by Isabel Wolff
My Outlook Express icon revolved several times like a tiny comet, then delivered my e-mails with a quiet ‘pop’. I quickly whizzed through them one by one
When we’re in bed my husband accidentally calls me ‘Gary’ for some reason… I’ve fallen in love with my boss… I have a very low sperm count (12 million)… My mother-in-law’s run off with my dad.
There was an e-mail from the fat young man who’d called my radio show telling me that he’d lost his first stone; another from the parents of the little girl who’d had the heart and lung transplant, telling me she was doing well. Then I opened the last message which, to my dismay, was headed, Watch Out!!! It was from ‘you’ [email protected]’—clearly a fictitious address.
Dear Ms Costelloe, I read, As I am now unable to get through to you on your poxy phone-in I decided to contact you this way to tell you that I hope you had a really horrible Christmas and to wish you a miserable New Year. K.Jenkins (Mrs).
‘Have you made any New Year resolutions, Rose?’ I heard Serena ask.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I have. Not to let vile people intimidate me.’ I showed her the message, then told her about all the silent phone calls to my house.
‘Some people!’ Serena exclaimed with stock indignation. ‘I mean, really—what a nerve! And how often do they call?’
‘It seems to be random. I can get silent calls three days running, then nothing for a week and a half. I didn’t have any over Christmas for example, but then I had another one late last night.’
‘And do you really think it’s this Kathy woman?’
‘Yes. I think it probably is. She’s obviously desperately childish, and extremely unpleasant.’
‘Although,’ said Serena, as I pressed the ‘Delete’ button, ‘if she’s always been so aggressive on your radio show, why would she keep quiet when calling your house?’ I looked at Serena. She was a genius. Of course—it didn’t add up. And now, as I went down to the canteen for a cappuccino, I remembered something else. That the first silent phone call had been the night Theo came round—several days before Kathy first rang my radio phone-in. As I sat staring out of the plate glass window across the Thames I tried to work it out. It wasn’t Kathy. No. It wasn’t. It was someone else—but who? Were they male or female? I didn’t even know that much as they never spoke. And was their attitude towards me nakedly hostile, or were they an obsessive creep…? Ah.
I suddenly thought of Colin Twisk, the lonely young man. He’d sent me several more very peculiar missives lately including that kiss-covered Christmas card. I hadn’t responded to any of them, so maybe he felt rebuffed. But on the other hand, I thought, it could be absolutely anyone. Three million people read the problem page, and another half million listen to Sound Advice. If even 0.0001 per cent of that lot were loonies—a generous estimate—then that’s already several individuals. But what really got to me was the thought that they’d somehow found out my number at home. And now I wondered if they intended simply to intimidate me at a distance, or whether they were planning to raise the stakes? What if they found out where I lived and actually came to the house? That thought fuelled my paranoia so I decided to keep on with the kick-boxing class—God forbid that it should ever come in handy, but one of these days, it might.
‘KICK it and BLOCK it and KICK it and PUNCH it!’ shouted Stormin’ Norman the following night. ‘KICK it and BLOCK it and power! Power!! POWER!!’
Sweat pouring off my face I slammed my leather-gloved fists into the punch-bag again and again.
‘KICK it and BLOCK it and KICK it and PUNCH it! Use your fists—now your feet! Power! Power!! POWER!!!’
I collapsed, wheezing like an asthmatic shih tzu as the shattering techno-beat finally stopped.
‘Wow, Rose, you are one angry lady tonight!’ Norman observed almost admiringly. ‘It’s awesome.’
‘Thanks,’ I panted as I reached for my towel.
‘I wouldn’t pick a fight with you, girl—you’d kick my ass to Timbuktu.’ I wiped the sweat off my forehead and smiled. ‘So who’s the punch-bag?’he added with a laugh as I poured a bottle of Evian down my throat.
‘What?’
‘Who’s the punch-bag?’ I wiped my mouth.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I’ve been teaching this for five years and I ain’t never seen a woman kick as hard as you. You lash out like it’s really personal, Rose.’
‘Do I?’ I said quietly.
‘Yes, babe, you sure as hell do. It’s as though you really mean it.’
‘Oh.’
