Rosie Meadows Regrets...

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘’Bye then! Off to the Tube!’ I set off purposefully down the High Street.

  ‘It’s the other way.’

  ‘So it is!’ I swung round and set off in the other direction, blushing as I passed him.

  He watched me go and I could feel his eyes boring suspiciously into my back as I went. On and on I walked, past Marks and Spencer, past the library, staring straight ahead, going absolutely nowhere, until finally I slid round the corner into Waterstone’s and collapsed against a convenient wall of books. I moaned low as I sank down on my heels. Oh, you pillock, Rosie, you complete and utter pillock.

  A few people turned to stare at the moaning nutter in the corner, so I picked myself up and pretended to browse around the shop for a bit. After a while I decided I’d given him enough time to get back to his tea and biscuits so I slipped furtively back down the High Street, hugging the shop windows as I went, and down into the car park. I put my sunglasses on as I hurried head down to the car. Once inside I kept my head low, drove speedily to the turnstile, slipped in the ticket, roared up the ramp and headed for home. Only when I’d negotiated the Hammersmith roundabout did I breathe a monumental sigh of relief and take my glasses off.

  As I slumped back in my seat I thought about what Alice had said yesterday. Perhaps she was right, perhaps I was a bit, sort of, not with it. And I seemed to be getting worse. Why, only the other day I’d walked out of the local butcher’s without paying for my lamb chops. Harry had been horrified.

  ‘Well, I hope you took them back!’ he’d said, appalled.

  ‘No, actually, I ate them right there in the street, raw. Yes, of course I took them back, Harry. I’m not a thief, I’m just a bit vague!’

  Vague enough to lose a car without really losing it and vague enough to slip into a career or a marriage without really thinking it through either, although actually I’d take issue with Alice on the career front. I didn’t regret becoming a cook one little bit, but I did remember how staggered everyone else had been. How many hands had gone up in horror.

  It was strange, really, because if a woman cooked, it wasn’t seen as a good career move, just an extension of the housework. It was like saying you wanted to specialize in ironing or dusting or something, but if a man did it, hell’s teeth, stand well back! Because a man at the stove was no simple cook, he was a creative genius! He could shout abuse at his staff, bellow at his customers, refuse to put salt on the tables, throw tantrums on a regular basis – oh, he was to be treated with the utmost respect. I smiled to myself. One day, though, I’d engender that respect too, and not by throwing my weight around or smashing plates, but just by opening the most fabulous restaurant serving the most beautifully prepared dishes in a stunningly different way; dishes that over the years I’d perfected in my head, even down to the minutest amount of seasoning in the merest soupçon of sauce.

  I sighed as I swung the car into my road. Dreams again, Rosie, dreams dreams dreams. Yes, well, I was aware of that. I was also aware that over the last couple of years I’d retreated into my head rather too much and I had a feeling it wasn’t all that healthy. Real life had become an unwelcome intruder, butting in when it was least wanted. Well, not any more, I determined as I pulled up outside my house. From now on my dreams would become reality and, let’s face it, I was well on the way, wasn’t I? I’d booked an appointment with a solicitor. I’d at least made a start.

  I stared up at the house. Really and truly I should just pick up a few things and set off again. On the other hand, what was the rush? Ivo would be fine with his grandparents and Harry certainly wouldn’t miss me, so why dash down just yet? Why hare down to Oxfordshire like I did every flaming weekend of my life? Why not do something that I wanted to do for a change, cook on my own perhaps, with the radio on, peacefully in the kitchen. Yes, why not? I was dying to try out a recipe I had in my head for aubergines with a caper and sesame seed sauce and if I could do it without Harry sticking his finger in and declaring, ‘A touch more salt I think, Old Thing,’ so much the better. And if it was a success, I thought with a little rush of excitement, I could add it to my book. Ah, yes, I forgot to mention that. As well as my restaurant I had a best-selling cookery book in my head. Delia Meadows. More dreams.

  As I locked the car, I felt that thrill of pleasure I always got when I embarked on something creative and I eagerly set off on foot to buy the ingredients. One of the good things – well, no, actually, the only good thing – about living in Meryton Road was that we were right behind the supermarket so one could forgo the battle of the car park and literally trolley home to the back garden.

