by Isabel Wolff
‘I know. But I just…can’t get over it.’
‘And how long were you with him?’
‘Almost two years. He left me for our optician,’ she added plaintively. ‘I never saw it coming.’ Minty was struggling not to laugh. ‘I feel so depressed,’ she sniffed. ‘Every evening I sit at home feeling bitter: I just can’t…forget.’
‘Fran,’ I said, ‘this is easy to say, and hard to do, but you’ve got to try and move on.’
‘But I can’t because it’s made me feel…worthless. I blame myself.’
‘Fran, why do you blame yourself?’ There was a stunned silence.
‘I don’t know really—I just do.’
‘Fran,’ I said firmly, ‘please don’t. If you must blame anyone, then in these situations it’s much more healthy to blame others. First of all blame your ex—that’s a given—then blame the other woman of course. You may also wish to blame the government, Fate, bad karma or dodgy feng shui. If all else fails, blame global warming—but please don’t blame yourself, okay?’
‘Okay,’ she said with a reluctant giggle.
‘Can I come in here?’ said Minty. ‘Fran, I had a terrible break-up three years ago. I was actually jilted—on my wedding day.’
‘No!’ said Fran, appalled.
‘Yes. But do you know, it was the best thing that ever happened to me, because I met someone so much nicer, and I just know that you will too.’
‘Well, I hope so,’ she sniffed. ‘I’ve been so unhappy.’
‘Fran,’ I said, ‘that won’t last. Heartbreak is a curable condition. And remember that your ex is only your ex because he’s wrong for you otherwise you’d still be together, right? But it’s not easy getting over someone,’ I went on, thinking of Ed with a vicious stab. ‘So you need a strategy to help you recover. Now were there things about him you didn’t like?’
‘Oh yeah!’ she exclaimed. ‘Loads!’
‘Good. Then make a list of them, and when you’ve done it, ring your friends and read it to them, then ask them if you’ve left anything out. Get them to add their own negative comments, and ask your family as well. Then ask your next-door neighbours—on both sides—plus the people in the corner shop, then post the list up in a prominent place. Secondly, get off your bum! Get down to the gym, like I did, and take up kick-boxing or Tae-Bo. Kick the shit out of your instructor, Fran—believe me it’ll lift your mood. Because it’s only when you’re feeling happy and confident again, that the right man will come along.’
‘Okay,’ she sighed. ‘Yes. You’re right. Do you think I should contact some of my exes?’ she added. ‘One or two of them were quite keen.’
‘Should you contact your exes?’ I repeated slowly. ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘Do not.’
‘Oh. Why?’
‘Because one of the Ten Commandments of the Dumped Woman is, “Thou Shalt Not Phone Up Thy Old Boyfriends”.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, because they might have had a sex change, or they might be in jail, or bald, or dead. Worst of all, you might find they’re now happily married with two adorable kids! So no, don’t have anything to do with your old boyfriends, Fran—put all your energy into finding someone new!’
‘And on that positive note I’m afraid we must leave it there,’ said Minty as the hand on the studio clock juddered towards the twelve. ‘Thanks to everyone who’s called in, and do please join Rose and me again on Tuesday night for our regular phone-in—Sound Advice.’
As I pushed wearily on the heavy studio door I saw Wesley waving at me.
‘I’ve got a call for you, Rose.’
‘As long as it’s not that mad woman,’ I whispered, making frantic circling gestures by my head. Wesley clapped his hand over the mouthpiece.
‘No it’s not her. It’s a bloke.’
‘Hello?’ I said tentatively, nervously wondering if it was Ed.
‘Is that Rose?’
It wasn’t Ed.
‘It’s Henry here.’ Henry? Oh, Henry! My ex but three! ‘Heard your dulcet tones on the radio…brought back some very pleasant times…just come back from the Gulf…yes still in H.M.’s Armed Forces…got a desk job at the M.o. D…absolutely love to see you…how about dinner next week?’
Well why not? I thought, as I put the phone down with a grin. True, Henry had never really lit my fire. He was the human equivalent of a lava lamp—very attractive but not that bright. But on the other hand he’s harmless, generous, extremely good-natured and after what I’ve been through I fancy a date. I mean, where’s the harm in having dinner tête-à-tête with an old flame? And yes, I know what I said to that caller, but the point is that I’m sure Henry’s been to some very interesting places in the last three years, plus I’m keen to find out what he has to say about the role of women in the armed forces, not to mention the proposed European Rapid Reaction Defence Force and its likely effect on Britain’s relationship with NATO. So I fixed to see him the following Friday, November the tenth, which was also the night Theo was due to move in.
