Rescuing Rose

by Isabel Wolff

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said as Trevor passed her a hanky. ‘It’s my fault for bringing them round. Have a good cry,’ I said as she buried her face in his fur. ‘Why shouldn’t you cry? Something awful happened to you. But Bev I know you’ll be…’—my throat ached: I find crying catching—‘I know you’ll be fine.’ Her sobs subsided, and she looked up and wiped her eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ she croaked. ‘Maybe I will. I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I know things could be worse. The way I hit the ground I’m lucky not to be a tetraplegic, or dead. Perhaps I should go to the ball as a still life,’ she added with a bleak smile. ‘I mean, there is still life.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  Suddenly Trevor went into the hall, then reappeared with the walkabout phone in his mouth.

  ‘Oh,’ she laughed, then hugged him again. ‘It’s okay, Trev, Rose is here. Whenever I’m depressed he goes and gets the phone,’ she explained, ‘so that I can ring up a friend.’

  ‘How lovely,’ I said as my heart turned to mush and I reached out to stroke his ear.

  ‘Actually, Rose,’ she said swallowing her tears, ‘the real reason why I’m crying is not so much my accident as the fact that I’m very…’ Her voice trailed away. ‘I’m very…’ she shrugged then stared, red-eyed, into the distance; ‘I’m very…’

  ‘Lonely?’I murmured. She nodded slowly, then looked at me.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I am. I could deal with what happened so much better if I had someone to share things with. But I haven’t been out with anyone since Jeff left and it’s getting me down.’

  ‘But you know people,’ I said. ‘You get invited.’

  ‘That’s not the problem. The problem is Trev. Every time I meet a nice bloke it turns out that he’s only really interested in me because of him. You know, the novelty of it. The Bev’n’ Trev show. Something to gas about down the pub. But if I try and meet a man without Trevor, they seem disappointed. They don’t fall for me, first, on my own.’ This conversation sounded oddly familiar—it reminded me of the twins. ‘I’ve got a date with this chap on Friday,’ she went on. ‘But I’m terrified that he’ll just fall in love with Trev.’

  ‘Then don’t take him with you.’

  ‘But he gets anxious. I don’t like to leave him.’

  ‘Then he can come to me. Trevor do you want to have dinner with me on Friday night?’ He thumped his tail. ‘Okay, seven-thirty for eight. Let me know if you’ve got a veggie. Right—back to the task in hand.’ I picked up one of the books again, flicked through it, then suddenly stopped. I looked at the picture, then looked at Bev. Perfect.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ I said. I showed her the Degas ballerina, in her gossamer tutu, waiting in the wings to go on.

  ‘That’s the one, isn’t it?’

  Beverley gazed at it for a few seconds, then suddenly smiled.

  ‘Yes—I think that’s the one,’ she said.

  ‘So what’s your problem then Sarah?’ I said on my Thursday night phone-in.

  ‘Well my problem’s that I’m thirty-nine and I’m terrified of turning forty. What can I do?’

  ‘Listen honey,’—I adopt this feisty tone on the phone-in: it’s part of the entertainment—‘listen honey,’ I said. ‘Forty is the new thirty. Everyone knows that. This is boom time for Middle Youth. Look at Nigella. Look at Madonna… Hey! Got it! Problem solved! Why don’t you just change your Christian name to something ending with “a”! And now on line four we have…’ I peered at the computer screen. ‘Kathy…’ Kathy? Oh God!!

  ‘I just want all your listeners to know what a wicked, WICKED woman you are Rose Costelloe! My husband left me because of you. You sit there in that comfy studio of yours dispensing advice like some high priestess but you ruined my life you interfering cow. And you are going to PAY for what you did to me, destroying my marriage, you baggage! You are going to pay for that—mark my words, you’ll be really sorry that you ever crossed me and—’ Crazy Kathy was quickly faded out and I looked daggers at Wesley through the studio glass.

  ‘And I’m afraid that brings us to the end of Sound Advice for tonight,’ said Minty with professional calm. ‘But I hope you’ll join us again. And remember, if you’ve got a problem, don’t worry about it—but do ask Rose.’

  ‘Wesley,’ I said crossly as I pushed on the studio door. ‘Please don’t put that Rottweiller through to me ever again! If I want abuse and intimidation, I can get it from my editor any day of the week.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whined, his bald head gleaming in the studio lights. ‘She just, you know, slipped through the net.’

