Cause Celeb (53 page)

“No offense to you, but is there any reason why Oliver can't ring me himself just now?”

“Ah, Er. Well, you know how busy he is.”

“Yes, but what is he doing at this precise moment?”

“Er—he's, er—he did say he was busy.”

“I see. What is the message?”

“He says he won't be able to come round until ten o'clock because he has a meeting. Oh, and he won't want to eat, so go ahead and eat without him.”

“Fine, thank you.”

This one again. An unexpected meeting till ten, with food, which he daren't tell me about himself. Great. I had spent my lunch hour buying our supper in Marks and Spencer's. Who was it? Vicky Spankie? Corinna? Someone else? I'd sit in all evening, wondering, and then he'd turn up pissed and guilty at eleven-thirty. No, he wouldn't, though. Not this time.

“Hermoine?”

“What is it?”

“Would you do a favor for me?”

Hermoine looked at me warily.

“What?”

“It's nothing much. It's just to ring this number, say you are my assistant, and that I'm sending my apologies to Oliver. I won't be able to make it tonight because I have a meeting which will go on till one.”

“Don't be absurd.”

“Oh, go on. Don't be a bloody old bore.” I winked at her. I really didn't care what she thought. I hated the stupid job now anyway.

“Go on. Please,” I said, holding out the piece of paper with Oliver's number. “He's always doing it to me.”

“Oh, all right, then,” she said. And afterwards she shrieked with laughter. “Perfect! Oh what a scream! I
must
tell Cassandra. That was completely brilliant. Jolly well serves him right.”

And when my phone rang again a few minutes later, she snatched it up before I could get to it and told Oliver I was in a meeting. Unfortunately, though, she got rather carried away.

“Yes, of course I'll give her the message but she's frightfully busy. I really don't know if I'll catch her. Why don't you ring back in a couple of months?”

She banged down the phone and looked gleefully across for approval. But I was horrified.

“A couple of months? Oh no.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, don't be so wet. Do him the world of good. Fancy coming down to Larkfield this weekend?”

When I got out of work he was waiting across the road for me with a bunch of red roses. The seesaw had definitely swung. My flat was starting to look like a flower shop. I couldn't have turned things round better if I had planned it in months of therapy. The trouble was, though, it wouldn't have worked if I was pretending. Never does.

*

It was Valentine's Day, the day of Julian Alman's wedding to Janey. Oliver was best man. It had been a whirlwind romance. Julian had collapsed gratefully and needily into Janey's abundant offerings of beauty, warmth and normality. Sometimes you could see Janey three times a night on the TV, advertising bras or deodorants. Tall, blond, willowy, with almond eyes and cheek bones to die for, she was the epitome of sophistication and chic until she opened her mouth. Then she was, well, loud, coarse, hilarious, fun, kind—but definitely not chic. In the Claridge's ballroom, Janey's East End clan were mingling confidently with Julian's star-studded guest list, knocking the booze back and roaring with laughter. Janey, however, was in tears.

“Dad's not makin' a bleedin' speech 'cos 'e's too embarrassed in front of this lot.”

Glancing round at the assembled show biz establishment I could see Mr. Hooper's point. But still. It was a wedding. He was her dad. Who was going to talk about Janey when she was a little girl?

“Can't we talk to him? Or maybe one of your brothers would do it.”

“No, I want me dad.” She burst into sobs again. “But that's not the bleedin' worst of it. Julian says he's not gonna make one either.”

“But why not?”

“'E says 'e thinks Oliver's going to be funnier than 'im.”

Oliver and Julian were in different corners. I could see Oliver bent feverishly over his little cards, practicing his anecdotes. Julian was walking round in circles in his morning suit, looking this way and that, muttering, his big hands clasping and unclasping feebly: Julian at his most bewildered and miserable on his wedding day.

I went over to Oliver's corner and put my arms around his waist. “Oliver.”

He didn't look up. “I'm trying to rehearse my speech, as you can perfectly well see. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” I turned and started to walk off.