  Being Friday, it was packed to the gunnels but I knew exactly where to pick up the sesame seeds, the capers and everything else I needed. I added some tea towels, tights, mugs and bubble bath just in case Harry should bother to check up on me, and then, on an impulse, headed for the alcohol section. I had a feeling they did mini bottles of champagne or – yes, here we go, one glass in a can, perfect. If the recipe was a success, I could toast it, toast the beginning of the rest of my life. I grabbed a packet of Phileas Fogg just for good measure and headed cheerfully for the checkout. As I stood dreamily in line waiting my turn, on the point of loading my goodies on to the conveyor belt, a low voice in my ear said, ‘Where’s the party?’

  I swung round. It was Alice’s friend, the bag packer, and supposedly my friend too, but despite, or perhaps because of, the blond good looks – he was very ornamental, the sort of thing you might want in miniature next to your Delft figurine above the fireplace – he wasn’t really my type. A bit too pink-cheeked and pastoral for me, although I had to admit the lopsided grin was fairly hard to resist.

  ‘The party?’

  He eyed my mini can of champagne with mock alarm. ‘Looks like being quite a bender, really letting your hair down, aren’t you?’

  I laughed, and normally I would have blushed too, and hastened out clutching my bags, but I suddenly felt emboldened by my new status. Yes, I was very nearly a merry divorcée, for heaven’s sake, why shouldn’t I trade some idle banter with this attractive and extremely cheeky young whippersnapper?

  ‘It’s at my place,’ I said with a confident smile as he caught my goods at the other end and popped them into bags. ‘And it’s a private party, for one, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You mean I’m not invited?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Ah, a solitary drinker. I’ve heard about women like you, dancing round the sitting room sipping your bevvy, singing into the vacuum cleaner nozzle. It’s the slippery slope, you know. Tomorrow you’ll be in here for two cans, then three, and then before you know it you’ll be getting stuck into the Carlsberg straight from the can in the car park.’

  I grinned. ‘Thanks for the warning. You’re obviously quite an authority.’

  ‘Well, I’ve packed a few bags, you see. It’s a marvellous insight into the life of the middle-class housewife. I’ve turned it into an anthropological study to while away the hours of tedium in here.’ He paused for a moment to enlighten me. ‘You, for example, have a very sophisticated palate – capers, groundnut oil, champagne – very upmarket, and I’d hazard a guess you know your way around a kitchen too, but there are some women who look like the model of bourgeois respectability, all Armani jackets and Gucci heels, who live almost exclusively on Pot Noodles and Diet Coke. And then there’s one woman,’ he looked about furtively to check no one was listening, ‘who comes in here every single day for a Cadbury’s Creme Egg and an extra large pack of lavatory paper!’ His eyes widened. ‘Now what sort of a problem d’you suppose she’s got?’

  I suppressed a smile. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea and I really don’t want to think about it, thank you.’

  He grinned. ‘Me neither, so let’s get back to your party. Anything I can bring? Nibbles, peanuts – I see we’re all right for aubergines.’

  I giggled. ‘We’re fine, I mean I’m fine, and that’s it, actually, just me and the aubergine.’ I really wish I hadn�
�t said that. I blushed as soon as it was out. Blondy’s eyes lit up with delight.

  ‘Ah, yes, I should have known,’ he breathed. ‘I’ve seen the way you squeeze the peaches in the fruit and veg, and the way you bulk buy bananas. Silly old me.’

  ‘Idiot,’ I muttered, paying the check-out girl and hiding my blush in my handbag as I took my change. ‘Is he always like this?’ I muttered to her as she grinned at me.

  ‘He’s not, actually. Seems to have made a bee-line for you though.’

  ‘Can’t think why, I’m old enough to be his mother.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s it then,’ she said with a wink.

  I thanked her and hurried towards the exit, aware that he was still watching me and wishing I had the confidence to turn round and say, ‘Right, young man, you’re on. Trousers down and I’ll give you a good seeing to in the frozen food section’ – or something equally assertive.