  ‘Did you get her number?’

  ‘She withheld it.’ Ah ha.

  ‘Well someone—and I think it’s her—has been harassing me with nuisance calls at home, and it’s beginning to get me down.’

  Sitting in the cab on the way back to Camberwell I thought, what if the woman’s not just mad and sad but actually dangerous? Daphne, the Daily Herald’s agony aunt once had a stalker, and he turned up at her office with an axe. He’s currently enjoying a maxi-break at Broadmoor. What if Crazy Kathy’s like that?

  In the meantime the twins are being very secretive about their costumes for the ball, while Theo’s still trying to decide. He ought to go as a Giacommetti, I thought as I surreptitiously scrutinised his slender physique. Meanwhile Bev and I went to ‘MadWorld’ Costume hire in Gray’s Inn Road to get ourselves kitted out. In the cab there she told me about her date the night before—she wasn’t impressed.

  ‘I had to go Dutch! What a creep!’

  ‘I’ve always gone Dutch,’ I said. ‘Does it really matter, Bev? Aren’t we modern women now?’

  ‘I don’t want to be modern on a first date,’ she said indignantly. ‘It’s so unromantic.’

  ‘I always went Dutch with Ed.’

  ‘What? Right from the start?’

  I’d never really thought about it. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Right from the start. He’d just bought this big house so I felt it was only fair to go halves.’

  I fetched the costumes from the rail while Trevor helped Bev get changed. He removed her shoes with his teeth, then pulled off her track suit bottoms with the command, ‘Tug, Trev! Tug!’ I handed her the tutu through the curtain, then tied the ribbons of her ballet shoes.

  ‘You look…lovely!’ I said. ‘So dainty.’

  ‘And you look like the setting sun!’ I was wearing a blazing orange floor-length Grecian tunic, with pleating as fine as Fortuny silk. ‘The Pre-Raphaelite look really suits you,’ said Bev. ‘You know, this is going to be fun.’

  On the night of the ball Beverley’s mother came to look after Trevor as he doesn’t like loud music or late nights. Then Bev, Theo and I got a cab together to the Courtauld. This was the first time that Theo and Bev had met and they seemed to have struck up an instant rapport; and although she’s very independent, she allowed him to push her chair. As we walked through the arched entrance of Somerset House into the huge courtyard I caught my breath. Illuminated fountains threw up jets of water like ostrich plumes, while behind, on the open-air ice rink, skaters spun dreamily around to the strains of a Viennese waltz. And now, as we walked towards the large marquee on our left we spotted the guests arriving for the ball. The inventiveness of the costumes was amazing—everyone had gone to town. Checking in their coats with us were a Medici Pope, a Frida Kahlo self-portrait and the Holbein Henry VIII. Standing by the Christmas tree was Caravaggio’s Young Bacchus, his hair festooned with vine leaves and grapes. Nearby a dignified Rembrandt chatted to a wanton-looking Salome who was gaily clutching John the Baptist’s head. There were some amazing modern works too. A tall, bony woman with a long, angular face made an authentic Modigliani; a curvy girl in a cobalt-blue body-stocking was clearly a late Matisse. Chatting to the Van Gogh Self-Portrait With Bandaged Ear was a woman dressed as Marilyn Monroe. This was the Andy Warhol Marilyn complete with lemon-yellow hair, pink face and blue legs. She’d even put wire all around the hem of her Seven Year Itch plunging white dress.
The surrealists were out in force too. One man had the Dali lobster telephone balanced on top of his head and, most spectacular, a man who’d come as The Therapist by Magritte. His top half was a birdcage, containing two white doves, half obscured by red velvet drapes: but from waist down he wore conventional pin-striped trousers and a pair of shiny black shoes.

  ‘What amazing costumes,’ I breathed. ‘And it looks like a sell-out.’

  ‘It is,’ said Bev. ‘I managed to sell the last two tables only yesterday, to a firm of city solicitors—they’re always on for this kind of thing.’

  ‘Which firm is that then?’ asked Theo with studied casualness. ‘Prenderville White.’

  Prenderville White? That was where his wife worked. Shit! I glanced at Theo, he’d gone red.

  ‘There you are, Rose!’ It was the twins clutching flutes of champagne. ‘Flaming June!’ they both cried.

  ‘And you’re—what are you? Of course. You’re tubes of oil paint!’

  ‘Correct!’

