Lovestruck (23 page)

It took five seconds from Rosie opening her eyes to Rosie remembering what had happened last night. Jake’s half of the bed was unslept in and George was prodding her.

‘Mummy, Mummy, the door keeps buzzing.’

‘Wha—’ Rosie sat up, her head muzzy. She pulled her son to her. ‘Darling, did it wake you up?’

‘No, I was awake anyway. Where’s Daddy?’

‘Downstairs?’ Rosie guessed. The buzzer went again. She felt sick, her mouth was dry and hollowed out, her vision bleary. She shouldn’t have taken that sleeping pill.

‘Mummy!’ Toby was standing at the door, looking terrified. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Darling.’ Now she was hugging both boys as close to her as possible. ‘It’s OK. Some people just want to talk to Daddy.’

‘Not the police?’

That would have been funny, were it not also kind of true. ‘No, not the police.’

‘Rosie! Morning, boys.’ Christy was standing in the doorway, looking pale and distinctly dishevelled. ‘Good. You’re up. So, listen. We’ve a plan for you today. No
nursery, instead you’re all going on a trip to see Sandrine.’

‘Sandrine!’ exclaimed Toby joyously, as George began to wail.

‘No, Sandrine. I want to go to nursery. It’s Gary Guitar day. Want to go to Wendy’s.’

‘Shhh, shhh, sweetheart. What’s happening?’ Rosie asked Christy over the bedlam. ‘Toby, don’t poke your brother.’

‘But he’s annoying me!’

‘The
Sentinel
have printed the story,’ Christy said. ‘If you look out of the window, you’ll see the house is surrounded by press. So we think the best thing is for you to disappear entirely for a while until this all calms down.’

‘What about Jake?’

‘Jake has to do the show. He’ll probably go and stay with his parents.’

‘How long—’

‘It’ll just be a couple of days.’ Christy said, opening a cupboard. ‘Do you keep your suitcases in here? Calm
down
, George, you’ll have a lovely time with Auntie Sandrine.’

‘Where’s Jake?’

‘Asleep in the spare room.’ Christy was now briskly rifling through Rosie’s knicker drawer. ‘I told him to grab at least a couple of hours, since he’ll have to do the show as normal tonight.’

‘Oh, how caring of you.’ George was still wailing. ‘Shh, sweets. We’re going to have an adventure.’

‘I’ll pack your jeans. Do you have wellies? You need them up there.’ The doorbell buzzed twice, as Christy’s phone pinged. ‘I’d get packing for the boys, if I were you.’ She turned and took Rosie’s hand. ‘I’m so sorry about this, Ro; I tried to stop it, I really did. But someone told the papers just when I was beginning to get Jake to listen to me.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ Rosie said, after a second’s pause.

Two hours later, Rosie was sitting in the back seat of yet another limousine being driven up the M6, while the boys gaped at a Disney DVD that had been the key to persuading George to stop wailing about missing Wendy’s. At least he hadn’t been sick yet. Usually on motorways he was fine; it was the winding Hebden Bridge roads that might spell trouble.

She tried to take in what was happening. Texts had come flooding in from all the Wendy’s mums, full of sympathy. Rosie felt terrible for every mean thought she’d harboured about them. She couldn’t bring herself to google the story in the
Sentinel
, to read the pages of vitriolic readers’ comments. She called Nanna. She needed reassurance that everything was all right, and that it was a storm that would quickly pass.

‘Sure you’re all right, lover?’ Nanna sounded far more anxious than she did when talking about her Parkinson’s. ‘They’re all calling me up, knocking on the door, wanting to know what I have to say about it.’

‘Ignore them.’

‘Oh, I do. It’s funny really. Nothing like this has ever happened to me in my life. But it’s not funny for you. Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘I’m fine, honestly, Nanna. We’ll have a few lovely days in the country with Sandrine and when we return everything will have blown over.’

Rosie hung up, furious. Nanna’s flat surrounded by reporters. Brilliant. How could Jake have done this? How could he not have known what Yolande was up to? Been so lazy as never to ask her any questions about what was going on? When a journalist first started sniffing around several weeks ago, Christy had told Rosie while helping her pack, he hadn’t thought to confide in her, but just grown snippier and snippier.

