by Isabel Wolff
‘I don’t know,’ I wept, as he threw wide his arms and shut the curtains. ‘Oh God, oh God, I don’t know.’
Actually, I do know. You see, what I was doing was quite different from what that sad woman on the phone-in was doing. She was obsessing about her husband—poor thing—whereas I was actively trying to get over mine by laying a ghost. Because I thought that if I could just sit outside his house, and feel absolutely nothing, then that would help me move on. So I did. Okay, I cried at first, but then I dried my eyes and I sat there for—ooh, not that long, maybe half an hour or so—just watching as though I were a twitcher and the house some exotic bird.
‘I can do this,’ I told myself. ‘Yes, Ed’s there, and I’m still married to him, and yes, I was besotted with him, but the fact is I’m in control.’ Remembering some tips from the Breathe Away Your Stress book I shut my eyes and inhaled through my nose. As I exhaled, counting slowly to ten, I could feel my heart rate slow, and my eyes were still closed when I heard the throaty chug of an approaching cab. And I expected to hear it go past me, but instead I heard the squeal of its brakes. I opened my eyes. It had stopped right outside Ed’s house, and now the door was clicking open like the wing of a shiny black beetle, and Mary-Claire Grey stepped out. She paid the driver, then tottered up to Ed’s front door, her stilettos clacking up the path like sniper fire. And I was waiting, stomach churning, for her to lift her hand to the brass bell and ring it, when instead she opened her bag, took out a bunch of keys then proceeded to unlock the door. The bitch! She was letting herself into Ed’s house—my marital home—for all the world as though she lived there! Which she quite clearly did.
‘She’s moved in,’ I breathed, outraged, as the door closed behind her. ‘She’s known him three months and she’s already moved in.’ Ignoring the small voice telling me that I had moved in with Ed after only one month, I started the car and pulled out of the space, hands trembling like winter leaves. I was so distressed I almost pranged the car in front, then with a sickening, tightening sensation around my sternum, I drove away. Dizzy now with a blend of misery, panic and nausea I sped off to meet Henry at Ghillie’s on the New Kings Road.
‘Rose!’ he exclaimed, as I was shown to his table at the back. Still feeling sick and wobbly I allowed myself to be enveloped in one of Henry’s familiar, bone-crushing hugs. ‘It’s great to see you again,’ he said planting a trademark fat kiss on my cheek. ‘You’re a major media star these days!’ I began to feel better.
‘And you’re a Major—full stop!’
‘About bloody time!’ he laughed. ‘But then I always was a late developer,’ he added with a good-natured smile.
Now, as I had my one glass of champagne, my stress levels plummeted from their Himalayan heights and began to stroll calmly around at Base Camp. So what if Mary-Claire was living with Ed? It didn’t make any difference to me. In fact it’ll make it easier for me to get over him I thought, knowing that he’s moved on so fast. I’m not bothered about Ed, I said to myself. Ed’s over. The credits on our marriage have rolled. As things turned out, it wasn’t the major motion picture it was meant to be—it was only a short.
As Henry chatted away to me I gazed at his handsome face. His sandy hair was retreating a little, but he looked much the same as before. The lids above the forget-me-not-blue eyes were a tiny bit crinklier and there were two parallel lines etched on his brow. He’d put on a little weight since I’d last seen him, and there was an incipient jowl beneath his square jaw. But he looked so attractively manly in his sports jacket, smart cords and polished brogues.
Henry and I had met at a barbecue in Fulham five years before. We were involved for a while, but it didn’t go anywhere—well, he was always away. Which, funnily enough, was exactly the same problem I’d had with my previous boyfriend, Tom. He was a pilot with British Airways flying the Australian route; we’d had a few nice stopovers here and there but otherwise things didn’t really take off. Anyway, Henry was posted to Cyprus for a year, then Belize, then Gibraltar, so our affair soon fizzled out. But we’d remained in touch intermittently and I’d retained a soft spot for him the size of a swamp. It was two years since I’d last seen him and as we ate we reminisced about old times.
‘Do you remember the fun we had re-enacting famous battles with your old Action Men?’ I asked fondly.
‘With you doing the explosions!’
‘Playing Warships in bed.’
‘You always beat me.’
‘Making Lego tanks.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Watching reruns of Colditz.’