  As it was I threaded my way through the car park towards the gate on the opposite side, but I wasn’t too surprised when after a minute I heard the patter of size nine trainers behind me.

  ‘Carry your bags, ma’am, carry your bags?’ he wheedled, tugging his forelock beside me.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be working?’

  ‘Oh, it’s Mr Sainsbury’s policy to encourage us to escort harassed housewives to their cars. All part of the service, you see.’

  ‘It’s Lord Sainsbury actually, and I’m not at all sure he’d encourage you to escort the housewife home.’ I stopped abruptly and bestowed a glittering smile on him. ‘I walked, you see.’

  He grinned, took the bags from me and marched on. ‘Well, I may as well take them anyway. It’s only round the corner, isn’t it?’

  ‘How the hell do you know where I live?’

  ‘I believe I might have forced it out of your friend at some point.’ He smiled back at me disarmingly.

  ‘Alice? How remarkably indiscreet of her.’

  ‘Oh, you can’t really blame her. I tied her to a railway track and put a gun to her head.’

  I glanced at him. Why me? I was tempted to ask. Why single me out from all the women who must shop in Sainsbury’s?

  ‘Do you make a habit of this?’

  ‘I don’t actually,’ he said with what sounded like an element of truth. ‘But I fell victim to your soft green eyes and your dazzling smile and the way you chat to your little boy in the trolley as you push him round and don’t scream, “Oh, for God’s sake, Wayne, put it back or I’ll fump you!” And the way you’ve always got time to chat to the check-out girls and the fact that you’re obviously totally oblivious of your charms.’

  I really did have to blush now. ‘And the way I squeeze the peaches,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘And the way that I’m so obviously married?’

  ‘Well, I can’t argue with that.’

  I smiled. ‘No, you can’t. Well, thank you so much for carrying my bags. As I’m sure you’re aware, this is my house so I’ll take them in now.’

  ‘I could help you unpack?’ he said hopefully.

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  ‘Quick cup of coffee? Before I begin my next six-hour shift back at the conveyor belt?’

  I hesitated. He was obviously so thoroughly ‘all right’, but even so, to let him into my house … The telephone rang inside.

  ‘Your phone’s ringing.’ He walked up the path towards the door.

  ‘I know.’ I hastened after him. ‘Look, thanks for your help. If you could just pop those down on the front step I’ll –’ I opened the front door and reached inside to lift the receiver off the hook. ‘Hello?’

  ‘My name’s Tim by the way,’ he said as he sailed past me, through the open door, carrying the bags down the passage to the kitchen.

  ‘Rosie? It’s Alice, how did it go?’ said a voice in my ear.

  ‘Wh-what?’ I stammered, watching dazed as Tim unpacked the bags at my kitchen table, putting champagne in the fridge, Phileas Fogg on the side.

  ‘The solicitor, did you find one?’

  ‘Yes, I did … amongst other things …’ Good grief, he’d put the empty bag in the bin and was unpacking another one now.

  ‘Listen,’ said Alice, ‘I was thinking, you could use the cottage.’

  ‘What cottage?’ I watched in amazement as he got the Badedas out and the shampoo and came back towards me in the hall. He surely wasn’t thinking of taking them –

  ‘In Pennington, our weekend place. You could live there for a bit, it’s just up the road from Philly and we only use it at the weekends.’

  ‘Oh, Alice, you’re an angel, but –’ I gazed, speechless, as he walked round me at the foot of the banisters and then on up the stairs!

  ‘Oi!’ I called after him. ‘Come back!’

  ‘What?’ said Alice in my ear.

  ‘Look, Alice, can I ring you back? Only I’ve got someone here.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That supermarket chappie, if you must know,’ I hissed. ‘And he’s just gone upstairs!’

  ‘No! Wow, quick work, Rosie. God, how thrilling! Ring me back immediately!’

  I crashed down the receiver and bolted up after him, two at a time.

  ‘Excuse me, what the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ I swung round on the empty landing. Where was he?

  ‘Just putting the Badedas in the cabinet. I presume that’s where you keep it?’ came a voice.

  God, he was in my bathroom, which meant – he’d gone through my bedroom!

