by Isabel Wolff
‘KICK it! And PUNCH it! And KICK it! And BLOCK it!’ shouted our instructor, ‘Stormin’ Norman’. ‘KICK it! And PUNCH it! And KICK it—and KICK it!! C’ mon girls!’ As I pounded the punchbag in the mirrored studio I imagined that it was Ed. And now I visualised myself breaking down his front door with a single blow of my foot, and booting Mary-Claire Grey to Battersea. Were it not for that manipulative little Madam, Ed and I would still be married and I would not now be contemplating having to share my house with some stranger whom I’d probably hate.
‘You’re real good, Rose!’ said Norman appreciatively when the class came to an end. I wiped the sweat out of eyes with my wristband. ‘Done it before?’
‘Just a couple of times.’
‘Well, take it from me, girl—you’ve got a kick that could break a bank door.’
Glowing from this compliment I showered and changed and was just leaving the club when I stopped in front of the noticeboard, my eye suddenly drawn to a hand-written card:
WANTED: Single room in house-share in SE5 for very quiet, studious male. Up to £400 p.c.m.
Privacy essential. Please ring Theo on 07711 522106.
I scribbled down the number, phoned it, and arranged that Theo would come round at seven the following night. At five to the bell rang and I opened the door. To my surprise there were two well-dressed young men standing there. Theo had clearly decided to bring a friend.
‘Good evening, Madam,’ said one of the men politely, holding out a pamphlet. ‘Have you heard the Good News?’ I gave them a frigid stare. I don’t mind being canvassed for my political views or being asked to buy dusters from homeless men. I have no objections to kids with sponsorship forms or fund-raisers rattling their cans. I’ll submit to the interrogations of market researchers, and I’m a good sport about ‘Trick or Treat’. But I absolutely hate finding Jehovah’s Witnesses on the doorstep—it can really ruin my day.
‘Have you heard the Good News?’ the man repeated.
‘Sorry, I’m a Buddhist,’ I lied.
‘But we would like you to be filled with the knowledge of Jehovah’s glory.’
‘Thanks but no thanks. Goodbye.’
‘But it will only take five minutes of your time.’
‘No it won’t.’ I shut the door. Ten seconds later, the bell rang again.
‘May we come back another time and share God’s glorious Kingdom with you?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You may not.’ I was tempted to explain that I’d had enough religion rammed down my throat to convert half the world’s godless but decided to bite my tongue. ‘Goodbye,’ I said pointedly, then closed the door and was half-way down the hall when…ddrrrnnngggg!! For crying out loud!
‘Look, I said “no, ” so will you kindly piss off!’ I hissed through the crack. ‘Oh.’ Standing there was an anxious-looking young man of about twenty-five. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said sliding back the chain. ‘I thought you were the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Can’t stand them.’
‘No, I’m…Theo.’
‘Of course.’ He was about five foot eleven, with blond hair cut close to the head; a strong, straight nose, and blue eyes which were half obscured by a pair of steel-rimmed glasses. He looked like the Milky Bar kid. He seemed a bit shy as he stepped inside but was at least quite tidily dressed; and as he extended his hand I noticed with satisfaction that his nails were neat and clean. As I showed him round I noticed his slight northern accent, although I couldn’t quite place it. He explained that he was an accountant working for a small computer firm in Soho and that he needed somewhere straight away.
‘Where are you living now?’ I asked him as I showed him the sitting room.
‘Just off Camberwell Grove. With a friend. He’s been very kind and he’s got a big flat but I feel I should find my own place. This is grand,’ he said politely as we went upstairs. Grand? Hardly. ‘Have you lived here long?’
‘Just a month.’ He liked the room, which is large, with striped lemon wallpaper, sloping eves, Dad’s old cupboard and a small double bed.
‘It’s grand,’ he said again, nodding affably. And I realised that it was simply his word for ‘nice’. ‘I like the aspect,’ he added as he looked out of the window.
‘Are you from Manchester?’ I enquired with polite inquisitiveness.
‘Nope, other side of the Pennines—Leeds.’