He came after me, put his hand on my arm. “Sorry, sweetheart, sorry. I'm just preoccupied. Do you want me to read you a bit?”

“No.”

“I'm sorry I snapped, plumpkin. What did you want?”

“Do you know that Julian's told Janey he's not making a speech because he's worried that you will be funnier than him?”

“Well, that's his problem, isn't it? He shouldn't have asked me, if he was going to be like this.”

“Oliver, it's his wedding day.”

“Exactly. It's
his
wedding day. He should have thought it through.”

“Go and talk to him. Tell him you won't upstage him.”

“Can't avoid it, probably. Anyway, he's the famous comedian. He can look after himself.”

“How long has he been your friend? You know he can't write his own jokes. Give him some of yours. Tell him you'll just say something short.”

“I can't do that. People expect things of me.”

“If anyone drops out it should be you. Go and talk to him.”

But he didn't, the bastard. He'd been working on that speech all week and he brought the house down. And Julian lost his nerve, and his audience, stuttered and stumbled and sat down looking traumatized. Nobody mentioned Janey once. The silence on the way home in the car was one of our filthiest ever.

*

What was I to do? I felt as though the whole platform on which I had been building my life was crumbling away. I had thought that finding the sort of consuming passion I had found with Oliver was the answer to everything. He was Captain von Trapp to my Maria. I had thought that being accepted in a glitzy, whizzy world would thrill me. I was on a career ladder within that world now. I had thought climbing it would be satisfying. But instead I was swimming around in air and nothingness. I couldn't find anything to put my foot on. I talked to my mother a lot on the phone.

“You haven't found yourself yet,” she said. “You can't do it with Oliver. People are either drains or radiators and Oliver's a drain. Do something. Take control. Act.”

The trouble was, I was scared of him. Though I was determined to leave him, I didn't want to wound his pride and incite vengeance. I didn't want us to hurt each other any more than we had done already either. I hatched up a plan which I thought was perfect.

*

“I think we should get married,” I said.

It was Saturday evening. Oliver was working frantically at his desk trying to finish a script before we left for the theater. He didn't need to finish it till Wednesday. He was just creating a crisis. We were already late.

He stared at the word processor. Then he turned around very slowly. “What did you say?”

“I think we should get married. We've been going out for eight months now. I can't carry on unless I know where our relationship is going. Unless you're really serious about me.”

Pressure, emotional demands. I saw them working in his face, saw the mouth tighten, the face twist.

“You've been counting, have you?”

“Yes.”

“So we've been going out for eight months and twelve days. And you think that means I have to marry you?”

“I need commitment.”

“Ah.” He got up and walked across the polished floor, stopping to straighten an architectural magazine on a glass shelf as he passed. “You need commitment.” He went and stood by the window with his back to me, still quiet, the early calm. “Eight months, and I have to marry you.” I saw the shoulders stiffen. He started striding around the room. “Fuck it, Rosie. Fuck it. I don't need this. I never wanted to be with you in the first place. I didn't even particularly want to sleep with you.”

I knew he was only saying it to hurt me, but it worked.

He slammed his fist down on the white table next to him. “Jesus. What's the matter with you? Are you some sort of emotional cripple? Hmmm? Is that what you are?”

“That's such a cliché. That's not fair.”

He was staring at me, with that wild look in his eye. “Is that what you are? Hmmm?”

He was coiled energy across the room. I sat down near the door, glanced at where my bag was.

“Answer me. I am telling you to answer me. Are you an emotional cripple or are you not?”

“I'm sorry. It's just the way I am. I need love, I need reassurance. This is what I need.”

Bang. The fist again. “This is what you need? This is what you need? Am I hearing this? Am I responsible for what you need now?”

Another push now. “Julian and Janey got married.”

“Oh, so that's it, is it? We have to do what Julian and Janey did. We have to be Julian and Janey. Well, maybe Julian feels differently about Janey. Maybe Julian wanted to be with Janey in the first place. Maybe Julian wanted to marry Janey.”