‘And The World At War.’
‘We had fun didn’t we?’
‘Ra-ther.’
He told me about the NATO manoeuvres he’d been on, the Balkan skirmishes—‘Fabulous stuff!’ His stint with the U.N. Peacekeeping force in Bosnia—‘bloody hairy!’; a recent tour of duty in the Gulf. Then I told him about my marital battles, and about Mary-Claire Grey; he squeezed my hand.
‘She’s moved in with him,’ I said dismally, feeling the shock of it all over again. ‘I’ve just found out. I can’t believe it, Henry. He’s only known her three months.’
‘That’s tough.’
‘Still, I guess it’ll make me a better agony aunt,’ I admitted grudgingly. ‘You know, been there—suffered that. And what about you?’ I asked as the waiter brought my lemon sole.
‘Well,’ he said, picking up his knife and fork. ‘I’m newly single too. I got dumped by my latest girlfriend.’ My ears pricked up. That was clearly why he’d wanted to see me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I lied.
‘Well, Venetia’s a super girl—but it didn’t work out.’
‘Wouldn’t she make the explosion noises?’
‘No,’ he laughed. ‘It wasn’t that. It was just that,’—he sighed, then pushed a piece of steak round his plate.
‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,’ I said quietly.
‘No, really, Rose, I do. I do want to tell you,’ he repeated sadly as I sipped my water.
‘So what happened?’
‘Well,’ he went on, awkwardly, ‘it was just that there was…’he exhaled painfully then drew the air through his teeth,‘…another woman.’ Oh. Now that didn’t sound like Henry at all—he’s never been a ladies’ man.
‘And Venetia found out?’
‘Yes. But it’s slightly complicated actually,’ he said, his face aflame. ‘In fact, Rose, do you mind, if I…well, if I pick your brains a bit? You see I’ve got this, um…well…problem, actually.’ My heart sagged like a sinking soufflé. That’s why he’d wanted to see me again—he just wanted to ask my advice.
‘I don’t want you to think I asked you out under false pretences,’ he said with a guilty smile, ‘but it’s just that I know I can trust you. I know that you won’t judge. And I was feeling so dreadfully low the other night, and I couldn’t sleep, so I switched on the radio and, to my amazement, there you were. And you were giving such good advice to all those people, so I decided that I’d ask you for some too.’ I looked at his open but anxious face, and my indignation melted like the dew.
‘Don’t worry, Henry,’ I murmured. ‘Of course I’ll help you. Just tell me what it’s about.’
‘Well,’ he tried again, with a profound sigh, ‘the other woman. You see…the other woman, as it were…’ he cleared his throat. ‘This other woman…’
‘Yes?’
He glanced anxiously to left and right to check we couldn’t be overheard. ‘Well,’ he whispered, running a nervous finger round his collar, ‘the other woman…is…erm…me.’
‘Sorry?’
Henry had flushed bright red, his face radiating a heat that could have melted Emmenthal. Now he discreetly pulled aside his speckled blue silk tie and undid a button on his striped shirt. Then he parted the fabric to reveal a square inch of black filigree lace. I stared at it in stupefaction. Henry? Never. Henry? No way! Henry? Not on your life! On the other hand, I suddenly remembe
red, cross-dressing is not uncommon amongst men in the forces, something which has always struck me as strange. The thought of all these big, macho, military types dolled up in frocks and high heels.
‘When did this…start?’ I enquired with professional curiosity, trying not to show I was shocked.
‘About a year ago,’ he replied. ‘I’d always been fascinated by women’s clothes,’ he admitted in a whisper, ‘in fact, when I was a boy, I used to “borrow” Mum’s petticoats. I suppressed it of course but then, as I got older, I got this unbearable…urge. I found I couldn’t get dressed without putting on a pair of lacy pants first. But then Venetia caught me going through her knicker drawer and went crazy: she said I must be gay, but I’m not.’
‘Of course you’re not gay,’ I said. ‘Ninety-five per cent of cross-dressers are totally straight and in fact most are married with kids.’
‘I know I’m definitely attracted to women,’ Henry went on, ‘always have been, but there are times when I simply want to be one. I can’t explain why. This strange compulsion grips me and I know I’ve just got to go and put on a dress. But it freaked Venetia out and she walked.’