‘So who is it you’re hitting girl?’
I stared at him blankly. ‘To be honest, I’m not quite sure.’
‘I’m not quite…sure,’ I said to Ricky carefully a few days later. I was trying hard not to lose my rag.
‘Well, think about it,’ he said as he put his feet up on his vast desk. ‘I keep saying we need more sex in the paper, and a photo-story would do the job.’ A photo-story? One of those vulgar strips with semi-naked girls and moronic young men with speech bubbles coming out of their mouths! I could see it now.
Get us another beer will you, Tracy?
No, Kev, from now on you can get your own beer…
The wife’s working late, Sharon. Fancy a drink?
Hmmm. Wouldn’t say no…
A photo-story? How awful. I recoiled from the idea like a salted slug.
‘The readers would love it,’ Ricky went on expansively. You mean you’d love it you sleaze-bag, I thought.
‘With respect, Ricky,’ I ventured as he placed his hands behind his head, revealing two dark patches the size of France, ‘I feel that a photo-story would only cheapen the page, reflecting badly on the paper as a whole. After all, the Daily Post is a quality tabloid,’ I reminded him sweetly, aware of the acrid smell of his sweat.
‘Quality tabloid?’ he reiterated mockingly. ‘Bollocks! It’s a populist rag.’
‘But a photo-story would also mean I’d have less space to answer the readers’ letters,’ I pointed out, ‘and I feel my first duty is to them.’
‘Crapola!’ he proclaimed loudly. ‘Your first duty is to me. I’m your editor, so you do what I say. Your contract’s up for review quite soon, isn’t it?’ he added with casual menace. My God he was low.
‘Tell you what, Ricky,’ I said reasonably. ‘I’m willing to compromise. Let’s put the photo-story idea on hold for a while, but I’m prepared to spice up the helplines a bit. And of course that would also bring in more cash for the paper as they’re charged at a pound a minute.’ Ricky leaned back in his reclining chair again and contemplated the ceiling. Then he suddenly brightened as he seemed to glimpse the possibilities of the situation.
‘Yeah—that might be good. We could have, Hot Sex, Fantastic Sex, Three in a Bed Sex, Swinging Sex.’
‘Sex after having a baby,’ I added helpfully.
‘Sex when you’re pregnant,’ he leered.
‘Sexual Fantasies,’ I added with a smile. ‘Sexual Fetishes.’
‘Yeah,’ he repeated happily. ‘I like the sound of that. But we’ll review the photo-story idea in six months.’
‘Great. Well, that’s settled then,’ I said breezily. ‘Ooh must dash. I’ve got a lunch.’
That man is sex-obsessed I thought crossly as I shot downstairs in the lift. Whatever next for the Post I thought rolling my eyes—a page three girl? But I’d bought myself six months I reflected as I left the building, and with any luck, if the circulation didn’t rise, Ricky might have been kicked out by then. Spicing up the helplines was one thing, but I wasn’t having a photo-strip on my page. The agony column is not a forum for cheap entertainment—it’s a public service, like the number twelve bus. After all, I’m not just an advice columnist, I reflected as I hailed a cab. I’m a Samaritan, a social worker, a grief therapist, a marriage guidance counsellor, a Citizens’ Advice Bureau and sometimes almost a priest.
