mine.
‘It’s vacant for possession,’ said the negotiator with unctuous enthusiasm, ‘and it’s semi-detached.’ Just like me. ‘It’s been empty for a few months,’ she added, ‘but it’s in pretty good shape—all it really needs is a clean.’
When, ten minutes later I saw the house, I took to it at once. It had this indignant, slightly abandoned air; it exuded disappointment and regret. It was the first in a short terrace of flat fronted houses, and it had a semi-paved garden at the back.
‘I’ll take it,’ I said casually, as though I were spending twenty quid, not four hundred grand. So I inflated my income to the building society and exchanged in ten days flat. But then I’m the impatient type. I married very quickly, for example. I separated quickly as well. And it took me precisely two and a half weeks to buy and move into this house.
‘Can you afford it?’ asked Bella, tucking her short blonde hair behind one ear.
‘No,’ I said simply. ‘I can’t.’
‘Why did you get it then?’ demanded Bea, who can be overbearing.
‘It was an impulse buy.’
‘We’ll help you decorate,’ said Bella as she scissored open a packing case.
‘You can be our first client,’ said Bea.
‘Have you got a name yet?’ I asked.
‘Design at the Double!’ they chorused.
‘Hmm. That’s catchy,’ I said.
The twins have just given up their respective jobs to start an interior design company. Despite a conspicuous lack of experience they seem confident that it’ll work out.
‘All you need’s a few contacts, then it snowballs,’ Bea had said blithely when they first told me about their plans. ‘A nice mention in one of the glossies and we’ll soon be turning them away.’
‘You make it sound unfeasib
ly easy,’ I’d said.
‘But the market for it is huge. All those rich people,’ said Bella happily, ‘with big houses and horrible taste.’
‘We’ll get you things at cost,’ Bella offered as she unpacked some dinner plates. ‘I think you should definitely get a new bathroom suite…’
‘With a glass basin’ said Bea.
‘And a jacuzzi,’ Bella added.
‘And a hand-built kitchen of course.’
‘Yes, Poggenpohl,’ suggested Bella enthusiastically.
‘No, Smallbone of Devizes,’ said Bea.
‘Poggenpohl.’
‘No, Smallbone.’
‘You always contradict me.’
‘No I don’t!’
‘Look, I won’t be getting any of that fancy stuff,’ I interjected wearily. ‘I’m not going to have the cash.’
As the twins argued about the relative merits of expensive kitchens I opened boxes in the sitting room. Heart pounding, I gingerly unpacked the wedding photo I’d flung at Ed in my dream. We were standing on the steps of the Chelsea town hall in a blissful, confettied blur. Don’t think me conceited, but we looked bloody good together. Ed’s six foot three—a bit taller than me—with fine, dark hair which curls at the nape. He’s got these warm, melting brown eyes, while mine are green and my hair’s Titian red.
‘You’re my perfect red Rose,’ Ed had joked at the start—though he was soon moaning about my thorns. But it was so wonderful to begin with I reflected dismally as I put the photo, face down, in a drawer. Ours had been not so much a whirlwind romance as a tornado, but it had already blown itself out. I surveyed the trail of marital debris it had left in its wake. There were dozens of wedding presents, most—unlike our abbreviated marriage—still under guarantee. We’d decided to split them by simply keeping those from our respective friends; which meant that Ed got the Hawaiian barbecue while Rudolph came with me. Ed didn’t mind: he’d never really taken to Rudy who was given to us by the twins. We named him Rudolph Valentino because he’s so silent: he’s never uttered a word. Mynah birds are meant to be garrulous but ours has the conversational skills of a corpse.