But she’d been an idiot too, she berated herself. Why hadn’t she asked more questions about how they could buy that house outright, about affording David Allen Robertson’s schemes? Oh God, she’d better stop that right away. The school – she’d need to inform them Toby wouldn’t be starting in September after all – and somehow find a new place for him, poor little thing. Would they have to pay back loads of tax? Presumably not if the scheme was legal. But they’d look terrible if they didn’t.

She stared at the back of the yellow lorry in front of her. Red lorry. Yellow lorry. Red lorry. No husband. How had this happened? How had her and Jake’s relationship changed so much in the space of less than six months?

How could they have gone from mad, devoted love to this situation where she felt like a footnote to his glossy life? She’d seen so many different, new sides to Jake this past half-year, sides she wasn’t sure she could tolerate for another six months, let alone for the rest of her life.

It wasn’t just Jake’s behaviour – the Mariah Carey moments, the ruthless disregard for what everyone in the family wanted, it was the way their lives had gone completely out of synch. Everything Jake had done until now had brought in money and was in the public eye, so was therefore important, while Rosie seemed to do nothing of significance.

Yes, she looked after Jake and the boys, and made their lives easier, but no one really appreciated what hard, thankless work that could be. Being the family linchpin, the wind beneath everyone’s wings, sounded idyllic – it was what women were supposed to do – but it wasn’t working. Somehow, along the way, Rosie had lost sight of herself and who she was – and everyone else had too. She wasn’t the woman Jake had fallen in love with and that had placed another wedge between them.

She would talk to Sandrine about it. Sandrine would calm her down, cheer her up, make her work out a way forward. A grim way forward, Rosie thought, because she couldn’t see any happy ending to all this, but at least a plan to cling to.

Her phone was ringing. She glanced down. Christy.

She ignored it. If it were really important she’d leave her a message. Sure enough, up pinged a text.

Rosie, so sorry. Managing this as best we can. Have told Sandrine to look out for wellies in your size. xx

‘Fuck off, Christy,’ said Rosie, glancing guiltily at the boys, but they were gazing raptly at the screen. It would have been nice if Jake had contacted her, but throughout the journey she didn’t hear a word.

It was ages since she’d been to Hebden. She’d forgotten how beautiful the approach was along winding roads flanked by tree-studded hills. Old stone bridges crossed trickling streams. York stone houses with smoke billowing from their chimneys. A wide sky glowering above them. They drove into the town, past noticeboards advertising rebirthing workshops and second-hand dulcimers, vegan cafés, boutiques selling stark German designer clothes. It was like the Village redesigned by a hemp-weaving hippy.

‘Do you feel OK?’ she asked George every three seconds, but he assured her he was fine.

Sandrine’s B & B was in a cobbled side street, with pretty pastel-coloured Victorian cottages along one side and a stream flowing on the other. The door was surrounded by flowerpots and painted a delicate mauve.
SANDRINE’S PLACE
read a ceramic sign hanging from a nail beside the old-fashioned brass doorbell.

‘Hang on a second!’ Sandrine called in her booming
voice. The door opened and she was standing there, wearing possibly the world’s most unflattering pair of dungarees.

Rosie launched herself into her arms.

‘Hey! Hey!’ Sandrine patted her gently on the back, as Rosie sniffled.

‘Sandrine!’ The boys were yelling. ‘Can we go and see horses? Can we live here forever?’

‘Why don’t we all have some lunch first and then we’ll make plans. You must be starving.’

They sat in Sandrine’s cosy kitchen, the boys scoffing ham sandwiches (Toby’s hatred of bread having mysteriously vanished), while Rosie drank proper leaf tea from a pot. ‘The guests love it like that,’ Sandrine said, smiling.

‘Oh God, your guests! What are they going to make of these two little darlings?’

‘Luckily we’re quiet the next couple of days. June’s visiting her mum in Guernsey, so we didn’t take any bookings for the duration. But thanks for asking.’ Sandrine’s lips pursed wryly. ‘Christy didn’t bother, just told me you were coming. So we can have plenty of fun together. We’ll go for a lovely walk through the Dales. Visit Haworth maybe? Have you ever been? It’s where the Brontë sisters grew up. I love it. I think Emily Brontë wanted to be a man.’

