Rescuing Rose (40 page)

'Bea, don't be like that, ' pleaded Bella. 'Please try and be happy for me. '

'I
can't
—I've just been
dumped
! While you're going to go off and marry Andrew, aren't you?'

'Well, ' Bella blushed, 'I don't know, I—'

'Yes you are!' Bea shouted as she slammed the dishes into the sink. 'You're going to go off and marry Andrew and live with him and leave me all on MY
OWN'
She furiously squished Fairy liquid over the plates while Bella and I exchanged nervous looks.

'Don't worry, Bea, ' said Bella gently. 'I know you'll meet someone else soon. Henry simply wasn't right for you, otherwise he wouldn't be seeing this "other woman" would he? He'd be seeing you. Andrew knows so many people, ' she added reassuringly, 'I'll ask him to find someone nice. '

Bea groaned then lifted her right hand to her brow. 'Oh God, ' she said, 'I'm miserable and I'm absolutely pissed—we'd better go. '

Later, as I got ready for bed I wondered what would happen if Bella did get married: it's definitely on the cards, and when it happens Bea will be completely unable to cope. I imagined her at the wedding blubbing loudly in the front pew, or leaping to her feet when the vicar asked if there was any 'impediment' to them being joined together in Holy Matrimony and shouting out, 'Yes! Me!' But then she's lived with Bella for most of their lives—they're as intertwined as a figure of eight. Now there was a real danger of the link being broken and it was making Bea feel chronically insecure. As I brushed my teeth I imagined her sitting alone and desolate in their flat in Brook Green with Bella's stuff all gone.

I spat neatly into the basin, then opened the mirrored bathroom cabinet. On the bottom shelf are my few things: my moisturiser, toothpaste, and scent—Egoïste—and on the top shelf is Theo's stuff. Like me, he doesn't have much; just his razor, shaving cream and deodorant and his small bottle of Eau de Cologne. As I closed the door I looked anxiously into the mirror, as I often do these days. I studied my eyes, where the lids were beginning to crease slightly, and the shallow tramlines etched on my brow. A slight sag was just becoming evident on my jaw line, but my neck was still reasonably smooth. I patted cream onto my face then turned on the tiny tranny which I always have tuned to London FM. Minty was on, presenting
Capitalise
, the station's feature magazine.

'And now we talk to Pat Richardson, who runs Reunite, an adoption search agency… ' I heard her say. 'Pat has dedicated her life to reuniting adopted children with their natural parents, ' Minty continued. I turned it up. 'But each time it brings back the memory of the day when, as an unmarried mother of sixteen, her nine-week-old daughter was wrenched from her arms and taken away. Pat, welcome to the show. '

As I slowly massaged in the moisturiser I listened to the woman explain how she'd searched for her daughter for thirty years, finally finding her in May 1994. But, to her surprise, there had been no joyful reunion: the girl had been cold and remote. There had been just three telephone conversations, then no further contact. Her daughter didn't want to know.

'The day I knew I'd found her I was elated, ' said Pat quietly, 'It was like walking on air. It never occurred to me that she might not want to know me.

'More fool you, then, ' I said.

'What sort of thing triggers an adoption search?' Minty asked.

'Well, very often it's when the adoptee has their first baby, or a landmark birthday can set it off. The issue has been niggling away for years, and then they suddenly hit thirty, or forty and decide that they're going to do it at last. '

'Well, also with us in the studio, ' said Minty, 'is Lucy, now thirty-two who, two years ago, found her mother through Reunite. And for Lucy the trigger was indeed a big birthday—her thirtieth. But your story is a much happier one, isn't it?'

'Yes, it is, ' Lucy replied. 'Thanks to Pat's agency I did find my mother, and luckily we've become friends. I'd wanted to look for her since I was about twelve. '

'Not all adopted children do want to find their birth parents, ' said Minty softly. 'Why did you want to find yours?'

'Well, it was two things. Firstly, I'd always felt that there were some huge pieces missing from my life—it was as though I didn't quite feel
real
. And secondly, although my adoptive parents are lovely, I'd often felt like a square peg in a round hole. I was constantly aware that I looked nothing like them or like my non-adopted siblings. That knowledge ate away at me, and I got to the stage where, for good or ill, I just
had
to know. '

'What was it you wanted to know most of all?' Minty asked gently. 'Why your mother had given you up?'