“And you don't want to marry me?”

He looked at me incredulously. “No, Rosie. No. I do not want to marry you. What on earth gives you the idea that I would want to marry
you
?”

“And you never wanted to sleep with me in the first place. You never wanted me. I've just forced you into it all. How does that make me feel?”

Bang. Crash. His script hit the floor and splayed across the polished wood.

“I can't stand any more of this. I've had enough!” he yelled.

Right. He'd said it, I was out. I picked up my coat and bag, moved towards the door. Damn. It was all happening too fast. I could see him starting to panic. He was softening now, coming towards me.

“It's horrible to think that I've been with you on sufferance, Oliver. I'm sorry. I just loved you too much. You're much too good for me. I don't want to be a burden to you.” Feeble, weak. Perfect. He paused for a moment, the trace of a smirk began on his face. Had to get out now. Quick quick. Turning to the door. Opening it. “I'm sorry to have taken up your time,” I said sorrowfully.

Then I shut it and ran. Down the stairs. Reached the hallway. Heard him yelling, “Rosie, for fuck's sake.”

I opened the door, closed it, ran, got to the end of the street, glanced round, saw him running after me, saw a taxi, hailed it, got in.

“Camden Town, please.”

Shirley's place. Not home. Not for a few days now.

CHAPTER

W
hy do you want to do this?”

Mrs. Edwina Roper, head of personnel for SUSTAIN UK, gazed at me coolly from behind large, tastefully glamorous spectacles.

“I want to help.”

“You realize there are lots of ways of helping without rushing out to Africa. You could help us with fund-raising, or with publicity.”

“I want to do something meaningful with my life.”

“I think you will find that relief work in Africa is not as straightforwardly meaningful as you imagine. What is wrong with your life now?”

I looked out of the window, where the rain was teeming down on Vauxhall. There was a row of grisly shops opposite: a newsagent, a secondhand bathroom-fittings outlet. A bath with no taps and a toilet with no seat were leaning on the wall below the window.

“There's nothing that I like about it. There's no point to it.”

“It puts rather a lot of pressure on the poor of Africa to give a point to Rosie Richardson's life.”

“I thought you would be grateful,” I said, sheepishly.

“I know. But this is not about gratitude. You are asking me for a job—a very interesting job.”

“I know you've got a job that needs filling in Safila. I want to do it. I'd be good at it.”

“What makes you think you'd be good at it?”

“Because I would, I've got a degree in agriculture.”

“Agriculture is one thing you won't be called upon to do in Safila.”

“I know. But I know about water and, er, drainage.”

She raised one eyebrow.

“I'm good at organizing . . . land, and I'm good with people and I've got lots of energy and I really, really want to do it. Why does anybody want to do it?”

She looked down at my CV. “I think you would be of more use to us here in a voluntary capacity.”

“But that's not what I want to do. If you don't want me, I'll go to another agency and somebody will take me. I know everyone needs staff at the moment. I've been there. I know what it's like.”

She got up and leaned against the front of the desk. “I think anyone who sets too much store by what Africa will do for them risks becoming a liability in the field. Have you recently ended a relationship, Rosie?”

I was completely flabbergasted. How did she know?

“Well, yes,” I said. “But that's not why I want to do this. It's the other way round. I broke it off because I wanted to change my life, and do something worth doing.”

“Are you sure
you
ended the relationship?” she said knowingly, leaning forward.

I couldn't believe this. Could Oliver, possibly, conceivably have got to her?

“Do you know Oliver Marchant?”

She went and sat back down at her chair, and leaned her chin on both her hands, smiling in a motherly way.

“No. But I have been in this job for a very long time.”

I said nothing.

“If you really want to do this, you should take some time before you decide. The job in Safila has been filled, temporarily at least.
SUSTAIN runs a course in disaster relief near Basingstoke. It's a six-month course. If you want to do it, I'll be happy to recommend you.”