‘Well some women are very understanding about it,’ I said. ‘It’s a common…’—I avoided saying, ‘problem’—‘…thing. You wouldn’t believe how many letters I get about it,’ I added casually.
‘Well I thought you’d have come across it before. You won’t tell anyone,’ he whispered.
‘No, I won’t.’
‘And you see, there’s no-one else I felt I could ask.’ I looked at Henry’s honest face, then dropped my gaze to his large, pawlike hand and tried to imagine Rouge Noir on the nails. Then I tried to visualise a string of pearls around his thick, sinewy neck. I opened my bag, took out a piece of paper and began scribbling on it.
‘What you want is the Beaumont Society—it’s a transvestites’ support group. I give the phone number out so often I know if off my heart. If you ring them, someone there will send you an information pack and you don’t have to give your real name. There’s also Transformation, a specialist place at Euston who’ll teach you how to stuff your bra, pad your bum, wear high heels—that sort of thing.’
‘But it’s the shopping,’ he said with a groan. ‘I mean, where can I get size eleven sling-backs? And what about make-up? I haven’t a clue. I can’t ask my mum or my sister as they’d go crazy.’
‘Well, if you like, I’ll come with you. We can go to a department store and pretend the things are for me. I’m as tall as you so it wouldn’t be unfeasible.’
‘Would you really do that for me?’ I gave him a smile.
‘Yes. Of course I would.’ Henry’s swimming pool blue eyes shimmered with speechless tears. ‘Thanks, Rose,’ he breathed. ‘You’re a brick.’
Chapter 5
The letters I get! Listen to this!
Dear Rose, I am on probation for arson, but my probation officer has changed and I’m starting to get itchy fingers again. I’d really like to set fire to something so I’m getting in lots of matches and petrol—please help!
Good God! I don’t like to go behind my readers’ backs—confidentiality is absolutely sacred—but sometimes it’s something I have to do. So I’ve just phoned up the woman’s social services and someone’s going to go round to see her right now. And how about this one—in green ink of course.
Dear Rose, I have messages from Martians coming through my bedroom radiators. But that’s not my main problem. The main problem is the volume which keeps me awake at night. I’ve asked them to keep it down, but they just won’t. How can I stop them disturbing my sleep in this way?
Dear Phyllis, I wrote, Thank you for your letter. How very annoying for you having noisy Martians in your radiators. But did you know that doctors have a very clever way of dealing with this problem these days, and I do suggest that you go and see your G.P. straight away. With best wishes, Rose.
Then here was a letter, sixty pages long, written on graph paper and signed, ‘King George’. The next three were from people with flatmate problems—all the usual stuff: He slobs in front of the TV all night…she never does the washing up…he’s always late with the rent…she has her friends round all the time… As I composed my replies I thought about my own flatmate, Theo. Despite my initial—and wholly justified—anxieties I’ve scarcely seen him—we’re like those proverbial ships that pass in the night. Sometimes I hear him pacing above me in the early hours because, since my split with Ed, I haven’t been sleeping well. Theo does go out sometimes in the evenings but, strangely, only when it’s dry—not when it’s wet. It’s all a bit peculiar really, especially with that strange remark of his about the lights. I mean, he seems too wholesome to be a Jeffrey Dahmer but then still waters and all that…
I dealt with the flatmate problems enclosing my leaflet on Happy Cohabitation, then I opened what turned out to be one of my very rare letters back. It was from Colin Twisk, that Lonely Young Man.
Dear Rose, he’d written.Thank you very much for your very, very kind letter. I carry it about with me all the time. And whenever I’m feeling low I get it out and read it again. Knowing that a famous—and very attractive—person like you thinks I’m good-looking makes me feel so much better about myself. I’m doing everything you advised me and—guess what?—I think I may have now found my Special Lady Friend! With deep affection, Colin Twisk. xxxx.
Ah, I thought, isn’t that nice? That’s what makes my job so worthwhile. The knowledge that I’ve been able to help alleviate someone’s distress and pain. I put Colin’s letter in my ‘Grateful’ file—that’s just my little joke—then suddenly a cry went up. Ricky, who had been away for two days, had evidently just returned.