There was a pause, and then the girl said, 'No. I thought that would be the main thing, but it wasn't. I just wanted to know. There was silence. 'I just wanted to know… 'she tried again. 'I just wanted to know… ' I heard her swallow her tears, '… why I am like I
am
!

And now, as she composed herself again and carried on speaking, I looked at my long nose, with its tilted end, and at my slightly determined chin, and I looked at the curve of my eyebrow, and at the distinct groove between nose and lip; and I thought, as I so often have thought, that's what
I
want to know. I want to know why my hair is red, and so curly—or 'mad' rather—and why my eyes are pale green. I want to know why I'm over six foot and why my collar bone is slightly pronounced. I want to know why my top lip lifts a little in the centre, and why my hands are the shape that they are. Where do these physical traits come from? Do they come from
her
, or from her parents; or do I resemble
him
?. Is my character
her
character or his character, or is it simply my own? Do I have any mannerisms of theirs, and do they like the things that I do? Do I laugh—or cry—in the same way, and is my voice similar to either of theirs? I'll be forty years old in less than three months and I don't know the answer to any of this.

'Thank you for joining us on the programme today, ' said Minty, 'and the number for Reunite is 0870 333111. That's 0870 333111. ' Involuntarily, I reached for my lip liner and had even started to jot down the number on the mirror when I suddenly stopped.

'No, ' I muttered. 'What's the
point
?'

'Do join us again tomorrow at the same time, ' Minty concluded warmly as the ads began to roll.

Mother's Day will soon he here so why not spoil YOUR mum with some chocolate truffles from Chocomania?!! Go on, surprise your mum
—
you know she deserves it
!

I smiled grimly, then turned it off. 'Mother's Day. ' 'Mothering Sunday. ' I ask you. What a joke.

'This week did not begin well, ' Trevor wrote in his column on Monday:

I had to have a bath (horrific), plus Bev's got it into her head that dried dog food is better for me—I'd rather eat Brillo pads! Not to mention that vicious little Persian number from across the road giving me the evil eye. Then we went to Tate Modern on Sunday and this woman comes up to me and starts patting me; but then she says to Bev, 'It must be so
awful
being blind, my dear, but at least you've got a
lovely
Guide Dog. ' Quick as a flash Bev says, 'YOU must be blind if you think he's a Guide Dog, his jacket says Helping Paw quite clearly!' Oooh! I wanted to die. The poor girl's been as touchy as a Thai masseuse lately what with the uncertain situation on the bloke front. But all these petty aggravations fade into insignificance compared with the things Bev and I have seen this week. We've been lending a paw in the Post's Agony department and, believe you me, there's nothing like reading about other people's problems to make you forget your own. The letters I've read! Depression, drug addiction, insomnia, serious illness—it kind of gets things in perspective, you know. Mind you, I've been a bit of an agony aunt to Bev these past few days. As I say, that girl's mood has been up and down like a Jack Russell on speed—which makes a dog's life pretty tough. The object of her affection—I've sussed who it is now, that Scottish bloke—is leaving London again next week, so I'm soon going to be mopping up tears. I'll just have to be ready with the box of Kleenex and hope Bev doesn't go too crazy on me. Still, at least I've got through to the next round of the Dogs of Distinction award but, hey, the competition's going to be stiff. Guide dogs, life-saving dogs, sniffer dogs (total respec', boys), gun dogs (there's one Setter who can handle a Smith & Wesson like a real pro); anyway, these guys are all up for it too so there's no way I'm going to win. No. Way. 'But it's not the winning is it, Trev?' as Bev says every time I get a bit uptight about it all. 'It's the taking part. ' 'Sure, ' I reply, as I secretly stick my paw down my throat. 'Course I wanna win! Anyway, office life has been providing a welcome distraction from all the stress, and I like it; except for the editor slobbering over me. Bless him, he likes animals, but I do draw the line at being snogged by a man. I mean, it's really not good for the old image is it? And I thought I had a problem with saliva control…

'Trevor's been a bit rude about Ricky, ' I said to Beverley.

'I know, ' she said with a grin. 'You really ought to be more careful, ' she said wagging an admonitory finger at him, 'we don't want you getting us sacked. ' Suddenly my nostrils detected Eau de Ricky. Sure enough—he was coming our way.