The agony aunts’ lunch was being held at Joe Allen’s in Coven
t Garden. I was slightly dreading it—some of those women are so egotistical!—but on the other hand it’s fun to swap notes. There’d be at least ten of us, maybe more. What was the collective noun for agony aunts I wondered as we drove over Lambeth Bridge. A ‘misery’ maybe, or a ‘worry,’; a ‘dismay’ was pretty good too. A ‘distress’ of agony aunts, possibly or, no—even better—an ‘angst’. As we drove up the Strand I idly wondered who’d be there. Lana McCord at Moi! magazine probably and that nice Katie Bridge at the Globe. I’ve got a lot of time for Mary Kreizler at the Sunday Star, and of course Dr Kay Stoddart at Chick magazine. I prayed that Citronella Pratt wouldn’t be there, but she was at the last one, so she probably would. She’d made it clear on that occasion that she loathed me, but then she’d badly wanted my job. She’d lost her awful social affairs column at the Semaphore and was desperate for a new string. Serena told me that Edith Smugg had only been dead two hours before Citronella had phoned up, sliming away. She’d even come in for an interview, but Linda had been distinctly unimpressed. But Citronella’s hide is made of Teflon and the constant rebuttals just don’t stick. She has a kind of notoriety which is due in part to her poisonous opinions, and also to the fact that three years ago her husband famously ran off with a man. So on the back of that she got picked up by Get! magazine; but her ‘advice’ is dire. In fact it’s not really advice, so much as naked pity—in short, malicious crap. Because having total strangers confide their unhappiness gives Citronella a psychological lift. She’s obviously a miserable woman, so she gets off on others’ pain. Whereas I’m an agony aunt for the simple reason that I just love helping people in need. My motives are wholly altruistic; I want to comfort and advise, that’s all.
The cab pulled up in Exeter Street and oh God—there she was! Coming down the street, with that stompy walk of hers, bottom out, dumpy inelegance incarnate in one of her sack-like frocks; her thin sandy hair lifting in the wind. I discreetly turned my back to her as I paid the cab driver so that I wouldn’t have to smile. I followed her into the restaurant at a safe distance, and found that our table downstairs was already full. There were twelve agony aunts all enthusiastically air-kissing despite the fact that at least half of them don’t get on. The ones on the magazines would much rather be on newspapers, and the ones on the newspapers are very hard pressed.
To my irritation I found I’d been placed opposite Citronella. I managed to arrange my features into a pleasant smile although my polite salutation was not returned. So instead I briefly chatted to June Snort from the Daily News: our papers might be deadly rivals but I always try to be civil to her. As we all perused the menu, the atmosphere was polite, respectful and restrained.
‘—Does anyone happen to know if the incest crisis-line is still running?’
‘—Have you read that marvellous new book on stress?’
‘—Did you hear that the National Council for Confidence Building has been closed down?’
‘—Has anyone got the number for the Dipsomaniacs’ Trust?’
Then, once we’d had a drink, the atmosphere became more relaxed. Mavis Sackville began her usual pious spiel about the importance of us being properly qualified.
‘Agony aunts should be professionally trained counsellors and therapists,’ she insisted as our starters arrived. ‘Ours is not a job for dilettantes—agony arrivistes—who risk giving bad, if not dangerous, advice.’ But we all knew why she was saying that—she’d just been dumped by Female magazine for a celebrity agony aunt, that fat actress, Valerie Tooth.
‘With respect, Mavis, I believe that professional training is less important than experience, compassion, and emotional insight,’ said Mary Kreizler firmly.
‘And empathy,’ I pointed out. ‘The reader needs to know that we can truly imagine how they feel even if we haven’t been through exactly the same thing ourselves.’
‘I think our job is to direct our readers to the right source of information,’ said Katie Bridge matter-of-factly. ‘We’re simply the person standing there at the crossroads, map at the ready, advising them which way to go.’
Then we discussed the future of agony aunting, which we all agreed is looking bright.
‘There are so many sources of information available these days,’ said Lana McCord, ‘in the media and on the net. And yet the need to confide in an anonymous stranger remains stronger than ever.’ We all nodded seriously at that. Then, as our main course arrived, the conversation became slightly more animated as we discussed brushes with unstable readers—a hazard of the job.
‘I had a stalker,’ said Karen Braithwaite from the Daily Moon, ‘he was apprehended in reception with a knife.’
‘I had two stalkers,’ said Sally Truman from the Echo, ‘and they both had baseball bats.’
‘I had three stalkers,’ said June Snort, not to be outdone, ‘and they all had Ruger forty-four semi-automatics.’
‘Really?’ we all said.
‘No!’ she shrieked. ‘Just kidding you!’ How we laughed. ‘But two of my readers have ended up in Rampton High Security,’ she added with an odd kind of pride.
‘Wow,’ we all said.
‘While we’re on the subject, has anyone heard of Colin Twisk?’ I asked looking round the table. ‘He’s nerdy but quite good-looking, thirty-five, he works in computers, can’t get a girlfriend, a classic Lonely Young Man.’