As we went downstairs I decided that he was nice and polite and terribly boring and would probably do perfectly well.
‘So are you interested?’ I asked him as I made him a cup of coffee.
‘Well…yes,’ he said, glancing at Rudy, who was mercifully asleep.
‘In that case let’s cut to the chase. I am a very, very busy person,’ I explained, ‘and I’m looking for a quiet life. If you move in I guarantee that I will leave you alone and not bother you in any way providing that you don’t bother me—okay?’
He nodded nervously.
‘Right,’ I said whipping out my list. ‘Do you have any of the following unpleasant, anti-social and potentially hazardous habits? Do you a) smoke? b) take drugs? c) leave dirty dishes in the sink? d) fail to clean the bath? e) spatter toothpaste all over the basin? f) have a problem with birds? g) play loud music? h) nick other people’s milk? i) nick other people’s eggs/bread/stamps? j) leave the seat up? k) leave the iron on? l) leave candles burning unattended? and m) forget to lock the front door?’
‘Er, no, no…no,’ he paused for a moment. ‘No. No, no… Sorry, what was g) again?’ I told him. ‘That’s no too. Er…no, no. Nope, no…no and, um…no.’
‘Good. And do you have a mobile phone because I don’t want to share my land line?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you watch much TV?’
He shook his head. ‘Just the odd science programme, and the news. But in the evenings I write—that’s why I’ve been looking for somewhere quiet.’
‘I see. And finally, sorry to mention it, but I really don’t want women staying here. I mean, girlfriends.’
He seemed taken aback. ‘Girlfriends?’ he repeated. ‘Oh no.’ He drew in his breath, and grimaced. ‘That won’t be a problem. That won’t be a problem at all.’
‘Well in that case that’s all absolutely fine. I’m now very pleased to tell you that—subject to satisfactory references of course—I’ve decided you can have the room.’
‘Oh. That’s a bit quick,’ he said. ‘Don’t you want to think about it?’
‘I already have.’
‘I see…’
‘I make fast decisions.’
‘Uh huh. Well…’
‘Do you want it or not?’ I interjected.
‘I’m not sure actually.’ Bloody cheek!
‘Why aren’t you sure?’ I persisted.
‘Well, because I’d like time to reflect, that’s all.’ Time to reflect? What a wimp! ‘I mean, I do like the room,’ he explained earnestly. ‘And your house is grand, but I didn’t think that I’d have to decide straight away.’
‘Well I’m afraid you do.’
‘Er, why?’
‘Because, as I’ve already explained, I’m extremely busy and I want to get it sorted out tonight.’
‘Oh.’ He seemed nonplussed. ‘I see.’ Suddenly the phone rang and I stood up. I thought I heard him sigh with relief.
‘That’s probably someone else ringing about the room,’ I said. ‘I’ve had so many calls.’ I went into the hall, shutting the door carefully behind me and picked up the handset.
‘Hello?’ I said. There was silence. ‘Hello?’ I tried again. ‘Hello?’ I repeated a little louder. Bad connection; but now I thought I detected a breath. ‘Hello,’ I said one final time, then I put the handset down. How weird. Probably a wrong number or a fault on the line.
‘I was right,’ I said airily as I went back into the kitchen. ‘That was someone else ringing about the room. I’ve had over twenty calls since the ad went in. Anyway, where were we? Oh yes. You wanted to have a think about it. You didn’t see
m quite sure. So shall we leave it at that then?’ I added pleasantly.
‘Well…no. I…’
‘Look, Theo, I haven’t got all day. Do you want it, or don’t you? It’s a simple case of “Yes” or “No”.’ Theo looked at me for a few seconds, and blinked. Then he suddenly smiled this odd, lopsided little smile.
‘Well, ye-es. I reckon I do.’
Chapter 4
‘This is London FM,’ announced Minty Malone, as I sat in the basement studio on City Road the following Tuesday. ‘Welcome back to Sound Advice, our twice-weekly late-night phone-in with the Post’s agony aunt, Rose Costelloe. Do you have a problem? Then call 0200 222222 and Ask Rose.’