Theo had told me he’d be arriving at around half past six. And I was just trying to tame my hair at ten to when the doorbell rang. I opened my bedroom window, to check it wasn’t the Jehovah’s Witnesses again and as I did so a late firework suddenly exploded with a mighty BOOOOOMMMMM!!! spangling the night with stars. ‘Ooooohhh,’ I heard myself breathe, like a child, then I looked below. Standing there, looking up, was Theo with so much baggage my tiny garden resembled an airport carousel.
‘You’re early,’ I said accusingly as I opened the door.
‘Yes, er, sorry,’ he said.
‘And you’ve got a lot of stuff.’
‘I…know. But don’t worry, it’ll all go in my room. Most of it’s books,’ he explained. As I watched him trundling up and down the stairs with it all I noticed one very odd-looking, long black case. What on earth was in it I wondered—a musical instrument? God forbid. And now I wished I’d asked if he was going to be tooting away on a clarinet half the night or blasting me out with a trombone; and I shivered with apprehension at the thought that I was letting this total stranger into my house. But I needed the cash I reminded myself firmly, and his references had been fine. His boss at Compu-Force had assured me that far from being a convicted axe-murderer, Theo was a ‘nice, reliable chap. He’s had a hard time recently,’ he’d added enigmatically: I’d wondered, but hadn’t enquired. All I needed to know was that he wouldn’t kill me, bore me, evangelise me, steal from me, hold orgies or write rubber cheques…
‘I’m just on my way out,’ I said, as I grabbed my bag and handed him his set of keys. ‘I’ve got to be in Fulham by eight.’
‘But it’s only six-fifteen.’
‘I…know,’ I said, irritated by his rather forthright and frankly impertinent intervention, ‘but I, um, always allow myself lots of time.’
‘Well, enjoy yourself,’ he added affably. Then he added, ‘You look very nice.’
‘Do I?’ I said wonderingly. It was ages since anyone had said that to me.
‘Yes. Especially your hair. It’s really, erm…’ he began rotating both index fingers next to his head by way of illustration.
‘Curly?’ I suggested.
‘Mad.’
‘Oh. Well…thanks very much.’
‘I mean, the way it sort of jumps out of your head.’
‘I see.’
‘I meant it nicely,’ he said.
‘Glad to hear it.’ I was so frosty, I could see my own breath. ‘Now,’ I said, handing him five pages of typed A4, ‘this is a little list of dos and don’ts about the house, just in case you’ve forgotten what I told you last week.’
‘Thanks,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Do I get a gold star for good behaviour?’ he added with a grin.
‘No,’ I said icily. ‘You don’t.’ But I was tempted to tell him that he was well on his way to picking up his first black mark. ‘Anyway, make yourself at home,’ I added grudgingly as I picked up my bag.
‘Thanks very much. I�
�ll…try.’
‘And if you’re not sure about anything, just call me on my mobile…here,’ I gave him my card. As I slung on my caramel suede jacket and stepped outside, Theo followed me out to pick up more things. KER-ACKKKK!! Another rocket exploded above us—BOOM! RACK-A-TACK!!! BOOOOOOOM!!! Each detonation illuminated the short terrace for an instant then the houses were plunged into a Stygian dark.
‘The street lighting’s useless,’ I warned him as I fished out my car keys, ‘so be careful.’
‘Yes, I’ve noticed. It’s really bad.’
‘In fact I intend to complain to the council about it,’ I said vehemently.
‘Oh no!’ he exclaimed. ‘Please don’t. Well, have a good evening,’ he added pleasantly, then he picked up a box and went inside.