  They were wearing identical white boiler suits, with ‘Windsor and Newton’ printed on them, front and back, with coloured belts. On their heads were flat white, hexagonal hats—or rather tops—with a matching stripe.

  ‘I’m Burnt Sienna,’ explained Bella.

  ‘I’m Scarlet Lake,’ said Bea. ‘We should have got you to come as Rose Madder, Rose! It would have been rather appropriate, what!’

  ‘This is my neighbour Beverley,’ I said frostily, ignoring her.

  ‘You look tutu gorgeous!’ Bella cried—and it was true. Beverley’s white silk chiffon dress was knee-length, cut fairly low and tied with a sky-blue satin sash. Her motionless legs looked thin but elegant in their pearlescent opaque tights; her feet, in be-ribboned pink satin ballet pumps were placed carefully on the wheelchair plate. She’d pulled her hair back into a chignon and had a velvet choker around her slim throat.

  ‘And this is Theo, my flatmate.’ Theo smiled politely at the twins as they shook hands but I could see the tense, unhappy expression in his eyes.

  ‘So how are you enjoying Rose’s regime, Theo?’ asked Bea with a snort. ‘She’s fanatically tidy and she doesn’t so much clean the house as give it a chemical peel!’

  ‘Really, Bea!’ I’m very fond of her, but she does talk rubbish sometimes.

  ‘Honestly, Theo, she’s just like Jack Lemmon in The Odd Couple, don’t you think?’

  ‘ROSE!!’ Thank God. Here was Henry, looking like an upmarket pantomime dame. ‘Isn’t this fun?’ he said, tossing his silver ringlets and hugging me. ‘Ooh, mind my beauty spot!’

  ‘Madame de Pompadour?’ I ventured.

  ‘No, Marie Antoinette. Let them eat canapés!’he added with a snort as a waiter offered us miniature cheese on toasts. The girls stared incredulously at Henry as I introduced him—well he did look rather strange.

  ‘I think I’ll go and find my friends, Sue and Phil,’ Bev said slightly awkwardly. ‘I haven’t caught up with them yet.’

  ‘Would you like me to come with you?’ Theo asked.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind.’ She smiled. ‘It’s much easier to have someone pushing the chair in a crowd like this.’

  As they set off I watched Theo anxiously scanning the throng. It would be awful if his wife were here, but she was a partner in that firm so she well might. How upsetting, I reflected, when he’s already feeling so raw, to bump into her at something like this; and it’s not even as though he has the comfort of being with people he knows really well. But I can’t torture myself about it, I decided: either she’s here or she’s not. Now as I circulated with Henry and the twins I looked at all the couples, having fun.

  ‘—We’ve just bought a house in Clerkenwell.’

  ‘—We’re going to Val d’Isère.’

  ‘—Of course we knew Nick Serota when he was at the Whitechapel.’

  ‘—We’ve got my mum coming this year.’

  ‘—We argue all the time, don’t we darling?’

  ‘—We’ll be twelve on Christmas Day.’

  Couples, I thought dismally; cosy couples. No wonder the anagram of couples is ‘up close.’ Now, as the champagne kicked in I idly wondered why my relationships have never worked out. Leaving Ed’s betrayal out of it it’s not as though I’ve made a habit of dating cads. Before Henry there was Tom, the pilot; and before Tom there was Brian. Brian was a cameraman, but he was always away on location, which was a shame, as he was really good fun. Then before Brian there was Toby, who had his own marketing consultancy, which meant he was going to and fro to the States. And before him—we’re going way back now—there was Frank, a foreign correspondent for ITN. And before him—ooh, we’re talking mid-eighties—was Nick, an actor, who did touring rep. But at least they’ve all been nice men, I reflected fair-mindedly. For some reason it just didn’t work out.

  A few yards away Beverley was chatting to her friends while Theo studied the seating plan.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said with a relieved smile. ‘I’m fine. For one awful moment I thought my wife might be here but I’ve looked at the list and she’s not.’

  A large gong sounded and an MC announced that dinner was served. Knowing that Theo was feeling fine I relaxed—the evening was turning out well after all. As we slowly made our way towards our tables, a girl dressed as a Toulouse Lautrec can-can dancer asked us if we’d like to buy raffle tickets.

  ‘We’ve got some great prizes,’ she explained. ‘The tickets are five pounds each, but if you buy four you get one free.’

  ‘That sounds like good value for Monet,’ I quipped, handing her twenty quid.