It was five past eleven and we’d already been on air for an hour. We’d heard from Melissa who was wondering whether to become Catholic, and Denise who was going bald and Neil who couldn’t get a girlfriend and James who thought he was gay; then there was Josh, a jockey with mounting debts and Tom who hated his dad, and Sally who was having a nervous breakdown—the usual stuff. On the computer screen in front of me the names of the waiting callers winked and flashed.
‘And on line one,’ said Minty, ‘we have Bob from Dulwich.’
‘Hi, Bob,’ I said. ‘How can I help?’
‘Well, Rose,’ he began hesitantly, as I scribbled on my pad, ‘I’m quite a, well, yeah, big bloke really…’Hmm…another fatso with low self-esteem. ‘And I get my leg pulled about it at work.’
‘I see.’
‘Anyway, there’s this girl there who’s a real knockout and I think she likes me as she’s always nice. But my problem is that every time I get up the nerve to ask her out she makes some excuse.’
‘Bob, you say you’re a big bloke—how much do you weigh?’
‘About…’—I could hear the air being sucked through his teeth—‘…seventeen stone.’
‘And how tall are you?’
‘Five foot ten.’
‘Then you’re just going to have to lose the lard! Sorry to be brutal, Bob, but it’s true. I know you’d like me to say that this girl will fall in love with your great personality, but I think your great person is going to get in the way, and frankly, I think the only reason she’s being so nice is because she feels sorry for you. Bob, take it from me, no self-respecting woman—let alone a “knockout”—is going to go out with a Sumo-sized bloke. The number for Weight Watchers is…’ I glanced at my handbook, ‘…0845 712 3000 and I want you to ring it first thing. Do you promise me you’ll do that?’ I heard a deep sigh.
‘Yeah, okay, Rose. I will.’
‘And Bob I want you to ring in again a month from today and tell everyone that you’ve lost your first stone.’
‘Okay, Rose, yeah. You’re right.’
‘Well done, Bob,’ said Minty, ‘and now we have Martine, on line three.’
‘Go ahead, Martine,’ I said.
‘Well,’ she began in a trembly voice. ‘The reason I’m ringing is because, well, I’ve just been told I can’t have kids.’ A momentary silence followed: I could almost see the tears in her eyes.
‘Martine how old are you?’
‘Thirty-two.’
‘And have you tried all avenues?’
‘Yes. But I had cancer when I was a teenager, you see, and because of that the doctors can’t help.’
‘Well I’d like to help you, Martine, so stay on the line. Is that what you want to talk about—the fact that you’ve had this bad news?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m beginning to accept that. The thing is I’d like to adopt but my husband’s not keen.’
‘Does he say why?’
‘It’s because he was adopted, and he had problems so he’s afraid that any kids we adopted would too.’
‘But so might any children that you had naturally. They could fall ill—God forbid—or they could fail at school or drop out. Life’s fraught with difficulties and you can’t not go ahead with something which could make you happy out of fear that it might go wrong.’
‘I know,’ she said in a trembling voice. ‘I’ve told my husband that.’
‘And you sound like a lovely person, Martine, so I’m sure you’d be a really great mum.’ There was a tiny sob. Oh God, I shouldn’t have said that. I could hear a Niagara of tears start to fall.
‘Well…I think I would,’ she wept,‘but my husband seems set against adopting, but now I know it’s my only chance.’ I glanced at Minty, who’s three months pregnant. There was compassion all over her face.
‘Martine, do you have a good relationship with your husband?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘In most ways I do.’
‘And when did this issue first come up?’
‘A month ago. We hadn’t really talked about it before, because we thought I might still be okay. But then I got the final results from the hospital which told me that my chances of conceiving are nil.’
‘Then give your husband a little more time. He needs to think about it—and men like to come round to things in their own way. So my advice is don’t panic, and don’t put any pressure on him as that could easily backfire. But I do think you should both talk to someone at NORCAP, the National Organisation for Counselling Adoptees and Parents: their number is’—I flicked through my handbook—‘01865 875000. Will you call them, Martine?’