  I ran through. ‘Now look here –’

  ‘Funny, I had you down as more of a Radox girl myself. Shampoo in here too?’

  I folded my arms, watching as he made room among Harry’s shaving things for the shampoo. ‘You’ve got a nerve, haven’t you?’

  He grinned. ‘So I’ve been told.’

  ‘As a general rule I don’t allow strange men into my bathroom, you know.’

  ‘Oooh, come on now, I don’t believe that. Have you never had a plumber? Never had your S bend attended to? And who hung all this spriggy Laura Ashley wallpaper? Grouted the tiles? I wouldn’t mind betting all manner of blue-collar workers have toiled away in the cause of your en suite, Rosie.’

  ‘How d’you know my name?’

  ‘It’s on your credit card. Tights in the bedroom?’ He slid past me back into my bedroom.

  Suddenly I began to feel panicky. ‘Look,’ I said quietly, moving towards the doorway and hovering there. ‘Thanks, you’ve been a great help, but I’d really like you to go now.’

  ‘Oh, look, here’s your little boy.’ He picked up a photograph of Ivo from my dressing table. The hairs on the back of my neck began to feel a bit prickly.

  ‘Nothing like your husband, is he?’

  ‘How d’you know what my husband looks like?’ I breathed.

  ‘There’s a picture of him here, on your wedding day.’ He picked up our wedding photo and turned round. ‘At least, I presume that’s him.’

  ‘Yes, that’s him. Look, I’d really, really like you to go now. He’ll be home very soon and to be honest he won’t be too thrilled to find you here.’ I began hopping nervously from foot to foot, keeping one eye on the open front door and thinking I could actually make a mad dash down the stairs and run straight out into the street shouting like billyo if need be. What the hell was this guy up to?

  ‘It’s okay,’ he grinned. ‘I’m not the mad axeman or anything, don’t look so worried. I was just interested, that’s all.’ He glanced at Ivo again. ‘Yes, he’s very like you.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t he just, and now that we’ve established the dominant characteristics from the gene pool, I wonder, would you be kind enough to put that picture back on the dressing table and get the hell out of my bedroom before I –’

  ‘Sshh …’ Tim put his finger to his lips and crossed quickly over to the window. He looked out.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘There’s someone here, just arrived.’

&n
bsp; ‘Where?’ I hurried to the window and looked down.

  Sure enough, outside the house, behind Harry’s Peugeot was parked – my Volvo. Which was odd really, because Harry had it in the country. Just as my brain had assimilated this information I heard the front door slam. Then footsteps came slowly up the stairs. My heart stopped.

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ I whispered.

  ‘Who is it?’ hissed Tim.

  ‘It’s my husband!’

  Chapter Four

  ‘Rosie!’ Harry called as he came up the stairs.

  Paralysed, I shut my eyes and prayed. Oh, dear God, how does one explain away a strange man in the marital bedroom? Particularly, dear God, a twinkly-eyed shelf-stacker like the one I’ve got here, and particularly to someone like Harry who doesn’t even speak to the proletariat let alone allow them in the house? Tim, luckily, was more alive than the Almighty to the compromising nature of the situation and inquired by means of an urgent jerk of his head whether he should hide in the bathroom.

  I nodded, panic-stricken, just as the footsteps came across the landing. A second later, as Tim disappeared behind the bathroom door, Harry appeared in the bedroom. I managed not to faint.

  ‘Oh, there you are. Why didn’t you answer when I called?’

  ‘Sorry, I – didn’t hear you,’ I gasped.

  ‘And why the hell was the front door wide open?’

  ‘Oh, because I – I came in in a hurry. Had to go to the loo, emergency, you know how it is. Um, what are you doing here, Harry?’

  ‘I forgot that blasted Blinky Bill, bloody child wouldn’t stop crying! I tried to get hold of you to tell you to bring him down but you weren’t here and I thought you were probably on your way. Would you believe it, I’ve just driven thirty-five miles back down the sodding M40 to get a stuffed koala bear!’

  ‘Oh! Right.’ I eyed the bathroom door nervously. ‘Yes, well, he is rather crucial and I did remind you.’