‘In your dreams,’ Rosie laughed. Already she felt so
much better, but Sandrine’s company was a plaster trying to hold together a huge gaping wound.

They spent the afternoon walking across the moors, sun blazing on their uncovered heads. The boys whooped and cheered, gathered sticks, poked in streams and rolled in the grass.

‘This is heaven, Mummy!’ yelled George. ‘Let’s live here always.’

‘Yay,’ Rosie agreed wholeheartedly. ‘London stinks.’

‘London stinks,’ they chorused, giggling. ‘London stinks. Poo! Urgh!’

‘What do you think?’ Sandrine asked Rosie.

‘I love London. I didn’t think I could ever tire of it. I thought the Village was the perfect compromise for a family – lots of green space, but a quick hop on the train into all the noise and filth. But now … I don’t know. I never go into the centre anyway, unless it’s for one of Jake’s shows and …’ Suddenly the bridge of her nose tingled. She wiped away a tear.

‘Hey.’ Sandrine’s huge hand was on her shoulder. ‘It’ll all be OK.’ Her phone started ringing. ‘Hang on, one sec’. Oh!’ Her expression changed. ‘Just a minute. Yes. Yes, Christy, she’s with me … Well, she probably doesn’t have a signal on the moors … I’ll put her on if she wants to talk.’ She mouthed at Rosie. ‘Do you?’

‘I want to talk to Jake,’ Rosie said.

‘She wants to talk to Jake.’

‘He’s in a meeting,’ Sandrine relayed.

‘Well, then I’ll wait until he’s out of meetings.’

‘Christy wants to talk to you.’ Poor Sandrine looked horribly stressed.

‘I’d rather talk to Jake,’ Rosie snarled, her stomach twisting and cold.

They walked the rest of the way down the hill in near silence, apart from Rosie occasionally begging the boys not to run too fast or touch dog poo. They had just reached the foot and were turning towards the town – the plan being tea at the chippy, when Jake called again.

‘Hi. Sorry. It’s all been … horrible.’

‘So does the whole world hate you?’ Rosie asked coldly. She was sure that was all he cared about.

‘I’m taking a bit of a battering. But I can survive that. I need to know you’re all OK.’

That was more like it.

‘We’re fine,’ Rosie said stiffly, trying to ignore her heart, like a frozen river, slowly turning back to slush. ‘The boys are having a great adventure.’ Indeed, they were carousing around her, as light drizzle began to fall.

‘Kiss them from me. Tell them I’ll see them soon. Bean, I’m really sorry, I have to go now. I have to have a meeting with a PR company about how they’re going to deal with this. But we’ll talk later, OK? I love you.’

It had been so long since he’d said that, that once again Rosie felt tears in her eyes.

‘I lo—’ she began, but he’d gone.

‘So how did the papers find out?’ Sandrine asked. The boys were in bed after nine stories and a very splashy bath and the pair of them were sitting at the kitchen table, a half-drunk bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a curry ordered in from up the road in front of them.

‘They think someone at the tax office snitched on him to the
Sentinel
. Kind of fair enough, given how vocal Jake’s been about other people doing exactly the same thing.
The moron
.’

‘So what will happen?’

‘Well, put it this way, we’ll be moving to Hebden sooner than you’d expected.’

‘Oh, Rosie.’

‘ ’S OK. I mean, we probably won’t be moving here, but we’re going to have to sell that house. Which is fine, because I never felt right there anyway.’

‘You can stay as long as you want, you know that?’

‘Thanks, Sandy. I don’t want to outstay our welcome, though.’

‘You could never do that.’

‘You know what I’ve missed so much?’ Rosie said passionately. ‘Having good friends like you around. People I can really talk to. Ever since we had children that side of my life has slipped away, and since we moved to the Village and I stopped working it’s almost all gone. We’ve got – well, we had – all this money, but if there’s no one to share it with, it’s meaningless.’

‘What about the mums at the nursery?’

‘They’re OK. They’re lovely, actually, today’s made me realize that. I was all chippy about them being rich, as if I weren’t too. But the thing about the Wendy’s mums is we just don’t have any shared history. I had Parvaneh and we moved from her. I had my work mates, people who knew me. I had Christy! That’s all gone and I feel so lonely.’