‘Yes,’ she sniffed. ‘Okay.’
‘The line may be busy because this is National Adoption Week, but leave your number and they’ll ring you back. And Martine, I don’t mind telling you that I was adopted and I was absolutely fine. I’ve never had any problems, I had a really great childhood, and I’m sure that your kids will too.’
‘Oh thanks, Rose,’ she whispered. ‘I do hope so.’ And I was just going to go to the next caller, when I heard her say, ‘but I think the reason why my husband feels so negative about adoption is because he’s never traced his real mum.’
‘Oh…’
‘He still seems so angry with her for giving him up—it’s like a festering wound. He rarely talks about it, but I think that’s what’s really bothering him and the issue of our adopting has brought it all up.’
‘I see, well, look…thanks for calling in, Martine, and I, er…wish you the very best of luck. And now we go to Pam on line five. What’s your problem, Pam?’
‘Well, my problem is that I’m in my thirties, I’m single and as a freelance graphic designer, I work from home.’
‘Ye-es.’
‘But recently I’ve got to know my postman quite well…’
‘Uh huh.’
‘And I really fancy him.’
‘I see.’
‘I even get up early to make sure I catch a glimpse of him.’
‘That must be tiring.’
‘Oh it is. I’ve also taken to sending myself parcels so that he has to knock on the door. I’m totally smitten,’ she added.
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘He’s married—at least I think he is. He wears a ring on his left hand, put it that way.’
‘Yup. He’s married,’ I said.
‘But he’s absolutely gorgeous, Rose; I’ve never felt this way before. What should I do?’
‘Well, honey, I think you should get real. I’m sure this macho mailman is very dashing but my advice is to stamp him “Return to Sender” and try and get out a bit more. And now Kathy on line three. What’s the problem, Kathy?’
‘The problem, Rose, is that my husband has left me!’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Well I don’t know why you’re sorry, as it was you who told him to!’
‘What?’
‘A couple of weeks ago my husband wrote to you at the Daily Post and you told him to get divorced.’
‘I’m sorry, but I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘You told him to leave me. He hid the letter, but I found it. It was you. His name’s John.’ Oh God, now I remembered—it was the adulterous husband-basher. ‘I mean, who the hell are
you, Rose, to tell other people how to live their lives?’
‘I don’t. People simply run their problems by me; I listen, and I give them advice.’
‘Well you give them crap advice! I mean, what the hell are you doing telling men to leave their wives you, you…marriage breaker!’ I looked at Minty, she was rolling her eyes and shaking her head.
‘Kathy,’ I said, feeling my heart rate rev, ‘I did not tell your husband to leave. And from what I remember of his letter I think he’d already decided what he wanted to do.’
‘But you helped him make up his mind. He’s a spineless sort of bloke so if you hadn’t written to him, putting it in black and white like that, then he would never have had the guts.’
‘I’m not at all sure that that’s true. And in any case if he’s really as “spineless” as you say, then why do you want to stay married to him?’
‘Because he’s my husband—that’s why! But now he’s left me because of you—you, you…baggage!’ By now my face was aflame.
‘Kathy, if you speak to him like you’re speaking to me I’m amazed he didn’t leave you years ago!’
‘You’re a wicked, wicked woman!’ she retorted.
‘And now on line three we have Fran,’ Minty interjected as she made slashing gestures across her throat to the producer, Wesley, on the other side of the glass. ‘Hello, Fran.’
‘Hello, Minty.’
‘You are a fucking marriage breaker Rose Costelloe…’ why didn’t Wesley just get rid of her? ‘…and you’re going to be SORRY for this!’ Oh! Minty’s face registered alarm at the threat but I just rolled my eyes and shrugged.
‘Hello, Fran,’ I said with a large sip of hospitality Frascati. ‘And what’s your problem?’
‘Well,’ she croaked, ‘I’ve been dumped.’
‘When?’
‘Six months ago.’
‘That’s quite a while.’