Lovestruck (24 page)

‘Mummeeee!’ came a call from upstairs, before Sandrine could say anything. ‘Toby told me I’m a smelly poo.’

Rosie couldn’t sleep. Jake was at the theatre. He’d emailed her, saying they’d speak in the morning and make a plan. His tone had been so abrupt, so businesslike, compared to their earlier brief but emotional conversation, it had sawed at Rosie’s heart. Then he’d sounded close to her, now he sounded in tunnel-vision, survivor mode.

She wished she’d stolen his sleeping pills. She refused to check the time because she’d only freak out seeing how near it was to morning, but she guessed it was about two. Rosie rolled out of bed and made for the little bookcase in the corner of the room. These personal touches were one of the things she loved about Sandrine’s place. She squatted down and surveyed the shelves, searching for something mindless to read for half an hour, something that would hopefully send her to sleep.

There was various chick lit, but she wasn’t in the mood
for happy ever after. Instead, she picked up one of what Christy called Sandrine’s ‘hippy-dippy’ books:
Where God Begins to Be: A Woman’s Journey Into Solitude
. This looked dull enough to work like Mogadon on her. Grinning, she climbed back into bed, and began flicking through the pages when a postcard fell out, a picture of the Empire State Building. She glanced at it, then noticed Christy’s handwriting. Well, it was a postcard. Anyone could read them.

Hi Sandy,

Returning the hippy-dippy book. [Rosie smiled. ‘See!’] Didn’t help me, I’m afraid. Told ya. But thanks for the pep talk about Mr Perry. Promise you, I really am going to quit him this time. I’m addicted and it’s tough, but I’ll do it. Because you’re right, it’s all far too close to home and he needs to be with his wife. Speak soon.

Love,

C xx

Rosie felt as if she’d plummeted from a bungee cord. She began to shake. Through narrowed, incredulous eyes, she read the postcard again, then again.
Mr Perry. Wife. I’m addicted
.

Christy had been sleeping with Jake. When? Recently? Still? Christy and Jake. Bloody Christy. Bloody Jake. No wonder she was all over him.

Why couldn’t Rosie have seen it? Her husband was the mysterious married man. How could she have been so stupid not to have spotted it ages ago?

She felt as if a great hand were pushing on her head. She couldn’t breathe. She wondered if she was going to vomit. She lay on the bed, looking up at the ceiling, willing tears to come, but they stayed obstinately absent.

My Daughter, Her Tax-dodging Celebrity Husband and How Fame Turned Both Their Heads

Amid the bundles of letters I keep in an old shoebox, I have a copy of a letter I wrote to my daughter, Rosie, who’s married to tax-dodger Jake Perry. Sent two years ago, as my son-in-law’s fame and wealth were on an upward curve, it was normal maternal advice
.

Don’t get too big for your boots, girl. Never forget where you came from
.

Alas, it seems she didn’t listen. Yesterday I watched with great sadness as my adored daughter was driven into hiding after it was revealed by the
Sentinel
that her husband had been using a legal tax-avoidance scheme to pay only three per cent of his earnings to the Treasury
.

Rosie and I always shared a special bond. A single mum, I was only nineteen when I had her, but I used to say she was the best mistake I ever made. Throughout her childhood and teenage years, we were inseparable. We lived in a council flat in the St Pauls area of Bristol, where I also cared for my elderly mother. Times could be tough. I had to work hard as a barmaid to make ends meet, but we had each other and that was more than enough
.

But after she met Jake she cut me brutally out of her life. The last time we saw each other was four years ago, when my grandson Tony was born. I arrived at her flat, laden with gifts, over the moon about becoming a grandma, but after only half an hour Rosie told me she was tired and had to go and rest
.

Since then, nothing. I’ve laughed, like everyone, at Jake in
Archbishop Grace
and joked with my friends, ‘Not on
my
patio.’ But not a word from Rosie. No replies to my many calls, postcards, emails. Even my birthday’s now forgotten
.

I’ve seen the photos in the papers of Rosie’s new five-million-pound home in London, a home where a swimming pool’s being installed, and which – we now know – was bought with ill-gotten gains
.

I can only conclude that there was no space in her glossy life for her old mother. For reasons inexplicable to me, however, she seemed content to stay in touch with my mum, recently visiting her in St Pauls with her new celebrity buddy, Ellie Lewis
.

