Rosie Meadows Regrets...

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Of course I don’t. You know jolly well I take my easel up to the attic, lock the door and yell “I’m not here!” when they bang on the door. He’ll have a lovely time drinking bleach with Molly and Lou in the kitchen, won’t you, darling? Come on, my love!’ She held out her arms and he leapt on to her eagerly, instantly becoming her neck brace.

  ‘Thanks, it’s just – well, I seem to be leaving him all over the place at the moment, and I never used to.’

  ‘Well, that’s because you’ve had a funeral to go to and now you’ve got a solicitor to see, neither of which are particularly child-friendly venues. It’s all right, Rosie, he won’t grow up resenting you because you dropped him off with your best friend in your hour of need.’

  I bit my lip. ‘Might have to drop him off at a nursery or something when I get a job though.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right, he’s over two now and you’re only planning on doing a few mornings a week, aren’t you?’

  ‘Hopefully. Depends how the money goes really. Depends how much I need.’

  ‘What are you going to do anyway?’ She shifted Ivo on to her hip.

  ‘Cook, if I can, but if not,’ I shrugged, ‘clean, I suppose.’

  ‘What, people’s houses?’

  ‘Why not?’ I bridled. ‘People do, you know.’

  ‘Yes, but my God, can you just see your mother’s face? “A char!” she’ll cry. “My daughter’s a char!” She’ll have the vapours and faint clean away on the spot. Good heavens, she’d rather you starved to death than scrubbed someone else’s floor.’

  ‘Well, I will if I don’t work,’ I said grimly. ‘Anyway, you never know, I might be an incredibly rich widow.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘I must go and find out, Alice. I said I’d see Boffy at nine. ’Bye.’ I kissed her quickly, then Ivo. ‘You’re an absolute star, by the way,’ I threw over my shoulder as I hurried off down the path.

  ‘Will you be back by two?’ she called. ‘Only I’ve got to take Molly to the doctor’s.’

  ‘I’ll make sure I am. What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Worms.’

  ‘Oh, yuk!’

  She grinned. ‘There speaks a pre-school mother. Quite common amongst the three to fives, you know, along with head lice and a few other disgusting conditions I won’t scare you with yet. Just so long as you don’t get them yourself you’re all right. Doesn’t do much for your sex appeal.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ I said faintly. ‘Thanks, I’ll look forward to it.’ I waved and pedalled off down the road.

  The meeting with Boffy did not begin auspiciously. When I arrived at his office he came out to reception to meet me, looking very pink and nervous, his face clashing horribly with an eye-searing fuchsia shirt. Why was it, I wondered, that the people with the smallest brains always felt impelled to buy the most luminous shirts? I averted my eyes to his face. Boffy was actually quite good-looking in a dark and burly sort of way, but he had many small imperfections which taken in isolation might have been acceptable, but in conjunction with each other rendered him, to my mind, physically repulsive. For one thing he was so hirsute his chest hair peeked out above his collar, and it was clear that however much he shaved, he’d still always need another. In fact at one stupendously dull dinner party when he’d bored for Britain beside me, I became convinced I could actually see his stubble growing. He also had one of those tongues that was too big for his mouth and you could see it lolling around all pink and wet in its cave as he talked. Talking was something he did quite a lot, and always in a rather camp, theatrical way, peppering his conversation with lots of ‘my dears’ and ‘my darlings’, a strange affectation in a man who was undoubtedly as straight as a Roman road. I have to admit I’d never really seen the point of Boffy.

  ‘Rosie, my dear.’ He clasped both my hands anxiously and bore down on me for a kiss, jowls flapping. I had to stop myself wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand. He was a bit sweaty.

  ‘Hello, Boffy, how are you?’

  ‘Oh, I flourish, I flourish.’ He hopped about stupidly from foot to foot. ‘Come in, come in!’ He gestured gallantly to his office. ‘Sherry?’ He indicated an array of bottles on a trolley in the corner.

  I blinked. ‘It’s nine fifteen, Boffy.’

  ‘Is it? Good Lord, so it is.’ He glanced at his watch in surprise. ‘Um, oh well, a couple of coffees then please, Karen, if you would.’