  ‘I’ll have five too,’ said Bev.

  ‘I’d like ten,’ said Theo. His relief at his wife’s absence had made him generous. Bev gave him a grateful smile. ‘We’re on table sixteen,’ he pointed out, ‘I think it’s over there, by that pillar, towards the back.’

  ‘Would you like to buy a raffle ticket, Sir?’ I heard the girl ask someone behind us.

  ‘No thanks,’ said a familiar voice. It was as though I’d been pushed off a cliff.

  ‘Are you sure?’ the girl tried again as my heart did a drum roll.

  ‘Quite sure, thanks,’ said Ed. How bitterly, bitterly ironic. I felt blood suffuse my face. Theo’s spouse wasn’t here after all—to his huge relief—but mine was!

  ‘Are you all right?’ Theo asked, staring at me. ‘What is it?’

  ‘My ex-mother,’ I murmured miserably.

  ‘Your ex-mother?’

  ‘I mean…my ex-husband. He’s right behind.’

  ‘Rose!’ hissed the twins slithering up to me like a pair of sidewinders, ‘Ed’s here.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Presumably she’s with him,’ I said bleakly.

  ‘Yes,’ Bella whispered, ‘’ fraid so. But she looks hideous,’ she added. ‘She’s come as Vermeer’s Girl with the Pearl Earring. It doesn’t suit her at all.’

  ‘No, that’s not right,’ said Bea. ‘She’s come as his Portrait of a Young Woman, actually.’

  ‘It’s The Girl with the Pearl Earring, Bella insisted.

  ‘No—it’s the Portrait of A Young Woman. They’re very similar but the headdress is slightly different.’

  ‘I’m telling you, Bea, it’s The Girl with the Pearl Earring, I’ve got a book on Vermeer.’

  ‘I don’t care if she’s come as the Duchamp urinal,’ I hissed, ‘what about him?’

  ‘He’s a Van Dyck Laughing Cavalier.’

  ‘But he looks a bit sad,’ said Bella.

  ‘He looks bloody silly,’ added Bea.

  ‘I can’t take it,’ I muttered miserably. ‘I’ll have to go home.’

  ‘No!’ said the twins. ‘Just ignore them and try and have fun!’

  ‘Has anyone got any valium?’ I muttered with a bitter laugh. In the absence of pharmaceutical sedation I anaesthetised myself with another gulp of champagne.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Bella whispered consp
iratorially, as we found our table, ‘they’re sitting miles away.’ Hyperventilating gently behind my palette-shaped menu I now discreetly peered through the centrepiece flowers. There Ed was, with that human Pokémon, by the window, on the far side. They were with my exneighbours, Pam and Doug, who were dressed as the Arnolfini Marriage by van Eyck.

  ‘Bottoms up!’ said Henry genially as he filled everyone’s glass with Chablis. Then he began talking to the twins about their interior design business and about some empty shop he knew of near High Street Ken. I tried to chat to Bev’s friends, Sue and Phil, but it was an effort to concentrate; not just because Ed was in the same room but because, by some hideous stroke of synchronicity, it was a year to the day since we’d met. This was our first anniversary, I reflected miserably. Bloody marvellous. Great.

  I glanced at Pam and Doug and bitterly wished I’d never gone to their party that night. I’d been in two minds about it as I was busy, and I didn’t know them that well. If I hadn’t gone, I now reflected, I would not have met and married Ed, and he would not have been unfaithful to me with our marriage guidance counsellor and I would not now be dismal and almost divorced. I would still be living in my perfectly nice garden flat in Clapham, with a manageable mortgage, instead of in a house in Camberwell which I can barely afford.

  After the duck—I couldn’t touch mine—there was a speech by the charity’s Chairperson, that glamorous but somehow rather irritating TV vet, Ulrika Most. She’d come as a Klimt in a flowing Art Nouveau gold-speckled devoré dress. She thanked the ball’s sponsors, Dogobix, in her lilting Scandiwegian, then talked about the charity’s work.

  ‘There are many thousands of people with serious disabilities,’ she began. ‘A Helping Paw can change their lives…increased independence…a whole new lease of life…but training each dog costs eight thousand pounds…thank you for your support tonight.’ And now, after five—or was it six—glasses of wine I had begun to relax. I could cope. Oh yes, I could deal with this. Stuff Ed and his ghastly Miss Trust.