Why she chooses to see her grandmother but shuns me is impossible to answer, though I wonder if the fact that Ellie tweeted about their meeting, ensuring it was seen by her one million seven hundred and sixty-five thousand followers, made Rosie think it was a good idea. Maybe she knew her husband’s lucrative career was about to go up in smoke and she needed to remind the world of her humble origins, hoping they’d think she hadn’t changed
.

Sadly, I can attest, she has. But she’s still my daughter and I still yearn for any word from her. So, Rosie, if you’re reading this, I’m here for you. You didn’t use to be too proud to cry on your mum’s shoulder when you stubbed a toe or a boyfriend dumped you, so call me now and I’ll be waiting, with all your mistakes already forgiven
.

Sun streaming in through the curtains roused Rosie from a brief and troubled sleep. Birds were singing, while from the kitchen came the noise of the whistling kettle. It was going to be another beautiful day, and for a moment she was happy. But then she remembered and gasped.

‘Mummy!’ the boys chorused, leaping on to the bed. ‘Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy,
we’re full of beans
… Waargh. Get off! Get off, Georgie!’

‘Mummeee! What will we do today?’

‘We’re going back to London,’ Rosie said firmly.

‘Oh no!’

‘No, Mummy. We love it here. Stinky London.’

‘Stinky London,’ George agreed.

‘Well, we won’t actually be going home. We might stay in a hotel for a bit.’

‘At Disney?’ Toby asked hopefully. ‘Like Santos and Michael did at half-term?’

Rosie picked up her phone and turned it on, ignoring the dozens of texts and missed-call icons, and called Patrizia.

She answered straightaway. ‘Are you OK? God, this
stuff in the paper is horrible. Did you know anything about what Jake was doing?’

‘I knew nothing. Listen, I’m out of London, but I have to come back. If I leave the boys with you for the night, will that be OK?’

‘Of course. I can call in two of the extra nannies. I’m sure they’ll be happy to help.’

Despite herself, Rosie smiled. ‘Thank you, I’ll tell you everything later. I have to go now. I’ll text when I’m near.’

‘No problem,’ Patrizia said warmly. ‘By the way, your mum looks good for her age.’

‘Nee-naw, nee-naw, I’m a fire engine,’ George yelled, making Rosie think she’d misheard.

‘What?’

‘Your mum in the
Sentinel
. She’s been speaking to them about how you don’t talk any more. Maybe you should call her.’

‘Er, thanks, Patrizia.’ Rosie hung up. Her chest was churning so much she felt like a fizzy drink. She wasn’t quite sure what her plan was beyond leaving the boys with Patrizia for the night, but she knew she had to be out of Hebden. Sandrine must have known about Jake and Christy and the thought that she’d been hiding this secret from Rosie was the most sickening discovery yet. She was climbing out of bed when her phone rang. It was Jake. Reluctantly she picked up.

‘Bean, I’m so sorry,’ he said instantly. ‘I’ve been awake all night. I should have told you all this before,
told you as soon as I found out Mum had signed me up to this stupid scheme. I should have warned you. I –’

‘I’ll talk to you later. I’m not talking to you now.’

‘But, Bean!’

‘The boys are here. I am not talking to you in front of them.’

‘Can I speak to the boys? Are you OK? What’s happened?’

‘I’m going to get the train back to London today with them. I suggest you book a hotel room and I’ll meet you there tonight after the show. We need to talk properly.’

‘But … Don’t bring the boys back to London. They can’t go home, the house is surrounded.’

‘They’ll stay at Patrizia’s. I don’t want them here any more.’

‘With Sandrine? Why ever not?’

‘Boys! It’s breakfast time!’ Sandrine called. ‘Bacon sandwiches.’

They ran whooping from the room.

‘OK, they’re not listening now,’ Rosie hissed. ‘So I’ll tell you why I’m coming back. It’s because I need to talk to you. I’ve just found out another little secret you were keeping from me. You and Christy.’

‘You’re mad, Rosie! What are you talking about?’

Rosie. He only called her that if something was very serious. ‘You know what I’m talking about.’

‘No, I don’t. You’ve lost the plot.’

Liar
. ‘I have proof. Written proof.’

‘I have no idea what you’re on about.’

‘I think we need to talk face to face,’ said Rosie. ‘I’ll be back later this afternoon.’