  A peroxide blonde sitting outside his door nodded wordlessly and I thought a trifle contemptuously, and got up from her chair. We went inside and he sat down opposite me, looking uncomfortable behind his vast, leather-topped desk.

  ‘We’ll wait for the coffee then, shall we, Rosie? Don’t want to go off half-cocked and get interrupted – ha ha!’

  What was funny about that? ‘Yes, fine,’ I replied.

  We sat in silence, Boffy gnawing away at the end of his pencil, frowning down at some papers on his desk, swivelling about in his chair. Suddenly I felt sorry for him. He clearly had bad news to impart and was desperately trying to find the most tactful way of doing it. Finally the coffee arrived and the door was shut. He looked up.

  ‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid, Rosie.’

  What did I tell you? I cleared my throat. ‘How bad?’

  ‘We-ll … Harry’s affairs, when he died, were not exactly in what one might call apple pie order.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Which is hardly surprising really. I mean one wouldn’t expect a man of that age to be preparing for his death, now would one?’

  ‘No, one wouldn’t,’ I agreed politely, accepting that little plea of mitigation on Harry’s behalf. There was a silence. ‘So … what sort of order were they in then, Boffy?’

  ‘Hmmm?’ He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘His affairs,’ I said gently. God, who was helping whom here?

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Boffy pursed his lips.

  ‘A bugger’s muddle?’ I offered, borrowing Bertram’s terminology.

  He sucked his teeth, considering. ‘Y-e-s,’ he agreed finally, nodding. ‘Yes, I think that would be fair.’

  I sighed. Oh God. This was going to be hard work. Twenty questions with a man who presumably had passed some sort of exam to become a solicitor but who had nonetheless taken the inside track into Daddy’s firm on the strength of his genes rather than his grey matter.

  ‘Did he leave a will?’

  ‘He did actually, but I don’t think it necessitates a formal reading. Such as he had he left to you and Ivo, it’s just …’ he tailed off, biting his pencil.

  ‘There was nothing to leave,’ I finished.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Well, did he have any life insurance?’

  ‘Yes, yes he did, but, um, he didn’t keep up with the payments, so it’s lapsed. It’s void, I’m afraid.’

  ‘So, no provision was made for Ivo and me at all, is that it?’

  ‘Not … as such.’

  ‘Well, what about the houses? Our house, and the one Harry rented out. There were no mortgages on those, were there?’

  ‘Fairly sizable ones actually, Rosie.’

  ‘But they were a present from Bertram.’

  ‘Ye-s, true, but just before the life insurance lapsed he, er, he remortgaged them.’

  ‘No! Why?’

  ‘To pay his debts.’

  ‘What debts?’

  ‘Oh, the usual. You know.’ He squirmed.

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  He leaned back in his chair. ‘Well, the club of course is terribly expensive.’ He laughed nervously and raked his hand through his hair. ‘God, I should know. To be honest even I have a job paying their bills sometimes. They charge a fortune just for a simple gin and tonic, the bastards.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Oh, and, er, one or two wine suppliers. Their accounts tend to mount up without one even realizing it. It’s amazing how much liquor one seems to get through without it even touching the sides. Oh, and, ah, one or two gambling debts too, I’m afraid.’ He
studied his fingernails, frowning hard.

  ‘Gambling debts? From where?’

  ‘Oh, just the odd game of blackjack at the Claremont Club, nothing serious. We all do it, but if it’s not your lucky night – and to be honest it was rarely Harry’s – it gets … well, expensive.’

  ‘The Claremont Club! I didn’t even know he was a member!’

  ‘No, and to be honest neither does Charlotte, so mum’s the word on that front, eh, Rosie?’ Boffy blushed nervously.

  The Claremont Club. I sat back, stunned. Good God, I could just see the pair of them sitting there at the roulette table in black tie like a couple of period pieces, imagining they were minor aristocracy or something, puffing away on huge cigars and discussing how many pheasants they’d put down on their imaginary shoots.

  ‘I see,’ I said faintly. ‘And are there any debts outstanding?’

  He nodded, eyes down. ‘One or two, I’m afraid.’

  I gazed at him. Well might he look ashamed. And neither should he bank on my discretion either. Charlotte had never exactly been my best buddy but even I felt a degree of sisterhood on this one.