‘Who the fuck wrote this fucking headline?’ he shouted at Jason Brown, our Chief Sub. As he jabbed his finger at the offending page, my heart sank. Jason was about to get what’s known in the trade as a ‘bollocking’. ‘“SOMETHING WENT WRONG IN JET CRASH EXPERTS SAY”?’ Ricky shouted. ‘It’s shite! And as for this—“PROSTITUTES APPEAL TO POPE!” Total shite! “STOLEN PAINTING FOUND BY TREE”?—that is effing shite as well!’ This was true. Now he went over to the features editor, Linda, while Serena and I exchanged nervous looks.
‘The features are shite too,’ Ricky shouted. ‘“Why Not Include Your Children When Baking?”; Crap! “Unusual Applications for Everyday Household Objects—Try polishing your furniture with old tights and conditioning your hair with last week’s whipped cream”? It’s all shite,’ he repeated truculently. ‘It’s a pile of poo! It is complete and utter ca-ca. No wonder our circulation’s going down the khazi—what this paper needs is R.’
‘R?’ said Linda miserably. We looked at each other.
‘R,’ Ricky repeated slowly. ‘As in the R factor.’ Ah. ‘As in aaaaaaaahhhhh!’
‘Aaahh…’ we all said.
‘What we want,’ he said, slamming his right fist into his left palm, ‘is Triumph Over Tragedy, Amazing Mums, Kids of Courage. And animals!’ he added animatedly. ‘I want more animals. The readers like them and so do I. So get me Spanish donkeys, Linda, get me orphaned koalas, get me baby seals…’
‘It’s the wrong time of year.’
‘I don’t give a flying fuck!’ he shouted. ‘Get me baby seals. And while you’re at it get me puppies with pacemakers and kittens with hearing aids too. And if I don’t see some fucking heart-warming animal stories in this paper within a week, Linda, you’re for the fucking chop.’
‘Well, someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning!’ Serena remarked briskly as Ricky stomped back to his office. ‘Still, we all have our problems. Oh yes, we all have our crosses to bear,’ she added with a tight little smile. I looked at her as she turned on the shredder.
‘Nothing serious, I hope.’
‘Oh nothing we can’t deal with,’ she replied serenely. ‘It’s just that Rob crashed the car last night.’
‘Oh dear. I hope he wasn’t hurt.’
‘Not really. Just
a large bump on his head. But unfortunately the garage door’s a write-off—he demolished it.’
‘Oh no!’
‘Still, these things are sent to try us, aren’t they?’ she said perkily. I smiled blankly and nodded my head. As Serena fed the old letters into the shredder—we keep them six months—I glanced at Linda, who was ashen-faced. I’d had an idea. Trevor and Beverley. That would make a good, heart-warming animal feature. Linda agreed.
‘It sounds brilliant,’ she said gratefully after I’d told her. ‘We could do a big spread with lots of photos. Will you ring her for me right now?’
Beverley was in—well she usually is in, poor kid—and she sounded quite keen.
‘Are you sure you and Trevor wouldn’t mind?’ I asked her. ‘It would probably mean having to talk about your accident, so I wouldn’t like you to say yes if you didn’t feel comfortable about it.’
‘No, we’d be happy to do it,’ she replied. ‘And it would be great publicity for Helping Paw.’
Having given Linda Bev’s number I now tackled my huge pile of post. The run up to Christmas is an incredibly busy time of year for agony aunts. In fact there were so many letters to answer that I didn’t leave work until eight. When I got in I felt pretty tired, but even so I decided to give the kitchen a thorough clean. I wiped down all the cupboard fronts—and the worktops, not forgetting to empty the toaster crumb tray of course; then I went into the hall and polished the telephone table. When I’d finished I noticed that the spindles on the banisters were looking disgusting. Being white, every speck of dust shows. As I rubbed away at them with the Astonish, I heard Theo’s door open. He was on his mobile phone.
‘Are you up for it?’ I heard him say as he came downstairs. ‘Right then. I’ll be there in fifteen. Don’t start without me!’ he added with a laugh. ‘Oh, hello, Rose,’ he said pleasantly as he put his phone in his pocket. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while.’ His eyes suddenly narrowed. ‘What the heck are you doing?’ What the heck was I doing?
‘What the heck does it look like?’