I sloped back to my flat, dejected, to find messages on the answerphone from everyone under the sun: Julian Alman, Bill Bonham, even ghastly Vicky Spankie, saying they'd heard Oliver had ditched me, and asking if I was all right. Clearly, Oliver had gone round regaling everyone with his story. Fine, I thought. I didn't mind being humiliated if it meant peace.

The only person I called back was Julian. Of course, he instantly tried to transfer me and cut me off. He called me back. “Sorry, just, er, got cut off.”

“I rang to thank you for your message. That was really nice of you.”

“Oh, I, er, well, Janey and I, you know. Are you all right?”

“I'm really fine. It might all seem a bit strange to you, but I'm going to be much better off without Oliver.”

“Ah, well. Hmm. Yes. I can see that.”

“Did you have a good honeymoon?”

“Um. Well, I . . . you know, I think, relationships are quite difficult, um, aren't they?”

Oh dear.

“You're telling me. Listen, don't worry about me. And send my love to Janey.”

“Yes, but we just wanted to say, you know, we're very sorry and if there's anything we can do we're always here for you.”

“Thank you. I'm going away for a bit. So keep well, and see you soon, I expect.”

“Yes. Where are you going?”

I nearly said Basingstoke, then realized it didn't quite have the required air of mystery.

“Just away. But I'll be in touch. Love to Janey.”

*

“Ver' sorry to hear this. Ver' sorry. Sher'?”

“Thank you.”

Sir William was pottering around trying to deal with the decanter and pull on his beard all at the same time. “Bin thinkin'. Bin thinkin'. Maybe gel like you needs a bit more . . . to get the old teeth into.”

“I think I do need a complete change at the moment.”

“Well, I blame this pill.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Pill, contraception. Catastrophe. Chap doesn't recognize responsibility anymore. Doesn't know a good thing when it's starin' 'im in the face.”

I gulped. Could Oliver possibly have told him the story as well? Was there no escape from his influence? Sir William handed me the sherry.

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean,” I said, “but I've enjoyed working for you very much. I appreciate the break you gave me. And I'm sorry to have to leave.”

“Wondered about movin' you to another bit of the corporation, what about that. Up to Scotland. Ver' good time of year for grouse. Introduce you to some splendid fellows up there. Shootin' types. No nonsense.”

“You're very kind, but I've already made my plans. I want to go and work in Africa.”

“Yes, heard a bit about that. Roper's wife was on about it.” So Edwina Roper knew Sir William. Nothing was private anymore, apparently. “Ver', ver' worthwhile thing to do. Have to say. Wish could go off there m'self and do m'bit. Too many ruddy commitments.”

He looked into the distance for a moment and I tried to imagine Sir William chucking it all in to go and live in the bush.

“Still, don't want to rush into these things, y'know.”

“I'm not rushing into it.”

“Mind made up, eh? Like to see resolve in a gel. Well, all right, all right. When do you want to go?”

“As soon as you can release me. I think I'm supposed to do a month's notice.”

“No, no no. Bugger that. You bugger off when you want to. Off you go, off you go now. Ver' good. Press on.”

*

A week to the minute after I had walked out of Oliver's flat the trouble began. The doorbell rang on the Saturday night at six-forty-five. I knew it was him.

“Hello?”

“Hi, plumpkin. It's me.”

“I'll come down.” I didn't want him in the flat.

He was standing on the doorstep in the dark-blue overcoat. Very white shirt, no tie. Beautiful, beautiful Oliver. He took me in his arms, and the familiar warmth and scent nearly undid everything.

“Go and get your coat.”

“No, Oliver.”

His face crumpled like a little boy's. He looked so hurt, so defenseless. Oh, Oliver. Oliver, whom I had thought I loved so much.

I went to fetch my coat.

“Where are we going?” I said as I climbed into the car.

“You'll see.”