  ‘Tell me something, Boffy, if I sell both of the houses, will there be enough to cover the mortgages and Harry’s debts?’

  ‘Ah, well, that all depends on how much you get for the houses,’ he said, glancing up. ‘I really couldn’t say, Rosie. The housing market is a law unto itself at the moment, you’d have to ask your estate agent.’ He brightened visibly, clearly delighted to pass the buck.

  ‘I see. So how much exactly will I need to make?’

  He mentioned a sum so colossal, I thought for a moment he must be talking in lire or ecu. I nearly choked on my coffee but gulped it down grimly, trying to look as if that wouldn’t be a problem since of course I had two huge imperial palaces to sell.

  ‘Right.’ I got to my feet and smiled broadly. No, I would not play the impoverished widow in front of Harry’s friends, however much the situation demanded it. ‘I’ll let you know how the sales go, Boffy. The properties are going on the market this morning so it shouldn’t be a problem. I think that’s all we need to discuss for the moment.’

  He nearly knocked his chair over, so keen was he to get to his feet. His face cleared with relief, overjoyed that this horrendous interview appeared to be over. But as he walked me to the door, he looked genuinely worried again. ‘But you have got some money of your own, haven’t you, Rosie? I mean, I don’t want to pry but I’m sure Harry wouldn’t have left his affairs like this if you hadn’t got some private means.’

  Ah, so that was how Charlotte managed. Squirrelled away her own little trust fund from Daddy, kept it for a rainy day, popped it in her knicker drawer, no doubt.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I assured him airily. ‘I’m rotten with private means, Boffy. Don’t you worry about me, Swiss bank accounts all over the shop.’

  ‘Ha ha, excellent! Excellent news.’ He laughed nervously, not quite sure how to take this. But then Boffy had never been quite sure how to take me ever since I’d once mentioned that Alice and I had been to a Save the Rainforest rally dressed as tropical rubber plants. ‘You’re joking, surely, my dear,’ he’d kept saying. ‘Having old Boffy on?’ Clearly he’d found it more unbelievable than dressing up as Viscount Many-Acres and gambling the housekeeping.

  I kissed his jowly cheeks at the front door. He peered at me anxiously, hopping from foot to foot again. ‘Rosie, have we really covered everything? Anything else you want to ask? Any more questions?’

  Yes, we’ve covered everything, I thought dismally. I’m as poor as a church mouse on account of you and my late husband behaving like complete and utter prats, and no, I have no other questions, other than to ask why you feel the urge to wear a shirt the colour of a baboon’s anus.

  I smiled. ‘No, Boffy, you’ve been an absolute angel, thank you so much.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he beamed. ‘Glad to be of service! Always happy to see your pretty face! Sorry about the will and all that, but it could be worse. One of my clients left his wife four red light bulbs and a photograph of herself in the nude! Ha, ha!’

  Pillock.

  ‘Oh, a bike!’ he chortled as I mounted it. ‘How charming!’

  Yes, charming and cheap, I thought grimly as I dutifully waved goodbye. ‘’Bye, Boffy.’

  ‘Ciao for now, my love!’ He hurried gratefully inside and shut the door.

  My heart sank as I cycled back over Battersea Bridge. God, Harry was a fool, I’d always known that, but gambling, for God’s sake! And with what? No wonder he’d always been so tight with money and no wonder we’d had such stupid rows over the Peter Jones account and the supposedly exorbitant price of things like a Le Creuset frying pan or a Thomas the Tank Engine duvet cover, when all the time his money was going down the Claremont Club’s lavatory. What a bastard! Don’t think ill of the dead, don’t think ill of the dead, I muttered as I pedalled away, but it was no good, the man was an imbecile of the highest order and actually it helped enormously knowing this. If he’d left me an incredibly rich widow I might have shuffled out of there feeling rather guilty about taking his money, particularly since I was leaving him, but as he clearly hadn’t given a monkey’s about Ivo and me, I could think as ill of him as I liked. I mean, how many normal married men let their life insurance lapse, for God’s sake! I bet even Boffy, even Charlie, wouldn’t do that, but not Harry, oh no. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow you may die, I thought bitterly.