'You're for it now, Trev, ' I said as he nervously put down his toy gorilla. 'You should never offend the boss. '

'Trevor baby!' Ricky exclaimed, throwing wide his arms. 'Our circulation's up again, and it's
all
down to
you
. Here, ' he got down on his hands and knees and put his arms round the startled dog. 'Let me give you a
big
kiss. '

'That'll teach you for being so cheeky, Trevor, ' said Beverley primly.

'This dog writes like a dream, ' Ricky said as Trev politely licked his ear. 'I'm thinking of entering him for Columnist of the Year actually—he's doing the
Daily Post
proud. And how's it going in Misery and Agony, Bev? Thanks for helping out. '

'Oh it's fine, ' she replied. 'I've spent most of the morning opening letters of support for Rose, actually, ' she explained pointedly, 'she gets at least ten every day. Here, ' she said, handing him one, 'why don't you take a look?' She passed him a letter, and he quickly scanned it, nodding, then handed it back. 'Rose has such
huge
support from the readers, 'Bev added sweetly.

'Well, yes, I, er, can see. In fact I've been getting quite a lot of letters like this myself. Erm, when's your last day, Rose?' he added anxiously.

'Thursday'

'Right, well, erm, don't do anything rash. My investigative team are making steady progress—I'll let you know. '

That afternoon Theo phoned to alert me to a small piece in the
Evening Standard's
media diary wittily headed,
Watt's Going On With Electra
? I glanced through it,
Foul play suspected in tabloid trashing of agony aunt… hand of Rex Delafoy… lesbian love triangle scandal a stunt… Electra spotted canoodling in Groucho's with her husband, Jez… Sapphic rumours may well be untrue… So where does this leave the Post's disgraced problem lady? Watch this space
.

I was rereading it later that night at home, as I sat in front of the telly with Theo, when there was a knock at the door.

'Who on earth's that?' said Theo. 'It's gone eleven. ' I shrugged. He glanced out of the window. 'It's a motorbike courier. Are you expecting something?'

'No. '

Theo opened the door, then came back into the sitting room with a large jiffy bag addressed to me. Inside it was a copy of the early edition of the
Daily Post
. 'SHAME ON
YOU
!!!' It announced above a huge photo of Electra.
Star Faked Lesbian Affair to Boost Single! King of Spin Behind Scam
! There was a photo of Electra walking arm in arm with her husband, a triumphant little smile on her lips; below was a smaller shot of me above the headline,
Respected Agony Aunt Wins Reprieve
. I read through the piece as Theo looked at it over my shoulder, aware of the warm pressure of his arm on mine.
Electra's husband sanctioned Rex Delafoy's publicity scam from which all parties
—
except the Post's Rose Costelloe
—
stood to gain. Electra's single shot to number one… backing singer benefited from ensuing exposure and is pursuing a solo career of her own… her boyfriend party to sting… Rex Delafoy, said to have been angered by hostile profile penned by Costelloe, pleased to see her attacked in the press… Her assistant, Serena Banks, following a tip-off, leaked the letter to the Daily News. Rose Costelloe took every possible precaution to protect the star's confidentiality but was duped in a cynical hoax…

'Her behaviour has been entirely vindicated, ' Theo read out loud from the leader column on the comment page. 'She retains the
Daily Post's
absolute trust. ' He rubbed my forearm affectionately, 'There you go!' The article went on gleefully to point out that the biggest loser had been the
Daily News
who a) looked foolish for being taken in and b) paid eighty thousand pounds for a 'scoop' that had been exposed as a total sham. There was then a table comparing the circulation of both papers, with the
Daily Post
claiming to have put on four hundred thousand new readers in the last three months.

'The
Daily News
has merely succeeded in hugely boosting the profile of our brilliant agony aunt, Rose Costelloe, ' Theo read out with a smile. 'She will continue to solve your problems with her usual combination of kindness and solid good sense. '

I read it all with a kind of detached interest: it was as though it had all happened to someone else. Paper-clipped to the front was a note, from Ricky.
I'm sorry about all this, Rose. I now accept you were right not to give me the letter. We'll sort out your new contract first thing
.

'My God, he's apologised to me, ' I said wonderingly, feeling my face crease into a huge smile.