‘Oh yes, I’ve had him,’ said Katie Bridge. ‘I made the mistake of writing back to him and then had him on my back for six months.’
‘Oh,’ I said feebly. ‘I see. Do you think he could be…dangerous?’ I added casually.
‘Well, maybe. Put it this way, I wasn’t prepared to risk it, so I took out a restraining order. Top me up will you, Rose?’ I felt sick. And now, as we had pudding, we began talking about the most disgusting letters we’d ever received.
‘I had a letter from a man who said that his penis was too big,’ said Lana McCord. ‘Complete with a photo to prove it!’
‘What did you do?’ I asked.
‘I sent him my home address of course!!’
‘Well I was sent a dead mouse,’ said June Snort with a superior smirk.
‘I was sent a dead rat,’ said Katie Bridge.
‘—I once got a letter in which every other word was the “c” word.’
‘—I had a pair of old Y fronts.’
‘—I had a pair of old Y fronts—with skid marks.’
‘Well,’ I said, as they all gagged, ‘last week I was sent some pubic lice!’
‘No!’ Their faces were a mask of shock. I felt triumphant.
‘There were three of them,’ I explained. ‘In a small plastic bag—it was totally gross.’ Beat that!
‘Well, I’ve had famous people writing to me,’ said June Snort casually.
‘Who?’ we all asked.
‘I can’t say, obviously.’
‘No, no, of course you can’t,’ we agreed.
‘But let’s just say that she’s a very famous Australian pop singer.’
We all looked at each other. ‘No way!’
‘Look, just because people are loaded and gorgeous doesn’t mean they’re happy—even the stars need advice.’
‘Well I had Madonna once,’ said Lana McCord with a guffaw, ‘she was very concerned about Guy!’
‘Yeah—and I had the Pope—he’s worried about his love life!’ said Karen Braithwaite with a tipsy laugh.
By now the atmosphere was one of inebriated abandon. Even Citronella was getting pissed.
‘But, oh God, what a job, eh, being an agony aunt,’ said Lana McCord dismally.
‘Oh I don’t know,’ I said.
‘The way we take on other people’s suffering. I mean, why the hell do we do it?’ Why?
‘Because we can make a difference,’ I said. ‘We can save relationships—and even lives. We can rescue people from their troubles,’ I added. ‘That’s why we do it.’
‘I don’t agree,’ said Mary Kreizler. ‘I think we do it because we lik
e peeping into the chaos of other people’s lives. We find it reassuring.’
‘No—it’s because it’s a vocation,’ I persisted, ‘and, crucially, because we know that our readers need us.’
‘No,’ interjected Katie. ‘We need them. Let’s be honest girls, we do it because we’re suffering as well—that’s why. And as we help others we help heal some damaged part of ourselves. I mean, I had a terrible upbringing,’ she drawled on as she sipped her Cointreau. She shook her head and sighed. ‘My parents divorced when I was eight.’
‘Well that’s nothing,’ said June Snort indignantly, ‘my parents divorced when I was two.’
‘I’ve been in therapy since I was ten,’ countered Katie biting on a petit four.
‘So?’ said Sally Truman. ‘I’ve been in therapy since I was five!’
‘And I’ve taken just about every drug you care to mention,’ said Lana McCord. ‘Cannabis, cocaine, the works.’
‘—I was neglected as a child.’
‘—My mother was an anorexic. We were always hungry.’
‘—My father was a drunk!’
‘—My mother wouldn’t let me have a pet—not so much as a kitten!’
‘—I had a kitten—but it died.’
‘—Well my puppy died—on my fifth birthday!’
‘And I was bullied at school!’ announced Citronella tipsily. We all stopped talking and looked. Her round, slightly goitrous face was sagging with self-pity, her semi-circular eyebrows drooping theatrically. ‘The other children victimised me,’ she confided in her deceptively soft voice. I felt incredulous. It was far more likely that she had victimised them. ‘They were so beastly,’ she said, ‘and what made it so much worse was that it was a very expensive school.’ Boast, boast. ‘But they were jealous of me,’ she added with an inebriated sigh, ‘because I was so much more intelligent than them.’