  I got off my bike in the Wandsworth Bridge Road and wheeled it along the pavement, past the parade of shops, up to the estate agent’s window. I peered in at the pictures of houses for sale. There were certainly plenty of them, but most seemed to have ‘Sold’ stickers slapped across them and not many seemed to be for sale. Perhaps he’d be glad of the business. Promise me an absolute fortune for them. I parked my bike and – ‘bing-bong’ – went in.

  A Mr Mendleson (Bear-with-me) was delighted to be of service and nearly foamed at the mouth when I suggested that not one but two crumbling little semis at the wrong ends of Battersea and Fulham respectively might find their way on to his books. Business was clearly bad, but Mr Mendleson (Shan’t-keep-you-a-moment) avidly wrote down the details, murmuring ‘Tragic, tragic’ as he learned of the reason for the sales. Beaming widely, he then assured me that these two des-reses were all he needed to get half of London beating a path to his door. I left him happily jangling both sets of keys, and as I mounted my bike felt hugely relieved that they were someone else’s responsibility now, and that frankly the only ‘tragic’ thing about it would be if he didn’t get a zonking great amount of money for them.

  Pedalling away again, I glanced at my watch and – oh hell! – I was going to be late for Tom! He’d pinned me down yesterday to having lunch with him before he jetted back to America, and I had precisely ten minutes to cycle back into the West End and meet him at some rarefied watering hole at the fashionable end of the King’s Road. I rose up in the saddle and pedalled away like billy-o, wondering, at the same time, why on earth I couldn’t just go at a more leisurely pace and arrive ten minutes late, which, let’s face it, is exactly what he would do if the roles were reversed. Why was I always so pathetically eager not to let people down when all they did was let me down? I shook my head grimly. Things were going to have to change, Rosie Meadows, things were really going to have to change.

  But not yet. I crashed into the elegant chrome and leather eatery hot, bothered, and probably even a little fragrant under the arms, but by golly I was only two minutes late.

  ‘Hi!’ I panted triumphantly, kissing Tom damply and flopping down opposite him.

  ‘Well, hello.’ He folded his New York Times languidly and regarded me with ironic amusement. ‘Did you jog here or something?’

  ‘No, I cycled.’

  ‘Ah. Drink?’

  ‘Please,’ I gasped.

  He leaned back slightly and caught the waiter’s eye without having to stand on a chair and do semaphore lik
e I usually do. I watched him as he waited for our man to come over. His hair was longer than usual and bleached by the sun, but its trendy floppiness suited his still boyish face, particularly with that tan and those piercing blue eyes. I settled back happily, admiring him. Like Philly, he still had the ability to turn heads, and far from being jealous, I’d always enjoyed it. I liked having good-looking siblings because I think I felt, in a pathetic sort of way, that if I hung around with them long enough, some of the magic might rub off on me. The waiter arrived and Tom raised his eyebrows quizzically at me.

  ‘Beer? Wine?’

  ‘No, just a squash or something please, I’ve got to pick Ivo up later.’

  ‘A squash.’ He grinned. ‘You mean an orange juice?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’

  The waiter disappeared. Tom regarded me over the top of his Pils. ‘Glad to see my little sister is still bouncing around drinking orange squash and riding bicycles. It rather restores my faith in human nature.’

  I bridled. ‘What, you mean like some hopeless case in the lower fourth or something?’

  Tom looked startled. ‘No, I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘And only round things “bounce” really, don’t they, Tom?’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Rosie!’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, but honestly, you and Philly are so flipping superior sometimes. Can’t I ride a bike and have a soft drink? Or does it have to be all Porsches and champagne?’

  He held up his hands. ‘All right, all right, I’m sorry. Just an innocent little observation on your ever endearing nature but I take it right back, okay?’

  I glared, still feeling a bit heated, but when he started dodging bullets behind his arm I caved in.

  I grinned. ‘Okay, I overreacted. I’m sorry. I’m just – well, I’m just a bit overwrought at the moment, that’s all.’

  Tom lowered his arm cautiously. ‘Well, I’m not surprised. It’s not every day you bury your husband.’ He watched me closely to see how this would go down, but I quickly changed tack before he could interrogate me.

  ‘So how are you, Tom? How’s LA suiting you? Still doing lots of lounging around swimming pools in your shades being the swanky film director? Making lots of dosh as usual? Mum tells everyone you’re loaded.’