‘OK,’ Jake agreed miserably. His defeated tone made Rosie feel as if she were hanging from a tree branch in a high wind. Scared, vulnerable and utterly defeated.

She didn’t eat breakfast, just muttered something about not being hungry. She couldn’t bear to look Sandrine in the eye, didn’t want to speak to her, because she knew any conversation about Jake and Christy would make her emotional and she needed all her strength preserved for later. All these years Sandrine had pretended to be her friend when she’d known what her sister was getting up to behind her back! God, only last night, bitching away to her about him and Christy and their plotting and Sandrine had known. She’d bloody known.

‘Are you all right?’ Sandrine asked, looking concerned. What a cheek.

‘Just tired. Didn’t sleep well.’

‘Oh, you poor love.’

‘Well, whatever. I’ll survive.’ Rosie stood up. ‘So, listen, there’s a train in half an hour. We’d better get going.’

‘You’re leaving?’ Sandrine looked shaken.

‘I have to get back to London and talk to Jake.’

‘But you could leave the boys.’

‘Yeah, we’ll stay here!’ crowed George, as Toby wailed: ‘Don’t leave me, Mummy.’

‘I want the boys with me.’

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Sandrine was watching her questioningly.

‘Fine.’ Rosie couldn’t make eye contact. She’d never so desperately wanted to escape somewhere in her life.

The train journey back to London via Leeds was a testament to the invention of the iPad. Rosie plonked headphones on the boys and pressed play on the first of many kids’ movies she’d had the luck to download a couple of weeks ago. An earth-mother type who was encouraging her three children to colour a child’s version of the
Odyssey
glared at her. Rosie glared back and once her head was bent over one of her children’s drawings she gave her the finger.

She stared out of the window. The weather was no help at all; it was far too perfect today, mocking her agonies. They were whizzing past green fields, the trees were in full bloom. The world was beautiful but Rosie’s heart was black, like something rotting at the back of the fridge.

Surreptitiously, on her phone, she read about her husband, though it was tricky on such a tiny screen – why had she never bothered upgrading to an iPhone? Now they’d probably have to sell every electronic gadget they owned to pay the tax bill.

Squinting, she read how her husband, with a taste for ‘Armani and Prada’ was living in a five-million-pound house in one of London’s most exclusive
suburbs, how the battered car in the driveway – they’d never got round to upgrading that either – masked a fondness for luxury restaurants. She read how he was planning to send his children to private schools, how his career had suffered what many suspected was a body blow after appearing in a ‘shambolic’
Twelfth Night
with Ellie Lewis. How his wife, Rosemary, forty-four, didn’t work.

She couldn’t bring herself to read the interview with Mum or the comments below the article. But she did call up her husband’s Twitter page.
U c*nt, Perry. Stealing criminal. Living in the lap of luxury while the rest of us do an honest day’s work. U disgust me. Always hated him. Grasping chavs
.

‘Oh, look, there’s Daddy!’ screamed Toby, even louder with the headphones on. He pointed at a man opposite reading the
Sentinel
. On the cover was a photo of Jake looking particularly shifty, like a villain in a Victorian melodrama.

‘Shh, now, Toby,’ Rosie hissed. ‘Voice down.’

‘But what’s he doing?’

‘Shhh.’ Every head turned. ‘Watch the film.’

‘I think we’ve watched enough film. You told us if we watch too much telly, we’ll get square eyes.’

‘That doesn’t count when you’re on a train,’ Rosie said hastily. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a couple of passengers trying not to laugh.

‘Let’s play a game.’

‘Watch the film,’ she said softly. ‘And I will give you
a packet of chocolate buttons each when we get to London.’

‘Ooh.’ They immediately turned their attention back to the screen.

They took an expensive, slow-moving cab from King’s Cross to Patrizia’s, who actually opened the door herself, rather than delegating the task to a retainer.

‘Hey, guys. Welcome. The twins are so excited you’re coming. Elena! Jana! Kasia! The visitors are here. I’ve only managed to call in one extra nanny, but I hope that will be enough.’

‘Santos!’ bellowed the boys, dashing through the hallway into the garden. ‘Michael!’

‘Thank you so much.’

‘It’s my absolute pleasure. Are you OK?’ Patrizia asked.

‘No … Er … Not really.’