We were driving through Hyde Park in the rain, in a slow stream of traffic listening to the moan of the windshield wipers. Oliver was completely silent now. One side of his mouth was twitching. He put his hand on the horn and held it there in spite of the V signs from the car in front and I realized only then what a risk I was taking. We turned right at the lights, passed the ugly red brick buildings which bordered on the park. Then we turned into the Albert Hall car park. At least this was a public place.

“Are we going to a concert?”

“I said, you'll see.”

In we went, through the glass porch into the dingy circular corridor where concertgoers were hanging around aimlessly, into the lift, up the stairs and along the deep red corridor to . . . the Elgar Room. A uniformed attendant greeted Oliver and swung open the dark wooden door into a burst of light. The room was golden and all-a-glitter, but completely empty. The door closed behind us. I suddenly wanted to scream with terror.

“This was where we first met, wasn't it?” He was calm, dangerously controlled.

“Yes.”

I hoped the attendant was still outside the door. I had a vision of the man being bribed to dispose of my body. Wheeling me out impassively in a canapé trolley.

Oliver took my hand. I decided to stay calm, keep him calm, go along with whatever it was. He led me, trembling, across the red carpet and up the gilt ornamental staircase. There was a table in the center of the room, draped with a red cloth with a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket and two glasses.

He led me to the table. Then dropped dramatically to his knee, whipping a little box out of his pocket, flicking up the lid to reveal an enormous diamond.

“Will you marry me?” he said. . . .

*

“Rosie, I am asking you to marry me.”

I was standing at one end of the table with my head down. The voice was calm still, level. “I am asking you to marry me.”

Silence. I could sense him twitching.

“I have asked you a question. Will you marry me?”

“We've just been through all this. You can't undo what you said last week. You said you didn't want me. It hasn't worked between us. I've made my plans now. I'm going away.”

“I am asking you to marry me.”

“You know how stormy it's been for us both. Relationships shouldn't be like that. I've had enough and so have you. We'll both be better off on our own.”

He was gripping the other end of the table very, very tightly so that the red cloth was bunching up in his grip and the ice bucket was starting to slide towards him.

“Can you hear me, Oliver? Don't you understand what I'm saying?”

“I have asked you a civilized question and I expect a civilized answer. WILL—YOU—MARRY—ME?”

“No.”

One of the glasses fell over as the tablecloth slid.

“Oliver, please, don't do this. Come on, let's go. We can talk somewhere else.”

“I am waiting for an answer. WILL YOU MARRY ME?”

“No.”

The other glass fell over now. The ice bucket was nearly in front of him. I looked up at the softly twinkling chandeliers.

“Rosie, I AM ASKING YOU TO MARRY ME.”

“Oh, shut up, you silly old fool, just shut
up
,” I said, and ran for it again.

*

Back home I had to disconnect the buzzer with a screwdriver. His car stayed outside the house for an hour. Then the phone rang. The car was still there. Maybe it was Shirley. I picked up the receiver.

“I love you.”

“You love me.”

“I love you.”

“Are you sure? You're sure it's not adoration? Or falling for me but not in love with me, or a love affair where you don't actually love me? Or hurt pride?”

He slammed the phone down. It rang again immediately. I reached down under the table and pulled the little plug out of its socket. Then there was silence.

The car stayed outside all night. It was still there when I got up at 4:00
A
.
M
. It was still there when I was brushing my teeth in the morning. I called Shirley and asked if I could come and stay again. I started packing a bag. At ten o'clock there was a battering on the door of my flat. Someone had let him in. I grabbed the bag, went out on the balcony, climbed over, knocked on the next-door French window and Simon, the thin bespectacled engineer who lived in the next-door flat, appeared looking very surprised. The knocking was still going on.

“Would you be very sweet and let me come out through your flat?”

An idiotic gleam came into his eye. “Aha. Are you having another of your Stormy Rows?”

“Come on. This is serious. Let me out.”

“What's going on?” He was leaning over the balcony, trying to look into my living room. The knocking was still going on.

“Be quiet there, will you? Some of us are trying to sleep,” shouted Simon, smirking. The knocking stopped.