As I turned the ignition on my old Polo I stared at Theo’s retreating back and pondered that bizarre exchange.Why didn’t he want me to get the council to do something about the shoddy street lights? How weird… I wondered whether I hadn’t made a dreadful error of judgement as I released the brake and set off. ‘Do I get a gold star for good behaviour?’I ask you! What a nerve. And that rude remark of his about my hair. My hair has been described in many ways—‘pre-Raphaelite’ mainly, but also ‘tumbling,’ ‘lustrously curly,’ ‘corkscrewing,’ even ‘frizzy,’ but never has it earned the epithet, ‘mad’. I mean, really! How gauche can you get! And that sinister-looking black case—what the hell was in it? Maybe it wasn’t a musical instrument, maybe it was a Samurai sword? And now, as I waited at a red light, I had a sudden vision of myself being found dead in bed dripping blood like a colander—I’d probably be front page news. ‘AGONY AUNT DEAD IN BED!’; ‘HORROR OF AGONY AUNT!’; no—‘AGONY OF AGONY AUNT!’ was better or ‘DEATH OF AN AGONY AUNT!’; ‘AGONY AUNT SLAIN!’ was good if a tad melodramatic, or maybe, ‘HORROR IN SE5!’ The Daily Post, of course, would go to town. R.Soul, grateful for such a big story, would probably do the honours with the headline himself. He was good at those. It was, after all, Ricky who had penned the legendary, ‘HEADLESS BODY FOUND IN TOPLESS BAR!’
As the car moved forward again I worried in case my murder didn’t make the front page: my split with Ed only made page five. I idly wondered whether it would be on national TV—it probably would. I’d get, say, two minutes on News at Ten and at least, ooh, a minute on Radio Four? As I drove down Kennington Road I pondered whether I’d be obituarised in the national press. They’d no doubt print my by-line photo—it’s quite flattering actually—but what would the piece say? They’d probably get some other agony aunt to write it—oh God!—not Citronella Pratt! Not her—please, please not her—I could imagine what she’d write. ‘Rose Costelloe showed some promise as an agony aunt,’ damning me with faint praise. ‘How very sad and tragic that we will now never know whether that promise could have been fulfilled.’ I made a mental note to phone all the Obits editors first thing and tell them to ring the twins if I croaked.
Then, feeling more relaxed, I visualised my funeral which would be a very sad but dignified affair. On my coffin would be a huge spray of white lilies—no, not lilies, roses of course, like my name, obviously—red ones to match my hair. The twins would be chief mourners: I was confident they’d do it well. Now, as I waited at a traffic light, I imagined them in black, tears streaming down their lovely faces, clutching each other’s hands. There’d be a huge photo of me leaning against the altar, and probably, what—a hundred people or so? More if some of my readers came. A lot more. That might bump it up to at least, ooh, three or four hundred—maybe even five. I could hear them all reminiscing about me in respectful, hushed tones as the organ played.
‘—Can’t believe it! So tragic!’
‘—She was so beautiful and kind.’
‘—That gorgeous figure of hers.’
‘—She could wear anything.’
‘—Even slim-fitting trousers.’
‘—Yes—and her advice was great.’
I imagined Ed, arriving late, looking distraught. Mary-Claire had tried to prevent him from going, but he’d thrust her to one side.
‘No!’ he’d screamed. ‘Nothing will stop me! And by the way, Mary-Claire—you’re dumped!’ And because the church was so full—I liked Trev’s black ribbon in his collar, nice touch—Ed had had to stand at the back. Now, no longer able to control himself, he was incontinent with grief. And as he wept openly and loudly, heads were turning, my friends (and readers) torn between contempt for his treatment of me during my life, and pity for his distress at my death.
‘It’s all my fault!’ he was blubbing as they sung ‘Abide With Me’. ‘If I hadn’t betrayed her this would never have happened. I’ll always blame myself!’ Gratified by this confession, I now saw everyone at my grave, Ed still blubbing like a baby as he threw in the final clod.
‘—God look at him—he’s gone to pieces!’
‘—He’ll never get over it.’
‘—He didn’t deserve her.’
‘—He didn’t appreciate her.’
‘—C’ mon on, Ed, it’s time to go.’
Now I imagined everyone leaving, and the south London cemetery lonely and dark; and I realised that the only reason I was there was because I’d let that weirdo, Theo Sheen, into my house. I was feeling pretty appalled by now and thinking that yes, I’d taken a huge and very stupid risk and for what—a bit of cash?—when suddenly my mobile rang.
‘Rose?’ I heard as I slipped in my earpiece.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Theo here.’ Aaarrrggh! ‘I just wondered if you’ll be coming back tonight?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I wasn’t sure what to do about the front door, that’s all.’