Patrizia’s big brown eyes were full of sympathy. Rosie hated that. Everyone feeling sorry for her at school, because she was scruffier than the rest of them. Now the Wendy’s mums. She wouldn’t cry in front of her. She wouldn’t.

‘It’s fine. Thank you for this, Patrizia. I’ll pick them up from Wendy’s tomorrow. There’s everything they need in their suitcases.’

She turned and stumbled down the steps.

‘I can recommend a great divorce lawyer!’ Patrizia
called after her. ‘Caroline used him. Oh, and by the way?’

‘Yes,’ Rosie said, turning.

‘This tax scheme. Sorry to keep asking, but please let us know more about it? Only Gary’s really interested. He’s going to sack his accountant for not putting us on it.’

An hour later, Rosie was walking briskly through the backstreets of Soho. It was weird to be back in her old stomping ground, this playground for the unencumbered, for adults enjoying a prolonged childhood. Nothing had changed – there were still the scribbled signs on doors offering massages with busty Thai girls, still the quirky boutiques selling patterned sundresses, with tattoo parlours at the back. Still the boys walking arm in arm down Old Compton Street and Lina Stores standing on the corner of Brewer Street with its vast chunks of Parmesan in the window and musty salamis hanging from the ceiling.

Christy’s offices were down a shabby side street, flanked by a shop selling bolts of bright fabric and a sandwich shop. There was the shiny black front door (it had been a flimsy, peeling MDF number when Christy had taken the premises over, but as the money had come rolling in –
Jake’s
money – she had tarted everything up). Rosie pressed the buzzer.

‘Hello,’ Rosalba’s voice crackled.

‘It’s Rosie.’

A pause. ‘Rosie who?’

‘Rosie Prest,’ Rosie spat. ‘Christy’s oldest friend. Your favourite client’s wife. Favourite until today that is.’

‘Oh, hi, Rosie.’ Rosalba sounded as warm and friendly as ever. ‘But Christy’s not here. She’s working at home today.’

Rosie turned and stuck out a hand.

‘Taxi!’

The taxi carried her down the Mall, round Hyde Park Corner and down to Victoria, then wiggled through the back streets of Belgravia, before swooping round Sloane Square and heading off down the King’s Road, with its array of chain stores and jumble of shoppers: old women in thick Loden coats, even on this hot summer day, emerging from Waitrose with their sunglasses perched on their noses. French-looking women in sundresses talking animatedly into their mobiles. Lost-looking Chinese tourists.

Then it moved on, down towards World’s End. The shops were different now: charity shops, newsagents, boarded-up façades, sleepy-looking antique shops. Pensioners pushed shopping trolleys, while mums in vest tops slumped on their buggies.

‘It’s just round the corner,’ Rosie said. The taxi turned left and pulled up outside the block.

She buzzed on Christy’s door. No answer. She tried again. Nothing. ‘Bugger.’

Rosalba had said Christy was working from home.
Of course Rosalba could have got it wrong. She could have been lying, expressly trying to put her off the scent, though she couldn’t know what Rosie had just discovered. She pulled out her phone, ready to call her former friend, but then she thought again. If she reached Christy on the phone, she’d merely fob her off and for the first time in her life Rosie was craving confrontation. A thought occurred to her. She still had the keys on her fob from way back when they’d shared the flat. She could let herself in and wait for Christy to return.

Her heart thudded. It was such an un-London thing to do, to let yourself into someone’s flat, the equivalent of striking up conversation with the person next to you on the tube, or standing on the left on an escalator, even if that someone was your so-called oldest friend. But she had to have this out with Christy. Her life had backed itself into a corner and she needed to do whatever it took to manoeuvre it out again.

She stepped into the lift and it whisked her up to the fifth floor. Down the corridor and she stood, heart beating, outside the front door. Christy hadn’t double-locked it. That wasn’t like her. She’d always been on at Rosie to safeguard her place and keep burglars at bay. Nervously, Rosie stepped inside. She was beginning to change her mind. She could be waiting for hours. Christy might not come back at all, or she might come back at midnight after wining and dining a client, or she might be en route to Australia in search of new talent.

She might be with Jake.

Rosie was going to wait. After all, she had nowhere else to go.

She stood, undecided, in the hallway, then turned back towards the door. Dumb idea. She’d just have to go and sit in a café and hope Jake got in touch with details of where they were meeting later. Assuming he did get in touch. But then, behind her, Rosie heard a noise.