‘What about it?’
‘Should I put the chain on?’ Oh. ‘I know that Camberwell can be a bit dodgy on the burglary front. So I just wanted to know whether I should put the chain on when I go to bed, that’s all.’
‘No,’ I said, exhaling with relief. ‘Don’t bother. I’ll be back by twelve.’
‘Right then,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Anyway, have a nice evening. Bye.’
I heaved a sigh of relief as I rang off, but then Suspicion raised its ugly head again. And I thought maybe, reading between the lines here, he’s just trying to find out whether or not I have a bloke. Yes…the enquiry about the security chain is just a front. A red herring. Maybe he is a homicidal weirdo after all…
PARP! PARP!! PARP!!!
‘All right!’ I yelled into my mirror as I moved off the green light. I pulled myself together and banished Theo from my mind as I negotiated the fume-filled roads. I skirted Brixton then drove towards Clapham, passing my old flat in Meteor Street. As I spotted a sign for Putney I felt my pulse begin to race. It was ten to seven—over an hour until I had to meet Henry, so I still had plenty of time. To calm my nerves I turned on the radio and found myself listening to a phone-in on LBC. I recognised the voice: it was Lana McCord, the new agony aunt on Moi! magazine.
‘We’re discussing relationship breakdown,’ she said. ‘And now we have Betsey on line five. Betsey, you’re a divorcée I understand.’
‘Yes, but I’d rather be a widow!’ she spat. ‘Bereavement would be preferable to betrayal.’ I know how she feels. ‘I’m so angry,’ she went on tearfully. She’d clearly been drinking. ‘I gave him the best years of my life.’
‘Betsey,’ said Lana gently. ‘How old are you?’
‘Forty-one.’
‘Then you’ve still got a lot of life left. So why spend it being bitter?’ she went on. Exactly! ‘Do you enjoy your negative thoughts?’ Quite. ‘Do they contribute to your happiness?’ Of course not. ‘Do they move you forward in any way?’ Good point!
‘I just can’t deal with this blow to my self-esteem,’ croaked Betsey.
‘What positive steps have you taken?’ asked Lana McCord.
‘Well, I went out with someone, on the rebound, but that didn’t work.’Surprise surprise! ‘I’ve seen
one or two old boyfriends.’ Hopeless! What a twit! ‘But I loved my husband and I just can’t get him out of my mind. What really gets me is the thought of him with her,’ she went on, in a drink-sodden drawl. ‘The thought of them having—uh-uh—you know, just makes me feel ill.’
‘So why torment yourself with that unpleasant thought?’ Bullseye!
‘Because I can’t stop myself from doing it—that’s why. I do these awful things,’ she confided with a wet sniff as I drove down Putney High Street.
‘What sort of things?’ said Lana.
‘I ring him then I hang up.’ Sad! ‘I drive past his flat as well.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Lana with a sigh. And now, my heart beating like a tom-tom, I drove slowly down Chelverton Road.
‘In fact I’ve driven past it so often I’ve worn a groove in the tarmac—but I just can’t help it,’ she wailed.
You are one very sad bunny, Betsey, I thought to myself as I turned left into Blenheim Road. Seventeen, twenty-five, thirty-one—mustn’t let him spot me: then there it was. Number thirty-seven. Ed’s navy company Beemer was parked outside. Blackness filled my chest as I pulled into a space opposite and a little to the right, away from the tangerine glare of the lamp. Then I switched off my lights, turned up my collar, and sunk down into my seat. The downstairs curtains were drawn but a wedge of light shone through a chink at the top. Ed was at home. My husband. He was on the other side of that wall. And now I wondered with a crashing sensation in the pit of my stomach, if she was there as well. Perhaps she was standing at the Aga, cooking supper. I imagined sneaking up behind her and bashing her over the head, then chopping her into tiny pieces, mixing her with Kitty-Bics and feeding her to next door’s cat. I was interrupted from this pleasant reverie by a light going on in Ed’s room.
‘Your behaviour is very destructive,’ I heard Lana say. Yes it is, I thought. ‘Not only are you not trying to recover from this, you seem determined to pour acid in the wound.’True. ‘I mean, why do you want to torture yourself? Why?’
‘Why?’ I whispered as Ed’s face suddenly loomed up at the window.
‘Yes. Tell me. Why?’